#and let interactions be secondary

[wifeguycyclonus]

they describe Breakdown as “an opportunist beyond any redemption” like he wasn’t going to let Bulkhead go before Starscream turned up (iirc; i swear he was thinking abt it). Like a redemption is going to be an easy about-face and not something he would have to struggle with and inevitably butt heads with both his allies and his enemies about. Like they didn’t let Knock Out have a bit of a redemption >:(

they should have done it together! Let Breakdown realize that the Decepticons are wasting away and being needlessly violent and cruel and let him join the Autobots! Let Bulkhead struggle with coming to terms with his enemy now being on his team; let Optimus welcome Breakdown with open arms like he never got to welcome any other Cons (i dont think he ever got to acknowledge knock out). Let Knock Out then struggle with the choice to stay or go, let Breakdown try to convince him and let Knock Out be conflicted.

Let ‘Cons be redeemed! Let them learn to be better people! And also I think Breakdown would be friends with Miko and it’d be funny

(idk what the page is from, nabbed it from this forum thread: https://www.tfw2005.com/boards/threads/does-anyone-feel-sorry-for-prime-breakdown-he-deserved-better.1236414/)

[thebastardmeteocrusherpilot]

"Fashionably late, I know. But I heard it was someone's birthday, recently?"

The young man at the table turns to look directly at the lupine who greets him, offering him a genuine smile of pure emotion "Oh! I think it was mine, Mr. O'donnell" Pluto responds with his typical formality (The only decent thing he learned by his father) "I had already forgotten a little. How have you been, sir?"

[sharkieboi]

watching How It’s Made is a mistake sometimes cause I just end up staring at the screen with longing like 🥺 if I could get paid a living wage to do this Very Specific Task all day I would

[laufire]

just so we're clear, I'm NEVER going to agree with the notion that Caroline's storyline went poorly or that she was "made into JUST a love interest" or whatever new nonsense embittered shippers of whichever pairing they liked for her argue next (especially the grossest, most misogynistic comments I've had the misfortune to see in my reblogs over the years).

not only do I love the progression of her plot but I also think each and one of her love stories in the show ended up serving her plot really well, without encroaching on her journey (among other things, thanks to none of them being endgame lol). if anything the way things panned out the guys (even those with protagonists status!) were made into her love interests, not the other way around, AFAIC.

[oceanxveiined]

          “–then we just need to carefully turn the dial here to expose the Pyro and Electro components to each other, and…!”

         Danae grimaced as the soft clicks registered, shaking out the slight tremor in her free hand.

         The last time she’d tried this, the whole thing had blown up in her face and caused a nasty slew of injuries she’d nearly been permanently blinded by. Which had only been avoided by a prompt trip to Durene, who upon healing her had elected to make Danae’s life utterly miserable for the next hour with the ensuing lecture. And considering she couldn’t even speak, that had been a feat in and of itself. She would have almost preferred getting verbal nagged than dealing with the extra impact Durene’s facial expression gave her signing.

         Almost.

        Now, one would think wanting to avoid such a thing would discourage Danae from trying again. If not wanting to avoid the scolding, then in not wanting to face agony and risk permanent injury should the healer not get to her soon enough this time. Most anyone would. But anyone who knew her well would also damn well know she only only ever took such things as a challenge rather than anything cautionary.

        She feared no monster nor god, so why should Durene be any different?

        That said, if she did happen to keep the device at a safer distance away from her face this go around, it was purely out of practicality.

        Still…hubris aside, having to go back to Durene for help if the reaction repeated ( especially if it resulted worse, considering the changes she'd made since then ), more so after specifically being told not to ever try this again still added a lot more pressure now. Especially since the woman would surely be so damn glad for the opportunity to gloat about how right she was. And having bear Durene’s all-too expressive face and stupid little name sign once she saw the thermal and electrical burns again would definitely make the matter all the more humiliating, too–

         “Oh…!”

         Danae’s eyes flashed open as an odd sensation suddenly thrummed ( Odd, odd, was it painful? No, that wasn’t it- ) through her body, concentrated at her hand where she held the device. Thrummed along her frayed nerves and burrowed deep into her sore muscles.

         Her lips parted in surprise as she swayed in place, brain trying to place just what it was she was percieving. Hand trembling in the wake of and direct contact to such a sensation, her grip on the device slackened a slight, even while the other tried to steady it. “Wh-what'n th–?”

          Luckily, a deft pair of hands managed to cup it beneath hers, preventing it from falling to the floor and shatter. Even while her hands had instinctively gripped the thing tighter–

          “Morcant?”

          The name and the growing uncomfortable buzz under Danae’s skin where they touched had her fully snapping out of her haze, jerking back and holding her device closer to her chest. Perhaps a bad idea, considering how volatile the last one had been and the particular composition of this one, but– “M'fine.”

          Da-Lun raised a brow but raised his hands placatingly and backed away all the same.  “I thought it yet another adverse reaction. Though different from the last, I didn’t want it to break, so–”

          “Well, you thought wrong,” she hissed, fingers moving the scratch at the still-tingling skin. “Wait for the damn thing to leave my hand before makin’ a grab for it. Got it? Or need I drill it into yer fucking skull?”

          The man huffed out a breath, but nodded curtly. “Understood.”

          “Good.” Even decently satisfied with his response, Danae still couldn’t help pressing her nails into the ebbing tingling on her skin to ease it. Though…huh, usually that feeling took longer to go away–

         “So what was it then?”

         Danae turned to glance over at Ozzy, the man idly tapping his pen against the parchment as he tilted his head. Wait, not idly.

         You look like an idiot, the pattern read, when he'd repeated it. Calm down.

         "Tch." Biting back an otherwise snarled retort, Danae rolled her eyes. And realized she’d been slumping against the work bench, straightening up immediately with a sharp jerk. Fuck, when had she lowered her guard like that–? “It–works.”

         “I know it does, sweetheart,” Ozzy remarked, an insufferable, amused grin at his lips. He gestured a slight with the pen. “I could see the tension leave your body an' you gasping instead a' howling in agony or gettin’ crispied like I was hopin’–"

          ”We made a bet on its success,“ Da-Lun explained, ”I, in your favor, of course," as if that made it any better–

           ”–so clearly it must work as intended. Or at least, to your insatiable standards.” Ozzy snickered, rather amused in spite ( or perhaps because ) of her glare as he added, “I was curious as t'just how much so had it. Since it got you of all people to relax like that.”

           Danae glanced down at the device–fuck, she was slumping again, curled around it too, what the hell– 

          “It doesn’t…!” She hesitated.

          “Tell us honestly, now, sweetheart,” Ozzy chided. He offered another stupid grin as he waved the pen. “If not for me, then for your results. You care about those, at least, don’t you?”

          Danae pursed her lips.

          …ah, she couldn't argue with that. Or him, as much as she'd want to. She had to ensure the necessary observations were recorded, after all. Embarrassing as her reaction was though–

          “It doesn’t make the pain go away completely,” she admitted, sighing as her favorite sound of scratches of quilltip on parchment began to fill the air. The sounds added to the otherwise quiet of the room, the hum of the device, the dimmer lights save the lamp at her bench behind her...oh, that was nice. So nice; she almost felt tempted to lean back and close her eyes to indulge in it all. Almost–

          “I can still feel it," she continued, drumming her tingling fingers on the iron casing. "S'no magic cure-all or anything, it’s just…compared to how I usually feel, it’s…it’s…” Dammit, how did she explain this- “It–I feel lighter? Nicer??? Like it...it–”

          “Makes the flare ups tolerable?” Da-Lun supplied gently.

          She narrowed her eyes a slight.

          No mocking. No teasing. Simply aiding her to find the right words. Huh...

          “Yeah...that.” She carefully moved to press the device against her hip, sliding it further along her bad leg. And promptly let out a soft sigh as she gingerly stretched the limb out. “Note, closer contact to the more sensitive areas provides a far more effective use of the…th'–” Fuck, wait, why’d she say that? That gave too much away, too much that was highly exploitable, if the odd look on Da-Lun's face was any indication–

          “Maiden’s Solace?” Ozzy offered, pausing to look up.

          Danae’s mouth opened and closed, once, twice, before her lips pressed into a fine line.

          He didn't go for mocking, either. Nor seem to have any apparent intents to take advantage of said fact, if his lack of reaction was any tell. Which was odd, because she would have figured he would keep more of an ear out for such things than Da-Lun. No, the only real problem she had with Ozzy piping up with his little suggestion now was–

          “M'not a maiden,” she remarked, wrinkling her nose. Even if, sure, it was made for one in mind, but she was the one who made it, so– “Brigand’s Solace?”

          Ozzy scoffed, chuckling as he pointed the pen accusingly. “Now you just stole my idea and made it sound more cool than it is, Morc.”

           “Oh, come up with a better one then! I dare you–”

           "Bettin' on what that I CAN, then–"

           “Everflame Lenity?” Da-Lun interjected, before their bickering could escalate. He nodded his head at the device. “Considering the Pyro component.”

           Stilling, Danae and Ozzy exchanged a glance.

           “That works well enough,” Danae decided, shrugging as Ozzy gave a noncommittal hum ( ’I like the contradiction,’ he might have muttered, she didn’t care to make sure right now ). “For this version, anyways. I might want to change the Pyro source further down the line.”

           “Already thinking of advances for it,” Da-Lun noted, with what sounded suspiciously like an amused laugh. “You really never change.”

           “Well, I can’t afford to just settle after a victory,” she told him, rather matter-of-factly. “‘specially not when I’ve finally gotten a real breakthrough with SOMETHING now.”

           “Cuz yer a shit inventor, sweetheart–”

           “Oz,” Da-Lun warned.

           Danae rolled her eyes, rather than dignify it with a response of her own. Though the fact that the–yeah, okay–Everflame Lenity helped keep her usually simmering temper at bay may have also contributed something. Sue her, she felt nice and relaxed right now, thank you very much. And ruining it to bite the bait Ozzy set out just wasn't worth the effort.

           But like hell would she explain THAT to them.

           Still…okay, yeah, this thing was definitely an immense help when the relief was closer to the worst of the pain. Especially pressed directly against her skin. It was enough to help bear with more than simply physical ailments, with the steady thrum soothing her usually hair-thin nerves enough to keep her calmer than she'd felt in a long time.

          Did that perhaps have an effect on why it felt so pleasant overall, too?

          Shit, were it any closer to her center, the ease it had in spreading the feeling to the rest of her body would definitely be inconvenient. It left her feeling too lax as it was; not focused enough nor willing to keep moving, like she ought to be. It made her want to take it easy, let her body rest. Left her feeling vulnerable, much too vulnerable-

          “What is it then? Th'Everflame seed’s really not good enough for you?” Ozzy asked, back to scribbling down his notes. “Picky, picky~ What’s the issue?”

          Yeah, better tell them any of that. They'd never let her live it down-

          “Well, it works sufficiently enough,” Danae explained, looking back down at the device. She ran her thumb along the dial slowly turning it back. Hesitating when the sensations dulled to mild discomfort began to swell again. “And it will supply an adequately continuous source of Pyro energy to resonate with the Electro Crystal; thus inducing the energy reaction that triggers the relaxant properties I wanted. That is exactly why I'd chosen it initially.”

          “So that’s how that works,” Ozzy muttered, more to himself than her. And being kind enough to mark the inscribed explanation over for ease in locating it at a later time. Which she would normally be worried about, him considered–

          “But?” Da-Lun urged.

          “But,” she amended, tone firm to ensure Ozzy heard, and heard it well– “The Everflame seed, like its source, can be…unstable.”

          Ozzy stopped writing. A flurry of thoughts seemed to cross his mind before he met her gaze, head tilting a slight.

          “So…it’s useless for dear Eliza, then?” he asked. Oddly calm, at that, she reckoned, with hardly a trace of his usual jesting. Enough to make even Da-Lun shift uneasily. Which in and of itself should have been a warning. Anyone else who really knew him well enough sure would have.

          Still, deliberately ignoring it and the little hint of something in his tone ( bitterness? Yeah, that was probably it– ), Danae shrugged. “Not entirely, I would think. But it’s better than nothing.” She paused then tilted her head, a mocking grin at her lips. “What? Scared to risk yer precious little ward, now? When she could FINALLY get her much-needed relief?”

          Ozzy bared his teeth in a laugh. "I just don’t recall clearing her to be one of your little test subjects, love.“

         ”She just needs to say yes,“ Danae retorted. ”I don’t think Eliza needs your permission to be a part of my little–"

          A spark of violet had her voice choking back–Da-Lun had suddenly moved to stand next to her before she could taunt Oz any further. Whether to shut her up or because he had a thought he’d impulsively acted on, she wasn’t quite sure. Probably the former. Especially since he knew how much she hated when he flash-stepped like that–

          “May I?” Da-Lun asked. He remained in place even at her glare, though kneeling immediately once she gave him a curt nod. He reached to handle the device–careful not to touch Danae in the process this time, thankfully.

          Surprise flickered across his features as his shifted his hold on it–ah, so even Da-Lun was taken aback by the odd sensation it gave off–and looked it over. Once, then a second glance-over, gingerly rolling it over across her leg a slight ( oh, that...felt a little better; making a note to write down the way he'd moved and placed it later- ) to ensure he didn’t touch anything more than the points he was holding it by and where it rested against her. 

           Danae shook off the slight daze the sensation brought on her, determinedly looking over at Ozzy, who begun to lean forwards. Staring so intently he didn’t notice the ink dripping off the pen tip splattering on his pants–

          ”Hm..."

          ”Report," Danae demanded immediately.

          “It looks to stable enough so long no truly jarring movements are made,” Da-Lun affirmed, pulling back. “Which unfortunately means Morcant here can’t bring it along in-battle–”

           “Oh, the horror,” she drawled, rolling her eyes. “Please, not dealing with agonizing flare ups while on duty. I’ve never experienced that before–”

           “–but it should be safe enough for Eliza to use for herself,” Da-Lun patiently finished. ”Since she is usually at rest and in tucked away in bed."

           “And surely I’ll just up and let you just test that on her?” Ozzy remarked, raising a brow.

           Recall exploitable connection, certainty and magnitude higher than original assumption, Danae's brain chimed in. Factor unpredictability, should be constant enough to use–seek gaining favor, ensuring no repercussions amid self-benefit–

           “I can tote it around while here at home base for awhile longer, if you want,” Danae offered. ”Just to be sure." Compromising as it was, but if it meant getting on his good side here-

          ”Mm, I do like the heightened chances of you getting blown to smithereens,“ Ozzy mused.

          Danae snorted. ”Ha–when boars fly maybe–"

          ”It could do some good in helping Morcant stay in a better mood during its trial run,“ Da-Lun wryly remarked. Gods dammit, there was the mocking she'd been hoping to avoid– “That would save us from plenty frustration. Or…why not try it yourself, Oz? For Eliza’s sake?”

           The man blinked then huffed, leaning back as he pointed at the other with the pen.

          “I like the pain I feel, thank you very much,” Ozzy drawled. “Makes me feel alive. S'like a badge of honor for all I've been through. What I've survived, an' all that shit–” Excuses-

          “And I pride myself in that badge of honor as much as you do,” Danae retorted, rolling her eyes. She carefully rolled the device a bit more over her skin. ”And feeling the relief I do from it right now is just downright weird, I’ll admit.“ She paused a moment to brace herself, then fully pulled the device away from her body in a swift motion. Curling her lip a little at the growing, gnawing want to put it right back into place– “But believe me, try this. Just this once. Or what? You scared?”

           Ozzy barked out a laugh. "Of one of your contraptions? Oh, very, sweetheart."

            "Aww, truly?" Danae goaded. "Stars, and here I thought there was no gamble you wouldn't take!"

            "Say I do, then," Ozzy chided, rolling his shoulders a bit. Ooh, had that annoyed him? That was a first- "I highly doubt it'd even work right–"

           ”And with any luck, he’d fumble it and it’d blow him halfway to Celestia,“ Da-Lun muttered, the corner of his lip twitching a slight at Danae's snicker. ”Spare us all his clownery.“

           Ozzy eyed him at that, eyes narrowing just a hint before holding his hand out for the device. "Oh, I'd like to see Celestia tryn'n handle me, Da."

           "You really think gods can't do what we have already?"

           "Nope."

           Danae scoffed a laugh then handed it off to Da-Lun, who passed it over to the man. Grimacing when Ozzy swiftly snatched it from his hands.

          Seriously, was he trying to make it explode?

          Especially since he'd immediately pushed against his belly, just under his ribs at his right side, the moment he'd gotten it. Which, recklessness aside, was already odd in and of itself, because Danae could have sworn his back ought to be where it goes. Pain relief considered, anyways.

           Huh. So his weakest physical point was closer that area then?

           A breathless sound in surprise had Danae's thoughts stuttering to a halt as she looked back over at the others.

           Ozzy’s jaw had dropped, eyes wide as he clutched the Lenity to his body. Pressing it a little tighter, even while Da-Lun had tsk’d and tried to ease his grip, tried to stop him from fully turning the dial.

           ”Good then?“ Danae asked, moving to hop back up onto her workbench. A hand moved to idly dig the heel of her hand at the joint of her hip, once, twice, pushing down towards base of her knee, then her lower leg as she glanced him over. ”Looks like it, if yer all dopey now. Stars, did I actually discover the means to finally sedate you?"

            Ozzy managed a chuckle. “Okay, so that…that really…!”

            Da-Lun stepped to scoop up the pen and parchment from where the man had discarded them, then moved back. Oh, good, he knew the priorities here, as always– “Yes?”

           “Morc, when you said resonate, you really…!” Ozzy let out a soft exhale, gesturing a slight to Da-Lun with his head, "C'mere, Da," then promptly pressed against the other for support once he drew close enough. No sooner, Ozzy's eyes fluttered shut, a content little hum rising in his throat.

           He lay still a moment, two, before adding to his recount, “Feels lovely. Like a gentle...buzz? No, a hum, all through me." He waited a moment for Da-Lun to catch up, then added, "S'very soothing. Like…like a song–”

            “Like Sister Barbara’s healing song?” Danae teased, shifting a slight as she eyed the Lenity. Stars above, the fact that she still wanted it back was a bad sign weak, weak-

            “Oh, no–no, I don’t like that.” Ozzy’s eyes scrunched up a bit in distaste. "Th'shit gives me headaches just hearin' it from afar. I fear I'd burst into flames if she tried usin' it on me."

            Pen scratches stuttered as Da-Lun stared at him incredulously. "She–she has a Hydro Vision–"

           ”Y'know what I mean, Da."

           "No, I don't–"

           In spite of the resulting laugh, Danae sucked in a soft breath while the two were distracted in their bickering, easing to edge forwards.

           It was subtle, but now that she was a little closer, Danae noticed the usual slight furrow of Ozzy’s brow was gone, his jaw fully relaxed. Even his breathing seemed to be a little easier, too, with only slight hitches compared to the more pronounced rattle from before. A little quicker too, as though he were no longer carefully measuring each breath. His body didn't twitch and shudder as much either, no tension from how guarded and wound up he usually was; like a crossbow pulled taut and ready to fire at any moment.

          Stars, it was no wonder the man started sounding like he had his tongue made of lead now. And from the looks of it, whatever he felt on the daily must be a nightmare to deal with, if even this modicum of relief worked for him. More than the aches and discomfort she did, for sure. Unless...he was just playing it all up to snuggle up to Da-Lun. She really wouldn't put it past him to–

          ”Still wanna hold off on it for Eliza?“ Da-Lun asked softly.

          Ozzy hummed, eyes blinking open. “I still doubt it’s safe enough,” he mumbled, smoothly lifting it for Da-Lun to take. Rather unflinchingly, too- ”Especially with her…ah, clumsiness?“

          ”Ooh, don’t let her hear that. You know how sensitive she is about it."

          ”Morc–"

          “Mako and Jade can help stay and manage it,” Da-Lun suggested, carefully taking it in hand then reaching for the cloth Danae held out. Awkwardly at that, as Ozzy still leaned heavily against him even with the thing gone. Well, he did have to readjust to not having it...that made two who did. What a massive downside- “We all could, in shifts.”

          Shaking her head to dash further thoughts,Danae wrinkled her nose. ”All of us–?"

          “Ugh, but then I’d have to increase your salaries to account for the extra hours you’d put in,” Ozzy groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Then where does that leave me? Broke. Ruined–”

          “Mako and Durene would be more than happy to do it for free,” Danae pointed out, rolling her eyes. “Mako–here, Da, put it in this–loves making himself useful, spoiled brat as he is. And he adores Eliza, something about those Fontaine folk–”

         “And Durene?” Ozzy asked, tipping his head back in thought as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. ”What's her stake?“

          Danae blinked. She glanced over at Da-Lun then back to Ozzy. “You…can’t be serious.”

         “Dead, in fact,” Ozzy answered, eyeing her back out the corner of his eye. “What?”

         ”Well, I’ll be,“ Danae marveled, nudging Da-Lun's hip with her good leg as best she could reach. Ignoring Ozzy's groan in protest- "You hearin' this?"

          “I genuinely think he doesn't know,” Da-Lun remarked, disbelief clear in his tone. “Ozzy doesn't know.”

          “Dunno what?”

          “That is such an exploitable weakness.” Danae damn near felt amused enough to burst out in laughter. “So exploitable, I’ve been–Oz...!”

          "What?" The man sat up fast, almost childishly petulant in his demand, “What? Tell me!”

          “Durene and Eliza…"  Da-Lun emphasized. Gesturing a little for emphasis.

          Ozzy’s brow furrowed a slight, the gears slowly turning in his brain, then his eyes flashed open. ”Oh."

         ”Oh,“ Danae mocked.

         ”Oh, indeed,“ Da-Lun muttered. ”Now, Oz, don’t–”

         “What a fucking nightmare,” Ozzy choked out, horror blooming across his features as he clutched his chest. “My Eliza and Durene…!”

          “Oz–”

          ”Oh, stars, the unethics of a healer-patient relationship!“ Ozzy clapped his palm against his forehead. ”Durene’s been compromised!"

          Danae faceplamed as Da-Lun sputtered and clapped a hand over his mouth. What was he trying to stifle there– ”That’s what you’re worried about?“

          “My healer’s making goo-goo eyes at someone in her care,” Ozzy scoffed, feigned offense across his features. “Distracted, from her duties no doubt. Are you not worried?”

          ”I th-think it’s more of a benefit to you and Eliza that she is,“ Da-Lun managed. Clearing his throat and straightening up promptly at the odd look Danae threw him.

          ”Benefit to me?“ Ozzy laughed. ”Oh, no, you should see how she gets when I keep courtin' dear Eliza–oh...that explains a lot of her enmity to me now–, but, no, no, her feelings for Eliza are not a benefit to me–"

           ”But,” Danae pointedly suggested, “she can willingly watch over Eliza’s progress with the Everflame Lenity once she sees how much it’d help her.”

           Ozzy blinked. ”Oh. Yeah, that. She’d love that.“ Seriously–

           ”Then it’s Eliza’s,“ Danae decided. ”We could have her–or, maybe Durene–report more on it and how effective it is for her. For now. As for the rest of us–"

            ”Any solid ideas for a more stable Pyro source?” Ozzy interrupted. And normally Danae would snap at him for it. However…

           She rubbed the back of her neck. “Uh…haa, that–” She shifted under his stare. Alright, calculate the immediate outrage ( wait, why was she so worried? She didn't care ), bracing briefly ( oh, right, because they were more annoying than the others when they got worked up ), plunging the wound into saltwater– “A Smoldering Pearl should...work–?”

           “Archons, Morcant–”

           “Of fucking course you’d ask for that–”

           “Mako’s working on getting us into Inazuma as is!” she snapped defensively. “And I’ve been there before–”

           “Under Fatui diplomatic immunity,” Da-Lun scoffed, rolling his eyes.

           “How do you expect us to get off Ritou even then, hm?” Ozzy chimed in.

           “–so I know exactly where to go from there and what to do,” she stubbornly continued. “I can get us some disguises and use that Fatui Diplomacy to our favor if we really need all that, then a team of four can easily get in, get what we need, then get out. Simple!”

           “And you have your crack team all in mind, I’m sure?” Ozzy asked, crossing his arms. Genuinely, mockingly, probably both, knowing him–

           Still, Danae was undeterred as she just her chin out. Because, “As a matter of fact I do.” Mostly cobbled together from obsessive research she’d done on the needed source, sure, and perhaps all strictly hypothetical in its effectiveness, but– “One, I would be a key asset to this, since it’s a Pyro-based lifeform."

          "Obviously," Ozzy drawled.

          Danae huffed. "Then I would want you an' Da, as well as–”

         “The only other alternatives we have to fight it are Durene who possesses a Dendro Vision,” Da-Lun protested, “Jade who would be absolutely useless to us with Pyro abilties herself, and–”

           “Tua would be perfectly effective in providing ample distraction while the rest of us get to work and get it done!” Danae finished stubbornly. “Not to mention his Vision’s Geo reactions can get us shields while he's at it." Da-Lun’s mouth opened to protest again, her swiftly moving to cut him off in adding, ”I think that works just fine since I could help us finish it up promptly.“ Ignoring Ozzy’s snort- ”What, would you rather we ask some outsider for help? Da?”

           Da-Lun clicked his tongue. “I would prefer we don’t go through the trouble at all!”

           “Because you’re a damn coward!” Danae snapped, simmering temper at last igniting. Adamantly staying right in place to meet his glare, even as he suddenly flickered to stand towering over her again. Perhaps having instinctively made a grab for her screwdriver when he did- "This isn't anythin' new fer me. Fer us. We've been and always have–"

           “We aren’t just risking two people like back then, Morcant,” he snarled back. “And even with the lot of us working in tandem now, you know damn well THAT thing is entirely different than a Pyro Regisvine. What you’re doing now is just insa–”

          “We aren’t 'risking' enough! " Danae spat, slamming her free hand down. "And if you can’t see that, you gods-damned, half-breed beast, you oughta–!”

          A shrill whistle had both Danae and Da-Lun flinching, turning to glare at Ozzy.

         “Honestly, utter children, the lot of you,” he huffed, lowering his fingers from his mouth. Shaking his head, he met Danae's gaze. “Tell me, the Pearl will make it safer for Eliza? For certain?”

          “Yes.” Danae huffed, crossing her arms. Both to press them against the gnawing sensation at her gut and in gesture. “It’s much more stable and has a more constant flow of Pyro energy. Likely will last longer, too.” She shot Da-Lun a proud look at Ozzy’s appraising hum. “And if we’re able to get more than one, not only is it extra insurance, but I could also tamper with them and see if it could help us not be so caught by the relief of the Lenity. See if we could possibly be able to control the intensity of the feeling a lot easier. Y'know?”

          Da-Lun raised a brow. “You’re fully sure of it?”

          “It’s…an estimation,” Danae grudgingly admitted. “On that latter bit, anyway. But, for certain, the Lenity would be safer for Eliza to use with it. And for far longer periods of time, without much–if at all–risk of the continuous exposure to Electro causing a terrible reaction. Especially compared to the Everflame seed.”

          “Hn…” Ozzy nodded slowly. “I like that. We’ll draft plans for it come morn, then. In the meantime–” He reached to tap the box the device now rested in. “You let Durene know what to do, Da. She likes you best.”

          “She thinks I’m the only one of us with sense,” Da-Lun corrected, snorting. “And after all that transpired now? I am fully inclined to agree.” Still, he made his way to the door without further protest. Pausing, he looked back.

          “I’ll stay with them on the first night trial run, as well,” he told them. “For the notes. And extra security.”

          “You’re the best, Da,” Danae called to him. Grinning completely unfazed at his withering glare.

          “Not bad for a gods-damned, half-breed beast, right?” Da-Lun drawled, before turning and heading off. Slamming the door on his way out.

          Ozzy's gaze lingered there until the sound footsteps retreated, then gave Danae a sidelong glance. “Oof, I think you really hurt him with that one, Morc.”

         “Ah, he’ll get over it,” she muttered, waving her hand dismissively as she hopped down and turned to start clearing her workbench.

         “Y'know, his kind don’t take so kindly to insults,” Ozzy chided, coming up behind her to take the box she held up. "They seem rather the smite-y sort, if y'know what I mean."

          As he moved to set it on the shelf behind them, Danae snorted.

         “Aw, what’s he gonna do? Cry to Rex Lapis about it?” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to see that old fossil drag his ass on over here'n try anything. Oh wait, he can't. An' not like the others could do any better-” Shutting the toolkit, shuffling to straighten then setting her notes to the side, thank fuck they were actually well-done–

         She paused.

          Wait, why didn’t Ozzy laugh at that one? He usually liked her prideful little commentary–

         “You better hope that doohickey of yers doesn’t hurt her.”

         Danae rolled her eyes at the genuine seriousness in his voice. “Really? Open vulnerability in front of me, Oz?" Fingers drummed against the tabletop. "How bad did the thing get you, genuinely–”

          “I mean it, Mare.”

          She stilled, exhaling slowly. Alright, so…no joking around. Whatsoever.

          A breath, two, then Danae turned around, leaning back on the desk. “We, of all people, know Da is the best person to protect her if it risks that.” She puffed her chest out. "Plus it's one of my works, Oz. I wouldn't hand it out for use unless I was certain it would work. One-hundred percent."

          "Mm, true." Ozzy hummed, leaning in. Not to cage her like she'd anticipated, but to scoop up the toolkit, before pulling back to kneel and store it away. He glanced up at her. "Just I'm clear–we’re agreed. Yes?" A hand reached out. "That we can’t go near that thing again, I mean.”

           Danae eyed him curiously, then sighed and held out a hand to help him to standing. "Hn." Even if awkwardly, considering he towered a near foot over her- "S'not good for folks like us."

           It felt safe. Too safe. Damn near a trap of her own making, undoing forged by her own hands. An illusion of something just waiting to be shattered. One that most certainly would be. Something that'd definitely leave them at risk of being shattered themselves, especially in Ozzy's case, where the pain seemed to ramp up harshly once it was taken away–

           "Right, agreed, then," Ozzy said, gripping her shoulders uncomfortably tight as he pushed to stand back up straight. "Glad you fed Da that bullshit of us wanting one of our own, too. Absolutely brilliant, he won't nag us to–ah, ah, don't you get all smug on me now."

           He released his hold, moving to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. Pausing to eye the ink stain on his pants, before adding, "So, we’ll never speak of this again, nor risk messing with that ever. 'nless absolutely necessary."

           "I can power through pain just fine, Oz," Danae huffed, crossing her arms as she rolled her shoulders. "Have for years now, same as you. M'not Jade, for that matter."

           Ozzy laughed, moving to bump her cheek with his knuckles. "But I still don’t want you compromised, Morc." A pause, baring his teeth in a grin. "It’d look bad on us if you collapse mid-mission or show weakness again, y'know."

           A harsh flush rose in Danae's face as smacked his hand away, baring her teeth and snarling, "That was one time, Oz. Let it go. I told you, it won't happen again–"

          "We never know." Unfazed, Ozzy shrugged and moved to see himself out. "Keep pushing yourself like that, sweetheart, it might just happen. Not that you've ever been a good listener–"

            "I don't wanna hear that from the man who keeps using a Delusion against his healer's orders," she snarked. "Damn hypocrite."

            "Ooh, perhaps." Hand on the knob, Ozzy paused and turned back. "Keep working on that, for me, yeah? And for your trouble today–"

            He reached to rummage in his pocket, tossing her a small item.

            Swiftly snatching it from the air, Danae glanced at her palm. Brows furrowing a slight as she held it up.

            "A key?" she scoffed, raising a brow. "That's my reward?" 

            "Da and I got our hands on an Abyss Mage," Ozzy explained, looking rather proud at her now startled disbelief. "Pyro, mind you. Tua's keeping them company now as we speak, keeping them nice and weak for you."

            "You brought one for me?" Danae's grip on the key grew taut as her eagerness grew, the metal biting into the soft meat of her palm. "Here?"

           "A rather tricky feat to manage, mind you," Ozzy remarked. "But I knew you would earn it. In spite of all your hopeless little setbacks–"

            "Oz!"

           Pearl-white teeth flashed as he laughed. "Have fun with them, sweetheart. I might just join you t'get in on the fun." He opened the door and slipped out, casting one last look inside, "And good work, Morc. You did well," before the door shut behind him.

            Danae let out a soft breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Slumping a slight against the desk now that the others had gone.

            The praise churned in her gut, bubbling like air beneath the frothing ocean waves. But more than that, far more importantly than that, what gripped her the most now was the utter eagerness that thrummed in her veins at the thought of seeing their little prisoner now. In being able to carve information out of it herself, wringing every last bit of information it possibly had to offer. And if it didn't cooperate? She'd make every last moment the most miserable of its wretched existence, out of spite, in a bit of fun and stress-relief–fuck, after today's success, this was the cherry atop the sundae!

            And if all went well, maybe she'll even indulge in one in the capitol, too. Maybe catch that little girl with the Valberries along the way and get some of those as well, stars, that would be a delight!

            With that thought, Danae grinned as she tossed then caught the key, and rushed out the door.

[seiwas]

.

[charliemwrites]

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)

Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternization (therefore power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Body Piercings, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

“Yessir.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiii how are you? Could i please request a jealousy fic with jason and dick, like how would they react? What would they do about it? I'm sorry its reallyyy cliche, but i love it anyway💕

Hi anon! I’ve been fine, been taking lots of power naps whenever I can, especially after work, but I’ve fine.

Jason’s jealously more or less comes from a place of insecurity.

He fears that one interaction with the right guy/ girl/ whomever would be enough to make you see that there were better options out there than him.

He never doubts your loyalty to him, never. He wasn’t that pathetic. He just didn’t trust everyone else that even looked at you in the same light as he did on the daily, and it was extremely evident when Jason didn’t like the looks of someone; Furrowed brows over narrowed judging eyes, his form practically towering over you protectively as he stares down the person whom he believes might take you from him.

His protectiveness tends to spike up periodically the moment he see the person get a little too close for comfort and he would clench his jaw to prevent himself from saying something he might regret later on; Jason tries to restrain himself for your sake but it was blatantly obvious that he was on the brink of exploding.

So when you both got home Jason didn’t waste any time in letting you know how he felt during the entire interaction after having forced himself to hold his own tongue.

‘Did you find that person attractive?’ He’d ask.

‘No.’ you said. ‘were you jealous?’

‘I thought me staring down the poor bastard was evident enough.’ Jason scoffs and you hugged his waist all the while pressing reassuring kisses at the base of his neck, when his hands reached to hold yours and intertwine your fingers together.

‘I know that you know I love you very much, no one else catches my eye when I have you,’ you reassured as you pressed another kiss to his neck, ‘my beautiful boy, my beautiful jay birdie.’ You added in a whisper as Jason felt the last remnants of jealously fade away into the background with every kiss you gave him.

‘Are you sure you can see yourself being with me? long term I mean.’ He then says as he squeezed your hands in his search of comfort from you and it broke your heart when he didn’t see himself the way you did, but you were more then willing to kiss and cuddle away his troubles if it meant reminding him of his worth.

‘Without question.’ You confidently told him, squeezing his hands. ‘I don’t see myself with anyone else but you because even though you may not think it, you are more then enough and you are not broken, to me you are whole and you are perfect.’ You finished by pressing a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades and resting your head there as you focused on his breathing.

‘Can…can we just forget about all this and just cuddle like any other cliche couples do?’ Jason asked, finding himself feeling a lot better upon hearing you laugh against his back as a smile crossed his face.

‘Sure big guy.’ You replied. ‘We can go cuddle now.’

And with that Jason was quick to pick you up in his arms and carry you off towards the bedroom where you inevitably feel asleep in the other’s arms, happy and content.

Dick wasn’t one to speak up on his emotions much, which was something that he knew he could better work on for the sake of your relationship with him.

He’s seen himself in the mirror. He knows his own appeal very well but physical appearance were secondary to you as it was his personality that won you over in the end. However he knew that beauty was subjective and that one day you might come across someone more physically appealing than him.

He’d act as though nothing was wrong but if you could easily tell something was off by just his stance alone, crossed arms over chest and a look in his eyes, as though he was trying to deduce the person you were trying to have a civil conversation with.

He may stand close to you and put a hand on your waist or throw an arm over your shoulders, pull you into his side and press a kiss to your forehead with a smile plastered across his face, but he wouldn’t say a word in hopes that would be enough to get across to the person that you were very much taken.

Upon arriving home however, Dick acts he wasn’t even remotely jealous to begin with, despite the glaring fact that he very much was.

‘Me? Jealous?’ He asks incredulously but upon seeing your face, he knew that this act of his had long since stopped working the moment you grew the ability to read him.

‘Yes, you were and you weren’t even trying to make it discreet at all.’ You told him as you settled aside your things on the kitchen counter and sighed. ‘I just wish you would talk to me about these things so that we could get this together like couples should.’

Dick frowned as he moved next to you and gently took your hand in his own, caressing it. ‘I know and I’m sorry that I haven’t been more open and honest with you it’s just-‘

‘You find it difficult to do so I know.’ You cut him off, looking him in the eyes. ‘I don’t blame you for that and I never would, you know that but I just wished that you trust me more to speak to me about these things.’ You tell him as you squeezed his hand. ‘I only want to help you.’

Dick kisses your forehead. ‘I know you do and I appreciate it very much.’ He whispered against your skin. ‘I just don’t know what you see in me sometimes, nor do I understand how you could have possibly put up with me as long as you have given how closed off I can be sometimes.’ He adds as he pulls away, his heart weighing heavily in his chest as he awaits your response.

‘I stay with you because I love you stupid.’ You said softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. ‘And maybe because Hayley is too cute a pup to ever leave.’

‘I had a feeling Hayley was a major factor in you staying.’ Dick laughed. ‘Can’t say I blame you though, she is indeed very cute.’ He adds as he looks over at the staffy, who was very much fast asleep in her little bed in the living room before looking back to you with gentle eyes. ‘But I’m glad that you did stay. I love you too, dummy.’ He utters softly as he nudged you with his shoulder, vowing to himself to do better by you from this day forth.

[fantasyinallforms]

Oh yeah, I think it's time to talk about Thorin's introduction scene in the first Hobbit movie because I've never seen a man fall in love so quickly. Now, first off, they really build up who Thorin is with the dramatics of everyone stopping when he knocks and Gandalf saying, "He's here." Then, we cut to the actual opening of the door. See the GIF below.

Few things here. First, look at that confidence and swagger. Did he have to strike a pose when the door was opened? No, but he did because Thorin Oakenshield is nothing if not dramatic. He is also not blushing, nor does he look even vaguely surprised, just smirk and swagger. It's important to note he has not seen Bilbo at all yet. It's also important to note that in the next few seconds, he doesn't actually see Bilbo.

Look at these GIFs. My man is doing anything but looking at Bilbo. He can hear Bilbo. He's fixing his coat and smiling at Kili. The movie makes it explicitly clear when the first time he gets a good look at Bilbo is. Take a look.

Did you see it? The exact moment that he actually saw Bilbo. It's hard to miss, given his eyes grow like three times, and his pupils explode, but let's watch it in slow-mo and zoomed in anyway.

His whole mouth is hanging open like a caught fish. This is the closest to immediate heart eyes I have seen in my life. He's even blushing! Go look at his cheeks in the first gif compared to this one. He looks like he just found the meaning of happiness. It doesn't even stop there because the next bit is just as fun.

Thorin takes a full step forward like he's being yanked by a chain, and the look on his face isn't just curiosity he's starstruck. That's a genuine twinkle in those deep blues. Now don't get me wrong, Thorin goes on to insult Bilbo and dismiss him outright. What can I say, he's smoop, but he's about as emotionally constipated as it gets. Those insults, however, are a secondary reaction. It's very hard to fake a first reaction to something you're not expecting, and Gandalf told Thorin basically nothing about their soon-to-be burglar. This was his first genuine reaction to Bilbo, and it sets the stage for every interaction after it because if Thorin Oakenshield struggles with one thing from this point forward, it's keeping his eyes off of Bilbo Baggins.

~~~

More deep dives like this can be found by searching the pinned tag #deep dive on my page ❤️

[structuredsucc]

So... what exactly are executive functioning supports...?

Planners, checklists, and reminders are definitely executive function supports, but they aren't the only things that are available. ...so, I've made a list of some examples. A thread (🧵)

Executive functioning includes so much, so executive function supports can be SO MANY things. Executive functions include decision making, working memory, task initiation, planning, prioritizing, many forms of self-regulation, and more.

So let's talk in broad categories

Category 1: Decisionmaking

Avoiding a decision altogether,

Choosing randomly,

Reducing the number of options to decide between,

Always doing the same decision (such as having a uniform for yourself),

Outsourcing decisions,

Having outside structure/expectations

Category 2: Working memory

Keeping things visible,

Reminders,

Collaborators who gently remind you of things,

Writing it down (i.e., notebooks, post-its, to-do lists, etc.),

External structure such as lunch hours,

Understanding why and how working memory fails

Category 3: Information processing

Avoiding weak processing areas (eg. reading for dyslexics like me)

Have information in multiple forms,

Make information processing context relevant,

Reduce incoming information or competing demands

Category 4: Task Management

Body doubling,

Transition time,

To-do lists,

Breaking tasks down (including people to help with that),

External structure for identify the next step,

clear, explicit instructions,

Schedules, planners, itineraries.

Category 5: Organization

Mind maps,

Labels, 

Notetaking templates,

Physical organizers,

Organizing methods (Kondo, Only 4 Things, etc.),

House cleaners, professional organizer, etc.

Clear bins,

An ability to toggle visibility

Category 6: Cognitive Flexibility

Transition time,

Pre-change warnings,

External support for identifying and reminding the new direction,

Context-based exemplars of similar change,

Visual schedules,

Reminders of when structure will start again

I've listed a lot of things here, but there are just so, so, so many more options.

Executive function supports can be ways that we think or approach situations (internal) or structures imposed on us by others (external). They can be physical tools that we can touch and interact with (tangible) or completely abstract ideas or approaches (intangible)

The big takeaways are that executive function supports can be any tool, structure, or communication that supports any of our executive functions.

Executive functioning struggles are core to the ADHD and autistic experiences (and secondary to other ND conditions). This means executive functioning takes a lot of energy for ADHD and/or autistic people, and the more support we have the more energy we can use for other things

So, yeah, planners, checklists, and reminders are definitely executive function supports, but so is a highschool bell schedule, hobby-related groups, professional services, and colleagues (consensually) harassing you to remember to send that email.

There are a lot of options!

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 8)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated E.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

The illness persists in the weight of your skin over your bones yet the loss of actual muscle and fat that turn you skeletal. Your legs become bow-like and pain radiates just above your hairline. Your vision crackles with scattered flashes of black dots, and you drink like a man lost in the desert. 

Only foods that are red stay down, and even then you only nibble at peppers and plug your nose at the raw meat you stuff in your mouth. You feel the sunlight outside your window when you open it up and stick your hand through, as walking out of your apartment is a chore you can only handle once a week at most. 

Once a homebody, reclusive out of necessity and exhaustion from simple interactions, you now live for Lucifer’s chatter. His presence abates your fever, physically and emotionally. The dependence on him, as sweet as he appears, makes you itch inside. 

Everything is terrible, you tell yourself at least once per day, as the illness persists. 

But if Lucifer is good at anything, it’s providing you with distractions from the ever-present suffering.

—

The sounds you made put the Angelic Choir to shame. 

“Lucifer, don’t say that!”

The King of Hell’s laugh was muffled as he stayed buried in your cunt. The memory of you being so flustered was almost just as sweet. 

He eyed your tightly screwed expression just over your growing belly, and felt gratified at his idea to have you propped up by pillows from head to hips. With the boost, Lucifer could watch you enjoy yourself and remain comfortable. 

Let him feel the springs of your mattress dig into his knees and stomach. They were secondary to the pain of his own hardness straining in his slacks. 

A keen from you, and the feeling of your nails as they raked through his hair and over his scalp, had Lucifer moaning. His eyes rolled back, momentarily blinded by euphoria. 

“Ooh!” 

Eyes snapping open, Lucifer lifted himself from the bed quickly. His tongue slipped out of you, dripping onto the sheets when he was mindless to reeling it back in.

“Why’d you stop?” Your whine between quick pants made him blink.

One eye at a time. 

“I thought I hurt you.” He smiled, sheepishly, once his tongue was back in his mouth. 

His mauve-lids and golden lashes fluttered when you wiped the slick from his chin. There was no missing the color that had returned to your cheeks with all the exertion he was putting you through, and he felt a swell of pride at being able to breathe life back into you. So to speak. 

“Heaven help me.” You said, sarcastically. 

Breathlessly.

The Devil’s hips jerked when your hand rose to grip a fistful of his blond hair. You manually lowered him back between your legs, heedless to the way his entire frame shivered.

— 

‘I think I… I think I’m in love with her.’ Lucifer looked so earnest, meeting the glow of Ozzie’s stare. 

The Sin clucked a tongue in his King’s direction, shaking his head. ‘Well, don’t tell her that. You’re gonna scare her away, man.’ 

—

Lucifer watched you fall apart from just his tongue (its length and width being inhuman notwithstanding). 

You were so beautiful like this. Legs shaking, body spasming, letting go.

‘I love you.’ 

Man’s (alleged) Greatest Enemy could just barely contain himself. 

‘I love you I love you I love you’ 

—

Lucifer brings you another scroll one sunny day, and you find it riddled with names. 

“I’ve been thinking about what to call him or her, so I made a list! …Kinda, sorta during a meeting… whatever, it wasn’t that important!” 

Oh, you could see that. 

“Do you like any of them? Which are your favorites? No! Gimme your top 5!” His jubilation is so innocent, but something inside you hitches. 

“Does it actually matter what I think?” You chuckled. 

“Of course it does!” He cried. “You’re the mo— uh… you’re putting in most of the work!”

The weak save went unchallenged. You were already circling names, likening the process to navigating a minefield as you looked through a long line of names you couldn’t even pronounce or read. 

‘Ehb 

Horus

Azor 

Carlton’

“What about a girl?” Lucifer asked out of the blue. 

Your head cocked to the side as you realized your picks had been relegated to just one side of the endless list. That he’d written down names for boys and for girls struck you as odd. 

 “You think it’ll be a girl?” 

Lucifer looked at you with a curious gaze. “Could be, couldn’t it?”

After a moment, you shrugged. “I guess so…” 

The King’s confusion crinkled around his eyes and caused an uncanny few lines in his otherwise perfect forehead. You flick the pen at him teasingly to wipe the look from his face.

You write a few names down, and watch with a smirk as his frown turns upside down. 

‘Adrienne 

Charlotte

Maleficent’

You ignored the painful thought that this was a pointless endeavor. Naming a dead thing.

—

With eyebrows raised, you sat waiting dutifully, hands clasped over your stomach while he rummaged through the box. 

“Aha!” He pulled out two red objects, one in each hand, and knee’d the chest out of the way to present them to you.

“Surprise!”

Two remarkably crafted stuffed animals were set before you on the couch cushion. 

Goats. 

It took you a second to place them, staring at their intricate appearances — covered in fluffy red fur from head to cloven hoof, with large yellow eyes and tiny red smiles stitched on their stark white muzzles. 

Shiny, metallic-looking horns curled over the curvature of their little heads, tips almost touching the tiny approximations of wings protruding from their backs. You noticed that the little wings were also sticking out of the backs of their tiny tuxedo suits; solid black to further contrast their Luciferean color schemes. 

An uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal escaped you. 

Damn these hormones. You internally chastised yourself while reaching out to finger at the detailed plushies. 

“They’re so cute!” You admired the unbelievable softness of one’s fur, hand overlapping with Lucifer’s as you turned it this way and that. His grin was so wide in your peripheral vision as he soaked up your fawning.

“Aren’t they?!” Lucifer squealed along with you. “They’re twins! But see this one has lighter fur and this one has sharper eyes. I tried to give them little differences so they had some individuality.” 

“Michael and I looked so similar in the Beginning, a ton of people always got us mixed up. Sometimes it was fun, but I got tired of hearing him bitch about it after the first couple centuries.”

A more serene countenance overtook your counterpart, with his line of sight drifting off to the floor beside you. Lost in thought. Or perhaps reminiscing. 

“Michael?” You asked gently. 

“My brother.” Lucifer replied. 

“Ohh, I think I remember… is he a Prince of Hell too?” 

The formerly Divine man frowned. “… No. Not him.”

A shadow fell over you both, distant sadness suffusing the air. You reached for him instantly, only for Lucifer to switch on like a lightbulb and grin manically. 

“Oh well! Who knows, maybe he took Dad’s side just to make sure no one ever confused us for each other ever again!” 

You pulled away. “… right.” 

Lucifer shook his head after a glance in your direction. 

“Um, so, I was thinking…” He began. “Maybe we give one to the baby an-nd… one could stay here… with you…” 

There was no hiding the confusion that crossed your face. 

You ‘tsk’ed. “You wanna deny the baby half this cuteness?” 

In response, Lucifer tittered, still adamant on looking around the room instead of meeting your gaze head on. “Hah, no. I was thinking that, maybe, we could keep one of them here and… and then they could reunite every time the baby and I… or just the baby… visit…”

Slow realization made your already weak constitution roil. 

Perhaps, if you’d been yourself and not the hollow shell of a person you’d become while pregnant, you would’ve been angry. Or upset enough to shout. Maybe you would’ve gotten up and left him there on his lonesome, wordlessly demanding he not entertain that idea ever again. 

Certainly, the You from before this insane, impossible scenario wouldn’t hesitate to react melodramatically. 

You sighed, fiddling with one of the goat’s tails. “Oh Lou…” 

He cringed beneath the weight of your words, laden with a heaviness that harshened his already guilty conscience. 

“Wait, before you say no —” Lucifer felt his mouth running away from him. “Maybe you could think about it and then decide? Maybe after they’re born?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I don’t expect anything from you.” 

“You’re expecting me to be its mother.” Your tone broke no room for argument. 

Mauve eyelids drooped as Lucifer looked down in shame. “I — ”

“I wouldn’t make a good mom.” Your statement stopped him in his tracks. 

Frustration simmered in Lucifer, slowly creeping into his expression as you continued, unrelenting. His posture went rigid, hands beginning to clench at his sides.

“It’s not that I don’t care. I probably care too much, actually.” You admitted.

It was true. Regardless of your paranoia and how justified it was or not, the sole basis for why you felt the need to argue in the first place —

(And wasn’t that just pathetic? You had feelings for the Epitome of Evil and had entertained being safe and happy with him) 

— the reality was that you’d been a broken human being before this cosmic impossibility entered your life. 

“I just don’t…” You sighed. “I wouldn’t be a good part of their life if I was in it.” 

Your head whipped up, vision spotting when Lucifer blurted:

“You are the best part of my life.” 

He looked angry. Furious. So much so that the sclera around his irises began to radiate a blood-red. 

“Do you know how hard it is? To leave you? I have to convince myself every single time that you’ll still be here when I return!” Lucifer claimed. “And soon I won’t even be able to do that!” 

“I don’t want to say goodbye forever! I… I l…” 

You shuddered, stiffening in your seat. As soon as he realized, Lucifer’s display was cowed. 

“Fuck, are you alright? I’m not — I don’t know what came over me!”

You shook your head. “No.” 

“It stopped.” You whispered. 

Lucifer’s grip trembled around your wrists. “Stopped?”

His breathless echo of your words drew your eyes up. You saw the storm brewing in his ruby eyes, as even though he waited for you to elaborate, a million thoughts pelting at his brain like hail. 

“The pain stopped.” You said. 

Your hands felt over the bump beneath your breasts, as if you might find the imaginary ‘off’ button and turn it back on.

It was ludicrous to think about, but you immediately wished for the agony that had been crippling you to return if it meant that this baby wasn’t… wasn’t… 

Tears glistened in your eyes. Lucifer drew you to his chest in spite of the fear that was pulling his shoulders taut. 

“Wh-what did you do today? Anything different?” The ex-Angel asked shakily. 

His eyes scanned you up and down, lingering on the little dolls he’d just gifted you. 

“No… n-no, nothing different.” You said. “I was in bed all morning, and th… then Cass was here and we had tea… we went out and walked a little bit outside.” 

“Did you fall?” The King hedged. 

You gasped, eyes widening. Instinctively your arms wrapped around your middle at the foreign feeling emanating from within. 

“Did…! You fell??” He panicked, grabbing onto you like a life raft. “Where? On what?!”

His words drifted away as you were enveloped in the strangest surge of feeling you’d ever experienced. 

You could only just muster up the energy to shake your head. 

Sudden warmth. 

And pressure. 

A tiny flutter, one you’d never felt before. 

You inhaled quickly yet deeply at the feeling of something pressing against your belly-button from the inside. 

It made you grin, hands coming back to grab for Lucifer’s own and to pull them to your stomach. “They’re alive!” 

The man’s jaw went slack, staring sightlessly for just as long as it took to soak up the sudden heat there. The baby took pity on its poor, trembling father and kicked again. 

It was Lucifer’s turn to gasp, looking back and forth between you and the bump with dawning awe. 

“It is!” He laughed, a tad bit hysterically. “It — they are alive!” 

“… And… glowing…”

“You’re glowing!”

*** Tag List: @crescent-z, @for-hearthand-home, @undertale-is-sansational, @loslox, @navierkalani, @yaimlight, @ivoryviness, @crystalplays28, @flowerempress, @wally-darling-hyperfixation, @altruisticradiodemon, @moonlight-readings, @halparkebitch, @charliecharlie65, @sockgoblin, @cocomollo, @caniseethefourthsword, @squeegeeclean, @crow-twink, @an-emovision, @marydragneell, @lafy-taffy, @fandom-imagines1, @loquacious-libra, @glowymxxn, @avadakadabra93, @froggybich, @hamthepan, @ukor02, @adaizel, @boogiemansbitch, @vinillies, @lbcreations-blog, @thesoundresoundsecho, @serenity-loves-red, @alientee

[celestie0]

MASSIVE gojo x reader fanfic rec (no spoilers)

ok i know a lot of my followers are gojo girlies and i just need to put yall onto this fucking fanfiction because i just read the latest release for it and i’m genuinely tweaking rn🧍🏻‍♀️

@lostfracturess ‘s amazing work called “symptoms & causes” - a medical au

[image pulled from her masterlist]

let me just…let me just try to even gather the reasons why you need to add this to your tbr lists (weekend is comin up too so perfect time)

characterization of gojo satoru.

gojo in this fic is characterized so fucking well, from chapter one. there are so many distinctive ways miss lostfractures goes about building his aura (word of mouth/reputation, dialogue, expository, primary interactions, secondary interactions, etc.) it reminds me of the show where gojo just has this energy to him that you can't tear yourself away from i picture him in this fic to be unrelenting, unforgiving, morally grey, with an undertone of softness yet still feral through it all,, basically gojo during shibuya arc LOL. i looove reading cute silly boy gojo fics sm (he’s so baby) but THIS fic explores the borderline wicked side of him that is so thrilling, unique, and rare to find i think in this fandom’s collection of works. it’s just so fucking good.

forbidden romance.

UGGHH i love stories w forbidden romance. in this one, it’s med student reader x professor gojo (additional power dynamics in that he’s a senior surgeon in her field and also a research mentor in her study of interest…TRIPLE THREAT DAMN). i love how miss lostfractures doesn’t shy away from reminding the reader that it’s wrong, and that they shouldn’t be doing this. that’s my fave part of forbidden romances like yesss remind me again why this is all so wrong but let’s still do it anyways LOL <333

reader’s voice.

i’ve LOVED reader since the beginning, so relatable, emotionally mature, all her flaws are so believable & her strengths are shown seamlessly. it’s just so much fun to read because i’ll literally have a thought like “hmm…that (something a character said/did) doesn’t sound very convincing” and then the next line will be something like “he didn’t sound very convincing” like!!! me and s&c reader?? we’re locked in like this fr🤞🏼 like gojo’s domain expansion fingers

escapism.

everything in this story feels so damn real it’s insane. the pacing is stunning, love the utilization of stacks of scenes that are sort of short but so concise, enough to be a smooth read but still descriptive enough to entirely transport you into the world that’s being built. cannot praise the writing in this story enough. also the variety of ways that scenarios are made that pull characters closer to one another?? so creative. as someone who works in a research lab, studied bio in college (some of the fkn biochem stuff that comes up in this fic gives me heart attacks lmfaooo pls im traumatized), and has worked in clinics/hospitals it just itches my brain so damn good. you’ll be convinced you’re a brilliant med student while you read this fic.

writing.

the writing is just. so. good. it’s so good. better than most PUBLISHED works i’ve read. i really can't say much other than that, you just have to go see for yourself.

—

if any of these reasons speak to you, i highly recommend you check the fic out. just a note tho it does have some dark themes but you can find all the tags/warnings on her page!

OK BYE

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗬 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗦 - part five lando norris x  fem! streamer! reader (fluff) " . . . lando finds himself addicted to playing video games with this girl he can't get out of his head.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous | next )

Lando looked around cautiously, pulling his luggage along the smooth airport floors to the exit. He pursed his lips with a sigh. Plucking his phone from his hoodie pocket, He pulled the cap on his head further down to avoid being recognised. But you knew it was him right away, jogging over. 

When Lando saw you you could swear his smile was so wide it lit up the whole airport. 

“So good to see you again.” You sigh, greeting him with a little hug. 

“You’ve grown taller.” Lando joked as he hugged you back, sighing internally in relief that he got to hold you again. He’s been spending a lot of his free time ( and his not-so-free time ) on Stardew Valley in hopes of interacting and spending more time with you. But nothing compared to actually being here with you.

The two of you looked at each other with a smile for a few seconds before his eyes caught the watch on your wrist. 

“Oh wow, pretty.” He hummed playfully, lifting your wrist to his ear so he could listen to the ticks of your Richard Mille— which was just an excuse so he could hold your hand.

“Alright, let's go.” Lando nodded, keeping your hand held in his own, the back of your hand pressed to his chest like it was some valuable treasure he feared others might try to steal from him.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We’re not going to get caught.” You assured Lando as you walked through the huge halls. The Brit was wearing inconspicuous clothes, trying to blend in with university students. You’d had one last lecture for the day and decided to drag Lando along because you didn’t want to leave him alone. This wasn’t Melbourne, “you don't know the place or people around here” was your excuse. Sure, Lando is a grown man and would do fine on his own for an hour and a half but you just wanted to drag him along.

Settling down in a row closer to the back, Lando finds himself getting bored pretty easily. He never graduated secondary school, you can’t expect him to understand the ecology of coral reefs. Leaning his cheek on his fist, watching you scribble notes and diagrams along with formulas with long equations and letters.

He was lucky that fifteen minutes into the lecture he discovered your gorgeous laptop waiting for him in your bag, using the mouse pad so his clicks aren't loud when he plays Fortnite. And when the two students snickering behind him snickered and laughed, he gave them a good glare that probably shut them up. A normal person wouldn’t expect an F1, Lando Norris nonetheless, to randomly be sitting in front of you in your lecture playing Fortnite and then glare at you when you laugh at them. 

When the lecture ended and people started getting up to leave, Lando lowered the laptop screen watching you go over your notes one last time, jotting questions on a stick before stuffing your belongings away and getting up. And just as the two of you were climbing the stairs to leave the room, “Ms. Ln, if I could talk with you for a second.”

Clenching your jaw, you give Lando a look telling him to stay right where he stood while you jog down the steps to your professor. Lando holds the strap of his bag as he watches you talk with your teacher before being handed a nice thick stack of papers. “Oh and Lando,” The man in his early forties called for your friend, rummaging through his book bag.

You found yourself blushing embarrassed at being discovered, not expecting your teacher of all people to recognize Lando. You watched as Lando jogged down the stairs when asked to sign the McLaren hat your professor had pulled out. “Is Yn a good student?” Lando joked with a smile as he drew his name with a Sharpie. “One of the best.” Your professor chuckled, returning your wave as you walked out with Lando.

“I’m pretty sure some kids recognized me so we better kick off.” He said quietly in your ear. With a nod, you checked your watch which gave a smile as it told you the time.

On the bus, you hugged your bag to your chest as you sat beside Lando. “Still can’t believe you don’t have a car.” You chuckled looking up at him with a smirk. 

“What? You’ve never been on public transport?” you tease back.  Lando scoffed. “I rode the train with Carlos once when we were going to the Drive To Survive premier.” He justified folding his arms with a huff. You rolled your eyes playfully. “I don’t mind busing. Doesn’t bother me. Besides, I can’t drive anyway.” You breathe out, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Lando knew you couldn’t afford a car when you called a cap to pick you up at the airport. You're out here on your own and studying in a foreign country, it’s common to not be able to rent or own cars. But never had Lando assumed that you couldn’t drive. He never expected it. And it just felt wrong. The Brit lets you lean your head on his shoulder, watching you scroll through your phone until you fall asleep.

He didn’t move a muscle, keeping a hand around your shoulders to hold your steady during stops or speed bumps. Or maybe he just wanted to hold you close to him. When it was time to get off, Lando was glad you had the trip active on Google Maps so you didn’t find yourself waking up in another city. He held your hand as he walked your still-sleepy figure off the bus and up to your apartment building. He was glad he was holding you again, even if it was just your hand. It made him happy that you didn’t let go.

“My roommate is only here on the weekends so we’re free.” You unlocked the door with your free hand and kicked your shoes off once you entered, the Brit copying your movements. You stretched your hands and body before crouching down to greet the cat that rubbed himself on your ankle. 

Lando chuckled as he plopped on the couch watching you open the fridge and pulling out Red Bull. “Default flavour, Norris?” You ask, tossing him the blue and silver can. Lando caught the drink easily and pulled the tab open with a ‘fzzzz’. Sitting on the couch beside him, you sipped your drink while looking disappointed at the mess of an attempt to build a shelf you had bought a few days prior.

“Sorry for the mess, I would've cleaned up if you told me you were coming sooner. Or should’ve just got it from Ikea where they give instructions.” You sigh, kicking the nails and wood away in hopes of gathering the mess in one spot so it could be forgotten in a corner. Lando waved it off. “You should see my apartment. ” He assured, “I can help you with it later.” He offered and you smiled with a sigh. “I’d love that.” You nodded looking at him. Lando returned your smile.

devilsdare.03 replied to a tweet

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“It’s not that hard.” Lando scolded as he slowed beside you, reaching over and fixing the belt around your chest. “Right pedal to go, left to stop.” he reminded. You watched him as he went off in his kart, stopping a few meters away to see if you were following. 

The perks of having Wednesday mornings off are that everyone is at their jobs and the kids are at school, leaving Lando the opportunity to drag you to a karting track in attempt to teach you how to drive. And he was successful, other than the fact that you were sticking to slower speeds than Lando would've liked. 

In the end, you’d stayed three and a half hours instead of the original one and a half. It leaves you feeling dizzy whenever you walk as if you were still driving. 

The walk from the track to was filled with laughter as you held your hands up. Lando wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you from stumbling, pulling you along. The laughing didn’t stop. You snuggled into each other in a cafe booth, sharing a menu.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

devilsdare.03 posted on her story

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

devilsdare.03 replied to a tweet

devilsdare.03 posted a video on tiktok

[alisonwritesimagines]

You're Losing Me ~Simon Riley Imagine~

Summary: Simon falls in love with Johnny, only to unintentionally hurt you in the process.

Author's Note: This was inspired by @houseofoddballs trauma bond fic they made which got me listening to sad, angsty songs while writing this at work. Also, please let me know if ya'll want a part two for this.

Reader's Pronouns: She/Her

Warnings: MAJOR ANGST, like gut wrenching angst, cheating, unexpected pregnancy, slight happy ending for reader in the end in a way

Side Note: This is a secondary blog. If you comment a question down below, I will not answer since this is not the main blog. Please send the question to my inbox if you want a response back!

Do not repost this anywhere!

He was your Simon. No one else's. You two had met when he was on leave and fell in love. So by definition, he was yours first. It sounds selfish but when you barely get to see him due to him going on missions on months on end, you'd understand why you want to hold onto him as much as you can.

You watched as your Simon walk in together with Soap once again. This was the third time this week where he had claimed he was busy only to be seen with Soap afterwards.

"Sorry I kept him long, bonnie," Johnny apologized again.

"It's okay. Glad you two had fun," you tell him.

You liked Soap. He was a good guy and he understood what your Simon had to go through during their time in the military. There was nothing wrong with him. Until he and your Simon got closer and closer. You noticed it from the way they interacted with each other.

But you would never say anything to them. You loved Simon. He was everything to you. You trusted him. But you began to notice something between the two. It was obvious even if they were trying to hide it. So if keeping your Simon meant that you had to stay silent, so be it.

“I’m going out,” Simon told you exactly at 5pm. You noticed each time he told you he was going out, it was always at 5pm.

“Again? Simon, I was hoping we can have a date night?” You tell him with a small frown. You couldn’t remember the last time you two had gone on a proper date with each other.

“Sorry love. I already got plans. How about I make it up to you tomorrow yeah? Just the two of us and we can do whatever you want,” Simon offers.

“Okay. That’s fine,” you nodded with a small smile.

“Don’t need to wait up on me,” Simon tells you. You nodded once again before he put on his coat to head out.

“I love you, Simon,” you tell him. Simon stared at you a little with a soft smile. But there was something else in that smile.

“I love you too,” Simon tells you before leaving your shared apartment.

Simon felt guilty. Leaving you alone for a night with Soap. He loved you both but he didn’t know if you’d be okay in getting into a relationship with both him and Soap. Had had to think of you first since you were there for him first before Soap.

“You okay, Lt?” Johnny asked. The two sat in the back of a bar at a booth, sitting next to each other.

“I just feel guilty,” Simon tells him.

“About?”

“I feel like I’m lying to Y/n,” Simon tells him.

“Simon-“

“But as much as I want her, I want you too. I need you both.”

“I’m here for you Simon. And you know she loves you too. I don’t want to hurt her either. She’s a good woman and you both need each other in a way,” Johnny said.

Johnny could at least acknowledge that even though he and Simon loved each other, he didn’t want to hurt you. You were kind and caring. Not to mention you were there first before Johnny.

Simon felt guilty, the more he began to drink with Johnny the guilt began to go away a little. The next thing he knew, he’s waking up next to Johnny naked in Johnny’s bed at four in the morning. Now he was more guilty and had dug his grave.

——

The next day, you knew what he did. And Simon knew that you knew. It wasn’t the fact he came home in the early morning or the silence that made him know that you knew. It was the hickeys on his neck that he didn’t hide. He was too busy to get back home to you first to even look at the hickeies Johnny gave him.

You lied in your bed crying as your heart was broken. Simon sat on the other side of the door, listening to your crying. It broke him or hear you cry. He never meant to hurt you but he did. The mental pain was far worse than the physical pain and he knew it.

“Love, can we talk?” Simon you.

“Ghost, leave me alone please,” you tell him. Simon got up the moment you used his code name. He didn’t want you to see him as Ghost. He was your Simon. Your Simon that you love. He wanted you to know that you didn’t loose him. He was here with you and begging for your forgiveness.

“Love. Please. Don’t call me that. Open the door please,” Simon begged as he tried to open the door.

“Ghost, I need a moment. Please. Just go to Soap if you need to,” you tell him, still hurt from what you saw this morning.

Simon’s heart broke from your words. Yes he was in love with Johnny but he didn’t want to run to Johnny whenever you two had a problem. Even before Johnny you two were able to work things out whenever you had a fight. But this was different. You didn’t use his code name in anger like you would do.

You used his code name as if you didn’t recognize him anymore.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here until you’re ready to talk,” Simon tells you before walking to the living room.

You didn’t come out of the room till 9pm. When you walked out, you saw Simon sitting on the couch with red eyes. He looked over at you as you looked worse than he did. He got up before getting on his knees in front of you. You had never seen him this vulnerable before.

“Love, I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Please,” Simon begged. He couldn’t let you leave him. He needed you. Although, he wasn't sure if he could say the same thing about you needing him.

“What do you want me to say, Ghost?” You asked him.

“Don’t call me that. I’m Simon. I’m your Simon,” he tells you as he stood up. He held your hands in his before kissing them. Trying to cling onto you as much as he could before you could slip away from his fingers any more than you already had.

“Are you?” You asked him.

“Yes. I’ll do anything to prove it to you,” Simon begged. You stayed quiet before walking to the kitchen to grab something to eat.

“Let me, love,” Simon said before going into the kitchen to make you something. You lied on the couch until Simon had food ready for you.

It was going well for you both for a month before Simon had to go on a mission. He spent his last couple of days, letting you know how much he loved you in the bed to remind you that he loved you and how much he needed you.

“I love you so much, Y/n,” Simon tells you.

“I love you too, Simon,” you tell him.

——

The moment Simon had told you that he was coming back, you were excited. You had news to tell him that you hoped he would choose you. It was selfish yes but you were human. It was a natural thing. And you hoped that your news would bring you two closer.

But the moment Simon came home, you knew something was wrong. Instead of giving you a kiss that would eventually lead into the bedroom like how he used to do, he kissed your cheek and told you he had to shower.

He had left his phone on his stand while he showered. You weren’t the type to look through his phone but you had to know. You unlocked his phone to see the messages he had sent to Johnny.

Simon 5:00pm: I miss you.

Simon 10:45pm: Can I see you Johnny?

Johnny 10:46pm: Are you sure?

Simon 10:47pm: I need you right now.

Simon 11:34pm: I need you. Can I come over?

Simon 1:05pm: I can pick you up before we head back to base.

Johnny 1:07pm: Sounds good.

Simon 3:08pm: Just got home. I love you.

Johnny 3:10pm: I love you too. Let me know when you want to meet up again.

You noticed the dates and times. They were all while you and Simon were supposedly patching things up before he had to go on a mission. How many times has he snuck off to see Johnny? How many times did he tell you that he loved you that now felt like lies? Were they together intimately when they were on their mission? The last text being more recent with Simon telling Johnny that he loved him hurt the most.

You were a fool. A goddamn beautiful and forgiving fool. But this was the pushing point.

———

The flat felt colder and somehow smaller. Simon noticed all of your little things were gone the moment he came back from the gym. He knew something was wrong. He rushed to the bedroom to find it tidied up but empty.

Your nightstand no longer had your stuff on or in it. Your side of the closet was empty. All his hoodies and shirts that you had taken from him was hung or neatly folded and put away. It was as if you were never here.

Simon noticed a letter on his nightstand making him walk over and sit on his side of the bed. He took the letter in his hand before opening it up.

Simon,

I know you choosing between me and Johnny will be hard on you. So let me make the decision for you, go ahead and choose him. I don’t think I can continue fighting for your love even though I would’ve done anything and everything for you. I love you Simon. But I can’t face anymore emotional neglect and keep waiting for you to return the love I’ve been giving you.

Am I hurt? Yes. Am I surprised you fell for Johnny? No. He can understand you in many ways I would never be able to understand. I just wished I was enough for you.

Please do not contact me or find me. I think it’s best for me to move on and let myself heal. I know it seems selfish but I need this.

Goodbye Simon.

- Y/n

Simon took out his phone and quickly called you. Maybe it wasn’t too late?

“We're sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

His worse fear has come true due to his selfishness. You were gone from his life.

———

Five years have gone since Simon last heard you. He had told Johnny he needed some time before continuing their relationship together the moment you left him. Five years since you left him but not a day had gone by without Simon thinking about you.

Were you doing okay? Were you in a safe place? Have you moved on officially?

It was now his and Johnny ‘s leave and they had to grab some groceries for the week. While Simon had gone to grab a couple of stuff, Johnny made his way to another aisle before feeling someone bump into his legs. Soap looked down at the small child in front of him. His eyes widen as he saw the small boy who looked exactly like Simon minus his hair color.

“Sorry sir,” the little boy said as he backed up.

“You okay lad?” Soap asked him.

“Yes. I’m just trying to get those cookies,” the little boy said as he pointed at the package that was on a shelf higher than him.

“Oh uh. Here,” Soap tells him as he handed him the cookies.

“Thank you!” The little boy smiled before running off to a man who had appeared from the other end of the aisle.

“You ready, Johnny?” Simon asked him as he walked over to him. He put the food he grabbed into the cart before looking at Johnny.

“Get this Lt. I just met a kid who looked exactly like you,” Soap tells him.

“Doubt it,” Simon scoffed unconvinced.

“I swear it!”

Simon shook his head before his eyes landed on someone familiar. His eyes widen, making Johnny look over to see who he was staring at.

You stood at the end of the aisle with the man and the child that Johnny had helped out not too long ago. You were glowing in more ways than one. You looked happier and healthier than the last time the two men saw you.

Not to mention, you were pregnant and had a ring on your finger. Simon couldn’t help but grew jealous and angry. You should’ve been like that with him.

“Simon? Johnny?” You asked confused as you finally saw them. You and your family walked over to the two who stood at the other end of the aisle.

“Hey bonnie. You're looking good,” Johnny said surprised. Simon looked over at the small boy who did look exactly like him.

Simon didn’t know wether to be angry, sad, or disappointed in himself.

“Hi. Thanks. Are you two on leave?” You asked.

“At the moment yes,” Johnny said.

“That’s good. Simon, Johnny, this is my husband Mitch. Mitch, this is Simon and Johnny,” you introduce them. Simon looked at you heartbroken. He had selfishly hoped that one day you would come back to him or at least he would be able to see you and beg for your forgiveness.

“Nice to meet you both,” Mitch smiled as he offered a handshake. Simon and Johnny both shook his hand out of politeness.

“Is this lad yours?” Johnny asked you.

“Yes. This is my son, Levi. Levi, sweetie, these are two of mommy’s old friends. Can you say hi?” You asked him.

“Hi Mr. Johnny. Hi, Mr. Simon,” Levi said.

“How old are you?” Simon asked him. You frowned at his question. There was no doubt that Levi was his. Mitch rubbed your back a little to help calm you down.

“Five,” Levi tells him shyly.

“He’s five?” Simon asked you with sadden eyes. How long were you alone before Mitch came into your life?

“Yes. We need to get going. We’re on vacation here,” you tell him before taking Levi’s hand.

“Bye Johnny. Bye Simon,” you tell the two.

“Wait, Y/n,” Simon said as he quickly held your hand with your wedding ring on it. He let go the moment he felt the ring.

“Can we talk sometime?” Simon asked you.

“Simon-“

“Please.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m sorry. Come on, Levi,” you tell your son as you lead him to the check out.

Mitch stayed behind before looking over at Simon.

“If you have any questions about Levi, here’s my number. Just message me and I can talk to you,” Mitch told Simon as he handed him a card.

“He’s not yours?” Simon asked for confirmation.

“She’s mentioned you both before and told me what happened. You have the right to know about your son,” Mitch told him before walking away from the two.

“Simon?” Johnny softly said to get his attention.

“Let’s go.” Johnny’s Simon tells him before walking away.

——

It took some convincing from your husband but just before you three left to go back home in America, you met with Simon at a café close to the airport.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Simon smiled a little as you sat across from him.

“Yeah,” you tell him awkwardly.

“How have you been?”

“Better. From what you saw, I got a husband and my kids,” you tell him, placing your hand on your stomach.

“Have you told Levi that he’s my son?”

“No. And I can wait to tell him when he’s older to understand,” you say. Simon nodded, knowing it would be too much for the poor kid to understand.

“I want to apologize to you.”

“Simon-“

“No. I hurt you. I told you that I would never hurt you and I did. I love you, Y/n. And I’m happy you moved on but I really did love you. I’m so sorry and I’m begging for your forgiveness,” Simon tells you.

“Simon, I forgive you. I can accept on who you are but it just hurt when I watched you fall in love with someone else after everything we’ve been through. I stayed here for you. I wanted to be there for you but it felt like I lost you,” you tell him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay now. I’ve healed and I have a family now who I love,” you tell him.

“You deserve it. You deserve everything good in this world,” Simon tells you. You smiled softly before handing him an address and a phone number.

“That’s our address and my phone number. If you want to visit Levi, you can. He is your son. I’ll let you know when I tell him that your his dad,” you tell him. Simon stared down at the address and phone number before looking at you. You were still beautiful in his eyes and the guilt of letting you slip away began to creep up on him.

“We could’ve had a good family right?”

“Yeah.”

“You were a wonderful experience,” Simon tells you.

“And you were everything,” you tell him before standing up and heading out the door.

[reallyromealone]

May I request an omega verse where kiribaku adopts omega son pls? thank you!

Adoption

Kirishima x Bakugo w/ child male reader

I gotchu, this took longer than expected ngl

Fluff, baby/toddler reader, male reader, alpha Bakugo, alpha kirishima, Omega reader

🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑

Alpha/Alpha couples were more and more common these days, especially in the hero world "a kid?" Kirishima was curious as Bakugo shrugged "a brat would be nice, we have the space and our agency is thriving.." Bakugo said not making eye contact with his mate who looked at him with so much love "it's like you read my mind~" the Alpha said hugging the other who scoffed "whatever shitty hair"

Days turned to weeks and before they knew it they were at an orphanage where a bunch of kids were running around "welcome! The Kirishima-Bakugo family yes?" The orphanage headmaster asked curiously and the two nodded "yeah that's us!" Kirishima said happily and Bakugo grunted "wonderful, sign the sign in forms and if I could please see ID as confirmation?" The two handed over their IDs and the headmaster scanned them "excellent! Why don't I give you two a tour yes? And then you can meet the children?"

The building was nice, up to date and the children were healthy "so what age range are you looking for? Secondary gender?"

"We were hoping to just click with one and go from there" Bakugo let his mate do the talking as kids looked at them curiously "I see, well let's go to the play area and you can interact with the children"

Walking into the play area, kids were all over the place but one caught Bakugos attention, a small pup grabbed his pant leg "oh hello (name)" the headmaster smiled "he's one of the younger ones, only one and a half" they said and fixed the boys pants "he's a happy little Omega but isn't the most talkative but the other kids don't seem to mind" they explain as (name) raised his little arms to be held by Bakugo who lifted him "what ya want squirt?" He asked the babe who grabbed his nose with a smile.

Kirishima noticed the look in his mates eyes, the connection he instantly developed with the tiny pup who didn't even know he had the number three hero around his tiny little finger.

The three spent the day hanging with the little pup who showed him all the toys he liked to play with, having a red riot toy and a Mickey mouse toy seemingly running or robbing a bakery "very cool bud" kirishima said and (name) beamed at this.

The two made visits at any chance they could as the process started for the adoption, expedited thanks to their hero status and rank, the two already setting up a bedroom for the tyke.

"Yeah it's for you" Bakugo said as he handed the tot a scented Dynamite plush, to help get the little one familiar with their scents as parents which thankfully (name) was incredibly receptive to as he clung to both of them regularly.

"Thanks squirt" Bakugo said as they sat with the little one who handed the blond a toy slice of cake, the three gathered at a toy kitchen and (name) didn't seem to know exactly what he was doing but was having fun none the less "his belongings have been packed, he's ready when you guys are" the two heroes looked elated as kirishima lifted his /son/ high up, the tiny Omega squealing in delight at the action.

It was never easy saying goodbye, the headmaster knew this but they put a strong face as they bud their goodbyes to the tiny pup who mimicked the wave as his little head rested on bakugos shoulder.

They were always worried about (name) getting adopted, male omegas weren't the highest for adoptability not to mention the boy hasn't even developed a quirk yet, sadly many parents didn't want a quirkless child...

(Name) held onto the plush of his dad as he was set down in the apartment, the little Omega inspecting things and waddling around and making little sounds as he sniffed his little nose, clearly happy to be around the two alphas scents-- recognizing that they are his dad's. "Wanna see your room?" Kirishima gently took (name)s tiny hand and led him to his new room, (name) made noises as he looked around and turned to his dads who looked at him fondly "yeah it's yours shorty" Bakugo said, a sense of calm washing over him as they watched the babe look around...before dragging a throw blanket to a corner and ditching it.

The two alphas were confused as little (name) took random soft things and put them in the corner and just stared at it before looking at his dad's happily as if he just did something incredible "is that...?" "A nest? I think so" the two were incredibly proud of their pup and snapped a few pictures of this, kirishima on the verge of tears at how precious it was.

(Name) felt like that last piece of the puzzle as followed his dad's around happily.

They just worried how he would handle all his aunt's and uncles.

[xuchiya]

freak [j.wooyoung]

₊˚.༄ || filth valentines m.list || hongjoong || seonghwa || yunho || yeosang || san || mingi || wooyoung || jongho || ₊˚.༄

₊˚.༄ Skirt off, fuck in the backseat Take that shirt off, baby, put it on me ₊˚.༄

Wooyoung knew that you were one of those goody-two shoe students yet he befriended you throughout primary and secondary school and even going through the same university to pursue different courses though he always finds his way to spend lunch with you (even with the conflict schedule). 

Many students or even professors assumed you both were high school sweethearts yet you both denied that you were childhood friends; to Wooyoung’s dismay, he wishes every night on the starry mobile in his room that someday, he would have the courage to ask you out.

  On the very next day, his wish was granted that he find himself confident and overall ready to face you though with a little nervous shaking down his form but he had already made up his mind. Wooyoung slammed his tray onto the table, startling you with the sudden noise. You winced, then teased, "Someone didn't have the best morning lecture, huh?"

He slumped into the chair across from you, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Professor Lee is a tyrant in disguise. Don't get me started on the never-ending case studies."

You chuckled, pushing your own tray closer. "Want a bite of my sandwich? Professor Kim's class wasn't much better." Wooyoung’s smile slowly returned as he stole a bite, one of the many reasons he admires. "Your cooking skills are the only consolation in my day."

The familiar comfort of your shared lunch, a routine that stretched back years, settled around you. Despite your claims of being "just friends," your interactions spoke volumes to bystanders. Stolen glances, comfortable silences, and a genuine interest in each other's lives.

"Why do we always say we're 'just childhood friends,'" Wooyoung blurted out, his voice suddenly serious. You were taken back. Wooyoung was never the person to question something that doesn’t need to be questioned unless he finds suspicion on it but questioning your friendship is something out of the list you were NOT expecting at all.

You froze, the half-eaten sandwich forgotten in your hand. "Well, it's... true, isn't it?"

Wooyoung studied your face, his gaze intense; his heart were everywhere as his eyes gaze at your almost shaking and teary eyes,"Is it, though? We've been through everything together, from scraped knees in kindergarten to late-night study sessions pulling our hair out."

His words echoed in your heart, stirring a pot of unspoken emotions. You felt the warmth creep up your cheeks, and you mumbled looking down on your try playing with your food as you settled the sandwich down, "I don't know, Wooyoung."

He leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper, "Maybe it's time we found out."

Your breath hitched, head raising as your eyes returned back to his warmth tone, his eyes were something you have always found solace. The air crackled with unspoken feelings. It was then you realised Wooyoung wasn't just frustrated about Professor Lee's class anymore. 

He was nervous, making his move.

A small smile played on your lips, "Alright," you finally said, "What do you have in mind?"

Wooyoung grinned, his eyes sparkling. "How about dinner? a real date. My treat."

Your heart soared. "I'd like that, Wooyoung."

And after years of university, graduating with flying colours you both were still on the hard ground of your relationship; people found out about your new level and everyone pointed at you all with ‘see!’ and even your professors (Mr. Lee and Mr. Kim) seemed to be pleased to hear you both together. But amidst the chaos, the foundation you'd built throughout your childhood and university days held strong. You celebrated small victories, commiserate over setbacks, and found solace in each other's unwavering support.

Then, came the turning point. Your new job brought you face-to-face with San and Mingi, two vibrant colleagues who quickly became your friends and confidantes though San worked as a paediatrician under the same company.

Your company consists of engineering, information technology and doctors. Two big buildings under the same company. That's why you and San were able to meet up since the cafeteria is big enough for all the employees of the company.

 Work transformed from a daily grind to a place of shared laughter and late-night brainstorming sessions fueled by take-out and caffeine.

Wooyoung, with his ever-supportive nature, was thrilled to see you blossoming in your new environment. He, too, found his groove at his own workplace, forging bonds with his coworkers. Yunho and Jongho, coincidentally one of them happens to be your half-brother who has been working in the engineering department.

As the night draws closer, you clock out with two of your friends and San decides to drag you both to a booth to drink. At first you decline the idea but San insists that a couple of drinks will help ease the tension and pressure from the three of you since our boss gave a bloody project to your department; at the end Mingi also agrees and gives you his usual begging eyes.

 “Fine but I’ll call my Wooyoung …” They cheered, looking for a table while you stayed outside to call your boyfriend. You told him about San and Mingi wanting a drink since the next days will be hell for the three of you and wanted to rewind a little bit.

Wooyoung nodded and wanted you to have fun which made you sigh in relief. You returned back inside to see the table already filled with food and drinks, “Took you so long we started without you!” You shake your head at Wooyoung’s patience.

After a few drinks, San received a call from his girlfriend saying where he is and asking for a weird combination of pickles and chocolates. Upon seeing your confused look, Mingi chuckles, “Cravings … it’s quite odd but it satisfies them.” 

Your eyebrows rose, “you seem to know what she was asking.” Mingi shrugs, taking a shot before taking a small bite of the fried shrimp, “Being a father of 2 kids.” San chuckles before dropping the call, “Her cravings get weirder and weirder everyday yet it feels amazing to see her growing well.”

“Is this how your wife normally craves or does she have other cravings you find odd, Mingi?” San took a shot before taking a huge bite of his food. Mingi hummed, thinking about his wife’s top cravings, “well when we had our daughter, she asked me to buy potato chips and peanut butter.” 

San laughs, shaking his head, “How long did it take?” Mingi shrugs, not really keeping up with his wife’s cravings, “I haven’t taken note about it.” You hummed thinking about your aunt who gave birth to his fourth baby, and you being the only one having long patience with her when it comes to her mood swings would not ask about her weird combinations of her cravings. “they said it usually ends around the third trimester.”  

San and Mingi looked at you, you stared back confused, “What?”

Mingi observes you before asking you the question, “Were you also …?” You gasp, smacking his arm playfully which sent them laughing, Mingi throwing his hands up in defence, “I just thought okay? I’m sorry” 

 “No, I mean not yet and besides Wooyoung and I had talked about it and maybe soon we will after marriage.”

San nodded in agreement, “But you guys have spice things up?” Mingi choked on his food, causing him to cough and turn around. Your cheeks flared in so many colours that it had you grabbing another bottle and pressing it to your heated up face, “Sa-San do not say those.”

San scoff, unable to believe to see your ‘unusual side’, he may be your friend in just a few years (unlike Woo) but he has seen the other side of you, your freaky side. So does Mingi; that’s why you three got along well. You three somehow spilled such filthy thoughts one time when you were over at San and how he got his girlfriend to be his or how Mingi had praised so much that you guys teased him for being a sub and soft  for his wife. 

Wooyoung may be someone you know for the longest time but sharing the ‘freak side’ as to what the boys call it, is something beyond your comfort. 

But who knows what Wooyoung prefers, right? Both you and Wooyoung had done it a lot of times. Vanilla sex or the first time he fucks on your twentieth-third birthday just right after everyone left , rough when he has been pent up from work and needed release or even going to the extent of him having you on his lap, facing the open field and fuck you on the viranda of your home and having him spreading your legs open as you squirt out on the open.

So tell yourself now how come you haven’t opened up to Wooyoung about it?

After a few more shots, the boys called it a night and went on their separate ways while you waited for Wooyoung to pick you up whilst having your mind drifted not only to your nasty but the thought of having a baby with you.

“Baby? You okay?” You yelp in surprise when a hand is placed on your shoulders scaring you out of your thoughts. Your eyes landed on Wooyung who had a worried face, “Wooyoungie –sorry my love, I’m a little .. preoccupied with work.” You sigh, miniscule yet noticeable from your boyfriend’s eyes. Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, the perks of knowing you and your body language; he knows what is up and he knows what to do.

“Come on, maybe you had too much to drink.” Maybe it is or maybe it’s the way Wooyoung led you to the car, hand hovering close to your ass that you knew he knows whats up.

“Ah-h f-fuck Wooyoung— UGH!” He had one hand on the steering wheel whilst the other buried knuckles deep inside your pussy. The seat was inclined, giving him the chance to move his hand freely which sends you rolling your eyes back.

Wooyoung chuckles, looking at the side before poking his tongue on his cheeks, “Will you tell me now why you were so “deep” on your thoughts, baby?” His hands move in a ‘come here’ slow motion, nudging that spongy spot immediately’ squirming and moaning breathlessly on your seat had you gripping his wrist as you grind shamelessly.

Woooyoung laughs looking to the side again to catch sight of a biker glancing at your side of the seat. He had notice the eyes prying but he loves the attention most especially showing off that HE can only do that to you, fuck you so good on the seat of his car and had you moaning mess underneath his fingers.

“N-nothing .. much love— Fuck fuck love I’m gonna cum!” Your breath hitches as Wooyoung let you cum on his fingers, the relief of releasing your high and riding it off had you breathing heavily on your seat, muscles relaxed and the car moving in go.

“That’s a good girl.” His hand grip your panty, guiding you to remove it before getting a small whiff of your essence before accelerating to home.

The car squeak, windows so foggy from the hot temperature of your heated body to body and legs spread open, thrown over each of the seat as Wooyoung who no longer had the patiences as his fingers glide on his tongue, tasting your essence and groaning from how sweet and salty it combines in his taste buds that sent him in feral state, parked on a motel and wasn’t able to book in and took you there on the back seat.

Skirt off and dick deep in.

Your eyes rolled back as you bit your lip, a playful smirk on your as your body rocks along with Wooyoung. Your hands were resting on your boobs, feeling them jiggle as Wooyoung continued drilling his cock, hitting each of your walls, reaching far down what his tip could go. His hands were gripping on the head seat as his hips snapped, burying you his cock deeper and deeper and even nudging his tip on your spongy spot that had you vocalising as your coil snaps and long ‘oh’s of your juice leaks out of your pussy.

“Fuck me harder Wooyoung, just like that~” His hand grip the back of your knees, pushing it close to your chest, “Make me squirt baby~ let me get that dick wet.” Your dirty tongue rolled off and made Wooyoung grip your legs tighter before slapping your clit causing you to whimper “Again baby please please!”

Wooyoung repeatedly slap your clip then rubs them, “Is this what you like, you freaky little girl? Is this what is in your mind, huh?” You chuckle your tongue gliding across your teeth, “More than this, I want you to ram me harder, make me wet and milk you dry. Have my pussy dripping with your cum as I finger myself in the open.” 

“Fuck fuck keep clenching me baby, I like how you hold me so tight when I’m inside your pretty pussy of yours!” His hips move deliberately; his cock wets around your velvet walls. Your hands run up to his arms to his shoulders before cupping his cheeks, “I love you.”

Wooyoung’s pace never faltered but had his head dipping to meet your lips, pulling away to look you in the eye. “I love you more and ever.” His pace soon picks up, shaking the whole car once again before lowering himself further; hand now pressing on the fogged window, printing his hand as he pulls you closer to him as he spurted his seeds inside you. His hips halted, a long groan met your ears as you felt him twitch inside you as he emptied himself inside your womb. He pulled out seeing your pussy clenching as dose after dose of his cum pumps out of your hole.

He moves to open the car door, a smirk on his lips, “Then do what you wanted, you freaky girl. Show them my cum on your pussy, make yourself a mess."

 

 You entered the cafeteria with a radiating smile and good news in hand, you saw your two friends on the table. You flop down beside Mingi, smile still radiant, “So …”

The two glance at one another before looking at you, “So?”

“I’m pregnant!” You whispered yell. Your friends eyes widen, their utensils made a loud clunk noise as they ushered you to continue, you smile, “I told him about what was on my mind that time and he voice it out too that he had seen some of his co-workers having a family even way being married so .. yeah you guys gonna be uncle soon.” 

San and Mingi cooed congratulating you before moving on to where to celebrate your pregnancy to which San leaned into your ear, “So was the car sex amazing that it got you pregnant?”