#Watchin' succession

[die-tenebris]

Okay it's a season and a half later and I think I'm sold-sold on succession now

[blondie-drawings]

lemme get some last minute conwilla in here before the last episode blows everything up

[theloveinc]

deku x reader - succession!au, uhhhhh............... deku has a thought abt parenthood. it's bad.

(warning - short, talk of pregnancy but no actual gender of reader mentioned, mild talk of stds, drugs, sleeping around.... etc.?)

-

“I want a baby,“ your boss, Deku, the near-CEO of media conglomerate AllMightco, says randomly one day, halfway through your lunch break (that he demanded you spend with him), and in the middle of your well-earned silence after a long conversation about whether Bakugo needs antidepressants.

You can only gape at his words, close but not too close to where he’s seated at one of the little armchairs he has in his office for any business casual meetings that require somewhere cozy to sit in spite of any fighting words that may be spit (and for fucking, you’re rather quite aware).

“Maybe it’d be… good for me. I love kids and, I think, I think,” he continues, stuttering like he always does when he’s nervous, excited, high, his tone questioning despite his making of it a statement. “it would give me a break from work?”

All you can do is laugh at the question, dryly, in disbelief, unsure of whether he’s being serious or just sharing some secret, wistful dream. You decide to tell him the truth either way.

“You can’t have a baby just because you want time off.”

He ignores you, though.

“I have all this money, and what for…?” he waves his shaky hands, “I could have a family. I’d change diapers and buy toys and take them to the beach.”

(Though just last week, he was fighting the board for more funds, screaming in that raspy voice he always develops after working through the night that he’d give up any and all vacation time for the foreseeable future if it meant keeping Toshinori Yagi in a position, any position, at the company for the next five years.)

You throw your laptop aside and stand up from your wilted salad and grapefruit soda that’s now sweating on the coffee table to walk around the edges of his desk. You throw a leg over one sharp corner, the exposed part of your ankle brushing his knee as you address him directly.

“And who would be having this child, Deku?“ you ask. “An ex? A surrogate? Ocha—“

He gives you those eyes, slouching down into himself, reaching out to pull your butt of his table and grip the back of your thighs to pull you in between his legs. You can feel the length of his overgrown green curls brushing your fingertips as you put your hands on his stiff shoulders to keep yourself from falling right into him.

“Me? Izuku,” you clarify, (though you always call him Deku), “me? What do you think? I’m just gonna say yes, no warning, no nothing? We’re not even dating, sweetie.”

—and just last week Kirishima offered to drive you to the clinic with him to tested, though you’re not going to bring that up now, even if you know Deku already knows you’re sleeping around. He is too.

He closes his eyes, resting the back of his head against the heavy, red leather of his office chair. The stubble on his face is more noticeable than ever; he even has a little knick under his chin from shaving, and you move to brush your thumb against it as he swallows thickly.

“I’m just tired,” he says, blinking his dark lashes into the bags under his eyes,

“I know, baby. But a child is not way to fix that” you say. The for anyone part, you just think.

Deku pouts. He sighs. Then his face relaxes and he sags, his hands falling off you to lay limp in his lap, the silence in the room stretching like salt water taffy from the pier.

[echthr0s]

"which Roy sibling are you" my friend, I have CPTSD. I am all of them

[macfrog]

you shook me all night long sex on fire chapter one

requested by @whore-4-pedro (hope u enjoy lovely)

lived all my succession fantasies out writing this one icl. enjoy 🖤 check out my masterlist for more joel fun ‼️

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: as joel miller's assistant, you're expected to meet all his needs. some are a little more personal than others

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) creepy dude at the beginning, lotta teasing and touching, mentions of female masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public sex, daddy kink, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), alcohol and drug use, cursing, low-key inappropriate work relationship (if bad then why sexy?)

word count: 7.8k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more. You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin. “I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?” “Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”

It’s Friday night.

You only got home from work an hour and a half ago. Tired, hungry, sore eyes from staring at a screen all night, sore back from sitting hunched over all day. Dumped your bags at the door, ripped your clothes off by your bed, dove straight into the shower. You’d picked an outfit, curled your hair in record time, and even done your makeup before Deb called to say she was out front.

It was a ten-minute drive from your place to the hotel – it’s only a couple blocks from work. The cab driver made light conversation, talked about his daughter and her new puppy, and you both nodded and uhuhed in all the breaks in his sentences. Deb made some comment about it being easier if you’d just stayed at the office until the party, and you’d hummed in agreement, looking out the window at the regal hotel.

Truth be told, you’d rather be doing anything other than attending a work function. You’ve had a long week. A lot of meetings, paperwork, emails to be answered, and most of all, running around after your boss. It’s not all fun and games being Joel Miller’s assistant, regardless of the pay, or the view from your desk over to his.

Your head’s elsewhere when you waltz through the revolving door, heels clicking along the marble floor. The elevator – gold, by the way – slides open and you both step inside, hitting the highest button before you’re swept up twenty floors to the penthouse.

“Did you send those documents over to us yet?” Deb asks.

“Nope,” you reply, slipping out when the elevator dings. “Had to sit in on a meeting with Joel and take the fucking minutes, spent all night writing them up.”

“He won’t be pissed at you?”

“If he hadn’t insisted I was in there with him, you’d have your reports, wouldn’t you?”

She shrugs, agreeing.

“Anyway,” you continue, “I can take angry Joel. He doesn’t scare me.”

Deb chuckles as you shoulder the doors to the penthouse open.

It’s a moody dull, lit only by the lights lining the bar and small lamps decorating mahogany tables, sat next to deep green velvet couches. There are clusters of people everywhere you look; stood near shelves filled with leather-bound books, examining the view from the floor to ceiling windows, sprawled out over luxurious chairs with champagne flutes in their hands. There’s a tree in the middle of the room, branches decorated in blinking string lights reaching to a glass dome in the ceiling.

It's, like, sickeningly pretentious. You know it. Hell, you all know it. Still, in your little black dress, you strut over and take a champagne of your own, sipping on the fizzing drink with one elbow resting on the wooden bar.

“There’s my girl,” his voice coos over your shoulder. “Been watchin’ for you all night, took your time.”

You lean back, bored expression on your face.

Joel’s broad chest pulls on the white shirt he’s wearing, same one you just saw him in little over three hours ago, only without a tie; the top couple of buttons are undone to reveal his chest hair peeking through. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long.

“You look fuckin’ ecstatic to be here.”

He leans against the bar next to you, arms crossed. When you don’t reply, he nudges you. Your champagne jolts in its glass.

“I always look like this. I’m always ecstatic to be everywhere.”

He smiles. “Why aren’t you mingling?”

“Don’t wanna.”

“’s a work event. That’s the whole point.”

“Then why are you over here talkin’ to me?”

His eyes flash across your lips, and you swear they drop for a nanosecond to your chest.

“Come on,” he says, taking your wrist in his huge hand, “some people you oughta meet.”

Joel ignores your sigh and leads you over onto a plush rug, sidling between knees to sit you down on the soft couch between himself and some bald dude in a jet blue suit, whose shirt is also undone, though much further than Joel’s. He has a chest like a hairless cat.

Cue Ball snakes an arm over the back of the couch; his fingers dance across your back. You shimmy a little closer to Joel and he notices instantly, jaw turning slowly to glance over. When he sees your knees angled toward him, seeking protection, he leans back and wraps his left arm around your shoulders, his right coming down to cup your knee.

“This,” he shakes your leg, left arm pulling you tighter against him, “is my wonderful assistant. My right-hand lady. Couldn’t do anything without her, could I?”

“Could wipe your own ass, that’s about it,” you mumble into your glass, and a roar of laughter sounds from your audience.

Joel, still leaning back, pulls his arm from you but keeps his shoulder firmly behind yours, making sure whatever the creep on your left tries, he’ll feel first. Your elbow rests in the crook of his, and you keep it there, quietly enjoying the intimacy of his body caging yours.

His left hand is settled on your thigh. You realize it after a swig of champagne, and start counting in your head how many seconds his fingers stay gripped on your skin.

He talks with his hands – always has. Walks around his office, ranting and raving sometimes, arms swinging around in the air while you take notes, or file your nails, or just watch until he’s done. For the next half hour, though, he only talks with his right hand. Only sips his beer with his right hand. Only scratches his beard, or pulls his phone from his pocket, or reaches up and passes you a second drink, and then a third, with his right hand.

You stay rigid, legs unmoving, eyes barely leaving his knuckles, locked tight around your thigh. There’s heat from his touch siphoning from his palm down through your skin, rippling like waves all through your body and pooling somewhere south of your belly button. No matter how hard you try, you can’t shake it. Can’t stop thinking about it. You barely notice when Cue Ball’s hand ghosts across your back a second time.

But Joel notices, straight away. He flashes the guy a look, and you swear he’s baring his teeth. Eyes locked on the blue suit like it’s a target, never blinking. He doesn’t say anything when his prey excuses himself to the bathroom, and you don’t turn to watch him go, but you do notice three other sharp-suited pricks stand and wander off in that direction after him.

Probably not a coincidence.

Joel still has a hold on your leg. Your flute is empty, and you lean forward to place it on the wooden table at your knees, beginning to stand.

His grip loosens, but he looks up at you as you tower over him.

“Cocktail,” you tell him with a sweet smile, and he nods, letting you go.

You know he’s watching you as you slink away. Is it the alcohol in your system, or something darker, that makes you sway your hips a little more for his benefit?

Deb’s over at the bar with Martha, another of Joel’s assistants. She’s around his age, worked for him much longer than you have, but when he hired you, you took on most of the groundwork. Following Joel’s orders– sorry, requests, organizing meetings, filing paperwork for him. Martha sits at a desk outside Joel’s office, answers the phone and directs anyone who happens to wander up to the top floor of the building.

Did I say directs? I meant strikes coldblooded fear within them and sends them back running the way they came, with just one look and a nod in the opposite direction.

Unless they’re there for a meeting with Joel, that is. And if they are, that’s where you come in. Good morning, Mr. Salazar, Mr. Miller will be right with you. This way, he’s just finishing up a call.

Martha’s a tough nut. But she likes you enough, so she smiles warmly as you approach.

“I’m hearing all about your note-taking this afternoon,” she hums when you hop up onto a barstool, catching the bartender’s eye. He trots over.

You sigh to Martha, eyes wide. “I didn’t leave until, like, eight. What the fuck’s that about? Can I just get a cosmopolitan, please?” you ask, and the bartender nods. He looks about fifteen.

Martha shakes her head, laughing. “He did it to me when I was first startin’ out, too. Told him to stick his minutes where the sun don’t shine.”

“I’ve been here three years,” you mutter, and Deb snorts.

“You’d think Joel would’ve changed his ways in the, what, seven decades since you started, Martha?”

It earns her a slap across the shoulder. You stifle your laugh behind your glass, thanking the teenager who served you it with a nod.

“Twenty years next March, actually,” Martha says.

“That so? D’you think he’ll get you anything for it?”

“If I’m lucky,” she sighs, eyes travelling up to the ceiling in thought, “a lunch break where he doesn’t bother me once.”

“Knowing Joel, that means a lunch break where he bothers you twice.”

You smile, glancing past the pretentious tree to where Joel is, and notice he’s already staring right back. A swarm of butterflies flutter around your stomach, dancing over the heat his handprint left within you. They only grow more violent when he stands and walks over, broad shoulders swaying, eyes flitting up and down your body.

You lean back, sitting up straight, eyeing him right back as he joins the three of you.

“Speak of the devil,” Martha says, and Joel chuckles in response, but his eyes never leave you.

“We were just talkin’ about Martha’s twenty years,” says Deb, winking.

He finally turns to answer her. “Oh, yeah? When’s that, then, old-timer?”

“Dirtball!” Martha yells, and Joel smirks. It goes straight to your core.

“How many Manhattans tonight, then, Deb?”

Deb holds her glass up. “I am on my second, and I will not be exceeding three. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.”

“Aw,” Joel complains, tutting, “I liked hammered Deb.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t have to deal with hungover Deb,” you mutter, and she shoots you a look.

Joel smiles at you, takes a step closer as Deb and Martha begin comparing past hangovers. He leans forward, waves the fifteen-year-old down, and asks for a beer. As he leans back, you notice the weight of his wrist on your right hip. Nicely done.

“You know there are four guys in the bathroom doing coke?”

“I hope to God that’s all they’re doin’. I don’t need another orgyhappenin’ at one of these things.”

You giggle like a fucking schoolgirl. He looks pleased with himself, and you instantly regret it. You try to play it off by lifting your glass back to your lips.

Joel’s studying you, though, mapping every inch of your face. Watching your mouth as it curves around the shape of the glass, your tongue licking your lips after your sip. He tracks the glass as you set it back down on the bar, then his eyes trail along your arm to your dress, and your stomach leaps.

He looks so fucking good, it sends another wave of energy through your body. Dark hair lined with grey, beard much the same. Strong jaw, lips wetting with every sip of beer he takes, dark eyes flitting across yours, holding your stare long enough to melt you a little, and then dipping just before you can read the thoughts behind them.

His skin a little tanned, his neck thick with muscle. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, you’re so close. Close enough that you could lean up, part your lips and sink your teeth under his ear, suck a mark there, taste him on your tongue.

Your head cocks after a few minutes silence, just the two of you enjoying the fucking look of each other. You lean a little against his arm, steady around your back.

“I hate work parties,” you sigh.

Joel scoffs. “Free alcohol, nice penthouse. Cocaine, if you want it. What’s not to like?”

You narrow your eyes and he laughs for real.

“I hate ‘em, too, baby. Gotta keep up appearances, though, don’t we?”

Baby. This fucker.

“Do we?” you squeak, after a few seconds dazed.

He shrugs. “’s what I hear.”

He’s so close you can smell the beer on his tongue. It makes your heart quicken, your body hum with energy. That could just be the alcohol in your system, though, right?

Who are you kidding? It’s fucking Joel doing it to you.

You have no idea how long he was here before you arrived. He left the office around six, and you presumed he’d come straight here to check everything was in order before guests started arriving. How many beers has he had? Is he just drunk, feeling up on you with liquid courage?

You’re mulling over the thought when a pair of hands clamp down on Joel’s shoulders and his hold on your waist loosens. He mumbles an apology as he’s dragged away by a couple of loose-collared, baggy-suit drunks. You shake your head in response, trying to be cool – It’s all good, man. I’m good. I’m not totally fawning over you right now, no way.

Deb swings her barstool around when she notices you’re on your own, inviting you back into their conversation. Thirty seconds into talking about childhood pets, you’re wishing Joel was back around you, igniting your skin and peaking your adrenaline. Max the Pomeranian is a nice picture; Joel’s nicer.

Martha says something with a hand motion, and Deb nods, elbow knocking into yours.

“What?”

She nods toward the balcony. “We’re headin’ out for a smoke, you comin’?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll save your seats.”

They nod and wander off between a crowd, swallowed up by bodies in the direction of the open sliding doors, the blinking lights of the skyline ahead.

You’re twirling the base of your empty glass around on its napkin when you feel that same heat behind you again, and a hand rests on the small of your back.

“Coat,” Joel mutters, pulling his suit jacket on.

“Huh?”

“Get your coat. Everyone’s headin’ across the street.”

“Why is everyone heading across the street?”

He shrugs. “Afterparty, I guess.”

“It’s a work function. It’s like–” you check your phone, “–oh, fuck, it’s almost midnight.” You screw your face up, watching as the small crowd slowly melts away through the suite doors.

“I know. I throw a good party, right?”

“So good, people are leaving it.”

He tuts. “Coat. Now.”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“You didn’t bring a coat?”

“You told me the party was here. I didn’t think we’d be walking all over town.”

“’s not all over town, baby,” Joel murmurs with a sigh. “Here.”

He peels the jacket off his shoulders and you hold a hand out to stop him.

“Joel, it’s fine, it’s–”

“Quit moanin’,” he groans as he throws it over your shoulders. He scoops your hair and pulls it softly out from under the collar. “Alright? C’mon.”

He takes your hand and leads you past some stragglers down the hall toward the elevator, where a group are waiting for the doors to open.

“Tight squeeze, Miller,” some dude chuckles as you follow Joel in, his hand still gripping yours.

He turns, backing into the corner, pulling you with him until your back is flush against his chest.

His hands drop to your hips. You swallow back a scream.

One of the accountants is stood in front of your – Harriet? Helen? Something beginning with H – anyway, she keeps knocking back into you, pushed by the sway of the packed elevator. It means you knock a little into Joel, and feel his chin on the crown of your head.

You turn ever so slightly to mumble an apology to him, but when you feel his breath on the shell of your ear, your words die in your throat.

“Hazel?” – That’s her fucking name – Joel reaches around you to tap her shoulder, and her bobbed haircut swings when she turns. “Did you get those balance sheets yet?”

“Not yet, Joel,” she tells him, and your face prickles with heat.

“No? That’s weird.” Joel’s grip tightens on your hips, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. In a low whisper, only to you, he says, “Thought I asked to have ‘em sent over by this afternoon.”

You muster up the courage to reply with a deep breath. From the corner of your mouth, through gritted teeth, you tell him, “That was before you forced me to sit in on a buyers’ meeting.”

You feel his chest rumble between your shoulder blades as he laughs. The elevator shudders to a stop and the doors slide open; the crowd spills out.

You step forward, ahead of Joel, and make it maybe three steps before he’s back on you, an arm draped over your shoulders. You reach up and take his hand, leaning against his strong torso to let him guide you toward the exit.

No idea what makes you do it. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe not only on alcohol.

You’re the last of the pack, stumbling over air across the gleaming floor toward the revolving door, which Joel pushes open for you. The cool night breeze hits you as you slip out.

The crowd ahead are rushing across the street, yelling and whooping as they go. It’s juvenile, a little cringe. A bunch of rich corporates skipping across the street toward cheap alcohol and peanuts. You’d care more about the way it looks if you were sober.

Joel’s hand finds yours again and he’s leading you down the steps, cutting between parked cars toward the dive bar. You link your other arm around his elbow and he glances down, noting it. You wish the walk was longer.

A flickering fluorescent light drowns you both in a red glow, and Joel pushes the doors open. The place is flooded with half of your party, drowning booths, leaning against the bar, dancing in any open floorspace.

The floor is sticky, the bar dim. Joel takes you over to the same crowd he introduced you to earlier, and makes space for you to sit. You slide along the booth to the wall and he follows, squeezing up to you to let two more in after him.

“Beers?” a guy with a loose tie asks, to a chorus of yeses and a show of thumbs up. Mitch? Mark?

You tug Joel’s jacket from your shoulders – the movement nudges him and he turns to lift it from your back and tuck it behind you, brushing the hair off your shoulders. You smile in thanks, and his hand falls back onto your leg.

It takes you a few minutes to notice it this time. The gentle squeeze of his fingers around your thigh, the way it slowly bumps up each time he adjusts in his seat or shifts to allow space for someone else to join the booth.

His hand moves slowly, dangerously close to pulling your skirt up with it. Mitch or Mark returns with your beers and you take a massive swig, nerves and anticipation and fucking need for Joel to keep doing what he’s doing, taking over.

Under lights blurred by the alcohol in your system, the table buzzes with energy and chatter and laughter. There are posters and stickers all over the walls, graffiti of names and initials, numbers and dates scored into the walls. Joel traces them with his finger and you laugh at some of the messages.

“Lydia and Jack,” you mumble, “12-24-19. Wonder what happened then.”

“Bathroom sex,” Joel replies, eyes scanning the wall.

You scoff, beer to your lips. “On Christmas Eve?”

He nods, like it’s obvious. “Magical time ‘n all.”

You look past him with a smile to the opposite side of the bar where, through silhouetted bodies, you notice a jukebox.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your eyes widen, your mouth agape.

Joel follows your eyeline and then twists back around. “C’mon,” he says, taking your hand and motioning for the others to let you by. He drags you over to the machine, lighting your faces up in yellow light, and your drunk eyes scan the screen.

“Nope." You swipe Joel’s hand away right before he can pick some Pet Shop Boys song.

“Really?”

“Good, but not the vibe,” you tell him, and budge him out of the way with your hip. He sways off, laughing, and leans a palm against the jukebox, his chest on your back for the second time tonight. As your tired eyes scan the songs, Joel’s chin rests on your shoulder.

He’s judging every fucking song you linger on. “Queen? Little before your time.”

“Dick.”

“Fleetwood Mac. Definitely before your time.”

“The entire fucking jukebox is before my time, dude. Shut up. These are good songs.”

You settle on a track and turn to face him. He has you almost fucking pressed against the box.

“Change, please.”

“Oh, I’m payin’, am I?”

“Mhm. Your work party, your wallet.”

He sighs and pushes a fist into his pocket for coins, tossing a quarter into your outstretched palm. You turn back and select your song, put the money in, and the old machine barks out the intro.

Joel sighs, shaking his head. “AC/DC? That’s your thing?”

“It’s not yours?” You’re taking him by the hand between bodies, swaying as you go.

He’s laughing, following you until you’re in the middle of the cramped bar, chest to chest, moving together. His hands find your waist again and this time you don’t even flinch; your fingers trail up his shirt, across his chest, settle on his collar.

You fucking swear he’s leaning in, each beat of the song drawing his jaw closer to yours. If you weren’t in a room full of co-workers, you’d probably let him kiss you.

I mean, what you’re doing right now is hardly innocent anyway. His hands are splayed on your lower back, your hips flat against his, rubbing, dancing. Your head rolls back and your lips are under his chin, smiling up at him and singing along. Joel sings the words straight back, your breath meeting and mingling in the tiny gap between your lips.

As the song ends, it fades into another. And another, and another. It’s two in the morning before your group of partiers begin to call taxis. You stumble out of the sweaty bar with an arm linked through Deb’s, still singing along to Whitney as you catch your breath.

She staggers off to a quieter part of the street to call a cab, and you hang around under the red light waiting for her. Joel’s stood at the curb; the back door of his sleek black Rolls-Royce open.

“Where you goin’?” he asks.

“Deb’s callin’ a cab,” you reply, arms folded, shoulders hunched.

Joel shakes his head. “Get in.”

“It’s cool, I’m jumping in with those guys. Thanks, though–”

“Baby,” Joel holds a hand out, “get in.”

Your eyes trace from his palm all the way up his sleeve, to his tired, handsome face. You’re sobering up. He looks clearer. Maybe that’s just the streetlights.

“Get you home in five minutes. C’mon.”

You swivel around to look for Martha and Deb, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cab will come, they’ll assume you’re staying a while, and get in. No big deal, right?

Well. Stepping into your boss’s car after a night of highly inappropriate touching is kind of a big fucking deal.

That’s why you do it. Waddle over to him, take his hand, let him guide you to the car. You swing a leg in and slip across the seats, admiring the ceiling dotted with hundreds of tiny white lights, like you’re staring straight up at the night sky.

They blur through your drunken gaze, which doesn’t pull from them until you feel the weight of Joel on your right and hear the door slam shut.

“Mind puttin’ the partition up, Rand?” Joel’s voice says, though you mostly hear the vibrations through his chest, where your head is lying. His arm slips around your back, pulling you closer into him as the two of you are granted privacy by the quiet whir of the screen closing.

“Good night?” Joel asks, lips on your hair.

You nod. “You?”

“Mhm.”

His fingers are drawing shapes on your left hip. His right hand intertwines with yours. Your left hand starts to wander.

You liked his hand on you. Liked feeling his grip there. Wanted him to keep moving it up, wanted to see how far he’d take it. So, you put your own hand on the inside of his thigh, just like he did. Starting at the knee, and slowly sliding north. Joel’s breath tightens, his chest lifts, his jaw ticks.

The movement knocks you sober for a couple seconds. You realize what you’re doing. You draw your hand back.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

He unlinks your hands and places a steady palm over your withdrawn fist.

“’s okay, baby. You can do that if you want to.”

The drawl of his voice makes your eyes roll back, your heart leap. Your fucking legs clench.

You let him replace your hand where it was, and his legs widen a little. His crotch more available. You’re watching what you’re doing like you’re not even in your own body; watching it how Joel must be, thinking Higher, higher, keep going, keep doing that.

You lift your heavy head, resting it on his shoulder, and look up into his brown eyes. He’s framed by the starlit ceiling of the car. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, face lined with his expression.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod lazily. “Tired.”

Just then his hand takes yours again and shifts it softly, stopping what was probably about to happen but still holding onto you, still wanting your fingers locked in his. Not halting the train, just switching tracks.

It’s not a long journey, certainly not as long as you’d like, until you’re parked on your street. Rand lowers the partition to call back, and Joel thanks him.

“You okay gettin’ to your apartment?”

“Yup,” you groan, hoisting yourself out of the comfortable car.

“Sure? I can walk you up if you want.”

You bend down, one arm on the roof of the car. “I’m good, thanks. Thanks for the ride, Miller.”

“Be safe, baby.”

“You be safe, too. Bye.”

You throw the door closed and meander off up the steps toward your building. Joel’s car doesn’t roll off until your elevator arrives and you disappear inside.

You spend all weekend in bed, recovering not only from the party but from the week of work you’d endured. You keep yourself busy, though. There’s a Desperate Housewives marathon on TV. And when you’re not watching that, your hand is stuffed down your pants, Joel on your mind.

All. Fucking. Weekend.

In the shower, you’re picturing him on his knees in front of you, lapping you up. Hands gripping your thighs, draped over his shoulders. Your hand plants firmly against the wet tile when you cum, your orgasm threatening to collapse you in a heap.

In bed, you’re on top of him, knees either side of his waist, letting him buck his hips up until you’re screaming, covering him in your wet. Your vibrator battery dies by Saturday night.

Monday morning, you’re getting ready to leave for the office, and need to take ten minutes out to relieve the ache between your legs again. This time, he has you pressed against your bedroom wall, fucking you quick and messy, cumming deep inside you before he’ll let you head out.

It’s just a crush, right? It’s just because of how touchy you guys were on Friday. When you were drunk. And in a cramped, dark dive bar. Everybody gets crushes. And who wouldn’t, on a six-foot-whatever man with a jawline that could cut glass, hands that take a grip of you with minimal effort, a cock probably the size of…

No. Nope. That’s enough. Cut that the fuck out.

It’s just a crush. That’s what you keep telling yourself in the elevator, lights counting down the floors until you’re going to see Joel again. Is the sparkling feeling in your chest fear, anticipation, or excitement?

And is your cunt beginning to throb again?

You give a curt nod to Martha as you arrive, hauling your bag a little further up your shoulder and adjusting the folders in your arms on your hips.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, eyes still on the computer in front of her. Her chin propped on her elbow, face inches from the screen, reading something intently.

“Huh?”

“On Friday. We couldn’t find you when the cab arrived.”

“Oh, I, uh,” you clear your throat, “Joel gave me a ride. Yeah.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Generous of ‘im.”

“Yup.”

“He’s in the conference room waitin’ for you.”

“Cool, thanks.”

You hover for a few seconds, then take your cue to leave. You hurry over to the conference room door, knocking twice before pushing it open.

Joel’s sat at the top of the table, leant back in his chair, feet up on the wood in front of him. You feel like you could collapse.

“Mornin’,” he says, over the dull droning from the phone. Your eyes flit down to it, a question, and he answers, “weekend update.”

“Anything good?”

He shakes his head, leaning forward to hit the unmute button, affirm whatever the hell the other dude had been saying, say his goodbyes, and then hang up.

“Feelin’ fresh?” he asks when he’s sat back.

You take a deep breath and wobble your head as an answer, laying files and folders out on the table in preparation for the meeting Joel has this morning.

“That bad, huh?”

“I was fine by Saturday afternoon. How were you?”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t that drunk.”

Yeah. Sure, Joel. Your fingers took the brunt of the alcohol.

He stands up, wanders around the table to join you. Your fingers begin to tremble at the thought of him so close. Your thighs heat.

“This all of it?” he asks. He’s closer than you thought.

“Y-yep. Some copies there, too, if anyone needs a spare.”

His hand slips up between your shoulder blades, patting you gently at the base of your neck.

“Good job, baby.”

You almost fucking shudder. Your stomach jolts, your chest tightens. The ache between your legs pangs, reminding you it’s there, even though you can’t fucking do anything about it.

You spin around, settling back against the table, ankles crossed. Tense.

“How long do you reckon it’ll go on?”

“No idea. Why? Somewhere you gotta be?”

You shake your head. “Just organizing lunch ‘n stuff for you.”

“That can wait until after.”

“I’ll have it ready for you comin’ out. Be easier.”

He steps forward. Your heart stutters.

“You’ll be in here with me.”

You cock your head. “Again? What– Why?”

“I need you in here. To take–”

“–minutes? Yeah, figured as much. You gonna have me up here all night again writing ‘em up?”

He smirks, dimples in his cheeks. There are two options here: either smack him, or jump his bones – he deserves the first and you deserve the latter.

“I like having you in my meetings, darlin’,” he says, as the door handle turns, “stops me wanting to blow my brains out.”

Martha enters and Joel slots in alongside you on the table. She sets a tray with a coffee pot and packets of sugar and milk on the sideboard.

Your head is fucking dizzy. There’s a ringing in your ears. Energy sparkling in waves from the tops of your thighs all through you. Joel’s shoulder brushing against yours, his eyes boring into the side of your face.

You won’t look at him. Won’t take your eyes off of Martha, laying paper coffee cups out in rows, her back to you guys.

Joel lays a palm flat on your thigh, rounding the curve until his hand is firm between your legs, threatening to push your skirt up. You feel his breath hot on your neck, his voice like honey in your ear.

“Makes for a nice view, too.”

You whip around to glare at him. He leans back, chuckling to himself.

Through gritted teeth, you whisper, “Can I talk to you? In private?”

Joel shrugs, excuses you both to Martha, and then follows at your heels out of the conference room and over to his office door. You waltz in without permission, shoving the door open and waiting for him to close it behind himself.

Joel’s office is bright, clean. Giant windows lining three walls, huge desk with an even bigger bookcase behind. Two black leather couches opposite, facing one another with a glass coffee table between. Soft white rugs, obnoxiously huge lampshades, small fern plants dotted here and there. You found and booked the interior designer for him, and not a day’s gone by since that you don’t remind him of how nice a job you did.

Today, though, you break that streak. You round on him as soon as he closes the tall, wooden door behind him.

“Will you fucking quit it?”

“Fucking quit what, baby?” He’s almost laughing, strolling around his desk and settling into his leather chair, leaning back. Casual. Fucking – arrogant.

You stammer, holding up a shaky finger. “Okay, first of all – that. Don’t call me baby, that’s not appropriate. Second – the teasing?”

“I don’t get it, you liked me callin’ you baby on Friday night.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and give him a furious stare. He holds his hands up.

“My mistake.”

You stalk over to the windows separating Joel’s office from the reception area. Martha’s still in the conference room, the door ajar. You haul the shades shut to give yourselves some privacy.

“Stop – fucking with me. Stop it. We were drunk on Friday night. It wasn’t– Stop.”

“’m not fucking with you.” He leans his head to scratch his eyebrow. He repeats it when you turn away, hands flying up in the air. “I’m not.”

“Let’s just forget Friday happened, can we do that?”

Wandering around Joel’s office isn’t doing anything to relieve the weight between your legs. If anything, it’s making it worse. You make your way back to his desk and place your hands down on the wood, leaning over.

“Wh…what’s next on the agenda?” you ask, almost panting, your eyes closing.

You hear Joel’s chair rock when his weight leaves it. His footsteps pad across soft carpet, around the desk. Nearing you. They come to a halt and you feel the air stop short, right behind you.

For someone not trying to fuck with you, he’s doing an awfully good job at it.

You surrender, leaning back, your shoulders making contact with his chest. Then his hands find your hips, light, gentle. No pressure on them, not until your ass presses against his crotch and your head tilts, allowing Joel to hook his chin over your shoulder.

He’s hard, under his pants. Against you. You can feel it, still, steady. Rock solid beneath four layers of clothing.

His hands lift from your waist and glide up your shirt front, your stomach tensing when they brush over it. They come to rest over your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples through your shirt. And you fucking let him; lifting your right arm to hook around his jaw and pull him closer into your neck, where his lips leave soft, wet marks.

It feels like the first gasp of fresh, sea air after being underwater. The first gulp of chilled water after a hike. The first wave of aircon in the car. It’s relief. It’s desperate, borderline orgasmic relief.

You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.

You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.

“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”

“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” you repeat, and he nods. You take a breath. “S-sounds good.”

Joel’s hands find the hem of your skirt and start to pull it up your legs, painfully slow, revealing more and more of your bare thighs as he goes. He’s rubbing them, massaging until your skirt sits on your hips, little black panties exposed. His hand comes down to cup you, fingers gently applying pressure to your clit through the lace.

You moan, finally being touched by him again, finally feeling his hands on you where you need it most. Already, he’s doing better, making you feel better than you could ever by yourself. Than you did, by yourself. Involuntarily, you breathe out, “Daddy…”

Joel’s fingers pick up the pace. He fucking loves it.

“That feel good, baby? Like it like that? Tell me how it feels.”

“So – fucking – good,” you whisper, legs parting more to grant him better access. He dips his hand lower, thumb staying planted on your lace-covered clit, fingers shifting the fabric under your entrance aside.

He toys with you first, middle finger swaying back and forth through your folds, collecting slick, spreading it around. Then, a second finger, pushing upward, dangerously close to entering you. You’re gasping, leaning into him, letting his strong form keep you upright.

“That’s my girl,” Joel’s whispering into your ear. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’, just enjoy.”

And then he pushes up, two thick, curled fingers entering your cunt in one motion. He has you down to his knuckles, limp against his chest, mouth wide open in a silent gasp. Your head rolls to the side to watch him as he feels you for the first time, and his expression mirrors yours.

“So fuckin’ wet, babygirl,” he whispers, lips on your forehead.

“Fuck, daddy,” you whimper as his fingers press hard inside your soft pussy, starting to pump gently before picking up the pace and fucking you good.

The office is silent, save for your gasps and moans, and the wet sounds of Joel’s fingers in your cunt. He hums into your neck, thumb pressing hard against your clit, drawing tiny circles over the swollen bud.

It doesn’t take fucking long before you’re collapsing, walls clenching, teetering on the edge of your orgasm. It’s all that’s been on your mind for almost three days, all you’ve imagined, dreamt about, thought of.

Joel feels you, knows you’re close.

“Wanna cum all over daddy’s fingers, pretty girl?”

“Mhm,” you bite back a yelp, “so – close.”

“Know you are, baby. It’s okay, you can cum. Let me feel you.”

That coil, slowly winding since approximately nine-thirty on Friday night, not relieved by your hands, your toys, or your fucking pillows, snaps in one second. The tension breaks across your stomach. Your legs give; Joel’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you upright.

You throw your head back against his shoulder again, jaw slack with a moan you know you can’t give voice to. Joel fucks you all the way through it, fingers coated in your cum only to dive straight back in, wetter and slicker than before.

There are stars in your vision. You can’t feel between your legs. The office is slowly blinking back into view, but Joel gives you no time to recover.

He pushes you face down onto his desk roughly, hastily, like someone’s about to wander through his door any second. One ear pressed to the cold wood, you hear his belt clink, feel the teeth of his zipper graze your thighs. Hear his deep breaths as he drags his pants and boxershorts down to free his cock.

You’ve never seen him, obviously. You’ve pictured it, dreamt up what it would look like with your fingers deep inside yourself. And from this angle you still don’t see it, but when the weight of it springs against your ass, when Joel lines himself up and his tip dips between your cum-covered folds, you fucking feel it.

His thick head pushing slightly into your entrance, coating him in your slick. He’s big. You moan at the time he’s taking to just shove into you; it’s probably seconds, but it feels like fucking hours.

“I hear ya, I know,” he’s saying, but your hearing’s starting to fade. Blood pumping through your head, white noise rattling against your eardrums.

He pushes in, length separating your clenched walls, entering your wet, warm cunt with a deep growl from Joel’s lips and a gasp from yours. You open up around him, swelling as he pushes deeper and deeper.

“So – fuckin’ – tight for me, baby,” he groans, hands on your hips pulling you back onto his length. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are?”

“Mhm,” you reply, the stretch of his thick cock burning and igniting you in flame. Your eyes screw shut as he keeps pushing, further than you ever thought anyone could, until his tip kisses your cervix and you whine.

“Quiet, babygirl,” he says, pausing and placing a steady hand on the small of your back. “We don’t need anyone out there knowin’ what we’re doin’.”

“So good, daddy,” you whimper quietly, and he knows. He fucking knows.

He begins to draw back, hips leaving your ass, cock pulling out of your pussy. Your eyes roll closed, missing him the more he withdraws. Before he’s fully gone, he snaps back inside, entering you harder, faster, deeper.

You gasp, knuckles whitening with the grip of your balled fists. You bend one arm, biting into your sleeve to stop your whimpers from slipping under the door.

A couple more thrusts and Joel’s fucking you. Hard. He’s fucking huge, so huge it blurs the edges of your vision every time his cock hits against your cervix. He’s almost fucking whimpering behind you, growling your name with every stroke, groaning each time he bottoms out inside you and your tight hole wraps around his length.

You can feel the edge of the table bruising your pelvis, and it feels so fucking good. Everything about this feels good. Joel’s cock stretching you out, his hands gripping you roughly, your own hands outstretched to hold onto the desk for some sort of stability.

The only thought going through your head, only words your lips can part to utter: daddy daddy daddy.

“Good girl,” Joel hums, your moans like music to his ears. “Good fuckin’ girl. Know how naughty you are for me?”

You smile. “Yeah, daddy.”

This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever fucking done. Sure, you love sex, especially when it’s rough. But nothing you’ve ever done with anyone else, nothing you’ve ever had done to you by anyone else, compares to being bent over your boss’s desk and fucked dumb by him.

Calling him daddy, corporate managers slowly filing into a conference room just outside. Only an unlocked door separating them from you, writhing and throbbing under Joel’s cock, his rough hands on your hips, your name passing his lips in breathy moans.

Is it wrong? Yes. Do you care? Fuck no.

You know he’s close; his thrusts become sloppy, hips start hammering against you.

“Where d’you want it, baby?” he grunts, skin slapping.

You’re on the pill, and if you answered honestly, you’d tell him to finish inside you. But you know that if he wanted to do that, he’d just fucking do it. Wouldn’t ask. And you’re not prepared to waste time arguing.

“My m-mouth.”

“C’mere.” Joel slips out of you with no effort, you’re so fucking soaked for him, and spins you around. A gentle hand on your shoulder, he pushes you onto your knees, free hand jacking his cock over you.

It’s the first time you see him, fist tugging up and down a thick, veiny shaft; swollen, reddened tip spilling precum which his thumb collects and drags down his length, gleaming with your wet.

On instinct, you push forward, one hand coming to rest on his thigh, the other taking over from his on his dick. You pump him a few times, and then open your mouth wide enough to take him all the way until he’s brushing the back of your throat.

With a choke, you begin bobbing your head up and down, cheeks hollow, breathing deep through your nose. Joel moans, head rolling back, hand coming to hold your hair in a fist. He drags you back and forth a few times before he begins to shudder and you draw back, holding him steady on your swollen bottom lip.

He looks down at you and your eyes lock as he cums all over your tongue. You moan as your mouth fills with his warm, salty load. When his cock stills and he stops spilling all over you, you lean back and close your mouth, licking your lips and swallowing him.

“Aw, babygirl,” he coos, stroking your hair. “Good job. Such a good girl for me.”

You both take a few seconds to catch your breath before Joel’s hands hook under your arms and he pulls you back up, letting you lean against his desk.

Still in a daze, you feel him tug your skirt back down, fix your shirt. Tuck your hair behind your ears, wipe either saliva or cum from your lips.

“Good?” he asks, and you lace your fingers in his.

Your breath is still shaky, but through a sigh, you say, “Good.”

He nods. “Can hear Ken out front, must all be arrivin’.” He pulls you over to the door.

His fingers wrap around the handle, free hand coming up to cup your cheek. He leans down and presses his lips against yours. You open your mouth and let his tongue past, moaning into the wet, messy kiss.

Something in you almost wants to laugh, thinking about the fact you let him fuck you before you’d even kissed him.

When he pulls away, your hands take hold of his jaw, keeping him at your height.

“Have a good meeting,” you whisper, pecking him on the lips, “text me what you want for lunch.”

He growls, yanking the door open and passing by you, granting your wish to sit this one out. Something in you tells you not to wander far, though.

He’ll probably want to blow off some steam when he’s done.

----------

taglist: @earthtogrogu @serenaxpedro @brittmb115 @jediknightjana @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi

(lmk if i’ve missed you out & check my taglist info for how to be added!)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I've never asked anyone in my entire tumblr presence, I'm excited you'll be the first, even if it doesn't get done 🙏☆♡🥬

Anyways, I feel like there is a very sad amount of Soap content on here so like..idk maybe pining Soap fluff??

He's totally the type of guy to follow someone around like a lovesick puppy and everyone notices except the person of interest LOL

Congrats on the milestone btw!! You deserve it 😼😼

—Oblivious Pining

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Johnny hangs off you like a silent beast. Not that you would notice, of course.] ❞

Everyone had seen it, and at this point, it had just become painful. The soft, gentle eyes—the instantaneous smile whenever your unit showed up, your form not for a second missed to those cobalt blues. The deepening color of his cheeks was another tell, along with how he would clear his throat whenever your eye caught his, quickly looking away as if a teenager sneaking glances at his crush.

Which was what precisely was happening, actually—minus the teenager part.

But the worst of it was that you had absolutely no clue.

Perhaps it was because you’d grown so used to his teasing attitude, or even his touches or his open expressions, but you, truly, hadn’t the faintest clue that those actions were Johnny’s way of saying he was interested in you. You went about your joint missions together, touching shoulders and smiling widely, and everyone was about ready to go right back to war just so the two of you could stop it with the puppy eyes already. 

“I’m losing my mind,” Gaz utters, blinking in rapid succession at the two forms as they walk side by side across the tarmac. “I am absolutely losing my damn mind.” The exasperation can be taken and scooped with a spoon. The Sergeant gestures with his hand. “Are they bloody blind? Both of them?”

“Seems like it,” the Captain grunts, eyes narrowed and arms crossed as Soap’s hand comes up and ruffles your hair, you swat him away and playfully punch his shoulder. The Scot fake balks back in imaginary pain. 

Price rubs a hand over his beard with a sigh as Ghost blankly stares from behind them, leaning back against the base’s walls. The Lieutenant breathes out, “Fuckin’ hell. Gonna be dead ‘fore these bastards figure it out.”

Your unit was sharing most of the same looks, rolling their eyes and placing bets once more on whether one of you would make a move. Across the way your face is comfortably heated, heart hammering and yearning for something more. Johnny thinks the same as he chuckles, one hand going to itch at the side of his head.

“Well, it was more than good to see you again, Dearie.” He says, and you huff a laugh. “There’s nothing better than watchin’ you work, eh?” 

It’s a tease laced with truth, and you shift your feet, trying to hide the sudden flip of your intestines.

“Quit it, MacTavish,” your smile is infectious, and you send a glance at the setting sun before your smirk gradually grows. “In my opinion, you all hot and sweaty beats that out of the park.”

“Oh, aye,” the Scot cockily tilts his head, raising a brow as his stubble moves back. “Know it does.” 

You chuff, head looking away in childish glee. “You’re impossible.” 

“Ah,” he licks his lips, leaning back on his heels. “Don’t worry now, Little Lady, I’m all yours to figure out—I promise.” The flirting was a constant from both parties, and neither of you tired of it. 

A small silence grew, and over the course of the last month or so, the pauses had become more and more frequent when the want to speak prevailed, but no one knew what exactly to say. You both blink at one another, noticing that you’ve both been staring heavily. 

Johnny’s throat clears, and he licks his lips before quickly looking away; you awkwardly chuckle and decide that his vest is the most interesting thing in the world.

Both small teams want to bash their heads into a wall. 

“I’ll be seeing you?” Johnny sighs softly, speaking as his accent grows deeper with thought. He wanted to scold himself for his cowardness but had no idea that you were doing the same. 

“Of course,” you nod firmly. “I’m not as big of a fool to ignore my favorite Demolitions Expert.”

“You’re makin’ go all shy now, ya little beast,” Johnny levels, his cheeks gaining a reddish hue. 

You spare a laugh, and that silence once more returns. He wants to tell you, but he’s not sure how, and that itself makes his body tense with indecision—tell you the truth, or live with his own hesitation on your answer. Spare the man, he was too blind to see how much you already adored him.

Blinking away, you clench your jaw and hold out your hand. “Until next time, Sergeant.”

Johnny smiles lightly, eyes going soft. There were so many things he’d accomplished in his life by running head-long into them; by barging down doors and thinking of an exit while his foot was already halfway outside. But this…this he didn’t mind taking his time with. 

You were worth every second. 

Johnny gently grasps your hand, squeezing it as he hums, lips twitching. The teams would have to wait in their annoyance for another day. 

“Until next time, Dearie. Don’t be a stranger.”

[onestopfanficshop]

a fish with a bowtie

a simon "ghost" riley x reader blurb part two here!

no shock that i have fallen for yet another tall, muscular masked man. nothing new here! 😭

warnings/author's note: it feels so good to actually be able to write again omg. i included a very poorly drawn floor plan of the house in my head so you can visualize it better- nothing worse than not being able to see a story in your head! just some language and unreasonable amounts of fluff. your call sign is sparrow. simon being simon. gif not mine

word cound: 2100

"If any of you get boot prints on my tile, I swear to God…" you threaten weakly, kicking your shoes off at the door. The team knew better than to argue. You had saved their asses back at the warehouse breach–and unfortunately, you also took the brunt of the damage. Your head was throbbing, and your legs threatened to give out at any moment beneath you. The team had been successful with your help, but the attack was loud. They figured they'd lie low for a couple of days and let the smoke clear, but they needed a safe house. You debated it for a second before reluctantly telling the boys that you knew a place.

Unluckily for you, that place was your house.

The team silently marveled at your home. It seemed to be a perfect reflection of you but also not at the same time. For someone that claimed to be no frills, your couch sure did look fancy. But your collection of vinyls matched up with all the music recommendations you'd give them between missions. Soap geeked out over the movie posters you had framed around the living room, and Price squinted at your coffee table decor. He never took you for a candle person.

"Is that an original Back to the Future poster?" Soap asked in awe. 

"Mhm…" you mumble distantly, racking the fridge for food. You zone out on the bright lights of the fridge for a second before letting out a grim chuckle. Of course there was no food. You were barely ever in this house– if you kept food in the fridge, it would all go rotten. Seriously, how fucked up was your brain right now?

You decided to search for the pantry next. It was mostly empty, save for a few spices and boxes of tea here or there. Your eyes searched the shelves until you found what you were looking for: exactly five bowls of nearly expired Hot-and-Spicy ramen soup, which was just enough for you, Soap, Price, Gav, and Ghost. You thanked whatever higher power might exist out there as you stacked the bowls on top of each other, carrying them close to your chest to avoid dropping them.

"I have the finest delicacy here for you, boys," you say humorously. "Three Michelin stars,” you continue, earning a laugh from Soap and Gaz. You set the bowls down on the kitchen island, keeping one for yourself. You tear open the lid and untwist a water bottle cap, pouring the water up to the ridged line inside the bowl. After you poured the tiny packet of dehydrated vegetables and chicken, you stick it into the microwave and lean cross-armed on the kitchen island, waiting for the three minutes to pass. The rest dutifully follow your lead, taking turns with the microwave built into your kitchen and the other one that was plugged in on the counter. 

"Dinner" was eaten in relative silence. Not that anyone could hear anything anyways (you really needed to tell Soap to go easy on the frags before you all went deaf). You were too busy eating your soup to notice the team sneaking glances at each other and then at you, Ghost most of all.

After you all ate, you pointed everyone to their rooms. Soap went straight away, which is how you could tell he was really exhausted. Price and Gaz sat on the couch debriefing for a while before they headed to bed, too. Only you and Ghost were left. You were lying on the couch, half-tuned in to some old-time game show on the TV. Ghost sat on the loveseat to the right of you, polishing his gun and sneaking occasional glances at the TV—and at you. 

“Shit,” you exclaimed suddenly. Ghost halted his movements, watching as you got up to a sitting position, closing your eyes.

“What is it?” he asked you quietly, finger moving instinctively to the trigger.

“No, I’m fine. I just… I just remembered I have to wash my hair. It’ll be a fucking miracle if I don’t collapse in the shower,” you sighed. “It’s a whole process, and it’s gonna take forever, and it’s already late… I’d better start now,” you finish, rubbing your eyes.

Ghost sat for a moment, contemplating what you said.

“I’ll do it for you.”

“What?”

“I mean—only if you want. I could. Over the sink or... something.” It’s the first time you ever heard Ghost sound unsure of himself, and it completely threw you off.

“Are you... sure?” you ask, staring at him.

“Positive,” he replied, staring back.

“Okay… I’ll be right back,” you say, moving towards the stairs. Once you were in your bathroom, you grabbed everything you would need: a towel, shampoo, conditioner, and your beloved shampoo brush.

When you got back downstairs, you found Ghost ungloved and running water in the sink, absentmindedly touching his fingers to the stream of water as his eyes were fixed on the TV. It occurred to you that he was making sure the temperature of the water would be okay for you. You weren’t entirely sure why your stomach got light at the sight of it, but you stubbornly decided to ignore it.

“You ready?” he asked, eyeing all the stuff you were carrying. 

“Mhm,” you say, setting everything down on the counter. “I’ll just lie like this over the sink to make it easier for you,” you tell him, lying down and pulling your knees up on the unusually long kitchen island. The size of the island had been something that drew you to the house when you were house shopping, even though you weren’t home enough to cook on it.

“Is that a torture device?” Ghost said, jutting his chin at the shampoo brush sitting on the counter as he got your hair wet.

You laugh for the first time all day when your eyes land on what he’s gesturing at. “Far from it. You kinda just use it to get the shampoo into my scalp. Probably my favorite invention.”

“Your favourite invention?” Ghost repeated to you.

“Yeah. What’s yours?” you ask him. 

He’s silent for a minute as he squeezes the shampoo onto your hair and works it into a lather.

“Electric kettle,” he responds finally.

“You Brits and your tea,” you say fondly, laughing to yourself. Ghost let out a sound, and it took you a second before you realized he chuckled. He laughed. You had never heard him laugh before. You decided you liked the sound.

“What’s your favorite kind of tea, Ghost?” you ask, closing your eyes. He had started using the shampoo brush, and it felt like heaven. You could feel the grime and dried blood dislodging from your scalp; you didn’t even want to see what the sink looked like right now.

“Black tea, maybe earl gray. But I’m not picky,” he shrugged. His eyes narrowed at the nape of your neck where he saw a thin line of blood. 

“You have an interesting cut back here, Sparrow.” He started rinsing out the shampoo as he carefully moved your hair aside to examine it further.

“Well, shit,” you say, sighing louder than necessary. “How bad is it? Is it stitch-worthy? Am I gonna make it?” you ask sarcastically.

“No stitches. You’ll live. Unfortunately,” Ghost deadpans. You roll your eyes at him just as you notice his hands aren’t in your hair anymore. You turn your head to see him squinting at the conditioner bottle.

“The hell is this for?” he asked.

“The conditioner?” you replied incredulously. 

“I know what it is, it’s just—why is it separate?” 

You squint your eyes in thought, trying to understand what he meant when it suddenly clicked.

“Simon…” you say, a wicked grin spreading on your face as you move up to a sitting position, carful not to drip water everywhere. His eyes shot down to look at you. That got his attention. You almost never called him by his actual name. “Please don’t tell me you use it.”

“Use what?” Ghost pressed, getting mildly annoyed. Oh, how he wanted to wipe that stupidly adorable annoying smile off your face. He hated not being in on a joke, even if he rarely showed it.

“On today’s true crime episode,” you say, grabbing the conditioner bottle out of his hands to use as a makeshift microphone. He crosses his arms at your antics, seeming oblivious to the fact that he was getting water and eucalyptus-scented suds all over the arms of his uniform.

“We’re looking at one of the most prolific criminals out there, Lieutenant Ghost. It’s terrifying, it’s horrifying, it's downright disturbing. What are his crimes ,you ask? Using two-in-one… shampoo and conditioner,” you finish, lowering your voice for dramatic effect.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost rasps, voice tinged with exasperation. “Am I not supposed to?”

“No!” you whisper-shout, mindful of your sleeping teammates. “Shampoo strips all the oils from your hair and conditioner puts moisture back in! How could one product do that simultaneously? I mean, seriously, Ghost,” you say, squeezing a generous amount into the palm of your hand before smoothing it over your strands. “It’s common sense.”

“It’s not common sense. Tedious and unnecessary is what it is,” he replies gruffly, watching you put the conditioner on. “So what, you just–put it on, and… leave it there?”

“Yeah… I usually leave it in for 15 minutes while I do other stuff but I’ll just let it sit for a couple minutes since I’m-” you pause, yawning. “Tired.”

“Do you want me to wash it out for you?” he asks, his voice going unusually soft.

“Yes, please,” you responded, lying back down so your hair was over the edge of the sink again. 

His fingers thread through your hair, ridding it of the last traces of conditioner. You force your eyes closed, trying not to think about the fact that Ghost’s face was mere inches away from yours. You felt something cold brush by your face, and your eyes shoot open to see the gleam of his dog tags dangling over you.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbled, tucking them back into his uniform like it was nothing.

Like it didn’t just get your heart caught in your throat.

You can feel his hands wringing out the water in your hair, strong enough to get your hair dry but not strong enough to hurt you. In a final act of pure kindness, he takes the towel sprawled out on the counter and throws it over your head.

“Done,” he says nonchalantly, ignoring your muffled protests from under the towel. When you finally get the towel off and tie it around your hair, you see him standing by the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall and watching you intently. Suddenly shy, you pull a stray blanket off of one of the chairs at the island and wrap yourself in it as makeshift armor from his icy gaze.

“You going to bed?” he asks as you walk up. You spin on your heel to look back down at where he’s still standing, arms crossed.

“No. I was actually just about to go for a six mile run,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “You should go to sleep too, Ghost. I could see your beady little eyes fighting to stay open at the dinner table.”

“My eyes are not beady.”

“Whatever. I’m going to bed. You can stay up until my neighbor's rooster Fish starts crowing if you like,” you say, fighting off another yawn.

“Your neighbor has a rooster named Fish?” he asks, amusement tinting his voice as he starts up the steps after you.

“Mr. Stricker is a strange man,” you reply. You’re met with a few seconds of silence as Ghost catches up to you.

“What do you call a fish wearing a bow tie?” he questions.

“Oh God.”

“Sofishticated,” he continues, not missing a beat. You were not expecting the laugh that erupts from your lips, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, wary of the rest of the team sleeping right above you. 

“That was so not funny,” you say, clearing your throat in a poor attempt to cover up your smile.

“Mhm. And yet you laughed,” Ghost replied. Even in the dim light, you can spot the glint in his eyes. You’d like to think that under his mask, he was smiling too. 

He fell into step with you now, his hands brushing against yours as you two made it up the rest of the stairs. There was plenty of room for both of you to walk without touching each other, but you didn’t pull your hand away.

Neither did he.

[strlingsav]

hear me out: team 141& female reader go to the bar post successful mission, everyone's a lil too drunk, she makes a move on ghost but he's like "ok uve had too much" (I dnt think he's rly drunk tho) and he brings her back to his room to take care of her, but hes like wait "I've always wanted you" THEN THE HOT AND STEAMY STUFF *ofc it's all consensual*

Ohhhhhhh yes, right up my alley 👀

Always

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Your Lieutenant confesses his feelings.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

It wasn't your idea to go out; it was never anyone but Soap that always suggested a pint at the bar around the corner. A run-down dive bar across the street from the base, where every soldier knew it was the best place for cheap drinks and entertainment.

It was the kind of place that belonged to the coarse, gruff men that chain-smoked and didn't want to go home sober. The kind that kept their eyes on you as you wandered in, before turning their interest back to the beer in front of them.

You shared a table with the squad. You were a bit hesitant to join them after hearing the stories Soap told about the place. The time he nearly had a dart thrown in his chest during a drunken game, or when he'd lost a lot of money during a pool match. Nonetheless, you'd been convinced, citing something like, "one time can't hurt".

It was filled with cigarette smoke, classic-rock, and the heavy smell of beer. Price lit up a cigar, puffing on it from the far end of the table. He seemed to enjoy the music and beer, not paying much attention to the ongoing conversation between you. Gaz and Soap had been ragging on each other, Ghost joining in when he felt it necessary.

Soap was already a few drinks in, pressuring you to keep up with him. You could, and did, though you knew you'd have to walk back afterward and thoroughly regretted the three you'd already had.

Ghost sat beside you, a hand around his glass of bourbon, quietly surveying the conversation, chiming in with a scoff or witty comment about Soap's intelligence every so often.

"You are not a Scotsman," You shook your head, watching the drunken man nod his head along to the guitar and drums from the speakers.

"Piss off," He sneered. "What are you on about?"

"You can't hold your liquor," You said back, leaning forward with a smug grin.

"And you can? I'm drinkin' you under the table."

"We're even," You rolled your eyes, sitting back. "'Sides, I'm savouring it."

"Shite's gettin' warm in your hand!" He exclaimed.

You narrowed your eyes, shooting the last of your beer back.

"Let's do a few shots, then. And grab me another beer."

His eyes lit up, a smirk on his face. "Now you're talkin' kid." He shuffled out of his seat, stumbling every so slightly as he headed toward the bar.

"He won't stop 'til he's ahead of ya," Ghost said, leaning into your ear.

You shivered. The timbre of his voice in your ear brought goosebumps to the surface of your skin. Looking over at him, you furrowed your brows, inspecting his eyes. Dark and void, no flecks of any other colour to be seen. They were deep and mesmerizing, a black hole ready to suck you in. You noticed you'd been staring longer than normal, pursing your lips before shifting your gaze.

"I know," You were distracted now with the image of Soap, carrying four shot glasses filled with a mysterious liquid. "It's fun to see him try though."

"More entertainin' watchin' him act like a git."

You grinned.

Price then announced he was heading out, mumbling, "I ain't in the mood for watchin' you drunks all night."

You'd bid him good night, but not before trying to convince him to stay. He'd resigned himself to a night in, drinking his expensive liquor, puffing his cigar in the privacy of his own office. He left with a short goodbye, warning the rest of you not to get out of control.

Soap set the shots down, handing you yours with a polite smile.

"Think we should cheers," He said, sitting down. His speech was now obviously slurring. "To another fuckin' mission finished, and to gettin' back home, away from you fuckers."

You shrugged, colliding your glass with his, before tipping it back and letting it slide down your throat. You shut your eyes, swallowing harshly, nearly choking on the burn in your chest.

"Jesus," You were hoarse, a strangled sound leaving your lips. You recognized the flavour of the drink- vodka. "Nasty."

You sat back, your eyes scanning the bar. It was getting harder to see straight- ghost trails and lazy blinks disrupting your vision. A deep breath in did nothing to clear your head, but damn did it feel good.

"Here," He handed you the second.

You hadn't quite recovered from the first, still feeling it sitting in your throat. Your ribs shifted with a heavy inhale, desperately trying to swallow the liquid fire. Your eyes landed on Soap, an amused grin across his face, though you'd already gulped down the shot before he could say anything.

He chased his shot with the beer in front of him, a grimace across his face- the same as yours. It hit you within a few minutes, only exacerbating the way everything seemed to blur together.

It felt great. Fucking great, to drink, relax, unwind. Have fun, for the first time in months. Dress in something other than fatigues and twenty pounds of equipment. To shower and brush your teeth with running water. You'd finally de-tangled your hair, appreciated the sweet smell of deodorant, worn makeup. You were reminded of it by Gaz, when he commented that your face looked "different" from the usual.

Your head turned, catching Ghost's eyes on the way by, and you smiled softly. It was unintentional, nearly uncontrollable at this point in the evening. He averted his gaze.

You'd always thought highly of him, respected him. You had to. But the causal dress brought out a different side of him, a side that had a sense of humour and didn't mind listening to the back and forth between yourself and Soap. A side you wouldn't mind seeing more often. He wasn't just your Lieutenant now, and your drunken self had taken note of that.

You squinted, trying to imagine the face beneath the mask. His eyes were alluring on their own, and your cheeks flushed at the thought of just how handsome he probably was.

You'd let your guard down, after so long of denying the fact that you were attracted to him, you'd admitted it to yourself. You knew you were digging yourself into a hole, unsure how you'd function while working with him, how you'd ever leave the attraction behind and behave in a strictly professional manner.

It was more difficult to think about drunk than it was while sober. While sober, you could pretend his voice didn't awaken a thrumming in your chest, or that you definitely didn't like the way his fatigues fit his body. But drunk- it was a different story. You'd had your eyes all over him, uncaring and indifferent to whether he noticed or not.

It came with urgency, a giggle bubbling up before you could stop it. It was just another urge you couldn't quite hold in. You'd been studying him, and only when he turned to you, did you realize it. You'd been caught.

"What's funny?" He asked, raising a brow.

You waved your hand, trying to dismiss his question, nearly knocking your empty beer bottle off the table. You caught it with a clumsy hand, pushing it out of reach and clutching your full drink to your chest.

"Lightweight," Soap announced, the usual shit-eating grin on his face.

"Fuck off, Johnny."

"You're a mean drunk, kid."

"I'm not drunk." You noticed that your own speech was slurring now. Your mouth particularly difficult to control, short bursts of giggles exploding without warning. "Okay," You nodded slowly. "Just a bit."

Soap laughed, a loud, boisterous laugh that made you wince. He'd also indulged a bit too much, his cockiness making an unexpected appearance.

"Let's win us a game of pool," Soap said, turning to Gaz.

"I'm not giving you any money," Gaz answered, following close behind as the two made their way to the tables.

You sighed heavily, relishing in the feeling of not being in control. Letting go, falling into the drunken stupor you'd gotten yourself into. It was cathartic. Especially after a gruelling mission.

You turned your attention to Ghost, your head tilting up to look at him.

"Just you and me, Loot," You pursed your lips. "Tell me your war stories."

"Don't have any interesting enough." He took another sip, his lips wet with liquor. You could hardly tear your eyes away.

"Bullshit," You grinned.

He shrugged it off, licking the leftover liquid from his mouth. You'd see his lips before, seen the stubble that lined his chin. You knew he was handsome.

"You should take off the mask," You said, still very intrigued.

"Why's that?" He asked, his gaze flickering between your lips and eyes.

"You're handsome. Not sure why you hide it," You popped a cashew in your mouth from the communal bowl on the table.

"I know. That ain't why I wear it," He said. His eyes fell to the cashews in your hand. "Shouldn't eat those."

You stopped your chewing, furrowing your brows as you set the remaining cashews back in the bowl. He was right; by the looks of it they were old- you hadn't noticed with the blurry haze of liquor distorting your vision.

"Always looking out," You grinned sheepishly. "It's alright to take a night off."

"Not when you're pissed," He commented.

You scowled, "I'm not pissed- I'm tipsy. At the most, a bit drunk." Your tone was harsher than intended.

"You're pissed," He nodded.

"You're deflecting. We were talking about how handsome you are."

"No we weren't," He said, swallowing another gulp.

"Okay," You sighed. Admittedly, it was taking a lot of brain power to follow the conversation. "I was talking about it."

He nodded. "You usually so irritatin' when you're in the bag?"

"Are you usually such a prude?" You snapped.

He shook his head, hiding the grin on his lips with a sip from his glass. You were far too drunk to notice. You wondered if maybe you were a mean drunk, suddenly feeling irrationally guilty for talking to your lieutenant that way.

"I'm sorry," You sighed, desperately wanting to lay your head down on the table, bury your face in your arms and hide your embarrassment.

"It's nothin'." He looked amused.

"I'm sure you're not a prude," You said, eyes wide with concern.

"Far from it."

You raised your brows, suddenly intrigued. Sitting up straight, you shifted to face him entirely.

"I've never seen that side of you."

"No reason to."

"I mean," You swallowed the cold beer, setting it down before staring up at him with narrowed eyes. "I could give you a reason."

Your focus was unrelenting as you scanned his face, searching for any hint of an interested expression. He was unreadable- likely due to the liquor in your bloodstream- and it frustrated you. Now, deeply under the influence, you were irritated and aroused.

"Don't think you know what you're sayin'," His eyebrows dipped in, an unimpressed expression in his eyes.

He'd never seen you in your civilian clothes, or with lipstick on. His mouth had gone dry when he first saw you walk into the bar, not surprising given the tightness in his chest anytime you'd brush past him, compliment him, even say his name. It was unavoidable, especially now, watching you lean in, your inhibitions lowered.

He felt his blood run cold, warmth settling in his groin when your eyes lazily flipped over to look at him, your hand under your chin. You had a coy smile on your face, like you didn't know exactly what you did to him, and he'd be a damn liar if he didn't admit it turned him on even more.

"I know exactly what I'm saying." Your eyes narrowed at him, a short huff of amusement leaving your nose.

He wanted to believe it was true; he'd been around enough drunken soldiers to know that whatever was said usually had some truth to it. He just couldn't imagine a woman like yourself wanting to be attached to a person like him. You were too good; too righteous. Too loyal, trusting. Sometimes it drove him crazy, other times he cherished how much faith you put in him.

"Think you've had enough for the night."

He finished his drink, setting it down. He licked his lips.

"Maybe," You nodded.

Your head was fuzzy, and it was hard to see straight. Reasonably, you knew it was time to call it. You'd pay for it in the morning if you didn't.

"C'mon," He said, nodding his head, urging you to step out of the booth. "We'll head back to base."

You didn't fight him. Your hand reached the table for support as you stood up, missing the empty beer bottle by an inch. Ghost grabbed your arm, an innocent touch that your drunken state turned into something more; a premonition.

You turned back to look at him, a coy smile- even drunk, you were a bit embarrassed to be so clumsy in front of your Lieutenant.

Your arm wrapped around Ghost's as you headed out of the bar, discretely feeling the hard bicep that was hidden beneath the black jacket he was wearing. You squeezed gently, hoping he wouldn't feel your groping. He knew, he could feel your fingers moving, the heat of your palm over his arm. He couldn't help but look over at you, an expression of bliss on your face, eyes half shut.

You made small talk, the night air sobering you up a bit as you wandered across the street. The flickering streetlights made him look even more intimidating than usual, casting a shadow over his eyes, his tall form towering over you. You were aware now of just how close you were to him; you were surprised he'd let you hold his arm, but glad he did. You were somewhat afraid you'd wander off and end up sleeping in a ditch, but mostly you liked how warm he was, how good he felt under your hand.

You knew when he walked you inside that it wasn't the direction of your bunk.

"I'm over there," You pointed.

"You're stayin' with me," He said resolutely. "Can't have you chokin' on your own vomit."

You frowned, "Fair point."

As he let you into his quarters, you were overwhelmed with just how much it smelled like him. A bit of vanilla, cedar, cigarettes. It was almost suffocating, seeping into your senses until you were filled only by him. It was intimate, breathing the same air he lived in. He'd allowed you inside, allowed you to see his most personal space. You took a deep breath at the overwhelming revelation.

Your eyes scanned the room, cataloguing the belongings inside. There weren't many personal items; no photographs or books. Hardly any evidence that he lived there. It was barren, aside from the furniture. You knew him, knew he didn't live like you did. He didn't have family back home that waited for him with loving arms and smiles. He had no reason to frame photos of the people he had loved before.

You stood in the centre of the room, still taking in the environment, sobering up even more when he appeared with a T-shirt and water bottle in hand.

"Here," He said, holding them out to you.

"Is that yours?" You asked, looking over the T-shirt.

He nodded.

You were flustered now, the drunkenness having mostly worn off, your demeanour did a one-eighty once you realized where you'd ended up. Your Lieutenant's room, alone. It was the perfect opportunity to take advantage of, to confess to every single thing you'd ever thought about him. But you couldn't blame it on being drunk anymore, not when you could feel the embarrassment of what you'd said earlier, and mostly regretted it.

"Thank you."

"Y'can change in there," He nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom.

You did, discarding your jacket, shirt and pants. You slid the shirt over your head. It reached the middle of your thighs, a comical look that made you smile at yourself in the mirror. You chugged the water bottle and pulled your hair from your face before leaving the bathroom.

His eyes landed on you, his heart picking in his chest up when he saw you wearing nothing but his shirt. Relaxed, like you were home. It was undeniably arousing. Like you were branded, marked by him. He tried to ignore it, ignore the way your bare feet across his floor sounded so comforting, the way you so willingly wore his clothes, thought nothing of wearing your damn panties around him. He felt something primal clawing at his chest, scratching its way up his throat.

"How you feelin'?" He asked, settling for a nonchalant question, something innocent so you wouldn't suspect he was practically trembling with desire, to touch you- taste you. He took a seat in the chair across the room.

You stepped over to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

"Mostly sober," You breathed out, a small smile on your face. "Sorry, if I said anything out of line."

He nodded; no answer, a nerve-racking response on its own, but his eyes avoided yours. You pushed past the topic, not wanting to dwell on the actions of your drunken self.

"I can sleep on the floor, if you have an extra blanket?" You offered.

He shook his head, "Take the bed. Don't sleep much anyways."

"Why not?" You asked.

"Never have. Too much goin' on in my head."

"Stop thinking for once," You teased.

He inhaled, still slightly distracted by the sight of you, your bare thighs, the shirt inching up as you moved up the bed.

"If only," He replied.

"What keeps you up at night, L.T.?" You asked, a grin of amusement on your face.

You, he wanted to say. You, and your fucking smile. The cadence of your voice, the feeling in his gut he got whenever he felt you next to him, watched you when you weren't looking.

"Paperwork," He teased- though his face showed no evidence of a joke.

You were quiet for a minute, shifting your gaze around the room before returning to his eyes. You smiled, changing the topic again when you concluded he really didn't want to talk about it.

"Thanks for taking care of me tonight."

"You're my responsibility."

Your heart sunk to the pit of your stomach; had he felt responsible for you? Had he only let you cling to him out of obligation? Given you his shirt because it was his duty?

"Oh," You nodded. Your voice was weak, but you tried to hide your disappointment behind a small smile. "Always watching out."

"For you, yeah."

Your gaze narrowed. You wondered if you were still drunk, reading too much into his words, putting meaning where there was none. He sat forward in his seat, attentive, unwavering.

You tilted your head, hoping it would give you an alternative angle to follow, a new lead into the words he'd said. With no success, you leaned back on your hands, ready to interrogate him.

"You don't have to do that," You said, prodding for more. Something substantial, something tangible to sink your teeth into. Some ground to stand on so you could tell how he really felt. "Watch out for me all the time. Especially off duty."

"Can't help it," He said. It was quiet, almost unnoticeable except you'd seen his shoulders tense.

"Why?"

He stood to his feet, and your stomach lurched. He was slow, calculating in his steps, moving closer by the second.

"Think you know."

He stopped before you, his gaze so impenetrable you almost couldn't meet his eyes. His fingers reached up, his knuckles skimming the soft surface of your cheek. You shut your eyes, an inadvertent reaction to the rough feel of his fingers. Your skin was flushed, reddened with the rush of blood your heart was pushing to every nerve.

"Because I'm a liability?" You teased, desperately wanting to ease the tension, to appear unaffected by his words, even though your arms had weakened, every bone turning to liquid inside you. You struggled to keep his gaze, to hold yourself up when he was so domineering, standing tall above you.

His eyes honed in on your lips, giving a small shake of his head. "'Cause I've always wanted you."

You inhaled deeply. It stunned you, to say the least. You'd never seen any hint of attraction from him. He was stoic and unreadable, always. But now, he bore his soul to you. Extending an offer that you were too weak to decline. The room stood still, soft exhales and invisible strain sitting in the air.

You finally met his gaze, cheeks tinged red, an exhale of relief. It was a weight off your shoulders, not having to hide anymore. Knowing he felt exactly the same.

"You've always had me, Lieutenant." You stood to your feet, your head barely meeting his shoulder, but you felt powerful, invigorated with a rush of desire.

He hummed, short, acknowledging, satisfied.

His hand moved from the apple of your cheek to the curve of your waist. His hold was strong and warm, comforting, in a way that made you shiver. A twitch in your body made him chuckle, a deep and inviting sound, that offered no relief of the chill running through your spine.

You couldn't count how many times you'd wished he'd touch you. Intentionally or not, you didn't care, you craved it. You craved the sensation, the heavy pour of molten heat that settled in every bone. The ache between your thighs, never satiated by your own hands, leaving your body to the mercy of your mind, begging and pleading for relief by some measure.

"You still drunk?" He asked, quiet and low.

You shook your head, eyes piercing his gaze with ferocity, a never ending commitment. You couldn't be drunk; not with how obvious it was that his hand was on your waist, clinging to you tightly like he'd lose you if he didn't. Your senses were sharper than they'd ever been, especially with him standing before you.

He pulled the fabric of his mask over his head, freeing his face before you. It was a sight to behold, a moment you wanted to seal in your mind and look back on for years to come. You couldn't help your teeth chewing at your lip, biting back the urge to stand on your toes and kiss him, kiss the lips you'd seen a handful of times but never complemented by his other features. He was handsome. Even more than you'd imagined; a composite of Adonis, embodiment of Ares.

He did your bidding for you, leaning over your shorter frame to bring his lips closer to yours. He waited a moment, wanting to be sure you knew exactly what he intended, what he wanted. You grew tired of the torment, and met him halfway.

He groaned; low and harsh. He absolved you of any responsibility, taking over as he tugged you into his chest. He was a towering figure above you, your neck aching as you reached up to meet his mouth. Your hands lifted to his waist, a gentle hold, still apprehensive. You'd never touched him before, never been able to glide your hands across his sides and envelop him in your arms. It felt right.

In response, his palm reached your cheek, fingers splaying out over your jaw. It was a bit rougher, more motivated. He slipped his tongue in your mouth at the same time, his heavy exhales fanning across your face. He was warm, feverish against you, his body entirely consumed with greed.

He tasted sweet, like caramel and the bitter aftertaste of alcohol still on his tongue. You hummed softly against his mouth, relishing in the moment; your bodies pressed together, lips connected fervidly, hands exploring the expanse of his torso. Your fingers slid down his abdomen, and he pulled back, still holding onto you.

"Y'look good in my shirt."

A slow, smug smile spread over your lips. "Shame you'll have to take it off me," You whispered.

You stood on your toes, pressing your lips to his again. It was an addictive rush, every time you felt the way he pulled you in, the softness in his lips.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, slowly crawling over you to pin you beneath him on the bed, pure desire between your thighs, flames flickering inside you when his gaze lowered.

You pulled the jacket off his shoulders, hands lifting his T-shirt over his head. Your eyes dropped to his stomach, breathing in the muscles lining his navel, the trail of coarse hair disappearing under his jeans, the marks and scars across his entire torso. Your hands inadvertently reached out, tracing every line and contour, his head falling down at your gentle touch.

You pulled his belt open, before he took his time lifting his T-shirt up off your body, watching with uninterrupted focus, taking in every bare inch he could see until you were left nude before him.

"Fuckin' beautiful," He whispered, his lips beside your ear, moving to leave soft kisses against your neck.

Your jugular pounded in your throat, his silken tongue finding your pulse and biting down softly. You whimpered, pulling yourself closer to him as he scattered kisses over your neck and chest. His hands engulfed your breasts, warmth erupting over your body when he left wet kisses over your nipples, a flat tongue following.

"Yes, please," You exhaled, your back arching into him.

He laid down beside you, a smooth transition when your hand on his chest pushed him back against the pillows. You climbed over his lap while he gripped your hips, staring up at you as you rocked over the bulge in his jeans.

He grunted, quickly yanking his waistband and briefs down. His cock lifted from the restraints, painfully erect, the size a bit intimidating but you'd never given up from a challenge. You leaned forward, sliding your panties aside, helping him to press the tip of his cock against your entrance, before you sat back down.

His cock slowly inched inside, an uncomfortable stretch, but you were already so aroused it quickly dissipated when your hips moved forward. He stretched his neck back, pressing into the pillows; your pussy was drenched, with soft, velvet walls that squeezed around him. He gritted his teeth.

"So big, Lieutenant," You exhaled, a guttural sound as you appreciated just how much he filled you.

"No Lieutenant shite," He groaned. "Simon-" He gulped. "Say my name, love."

You leaned over him, resting your hands against the pillows while his hands slid up to your waist. You craned your neck down to press your lips against his, your pussy gliding up and down his cock while his hands guided you.

It was a haze-inducing sight; your lips wide with pleasure, panting softly every time his cock would massage your walls, graze your clit.

"You feel good, sweetheart," He grumbled against your neck. "Fuckin' hell- that's good."

"Yes- fuck," You watched his eyes, the way he'd furrow his brows in an attempt to digest just how good you felt wrapped around him.

His free hand massaged your breasts, grabbing and palming the soft tissue as you thrust your hips against his.

"God, Simon."

"Been waitin' to hear you say my name like that," He said.

You shivered on his cock, your pussy clenching down with appreciation for his words.

You moved forward, your hips working to grind against him, to push his cock inside you, falling back with heavy exhales.

He couldn't handle the slow pace, couldn't handle the restriction- how he couldn't bury himself inside you. He flipped your bodies over, realigning himself with your pussy before diving back inside.

You groaned, clinging to his shoulders, your thighs immediately wrapping around his waist, trembling.

"Lie back," He grunted, his hips rolling against yours. "Lie back and let me take care of you, love."

Your lips parted, a satisfied moan escaping. Your hands reached his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he thrust his cock inside you, the sounds of your well-lubricated pussy echoing around the room.

He muffled your moans with his lips, panting heavily after pulling away.

"So deep," You mumbled, "Fuck you're so deep, just like that, please."

"Like hearin' you beg, sweetheart," Another grunt.

His fingers reached down to your clit, rubbing side to side in a way that made your abdomen tense. He felt the clench of your pussy around him, letting out a low gasp against your skin.

"Christ, I dreamt about fuckin' you. Havin' you just like this."

"Simon," You whispered.

His hand gripped your thigh, angling it to penetrate deeper inside you.

"Who's this cunt belong to?" Sweat lined his brow, his fingers still moving in circles on your clit.

"Fuck," You squeezed your eyes shut, savouring just how fucking good it felt, the stimulation was enough to have you writhing beneath him, your body begging for an orgasm. "You, shit- 's all yours."

"That's my girl," He grumbled, plunging his cock inside you with even more speed now, triggering waves of pleasure that engulfed your entire body, had you moaning so loudly he covered your mouth with his hand.

"Fuck," He swore, listening to the muffled sounds of pleasure escaping your mouth. "Fuckin' hell. Let it out. I've got you."

You whimpered and whined, his cock driving into you, extending your orgasm. Your eyes rolled back, nostrils flaring as you tried to catch your breath, your thighs and fingers squeezing relentlessly against him.

He had a difficult time holding back; he so badly wanted to hear every single moan and cry that left your lips, but knew the walls were thin. He wouldn't live with himself if anyone found out, if you'd take the brunt of the relentless torment that would surely follow.

He removed his hand when he was sure you'd recovered, so close to his own release he almost didn't have time to tell you. You could read his face, see the expression of pain and pleasure.

"Wherever," You breathed. "Wherever you want."

Your words pushed him past the edge, and his hips stuttered, pressing flush against yours as he released inside you, his cock twitching with every burst.

He sucked in a harsh breath, head tilting up to stare at the ceiling. He thrusted lazily a few more times, before gently falling next to you. A few moments passed, deep breaths and contentment in the air.

"What's in your head now?" You asked, turning on your side.

He nearly smiled, "All clear, sweetheart."

[mackjlee9]

Simon Riley x Werewolf!Top!Male!Reader [Smut&Fluff] |commission|

Warning; rough sex, overstimulation, breeding kink, size kink.

Masterlist. Commission Rules.

Call of Duty; Modern Warfare 2 (2022)

From the moment their eyes met, (M/n) knew he had found them. His mate. Maybe they didn't meet in the most conventional way, but nothing was conventional in the military.

(M/n) and his team had been assigned as support for an undercover mission with the Task Force 141 team. He was part of a special division of human hybrids, and he, being the biggest of them all by quite a lot, caught everyone's attention the moment they walked out of the chopper and into the building where the meeting had been arranged, following the man called Price in complete silence.

Walking through the open metal doors, (M/n)'s eyes scanned the room briefly, his nose smelling the air, and a particular scent caught his attention. That's when he made eye contact with cold blue eyes, that were seemingly staring into the depths of his soul. He almost couldn't believe it. He felt his saliva gathering under his tongue, and he forced himself to swallow before taking a deep breath and approaching the table where everyone was.

With no time to waste with introductions, Price went over the plan, making sure everyone understood their role and how important it was they stuck to it, and like that, they were assigned a partner.

They were in charge of bringing support and use of their enhanced abilities since this was an experimental mission to see how hybrids and humans could work together.

And it turned out to be an astounding success. Their mission wasn't exactly big, but it was important, and it had to be done as quickly as possible, they had to get to know their partners' habits and tells to be able to bring the best out of them, something that seemed to work as easy as breathing for (M/n) and Ghost.

Both had hit it off quite well since they first talked, despite both of them being men of few words, they understood each other perfectly, and well, (M/n) could not feel happier about that, getting along with his mate so well from the start was something not many hybrids got to experience and he was glad and overjoyed.

But with the mission over, they no longer had a reason to hang out together, telling bad jokes and keeping their stoic expressions as they silently communicated with each other. (M/n) didn't want to rely on the 'what if', the thought of potentially not seeing Simon ever again made his chest hurt, as if his heart was being torn from within.

So, gathering all the courage he had, he walked up to Simon when everyone else were enjoying the end of the mission, and sat next to him, staying silent for a few seconds.

"You okay?" Simon asked quietly, noticing the state of the hybrid, he was tense and seemed ready to break down, he couldn't help but wonder why, placing his hand on (M/n)'s shoulder, "(M/n)?"

Taking a deep breath, he turned to look at Simon, feeling his body heat up at their proximity, and for a moment he forgot everything he wanted to say when he stared into his blue eyes, looking at him with such warmth that made him weak and filled him with want.

"I-..." He blinked a few times, taking a deep breath to regain his composure, "I was wondering if... We could maybe, uh..." (M/n) scratched the back of his head as he racked his brain, trying to think of what he wanted to say, Simon made him feel like a little kid having his first crush, he was so lame, "Could we exchange numbers? To, you know, stay in contact, maybe?" He finished slowly, his voice turning quieter and quieter the longer he talked.

He was sure Simon didn't even hear him and he was about to stand up and walk away in defeat, but he was met with a cute chuckle, making him look up again.

Simon stood up from his spot and walked to the desk across from them, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen he found in one of the drawers, and scribbled something on the paper. (M/n) just stayed there in place, watching Simon's back, a hint of hope glimmering in his eyes. Standing straight, Simon turned around and walked until he was standing in front of (M/n), handing him the paper in his hand.

"Here," (M/n) stared at it for a few seconds, his sight shifting between Simon and the paper, before finally, reaching his hand up to grab it. He stared at the numbers written in black, accompanied by a skull drawing, reading 'Ghost' right below it. It was cute, "Oh, one more thing," looking up again at the sound of Simon's voice, (M/n) saw him reaching for the bottom of his mask, lifting it above his lips and leaning down.

A soft kiss was placed on his cheek, his face heating up at the unexpected gesture.

"I'll be expecting to hear from you soon."

His eyes watched as Simon left after fixing his mask, walking to where the rest of his team was, and damn, (M/n) didn't care if he looked like an idiot right now, it was quite amazing how a simple kiss could have him high in the clouds, daydreaming and smiling like an idiot in love.

But to be fair, he was in love, so he allowed himself to behave like this just this one time.

//////

Like that, months passed and they got to know each other better as much as they could every day. Waiting to hear from the other when they were out on a mission, and talking for hours when it was just training day at base.

And now, it was their first time meeting up after half a year, they were both on short leave for a few weeks and they decided to meet up, catch up on everything that had happened and enjoy each other's company as much as they could.

Something was certain, love came quite naturally for both of them, it was this strange yet natural force making them need to feel each other close, to see the other safe and sound. So the first time they kissed, everything felt right, like it was meant to be that way.

Soon enough, they learned how compatible their bodies were, even more so when it came down to having sex.

Their first time together was a little more on the softer side, mostly since (M/n) didn't want to scare Simon right off the bat, he knew how rough he could be, and he hated the thought of potentially hurting his lover in a way neither of them wanted, so he held himself back to the best of his abilities, resorting to biting himself whenever he felt like he was going to do something he will regret later.

Of course, Simon was a sharp man, and he soon realized that his lover was holding himself back, holding back his urges and desires, he wondered why would (M/n) do that, but being honest, he had no idea, which led him to think it was his fault, but before he could spiral into his insecurities regarding sex, he sat on the bed next to (M/n) and gently stroked his back.

"Is everything alright?" He whispered, leaning his head on (M/n)'s shoulder, and the male glanced over his shoulder at him, showing a hint of a smile.

"Yeah... Everything is fine, nothing's wrong," Simon frowned as he saw (M/n) turn his head to look the opposite way, hearing and feeling him take a deep breath, "Uh, let's... Let's just sleep, is getting kind of late anyway."

Simon was perplexed, even almost mad at him for just dismissing his concern and worry, as if it was nothing, as if nothing was happening when it was more than clear something was happening to (M/n).

He let it slide for now, getting in bed too and turning on his side and facing away from his lover, the cogs in his brain turning as he thought of what could possibly be bothering (M/n) so much to the point where he doesn't wanna talk about it.

Without even realizing it, Simon had spent the whole night awake, only snapping out of his trance when the sunlight coming through the blinds made him blink a few times, making him groan and sit up on the bed, reading the hour on the digital clock on the nightstand.

It read 7:00 am, and Simon sighed, feeling his body tense and tired, his mind exhausted, and his ability to focus pretty much gone. He decided a morning jog would help him, but even if it didn't, at least it would take his mind off of things, clear the thoughts plaguing his brain, and ease him, if only for a few minutes.

///////

The jog did not work, and not only that, but the rest of the week went exactly the same.

He tried to either have sex with (M/n) or he tried to get him to tell him what was wrong and what was bothering him so much, but it never worked, it was all futile, and Simon wondered if he was the right partner for (M/n). He couldn't help it. He usually wasn't this insecure about himself but something about it all made him doubt himself and he hated that.

And he definitely had enough of feeling that way because his lover didn't want to be honest with him.

He was sitting on the bed, waiting for (M/n) to lay next to him. His eyes followed his movements, stiff and rough as he felt Simon's cold stare on him.

(M/n) sat on the bed, his back resting against the headboard and he slowly turned his head to glance at Simon, whose expression was serious, he seemed mad too which worried him.

"Are you okay, darling? Do you need me to-?" Simon gripped his wrists as he reached to hold the blond's face. He blinked a few times, caught off guard despite his good reflexes, he just tends to feel more relaxed around his lover, "Uhm... Is there something wrong...?"

Simon groaned and shifted his weight around on the bed until he was straddling (M/n)'s lap.

"Darling...?" (M/n) tried asking once more time, feeling a little nervous and on edge with Simon's bold movement.

"If you don't fuck me right now, you're telling what's wrong with you," with wide eyes, (M/n)'s eyes observed Simon's expression, he was mad but he could see a hint of sadness in his blue eyes, and that broke him a little bit more.

He didn't have much of a choice. He'd rather tell Simon the truth about what was bothering him over hurting him because he couldn't control himself. (M/n) took a deep breath, and placed his hands on Simon's hips, stroking the scar that reached down to his hip bone, something that always help the blond relax after a tense day.

"I, uh..." (M/n) blinked a few times, unable to maintain eye contact with his lover, even when he knew Simon was trying to look into his eyes, "I'm in... My r-rut started this w-week and... And I don't wanna hurt you, Simon..."

Holding back a smile, Simon held (M/n)'s face, lifting his head to make him look at him, and let him know that it was okay.

"You would never hurt me, (M/n)," the (h/c) haired male instead of looking relieved at the reassurance he looked rather sad, his eyes shifting away from Simon's.

"You don't understand, darling, I... I'm a wolf hybrid, a werewolf, I am not... Not as gentle and soft as I appear to be, and... I'm scared of hurting you and making you hate me," Simon saw a few tears running down (M/n)'s face and he felt as if his heart was hurting at the sight of his partner so conflicted and worried about his wellbeing.

"Well, how about..." Simon's quiet words made (M/n) reach his hand up to wipe his tears away, glancing at him briefly, "How about this, I'll tell you when it's getting too much... We could have like a safeword, if that could ease your mind because..."

Simon stood on his knees, his hands moving to intertwine with (M/n)'s (h/c) locks, pulling on his hair and making him tilt his head back.

"I've been feeling really pent up this week and you keep avoiding having sex with me," he whispered in his ear, placing small kisses on the sensitive skin of his neck, making (M/n) sigh at the feeling.

"I'm sorry about that, darling... But, are you sure you wanna try this?" Simon scoffed and grinded his hips forward, letting (M/n) know how much he wanted to do it.

"Don't make me wait more, for the love of God."

(M/n) chuckled, his arms wrapping around Simon's waist, nodding a few times.

"I won't, I won't~."

///////

Well shit, Simon was able to realize just much (M/n) was actually holding back. In the fogs of his hazy mind, he remembered that 'red' was their safe word, but honestly? He was feeling so good that he doubted he will be using it any time soon.

(M/n)'s hands held his hips tightly, surely leaving bruises, lifting and lowering his body onto his cock with ease, hearing his groans and growls next to his ear, the praises leaving his mouth and making him whine with embarrassment.

"Fuck, darling, you feel... So good around my cock, you take me so well," (M/n)'s words got out rushed but clear, making sure Simon heard them, that he felt his love and need for his body, "I'm gonna fill you with my cum, fuck- imma watch how your belly swells up from it," Simon released a breathless moan, his hands holding onto (M/n)'s back for some sort of stability, leaving scratch marks across his skin.

(M/n)'s ears twitched, moving from being pressed back against his head to standing tall, not wanting to miss a single sound coming from Simon. He had tried to control himself from going to his werewolf form and now he got stuck with his ears and tail showing, wagging excitedly and thumping on the bed.

"I'm... I'm gonna cum, fuck, baby take it all, please, please, take all my cum~" his desperate and whiny words made Simon's body tremble, his insides clenching around (M/n)'s cock, making him moan his name as he bit his bottom lip hard, keeping the blond sitted on his throbbing cock as he spilled his cum as deep as he could.

Simon's eyes rolled to the back of his head, his mouth wide open as he gasped for air, whining at the feeling of being full of his lover's cum.

"You're... Ngh, you're gonna ma-make me p-pregnant, (M/n)~" the blond muttered in a daze, his eyes filling with tears as he felt his head spin from the pleasure, his legs tightening their hold around the hybrid's hips.

(M/n) stared up at Simon, a dreamy look in his eyes, shifting his hands to grip the blond's thighs, turning them around on the bed, lifting Simon's legs and keeping him pinned down, growling as he continued thrusting into him, unable to take his eyes away from the obvious bulge forming on his lower belly, he could see the outline of his cock as he drilled his cum-filled walls, feeling him twitching around his cock, whimpering and crying out his name.

"Please~ more! Fill... Fill me up more, I want it all~" damn, (M/n) had forgotten that the cum of a werewolf in their rut works as some sort of aphrodisiac, Simon's body taking all he gave him, slowly dropping out of his hole, making him groan as he thought how many more times he was gonna stuff him full.

The bed creaked under their weight and hit the wall with every thrust, the wet squelching sound as their skin slapped together filled their ears, their noises mixing as they got louder and louder, (M/n)'s thrusts turning rougher with every passing second, getting drunk off the sight of Simon's body taking him, taking all of him so good.

Simon felt how his voice was turning hoarse and raspy, and he knew his voice was gonna be gone by morning but he didn't care about that, he could only think about (M/n)'s sweet words and praises in his ear, his touch turning gentle and sweet, stroking his skin, playing with his chest, leaving wet kisses on him as his hips continued their ruthless pace.

"You look so beautiful like this, darling... So perfect," (M/n) sighed dreamily, going back up to reach Simon's face, holding his face and pressing their lips together, nibbling on his bottom lip before pulling back, "I love you so much."

(M/n) started leaving another trail of kisses down Simon's neck, stopping on the spot where his neck and shoulder met, licking and biting on his skin softly, moving his hand to wrap his fingers around Simon's leaking cock, slowly stroking his tip, feeling him shiver underneath him, whines and whimpers escaping past his swollen lips.

"I... I l-love you t-too, fuck~ you're filling me up s-so much, ngh," taking in a heavy breath, (M/n) held onto the blond's hips, leaning back to get the full view of Simon's reactions, how his thighs trembled, how his back arched so beautifully off the bed and his cock was colored in such a pretty pink, twitching and leaking pre-cum onto his abdomen, looking up and staring into his blue eyes that were filling with tears with every second that passed.

"Simon..." He whispered, gracing the tip of his fingers on the tip of his cock, hearing him let out a choked whimper, "You've been so good today, it's time for me to reward you, don't you think?"

Simon looked at him with such love and adoration that (M/n) thought it almost resembled the same heart eyes he has for the blond.

"Yes, please, I've been... So good~"

++++

Oh sheesh I hope this was good enough :') and what they wanted

@xdark-acadamiax (let me know if you want me to remove the tag~!)

[therealmsdelulu]

I can see you (Y/N and Jonah’s version)

Pairing: Jonah x fem!reader

A/N: Ignore how some of the lyrics aren't pink, it kept messing up. Also first smut, bare with me ya'll 😀.

Summary: You’re at a premiere party and your coworker keeps making not so subtle moves on you. Inspired by 'I Can See You' by Taylor Swift.(Lyrics in italics and pink)

Warnings: SMUTTT. Oral (fem receiving)

Your recent film was a huge success thanks to the incredible chemistry and or sexual tension between you and your coworker Jonah.

You currently had your back against a wall in the hallway of the host's house, drinking from a red solo cup and talking with a cast mate when you suddenly feel a shoulder brush against yours. You turn around only to see Jonah flash you a smirk before walking away.

"You brush past me in the hallway And you don't think I, I, I can see ya, do ya?"

You scoffed lightly before returning to your conversation. You tried to focus on the words being said to you but you catch yourself watching Jonah down the hall hoping he wouldn't see you.

"I’ve been watchin' you for ages And I spend my time tryin' not to feel it"

You shook your head subtly trying to get yourself together. 'But what would you do if I went to touch you now?,' you fantasized in your head, 'What would you do if they never found us out, What would you do if we never made a sound?'

You turned your head in the direction that Jonah went only to see him at the end of the hallway watching you carefully.

'Cause I can see you waitin' down the hall from me

Gathering your nerves you walked over to Jonah. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a staring problem. Take a picture it'll last longer." you teased and he chuckled darkly before closing the gap in between you. His hand gripped your chin as he backed you up against the wall.

'And I could see you up against the wall with me'

"I like to call it the Y/N effect. You really have a hold on me darling," he whispered into your ear, letting go of your chin and placed his hands on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

'And what would you do? Baby, if you only knew That I can see you'

"Really? What effect do I have on you Jonah," you whispered back and he could hear the smirk in your words.

"How about I show you," he suggested before attaching his lips to your neck, leaving hot-open mouthed kisses on your skin, you bit your lip in an attempt to hold back the moans that threatened to spill out.

"You really wanna do this here?" you asked breathlessly knowing that anybody could walk in on the two of you at any given time. He picked you up, your legs wrapped around his torso and carried you to the nearest bathroom.

'And we kept everything professional But something's changed, it's somethin' I, I like They keep watchful eyes on us So it's best that we move fast and keep quiet'

He locked the bathroom door behind the two of you and placed you down on the counter. "Do you want this?" he asked looking you in the eyes and you simply nodded but that wasn't enough for him. "Words, pretty girl," he said with a slightly teasing tone.

"Yes Jonah, I want this," you said quietly and he smiled in satisfaction before pressing his lips against yours in a passionate kiss. His hands gripped at the base of your hips and he slowly took off your dress. He gently cupped your breast over your bra and kissed the exposed skin, making sure to leave behind a trail of hickies.

"Can I take this off?" he asked toying with the clip of your bra and you nodded eagerly. He unclipped your bra with ease and began to plant open-mouthed kisses on the newly exposed skin. His hands found a resting place on your hips as he trailed his kisses lower and closer to where you needed him the most.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Jonah asked looking into your eyes.

"I've never been more sure of anything," you assured him and he gently slid down your panties, getting on his knees in front of the counter.

His hands gripped at your hips as he placed gentle kisses on the insides of your thighs as he began to gently bite and suck at the skin. He looked up into your eyes as he licked a long stripe up your slit before licking and sucking at your clit earning soft moans and whimpers from your mouth only encouraging him to speed up the movement of his tongue.

You gripped the edges of the sink while his tongue flickered between your slit and he hooked his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

You looked down at him and found his eyes gazing into yours watching you intently as he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked desperately. The view was making you dizzy. The way his eyes bore into your own as his tongue wrapped around your wetness made you grind your hips into his mouth seeking more friction.

He gave a long stroke with the flat of his tongue and sucked you into his mouth tugging slightly and you could feel the pull of your throbbing clit. Then he spread his mouth wide over that sensitive nub and sucked even harder, a sudden stabbing sensation making you cry out in pleasure. Your whimpers and moans grew significantly louder as the coil in your stomach tightened his tongue moving faster while he felt you clenching around his mouth. 

He pulled away slightly. "Cum for me, love," he whispered before continuing his tongue's brutal attack against your clit. You cried out in pleasure as you approached you orgasm and he slowed down his licks, helping you ride out your orgasm.

He stood back up and licked the remainder of your wetness off of his lips looking into your eyes as he did.

"You gonna let me return the favor?" you asked with a sly smirk.

[swan-of-sunrise]

Necessary Evils (Tales From The SSR)

Summary: As they await news of Michael Carter's surgery, (Y/N) and Jack discuss her unwanted connection to Arnim Zola and the feel of foreboding that the former Hydra doctor left in his wake.

Pairing: Jack Thompson X Fem!Reader, Peggy Carter X Daniel Sousa, Edwin Jarvis X Ana Jarvis

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Hi there! This week's surprise one-shot is gonna explore a little of Specs' whereabouts in the aftermath of Bucky Barnes' death in The First Avenger and we're gonna have some great moments between her and Jack, so buckle up! Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Necessary Evils January 1948 Los Angeles County Hospital, Los Angeles (Previous One-Shot)

“I got you some tea from the hospital’s cafeteria.” (Y/N) was pulled out of her silent reverie by Jack taking a seat beside her and offering her a disposable paper cup, the concerned gleam in her boyfriend’s blue eyes accompanied by the smallest of smiles for her benefit. “Earl Grey and two teaspoons of honey; I know how much it helps when you get one of your stress headaches.”

(Y/N), touched by his thoughtful gesture, reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She reached for the cup and after taking a long sip, she sat back in the uncomfortable waiting room chair with a frustrated sigh. “I hate this. The longer the surgery takes, the more I’d like to burst into that operating room and re-arrest that Nazi bastard before he tries anything funny with Michael.”

Beside her, Jack nodded as he patiently listened to her threats and threw Peggy – who was anxiously pacing across the hospital waiting room while Daniel unsuccessfully attempted to talk her into sitting down – a furtive glance before replying, “I don’t think this Zola guy would risk a lifetime imprisonment or execution by trying to bump off Carter mid-surgery, Specs. I mean, Stark and half a dozen MP’s are watchin’ him and the neurosurgeons like hawks as we speak, and he’s not gonna jeopardize the sweet deal the JIOA cut for him for something as low-stakes as this.”

“I wouldn’t call any of this ‘low-stakes,’ Flyboy,” (Y/N) murmured, looking around the fully-occupied waiting room and reflexively tightening her grip on her cup of tea; she, Jack, Peggy, Daniel, and the Jarvises, along with over a dozen uniformed SOE officers and SSR officials, were gathered at Los Angeles County Hospital for the long-awaited surgery that would theoretically restore Michael Carter’s mind to what it was before the brainwashing that Hydra subjected him to during the war. Several of the SOE officers served alongside Michael and had volunteered to travel from England to be with their fellow soldier in his time of need, but Peggy was understandably the most concerned of them all; Michael made his younger sister promise not to contact their parents about his staged death in 1941 and sudden reappearance until it was confirmed that the dangerous surgery was a success, wanting to prevent Harrison and Amanda Carter another heartbreak on the off-chance that Arnim Zola and the team of neurosurgeons failed and he passed away on the operating table. The Carter siblings spent several minutes alone with one another before they wheeled Michael into the operating room and since then, Peggy hadn’t been able to stay still. I’d be the same way if Freddie’s life were in the hands of that Nazi son of a bitch, (Y/N) thought to herself and one of her hands moved upwards to caress the locket containing her deceased brother’s photograph as she sympathetically watched Peggy continue to pace.

“You know what I mean.” Jack scooted closer to her side and when she finally looked over at him, the look of concern in his blue eyes was as prominent as ever. “Look, I get why Peggy’s taking all this personally…but I can’t figure why you are, too. You can talk to me, baby…” His hand moved to rest on her shoulder, and (Y/N) could feel the comforting warmth of his touch through the thin material of her blouse. “Whatever you’ve gotta say, I’m here. And if you don’t feel up to talkin’ just yet, then I’ll still be right here with you.”

(Y/N) lowered her gaze to her lap and spent several moments mustering the strength to speak, her voice wavering as she recalled some of the darkest moments of the war, the ones that she wished she could forget forever but sadly never could. “I helped capture Zola. I was deployed with the Howlies in the Swiss Alps, and we were tasked with finding and capturing Zola to interrogate him about Schmidt’s plans. Morita intercepted several radio transmissions from Hydra and after I decoded them, we had confirmation that Zola was on a train scheduled to travel through the same mountain pass that we were navigating. Steve, Bucky, Gabe and I used a zip chord to get onto the train while it was still in motion; Steve and Bucky left to secure the front train cars while Gabe and I stayed on the roof as their back-up, and that’s…that’s when…”

Her boyfriend rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together as he looked over at her. “That was the mission that Sergeant Barnes didn’t survive, wasn’t it?” She nodded, her eyes still diligently trained on the dark blue material of her trousers, but she could feel his compassionate gaze on her as he continued. “Barnes died a hero to his country. The bastard turned against Schmidt to save his own skin, and Cap and the SSR were able to end Hydra and the war. That’s gotta bring you and the rest of the Howling Commandos some satisfaction, right?”

“It did…” (Y/N) admitted, but she tightly pursed her lips as she recalled the aftermath of the fateful mission to capture Zola alive. “Right up until his interrogation, that is.”

The tunnels below the London headquarters of the Strategic Scientific Reserve echoed with the sound of (Y/N)’s standard-issue heels making contact with the stone floor as she approached one of many interrogation cells; her fingers tightly clutched the classified file in her hands in an effort to contain her swirling emotions but judging by the apprehensive expressions on the stationed MP’s faces whenever she passed by, she was doing a poor job of masking her true feelings.

“As requested, a copy of my mission report to D.C.,” (Y/N) announced as she came to a stop before Colonel Phillips, and she arched a brow at the tray of food he was holding. “Hungry?”

“Zola surrendered and didn’t try to do himself in with cyanide, so I figured that the usual interrogation techniques might not work on this wack-job. He should count himself lucky; I’ve got over a dozen SSR agents chomping at the bit to finally get their hands on a live Hydra operative.”

Just as Colonel Phillips balanced the tray on one hand to reach for the file, (Y/N) tightened her grip on it and blurted out, “Colonel, I need to go in there with you.”

“Agent (Y/L/N), you and the rest of the 107th tactical team have my condolences for Sergeant Barnes’ death, but I can’t allow you any access to-”

“Respectfully, Colonel, you’re the commanding officer of the Strategic Scientific Reserve; you can directly authorize an agent access to as many high-security prisoners as you deem necessary, correct? I’m only requesting access to one.”

“You don’t get to tell me how to do my job, Agent.” The sharp tone in the older man’s voice conflicted with the uncharacteristic compassion emanating from his dark brown gaze. “I’ll authorize you access to the observation room, but that’s it.”

(Y/N)’s jaw clenched as she forced herself to remain composed, but there was nothing she could do to keep her voice from trembling with barely-restrained grief. “Colonel, the man on the other side of that door is the reason my friend and God knows how many Allied soldiers are dead. I…I need to do all I can to ensure that he gives us all the intel we need to take Hydra down. I need to help end this war once and for all.”

In contrast with the strained working relationships he shared with Peggy and Howard, Colonel Chester Phillips seemed to have a soft spot for (Y/N) since the moment she was loaned out to the SSR from the OSS; Peggy often speculated that it was because she reminded him of his granddaughter back home and although she’d never admit it aloud, (Y/N) considered him to be the father-figure she’d always longed for. They got along with one another but more importantly, they shared a mutual respect and it was that respect that seemingly compelled the older man into finally giving her a relenting nod. With a brief command from Colonel Phillips, the MP stationed nearby opened the door and after taking a deep breath, (Y/N) followed the colonel into the interrogation cell.

A dim light from an overhead fixture illuminated the sparsely decorated cell, and the Swiss doctor whirled around to face them both as they sat down at the interrogation table; a surge of pleasure rippled through (Y/N) when she observed his colorless face and the way his hands anxiously fiddled with the sleeves of his prisoner’s uniform, and she maintained eye-contact with him as she crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in her seat. Colonel Phillips set the tray of food down onto the table and spun it around before gesturing towards the unoccupied chair across from them. “Sit down.”

With obvious trepidation, Zola followed his order and sat, his brow arching as he looked down at the steak, potatoes, broccoli and glass of milk laid out before him. “What is this?”

“Steak.”

“What is in it?”

“Cow!” Colonel Phillips looked incredulously between (Y/N) and Zola. “Doctor, do you realize how difficult it is to get ahold of a prime cut like that out here?”

The Swiss doctor shrugged. “I don’t eat meat.”

“Why not?”

Taken aback by (Y/N)’s pointed question, Zola fidgeted in his seat and replied, “It disagrees with me.”

“How about cyanide? Does that give you the rumbly tummy, too?”

While Zola’s brow furrowed in confusion, Colonel Phillips spun the tray back around and used the utensils to begin cutting into the steak as (Y/N) continued. “Every Hydra agent that we’ve tried to take alive has crunched a little pill before we can stop him, but not you.”

The colonel hummed in agreement as he feasted on the tray of food, raising his fork in the air and glancing over at (Y/N) with a look of exaggerated curiosity on his wrinkled face. “Here’s my brilliant theory, Agent (Y/L/N): he wants to live.”

“You’re trying to intimidate me, Colonel.” Zola’s beady eyes flicked between them as a sheen of sweat slowly covered his balding head, obviously growing anxious under the strain of his imprisonment and their unconventional interrogation.

Colonel Phillips scoffed. “We bought you dinner. Why don’t we cut to the chase and show Doctor Zola here what’s in that file?”

While the colonel cut the steamed potatoes into quarters, (Y/N) withdrew a single piece of paper from the file and slid it across the table, her red-lacquered nails drumming on the tabletop as she watched the Swiss doctor read the typed mission report aloud. “‘…and in exchange for his full cooperation, Doctor Zola is being remanded to Switzerland…’”

“I sent that message to Washington this morning. Of course, it was encoded.” (Y/N) leaned forward, resting her elbows on the tabletop, and fixed Zola with an unwavering stare. “You guys haven’t broken those codes, have you? That would be awkward.”

Zola’s expression remained neutral, but the lines between his brows were visibly deeper and she could practically see the wheels turning inside his head while he carefully considered his predicament. “Schmidt will know this is a lie.”

“He’s going to kill you anyway, doc.” Colonel Phillips punctuated his blunt reply with a shrug. “You’re a liability. You know more about Schmidt than anyone and the last guy you cost us was Captain Rogers’ closest friend, so I wouldn’t count on the very best of protection.” The sound of Bucky’s scream as he fell from the train and into the deep chasm below played on a loop in (Y/N)’s mind, forcing her to dig her nails into the skin of her palms to keep from reacting, an action she was no stranger to as a woman serving in a secretive branch of the Allied armed forces but one that she hated having to perform in the wake of her friend’s death. “It’s you or Schmidt; it’s just the hand you’ve been dealt.”

The Swiss doctor, taking note of the colonel’s grim tone and the obvious tension in (Y/N)’s shoulders, huffed out a humorless chuckle before nodding once and stating, “Schmidt believes he walks in the footsteps of the gods. Only the world itself will satisfy him.”

“You do realize that’s nuts, don’t you?”

Shaking his head, Zola huffed out a humorless chuckle at the colonel’s comment. “The sanity of the plan is of no consequence.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because he can do it!”

(Y/N), losing patience with Zola and his feeble attempts at providing them with answers, snapped out, “What’s his target?”

When Zola’s beady eyes focused on hers, a shiver of foreboding traveled up (Y/N)’s spine and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to look away as he simply replied, “His target…is everywhere.”

“He told us everything we needed to know; the exact coordinates of Schmidt’s secret base in the Alps, a detailed run-down of Schmidt’s plan to bomb over half a dozen of the world’s largest cities, how much time we had before Hydra’s scheduled attack on New York…and within twenty-four hours, Schmidt was dead and Hydra was finally defeated.” (Y/N)’s fingers were wrapped tightly around her now-empty cup and she was leaning against Jack’s side, taking comfort in her boyfriend’s sturdy form as she spoke in the lowest tone she could and kept a wary eye on Peggy across the waiting room. “But there was something about his eyes, like he knew some big secret that the colonel and I could never understand, and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something we missed.” Swallowing thickly, she finally looked over at Jack and met his empathetic gaze. “That’s crazy, right?”

Jack shook his head. “Definitely not. Listen, Specs, we might’ve both served on opposite ends of the world, but all the horrible shit we saw and lived through during the war? It hasn’t broken us. We’re still here, and our experiences matter because they’re what shaped us into the people we are today: people who dedicated their lives to making this screwed-up world a better place.” The corner of his lip curved into a small smile as he affectionately bumped the side of her head with his own. “You were the one who taught me that.”

Looking into his clear blue eyes, (Y/N) felt the stiffness in her shoulders begin to melt away and she couldn’t fight the smile that slowly made its way onto her face. “I’m a pretty good teacher, aren’t I?”

“Oh, hands-down, the smartest and most gorgeous teacher I’ve ever had.” Her boyfriend’s flirtatious wink forced (Y/N) to mask her giggle with a cough and flash several of the waiting room’s occupants an apologetic look while he quietly continued. “If you think that Zola’s up to no good, then I believe you. There’s no easy way to handle a situation as delicate as Operation Paperclip; all we can do is our best and in this case, the best that we can do is to keep a close eye on him and every other scumbag Nazi scientist that they’ve recruited. How’s that sound, Specs?”

She took a deep breath and gave him a firm nod. “Like a pretty solid game plan, Flyboy.”

Before either of them could say another word, the double doors leading into the hospital’s operating room swung open and Howard strode into the waiting room, a grin on his face as he made a bee-line over to where Peggy stood. “Michael’s been wheeled into a recovery room and all preliminary signs are pointin’ to a successful operation. Your brother’s gonna be just fine, Peg.”

The younger woman’s anxious expression was overtaken by a look of overwhelming relief and she didn’t hesitate to throw her arms around the inventor in a tight hug. The rest of the waiting room collectively released the grateful breath that they’d been holding for hours and while the SOE officers and SSR officials talked amongst themselves, Jack wrapped an arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders and pressed a chaste kiss onto her temple; she closed her eyes and as she took comfort in her boyfriend’s supportive touch, she spoke a silent word of thanks to the universe for Michael’s successful surgery and for sending her a supportive and understanding partner in the form of Jack Grant Thompson.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: They're gonna have their hands full keeping an eye on Zola and the other Hydra scientists 👀 Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I've created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I'll be updating it every time I upload a new one-shot! Enjoy!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0iKzLZlEK1rTaSIiW5zRlk?si=483950cfa991442a

“Tales From The SSR” Masterlist

“Specs and the Flyboy” Masterlist

Tagging: @nnon-it-up @hufflefluffy @remmyswritings @ourstarsailor @coffeeandcrimeshows @darkusangelus @josis-teacup @fannyspammy @yeetyeetchickenmeat @sameoldbaby @nincompoopydoo @seeing-but-not-observing @supervoldejaygent @momc95 @brooke0297 @kinda-c0nfused @outoftheregular @mads-weasley @mostclevermiss @crowleysqueenofhell @groovyqueer​ @xxruinaxxmcu​

[sengardet]

Assassin's Last Breath

Only one of them will leave the garden alive. Another's heart will water the plants

Terra, a young Nigerian woman who escaped trouble life as an assassin, was tending to her garden. She escaped from a ruthless mafia, from which she is currently hiding. Still, she knew that they would be looking to silence her for good.

Terra was walking around her house to her garden when she heard something… footsteps behind her. a sense of danger washed over her, and she halted. The faint footsteps drew closer, reaching her ears from behind.

With a swift pivot, Terra pressed herself against the cool, rough bricks of her wall, her chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths.

The intruder turned the corner—a pale woman with blonde hair, scantily clad, exuding a sense of innocence had she not been holding a suppressed pistol in front of her. The woman's icy blue eyes locked onto Terra's with a sense of surprise.

Terra’s hand, dark against the other woman's fair skin, snatched at the gun with viper-like speed, wrenching it free with reflexes honed by her past. A well-placed kick behind the knee sent the assassin tumbling to the ground, a gasp escaping her lips.

Terra was upon her in an instant, straddling the fallen woman with the authority of a queen claiming her throne. She pressed the cold metal of the suppressor against the trembling assassin's chest. Beneath her palm, she felt the intensity of the woman’s terror—the powerful beat of a heart racing in the midst of its downfall.

Each breath a desperate bid for life, fear and regret flush on her pallid skin. A strange high filled Terra’s mind, a rush of power fueled by the pathetic flinching mess of a woman beneath her, begging for pity she knew she didn’t deserve. “Please! I’m sorry!” the woman yelped “That’s pretty obvious.” Terra replied

Terra watched the pulsing of the woman’s arteries, in her porcelain, nearly translucent skin. She could feel the desperate splaying of the woman’s ribs between her knees. A shame such a creature found herself in this life. There was a beauty in the terror that glazed the assassin's eyes—a beauty Terra had never known she would appreciate until this moment of control.

Terra knew she had to end it, and she would savor every second. She trailed the barrel of the gun across the assassin's chest, sliding over the rise of breasts, down the valley between them. The obedient girl stayed frozen, her silent pleas for mercy ignored.

Terra's gaze shimmered with a cruel gleam, satisfied by the obedience, yet not enough. The barrel of the gun now centered over her left lung. Terra squeezed the trigger. The muffled pop of the gunshot reverberated through the garden. The assassin's body jolted.

Terra felt the heartbeat flutter desperately under her palm, a drumbeat out of sync in the throes of its final dance. The woman’s chest heaved pathetically now with a soft sucking sound beneath the gun’s barrel growing fainter as the useless lung deflated in its cavity.

Slowly, Terra shifted the gun across the centerline of the woman's chest, teasing it over her heart before it rested above the opposite lung. She watched, fascinated, as every exasperated inhalation lifted the assassin's chest.

"That sounded nice, let's hear it again," Terra cooed as the woman shook her head in a futile attempt to disagree. "Sing for me."

The trigger yielded to her touch once more, another muffled pop and a jerk from the woman’s body affirming her success, another chorus of ragged breaths as the other lung deflated. Terra leaned closer, her senses alight with the scent of fear-slicked skin and the dribble of blood.

The assassin’s once lively features now distorted by an agonizing struggle to keep conscious. Yet, all she could do was lie there, vulnerable and defenseless as a wounded doe caught in the jaws of a merciless predator. Her every breath was a desperate plea for life, each one more pitiful than the last.

Terra's gaze locked onto the assassin's eyes, watching as the woman fought for each useless breath, her chest heaving in increasing futility. And yet this pathetic, broken life continued its amusing little dance. The woman’s heart pounded its hardest in a desperate bid for dwindling oxygen. Her toy had not yet stopped working and she was going to enjoy pushing its limits.

With calculated grace, she repositioned the cold muzzle of the gun, pressing it firmly against the frantic drumming beneath the assassin's breastbone. The heart's wild tempo beat against the suppressor, the last functioning flow of vitality fueling those delicate trembles and meaningless breaths. Terra felt the pulsing life through the metal, the vibrations connecting her to the moment of ultimate control.

The trigger gave way under her finger, and the assassin's heart shuddered beneath the impact. A crimson bloom painted the pale canvas of her skin, a perverse flower unfurling with each weakening throb. Blood, hot and vital, gushed forth in spurts that mirrored the erratic cadence of a heart realizing its own demise.

In the assassin's eyes, Terra saw the dawning recognition of mortality, the helplessness of a creature couldn’t even choose to fight for its life. She watched, entranced, as the woman clung to existence with sheer will, every beat a testament to her determination not to yield.

Yet Terra's amusement was not sated. Even as the woman’s eyes glazed over, her body continued to squirm, her chest still rising, mouth moving in a silent plea for help. Terra’s hand, steady and unyielding, guided the gun lower, tracing the contours of the woman's supple little abdomen with a lover's familiarity. Each shot that followed was an act of intimate destruction, the bullets tearing through organs and spirit alike.

And with each pull of the trigger, Terra felt the assassin's struggle wane, her breaths became shallower, her resistance crumbling. The once strong body now quivered weakly, each movement a whispered plea for mercy that would not come.

Finally, the last remnants of breath left the assassin's body.

Terra exhaled deeply, the thrill of the kill still humming through her veins, an echo of the heartbeats that had resonated beneath her touch. With a lingering look at the motionless form before her, she wondered if she had ever really left her old job.

[punsmaster69]

12/FEB/20XX

....

HE...

JUST NOW GOT UP.

BUT NOT FROM A LATE NAP, AS I PREVIOUSLY THOUGHT.

STILL...

THERE'S BASICALLY NO DAY LEFT!!

..GUESS IT DOESN'T MATTER HOW MUCH DAY IS LEFT, SINCE HE'S RETURNING TO HIS ROOM ANYWAY.

IT'S WHERE HE'S BEEN ALL DAY.

I THOUGHT I HEARD HIM TALKING AT ONE POINT, BUT I HAVEN'T HEARD ANY MORE SINCE I KNOCKED TO ASK WHAT HE WAS UP TO. (SOMETHING ABOUT A GAME.)

MAYBE HE TOOK IT AS A NOISE COMPLAINT, AND QUIETED FROM THEN ON.

WHEN HE CAME DOWN TO GET FOOD, HE HAD HIS HEADPHONES ON.

"...WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING ALL DAY??"

SANS PULLED DOWN HIS HEADPHONES, RESTING THEM AROUND HIS NECK.

"watchin' an event with alphys."

"OVER THE PHONE?"

"usin' my laptop too."

"WHAT IS THE 'EVENT'?"

"video game stuff."

"...THAT'S NOT GREATLY SPECIFIC."

"uh.. speedruns. specifically."

"THAT THING WHERE THE PERSON BEATS IT AS FAST AS POSSIBLE?"

"yeah, that."

"FOR A 'SPEED' RUN, IT SEEMS QUITE SLOW IF IT HAS TAKEN ALL DAY."

"different games. 's like a marathon thing."

"I SEE."

"me n alph have been trying our hand at doing some of those speed tricks ourselves."

"HAVE YOU BEEN SUCCESSFUL?"

HIS EYELIGHTS FLICKERED TO THE FLOOR AS HE PAUSED TO RECALL.

"......yyyeah."

"for sure."

ATTENTION SHIFTING TO HIS HEADPHONES MOMENTARILY, HE SHUSHED THE INDIVIDUAL ON THE OTHER END.

"HOW COME YOU AREN'T GOING OVER TO PLAY TOGETHER IN PERSON?"

HE ANSWERED WITH ANOTHER PAUSE AND A SMALL SHRUG.

"bed's comfy."

WITH TWO WATER BOTTLES AND SOME RANDOMLY ASSORTED JUNK FOOD ITEMS GATHERED IN HIS HANDS, HE DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE KITCHEN ENTRY AND REAPPEARED OPENING HIS DOOR FROM THE INSIDE.

"i can show you what i learned later if you want."

"SOUNDS GOOD!"

——

NOW - "LATER".

RAMBLING SOMETHING ABOUT "YAW" AND "COLLISION" IS MY BROTHER ON THE SOFA BESIDE ME, CONTROLLER IN HAND.

SANS MUST HAVE HAD THIS SPECIFIC CONTROLLER PLUGGED INTO HIS LAPTOP, SINCE IT WAS AMONG THE VARIOUS THINGS HE'D BROUGHT DOWNSTAIRS WITH HIM.

NOT THAT I'M LOST -

OF COURSE I UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING HE'S TALKING ABOUT PERFECTLY, AS I AM ALSO A "PRO GAMER" -

BUT I'M BEGINNING TO QUESTION WHY HE'S BEEN SLAMMING HIS CHARACTER INTO THE SAME CORNER FOR THREE MINUTES.

SAYS IT'S SUPPOSED TO "CLIP" HIM SOMEWHERE IF HE DOES IT RIGHT.

...

ALTHOUGH VASTLY DIFFERENT FROM THE KINDS OF ENTERTAINMENT I MYSELF MAY TAKE UP, IN THE END...

I'M JUST HAPPY TO SEE HIM HAVING FUN.

HOWEVER ODD THE FUN MAY BE.

[jujumin-translates]

Event | Act 3.5 Event - NEW ERA GARDEN | Chapter 8

*Contains spoilers for Act 12 - eternal moment*

Hiro: Are we really performing here?

Kasumi: It feels kind of strange. And it’s quite spacious.

???: …Hey, it’s been a while. How’s it going, man?

Yukio: Wahh! Serizawa-san! It’s been a while!

Serizawa: I hear my grandson is now bein’ taken care of at your daughter’s theater company.

Yukio: Ehehe. He’s in my daughter's hands now.

Yuzo: You just acceptin’ it in your old age now?

Syu: Maybe he’s forgotten how to do it for himself.

Serizawa: Oi, you guys just can’t keep your mouths shut, can ya?

Kasumi: It’s good to hear that you’re doing well, Serizawa-san!

Zen: It’s like all of the original members are bein’ gathered one by one.

Serizawa: Pretty bold of ya to not have any sorta set up, though.

Yukio: I wanted to show the raw, bare state of this new theater as it was being built.

Yukio: Besides, I didn’t want to overshadow this garden, where the new flowers of the future will bloom, with a set for a play.

Yukio: So I’ve decided-- to convey the story only through the actors’ performances and the power of lighting.

Yukio: We do have a little surprise in store for the end. We wanted to do a play that was clean and simple at the very least.

Serizawa: At the very least, huh…

Yukio: The stage, the actors, the audience. Theater is possible with only those three things. I wanted to face that again…

Serizawa: Huh. Did you have some kinda change of mindset or something?

Yukio: I guess it’s just my return to work. But I was also influenced by the live delivery of the newborn troupe’s Fleur Special Award.

Yukio: Just the actors standing on stage and talking about their thoughts about their respective plays can move a lot of people’s hearts… mine included, of course.

Yukio: It kind of made me feel like I just didn’t want to lose.

Serizawa: You’re a hell of a director, as usual. That’s just who you are.

Yukio: You’re probably wondering how a father could be so easily influenced by his own child’s work, huh?

Serizawa: That’s just how things work. I’ve still got a lot to learn by watchin’ my grandson do the stage lighting.

Serizawa: Throw away your dignity and pride as a father. If you’re both in theater, there’s no such thing as being higher or lower rank.

Yukio: That’s true.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Yukio: Can you adjust that a little more, Serizawa-san?

Serizawa: Like this?

Yukio: That’s great! Perfect even!

Reni: …

Reni: (When he’s standing on stage… I can’t help but be reminded of that.)

Reni: (...Back then.)

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

MANKAI Company’s opening performance with the members Tachibana assembled--.

The performance was a huge success for the first performance, and there was a full house for the finale.

I was moved when I was surrounded by the warm applause under the lights at curtain call.

I was filled with an all-encompassing feeling that we had finally made it this far, that we had finally made it to the starting line as a theater company.

I looked offstage and saw Tachibana giving us a round of applause with tears in his eyes.

I’m sure that Tachibana was sharing in my joy at that moment.

But then something occurred to me.

Tachibana should be the one receiving applause, not the one giving it.

I felt like grabbing Tachibana’s arm and dragging him to the center of the stage right at that moment.

Why are we the ones standing on stage, basking in the dazzling spotlights and the applause of the audience?

He has to be the one who has the most talent out of all of us.

My irrepressible sense of frustration and impatience that I felt at that time continued to grow and grow during the short time I was at MANKAI Company.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Reni: …

Reni: (I was so naive back then…)

Reni: (But his stubbornness was also considerable. And as things are now, I’d hate to just go on and grow up and give up on him now.)

Reni: (...Unrehearsed, a one-time-only performance.)

Reni: --Hmph.

Reni: (He should get a taste of what it’s like to be on the receiving end of things for once.)

Reni: …However, there are things we have to do first.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Yukio: Well then, that’s about it for today’s rehearsal-- good work, everyone!

Syu: Good work.

Reni: Good work.

Yukio: …Hey, Reni. How about we go out for drinks today? Just the two of us.

Reni: I never thought my turn for an interview would come around.

Yukio: Isn’t it necessary? You’re an actor too, Reni.

Reni: …Let’s go out. I’ll invite you, not the other way around.

Yukio: Great!

Yukio: How about we make it a rule to each take a shot of whiskey any time we end up arguing?

Reni: What kind of drunkard’s rule is that?

[ ⇠ Previous Part ] • [ Next Part ⇢ ]

[bakvrue]

bakugou x reader but it's never made clear lol i was just writing to fight the shadows

What is it about three a.m. that always makes you feel like this?

It could possibly be the silence that comes when you're the only person you know awake; your phone lays silent on the bedside table next to you, and even if you pick it up, you know nothing will be waiting for you.

Maybe it's the darkness hanging off every shadow in your room, dripping down the walls into your subconscious, revealing every little thing that overwhelms you. Pieces of yourself that you can easily shine in the sunlight instead reflect back the demons you try to keep at bay.

They whispers things to your heart, scary stories that will never come true in hopes that you fall deeper into into the darkness.

And maybe they would be successful if they weren't being drowned out every so often by the loud snore of the warm body next to you.

Snores loud enough, and practically straight in your ear, that you you consider waking him up to berate him. Can't he see that you're trying to have a depression moment here right now?

Almost as if he was reading your mind, he flips onto his side and extends a protective arm out around your mid section. He squeezes a little, dragging you just slightly into him like a toddler pulls in a giant stuffed toy.

You make yourself comfortable in your new position, snuggling into your pillow as you look at the man beside you.

The crease between his eyebrows is missing as he's much too relaxed to be scowling at anyone. His long eyelashes, that have no right being that long, rest peacefuly closed. The slope of his nose down to his loud mouth perfectly relaxed, almost making an adorable sleepy pout.

God, you love him.

The arm anchoring you down almost makes you forget about the shadows.

Another snore erupts from him but ends sharply when he inhales his own spit. He wakes up coughing and then relaxes again, peeking an eye open at you.

"Watchin' me sleep?"

His voice is groggy and slow, he's barely awake.

"Watching you cough up a lung apparently," you reply.

He hums as his eyes start to close again, sleep calling to him. "Why awake?"

"Can't sleep."

You're not sure how much of your problem is 'can't' versus 'don't want to', but at this point, it doesn't really matter that much.

His hand cups your cheek, warm and heavy. The calluses and scars mapped out on his hands feel rough against your skin.

His eyes don't open, and his speech is getting slower with each word, "You're always thinking too much. Close your eyes. Time to sleep."

You wish it was as easy as he makes it seem.

His hand slowly starts sliding down your face, evidence that he's asleep once again. You decide to at least try to follow him.

You close your eyes, focus on matching your breathing to his, and when sleep finally does take you, the shadows that you were running from are the same ones lulling you to sleep.

[fukuokadivision1]

Hang out! (MIHANASA & Kiya Kara Ver.)

Bring the Beat!

[Sanyu:]

In the heart of Fukuoka, where the lights dim low

We're the voice of the slums, where the strong currents flow

Life's tough, it's rough, in these streets we roam

But together we stand, in this place we call home

By day, I'm the star, in the Freaks Circus ring

Twisting and turning, I make the crowd sing

As MC Rogue, my rhymes take flight

In the ring or the streets, I'm the beacon of light

[Tasuku:]

At the tables I stand, cards in hand, dealin' fate

Watchin' the arrogant lose, oh man, it feels great

Their faces drop as their fortunes flop, cash in my stash

I'm the king of the game, their pride, just ash

[Ming:]

Miss Ming, they call me, in the classroom I stand

Guiding the young ones, with a gentle hand

Their eyes alight with each lesson they claim

In their smiles, I find my fame

[Ryūzō:]

From the shadows I emerged, a blade in the night

A heart of ice, a soul out of sight

Sendai's light thawed the assassin's chill

Now a professor's voice, with a will to instill

In each lesson taught, in every student's gaze

I honor the lost, through the city's maze

For those I've mourned, for the peace I've found

I rap, I teach, in their memory, I'm bound

[Takumi:]

In the gym where dreams are built, I stand

GUTS on the mic, with a shinai in hand

Igniting the "Power of Youth" with every command

I'll train them to triumph, 'til success is at hand

[Kotono:]

A healer at heart, in a classroom confined

Teaching's a duty, not a real passion of mine

Yet I'll guide these young minds, 'til my quest is through

For my sister's sake, to this path I'll stay true

[All:]

Let loose and pa-pa-pa-pa-party

Rhymes can also be overnight mo-mo-mo-mo-money

Tomorrow I’ll do fine with the words I use tomorrow, when I think about that, today seems a bit funny

Luck and misfortune are like that day’s special

Unable to have our way we just gotta go where the wind takes us

What’s your reason to not give in n-n-n-n-now?

Exhale and keep on living, I got it!

Let’s forget the rapidly changing days and have a rest day

For today let’s have fun with these mics!

I got it!