#cross posted to AO3

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 1

Words: 2.7k Warning: Implied injury - stubborn, suspicious Wolffe - Bit of fluff Pronouns Use: She/Her - (Y/N)

Everything seemed normal enough when (Y/N) arrived at the temporary military base the 104th and Master Plo had set up. The command center had the perfect tactical advantage, a view of the battlefield, but at a safe distance, it couldn't be easily attacked. A perimeter had been set up, with an airfield, ensuring all those coming and going would be safe. Next to the commander center were the barracks, mess hall, medbay, and weapons depo, all perfectly organized. 

Plo had met (Y/N) at her designated landing bay; he greeted his former padawan in a similar manner to his warm greeting to Ahsoka. Full of care, fatherly and warm. His words to follow the same and filled with gentleness and wise advice. Almost as if he knew there would be an instant coldness between his former Padawan and his trusted Commander. After all, Wolffe had made his destain almost hatred for the Children of Dathomir plain, and (Y/N) would be the first Night Sister he would truly be dealing with since Ventress had taken his eye. 

The hours after her arrival hadn't been much trouble either. Wolffe hadn't been seen, normally preoccupied with other tasks that come with being Commander. On the other hand, the other troopers had greeted her with friendliness and curiosity. Boost, Comet, and Sinket had been the first three to approach, neither of them being afraid to voice their questions or try their hand at flirting. One by one, others came by with a hello and the intention of introducing themselves; neither one acted like she was any different from the other Jedi they worked with. Instead, the one to point out her obvious Dathomirian features was the Civvi Medic assigned to the 104th; the other Wolffe seemed to avoid like the plague or growled if they had to interact. Although to be fair, the petite woman did seem to avoid the commander just as much, normally shaking with fear and likely unspoken judgment when attending to him. 

When the afternoon was slowly turning to dusk, (Y/N) left the safety of the perimeter, hoping to find a quiet area nearby to meditate; being extremely attuned to the force, the unheard voices were loud in the base, as were the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. (Y/N) clumsiness had led her to discover the unstable ground, leading to cave chasms that went down for miles; the darkness seemed to swallow everything that fell down it, even the glow sticks meant to offer light.

Making a mental note of the undesirable drop and likely death trap hidden within the endless shadows (Y/N) found a flat rocky surface to sit upon; there, she shifted until she was comfortable and began to meditate or attempt it. Within minutes of finding peaceful mindfulness, she had sensed another heading her way, navigating the minefield of unstable ground and dropping to uncertainty. Upon realizing the approaching intruder wasn't someone she recognized, she instinctively reached for her lightsabers, prepared to defend herself if needed, although she had hoped it wouldn't get that far. 

As if sensing something was off, (Y/N) opened her eyes, surveying the area in her proximity, although she did not see anything out of the ordinary. The rocks from the nearby cliff rushed down the drop from the wind left behind by the passing ships; the land around seemed to stretch for miles, and the droid army seemed to be struggling to rebuild their own commander center far into the distance. A planned surprise attack was unlikely to be on their agenda just yet.

"Careful, the ground ..." started (Y/N), finally seeing who the intruder was. Commander Wolffe. His low growls had cut off her line of thought and subsequent words. His stiff shoulders and crossed arms over his chest made it clear he wasn't in the mood to converse with her. Although it was rather obvious, he followed her. The question was whether that was entirely out of concern, suspicion, or something else. 

"You left the base," he stated, his voice direct and to the point, although void of all emotion, matching his cold demeanor.

"Well noticed," (Y/N) replied, failing to stop the sarcasm before it could fall from her lips. Although she held back the chuckle that threatened to follow it upon sensing the eye roll, Wolffe sent her from beneath his modified helmet. 

"Why?" asked the commander, although frustration and annoyance rang through his voice this time, once again suggesting he'd literally rather be anywhere but in her presence. 

"To meditate," she commented, returning the annoyance and frustration presented to her, although the Jedi Knight at least tried to keep a neutral expression, even in the face of judgment and unwarranted hostility. "I'm not fretting with the enemy, Commander. I just needed quiet; the emotions and voices can be overwhelming." 

"That's what your quarters are for," he uttered in a quick response, drawing an eye roll from (Y/N) as she climbed down from her position on the flat lump of rocks. Refusing to utter another word, she began to walk away from the Commander, further away from the base, hoping to find another quiet place to continue her meditation. A sigh quickly escaped her upon sensing Wolffe was once again following her, although this time only a few feet behind.  

"Woah!" yelled Wolffe upon the ground, cracking and giving away like thin ice the moment he stomped on it. He expected to fall helpless into the darkness, but instead, he'd stopped in mid-air, just dangling. The force someone was using the force to prevent him from falling to certain doom. Immediately, Wolffe presumed it was General Plo, the ever-caring fatherly figure. Confusion took over when Wolffe looked up to see (Y/N) trying her hardest to use her power to bring him to safety, a concentrated look painted on her features, determination mixed in. "It's cracking," called the Commander upon noticing the ground beneath her about to give way. 

But by the time his words reached her, both of them were falling. All Wolffe could do was flay his limps and yell out as the darkness swallowed him. He hit several rocks and other hard surfaces on the way down before the fall ended with a loud, wet splash into the freezing waters of an underground lake. He soon climbed out of the water, resting on the rocky bank, looking up with the hope of seeing daylight, only to be met with the unyielding darkness that seemed to go on forever. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he began to assess the damage to his armor. The chest plate had been cracked, and a shoulder and forearm plate shattered to the point of being unless. 

Just as he was about to continue, his attention was drawn to the lightsaber lying by the rocks of the bank close by. The hilt was mainly black with silver decoration; it appeared damaged and stained with something. Just as Wolffe was about to question who it belonged to, his heart sank upon recalling the ground cracking. 

"Nightsister," called Wolffe, a prang of guilt flooding him as he regretted his refusal to learn her name. "Nightsister," he called again, pushing the fear away when no answer came. However, that sudden wave of fear grew upon noticing the lightsaber hilt was stained with blood. The realization hit him: she was injured and had been by selflessly trying to save him from the fall. Ignoring his own pain and obvious injuries, Wolffe got to wobbly feet and slowly began to shuffle forward across the bank in the hopes of seeing the Jedi who'd tried to prevent his fall. 

He hoped she was ignoring him; after all, he'd ignore someone calling him if they treated him as he'd done with her, but the more he searched, the more he called out Nightsister in an attempt to locate her. The feeling of dread gripped him. What if she wasn't ignoring him? Could she be injured? Was she even in the same part of the cave as him? Did she even fall down the chasm in the first place? 

"She's not in the cave with you, Wolffe," muttered Wolffe, his voice as cold as the lake he'd landed in. As he began to shiver, about to give up, the commander noticed something. A trail of blood, it was fresh; someone had landed there and was trying to hide, injured. "Nightsister," called Wolffe again, this time softer than before, quieter as if trying to convey he wasn't a threat despite his previous demeanor and actions. "I'm not going to hurt you," he called, realizing if she was injured, she likely believed whomever she was trapped with was trying to harm her. He'd been the same after Ventures had slashed out his eye. Even General Plo was considered an enemy in his mind. Anyone with a lightsaber had been for a short time. 

"Wolffe," came a quiet voice, no louder than a whisper. But in the quietness of the cave, it was loud enough for the Commander to hear to locate her. Hearing his name fall from her lips only made his guilt grow. She knew his name and took the time to learn it instead of calling him by his identification number or his rank of Commander. And he'd refused to learn anything about her after learning she was a Child of Dathomir. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice heavy with deep breaths filled with pain; she was hurt but refused to admit it. 

"Not as bad as you, Ca'tra," answered Wolffe, grimacing as he moved to sit beside her, holding her lightsaber out as if to return it. Slowly, he surveyed the extent of her injuries, almost horrified. Several joints had been dislocated, a large gash stretched across her side, and a nasty laceration now adorned the side of her head. There was little doubt she'd suffered broken bones as well. 

"Sorry about your landing," (Y/N) whispered. "It was either that or impaled on the rock spires," she added, lifting a shaky hand to point in the general direction of the spires in question. "There's a small med kit in my pack," she instructed, being thankful she'd been wise enough to have a pack ready for emergencies. Inside was a medical kit, water, ration bars, glow sticks, other forms of light, and another communicator in case the one attached to her arm was damaged. 

"Stay awake, Ca'tra," voiced Wolffe, softness beginning to take over, as was the worry and concern. In the minutes since finding her, her eyes had glazed over, and she was slowly losing consciousness. "Talk to me," he added, reaching for the pack and its scattered contents, a renewed sense of determination. She saved him twice in a matter of minutes, with little regard for her own safety or well-being. She suffered because of it. He had to repay the debt he felt he owed her. 

"Ca'tra," (Y/N) tiredly responded, confusion just about present through the pain. "What does it mean?" she asked, looking to Wolffe with glazed-over eyes, a grimace quickly flashing across her features upon pain tormenting her further. 

"Night sky," admitted Wolffe, deeming it be better to call her that than Nightsister. Especially now when he was beginning to wonder if calling her by Nightsister was offensive in some way. "I don't know your name," he added, shame washing through his whispered voice. Swearing under his breath when he dropped the contents of the medkit, his hands shaking so much from the cold. In his rushed attempt to collect all the items, he hadn't noticed (Y/N) reach for the stem cell injections. Although she did hold out the bacta gel 

"(Y/N)," she spoke in response, not arguing when the call of sleep as it became too persistent to fight, too strong to ignore. She hadn't been given the chance to say she liked the small nickname. The small kindness meant something to her, even if it didn't mean anything to Wolffe. 

"(Y/N), wake up," called Wolffe upon grabbing her shoulders to shake her. The shakes had been little more than light nudges, hoping to prevent her from falling asleep, but gotten rougher upon the Commander realizing she'd already fallen for the lure of the peaceful oblivion. "You're not getting away from me that easy, Ca'tra," he added, remembering he had the bacta gel. Upon applying a generous amount to her wounds, he turned his attention to his own and his previous task of assessing the damage to his armor. 

"Little (Y/N), Commander Wolffe," spoke the wise and welcome voice of Master Plo, concern flooding his otherwise fatherly voice. Wolffe quickly grabbed (Y/N)'s arm, puzzled by how the small communications device was still intact, let alone working. "(Y/N), Wolffe, can either of you hear me?" asked Plo, his voice fuzzy now, as if he'd moved away from the area. 

"I read you, General," spoke Wolffe, relief ringing in his own voice, mixing with his concern and pain. 

"Are you okay? Is (Y/N) with you?" questioned Plo, likely already realizing the ground had given way. Although where was the question? Once again, Wolffe focused on looking up, hoping to see some sort of light that would say how far down they were, whether from the sky so far above them or the light of a rescue ship. But again, was greeted with nothing but empty darkness. 

"We're both pretty banged up; I would have been worse off if she hadn't pushed me out the way," admitted the Commander, thankful for her selflessness but still feeling guilty. Even more so upon the realization hitting him, she'd put herself in far more danger by forcing him away from the spires and towards the freezing lake. "She's currently unconscious and needs immediate medical attention," he added with haste, once again reaching to gently shake her with the hopes she'd wake up, again being met with no response. 

"Keep the communicator on; we'll use it to track your position," stated Plo, the authority now ringing in his voice, likely to mask the growing concern and worry for his commander and former padawan. 

"Come on, Ca'tra, wake up. Help is coming," started Wolffe, finally removing his helmet and allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the glow sticks. Finally, he noticed his visor had been broken during the fall and a gash towards the bottom of the scraped helmet. "Why did you save me? Why would you risk your own life like that? I'm just a clone; only my brothers and General Plo would care if something happened to me," he mumbled, not hearing the ow to escape (Y/N)'s lips or even notice she'd barely regained consciousness. 

"Wrong. I care," she whispered with a broken voice, startling the Commander trapped with her. 

"But ... but I was cold to you ... harsh ... unfair," stammered Wolffe as he attempted to put his scrambled thoughts into words and overcome the shock; not only had she heard his words but answered with the last thing he'd expected to hear. She cared despite everything. 

"I know," replied (Y/N), trying her hardest to show her understanding. "I understand why you were quick to judge me. Fear can be cruel even to the toughest of men. I do not blame you for it. No one does. That was your way of dealing with the trauma, to ensure it wouldn't happen again," she replied, recalling her similar response to trauma as a child. She'd been incorporated into the order the same year Anakin Skywalker had joined the Jedi. She was ignored and judged with fear because of something she had no control over. 

She'd lost everything, and just when she had settled into what would be her new life. Things had gotten worse; someone had taken her from the temple and hurt her. Someone she should have been able to trust. Her rescuers had been far kinder. A pair of renowned bounty hunters, Cad Bane and Jango Fett. They saw her as the scared and broken child she was rather than the threat she'd been treated as. 

"I lost trust in the council a long time ago. Blamed myself for what happened," she breathed in response; a pained chuckle escaped her lips upon seeing the confusion written across Wolffe's bruised features. "If it wasn't for the efforts of Master Plo and a few others. I likely wouldn't be civil with the majority of them," admitted (Y/N), although refusing to relive what happened all those years ago by talking about it. Not that she could. Chancellor Palpatine had locked all files about the incident and her life before the Jedi. Reasoning it was for her own safety and to prevent what happened repeating again. 

Series Masterlist

[cryptidtyping]

Daddy's Kitten

Diavolo x afab!reader | 3.9k words

18+ only! Minors do NOT interact!

Written as part of @mikage-rehoe 's "Yes, Daddy" collab. Check out the other entries here!

Summary: Diavolo asks you to come to the castle to help him with something. What could it be, you wonder?

No gendered pronouns or terms are used for reader, and little to no descriptions of their body (beyond the genitals, lol). Also, Y/N is not used, Reader's name is indicated by ____. This is my first time writing smut, so please tell me what you think!

Tags/Warnings: Daddy kink, light pet play, established relationship, collaring, dom/sub dynamics, multiple rounds, vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, reader gets called kitten/kitty, non-consensual voyeurism, color informed consent (Dia checks in on Reader a few times), hints of aftercare, jealous lucifer, lucifer gets no bitches, two people in love fucking sloppy-style

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I require your help, darling. Please come to the castle at your earliest convenience. 

It was the weekend, so you were just lounging in your room as you scrolled on devilgram. Upon seeing your boyfriends’ text, you knew there were only a few occasions he’d require your help for- 

1) He was overwhelmed with paperwork. 

2) He was horny.

3) He missed you.

4) All the above

Replying that you’d be on your way soon, you roll out of bed and slip into some lacy lingerie that Diavolo had bought you recently. Overtop was a cute red dress that fell just above your knees, and a dab of perfume (both also bought courtesy of your lover). Deeming yourself ready, you grab your bag and head out the door. 

“____?” Called a voice that made you grimace, not that he could see it. “You look… nice. Are you heading somewhere?” 

Smoothing your expression before turning around, you reply neutrally. “Yes. Dia has invited me over.”

“I see.” Lucifer’s voice is a bit clipped at your response. The two of you had had a series of arguments over the last several weeks, ranging from ‘sub-par’ grades (you’d slipped from the number 6 spot in class to number 10 after the teachers decided to start grading you more harshly. Still, that was 10th place out of hundreds of students!) to how you referred to Diavolo ‘too informally’. 

The same Diavolo who you were dating. What, you couldn’t give your own damn boyfriend pet names? 

Lucifer had yet to apologize or explain what had crawled up his ass and died, and you were frankly tired of the shitty attitude he’d adopted after your relationship with the Prince became publicly official. (You and Diavolo had been seeing each other privately for a few months before being comfortable about being public with your relationship.) 

As the silence between you and Lucifer stretched on, you sighed in frustration. “Did you need something, Lucifer, or can I go meet my boyfriend?”

The dark-haired demon furrowed his brows in annoyance, growling out “No.”

“Excellent. I will be home either tonight or tomorrow, I’ll text the group chat once I know for sure.” Just as you opened the door, Lucifer called to you again. 

“Would you-“ there was something in ruby eyes that you didn’t want to give a name to. He coughs into a gloved fist. “I mean, may I escort you to the castle?” 

An olive branch. 

Again. 

How many had Lucifer given out, only to nitpick and neg you later? The man was exhausting, and not in a fun way. 

“No,” you snip coldly, unable to stop your glare. Without giving him the chance to respond, you slam the door shut. 

In the empty entrance hall, the Avatar of Pride gave a gusty sigh as he dragged a hand down his face. What was he supposed to do?

X

“Hello, my dear,” Diavolo greets you once you enter his office, rising to give you a kiss and run his large hands down your torso. Barbatos quietly closed the door, promising to return with some tea and cookies. “You look lovely.”

You lean into his warm embrace, kissing him again. “Thank you, Dia. What do you need help with?”

Golden eyes get darker, a smirk playing about handsome features. “Now, now, kitten, that’s not my name.”

A spark of excitement bloomed in your core, lust beginning to course through you. “I’m sorry, daddy,” you purr, running a hand through his auburn locks. “What can I do for you?”

“Good pet,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss below your ear, causing you to shiver. Thick fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress. “For now, I just require your company while I finish up some paperwork.” 

“Yes, daddy,” you press a kiss to his neck in return, delighting in the shiver it caused. Diavolo gives a playful swat to your ass, making you gasp, before he sits back down behind his desk. At his feet was a familiar plush red velvet pillow with gold tassels. Without hesitation, you slip off your shoes, place them neatly out of the way, and kneel beside him, knees cushioned by the undoubtedly expensive ‘cat bed’. 

You send a quick message to the HoL group chat that you were with Diavolo and would see them tomorrow. Then you turn your DDD off and tuck it back into your bag, excited to spend the night with the prince, uninterrupted by the needy brothers. 

A few quiet minutes pass by, with you resting your head on Diavolos’ knee and his hand petting your hair, the scratch of his pen filling the air. Barbatos comes and goes with a tea service, barely sparing your kneeling form a glance. After a moment, the prince speaks again. “I have a gift for you, pet.”

You look up at him with big eyes, head floaty- kneeling at your lovers feet so obediently always got you quickly into sub-space. “Thank you, daddy.” You murmur, rubbing your cheek on his knee in affection. “You’re always spoiling me.”

Diavolos answering chuckle is warm and husky, and you squirm a bit on your pillow as it sent heat to your core. You could feel slick seeping into your lace panties as you got more and more excited. 

“You’re so easy to spoil, my love,” he coos, patting his lap and pulling out a box. Following his wordless command, you crawl into his lap, facing him. What’s revealed to be inside the box makes you gasp. 

“Oh, my!” Inside was a fine red leather collar, the inside padded with plush black velvet. The leather was studded with rubies and diamonds, with gold hardware and a large golden bell. Attached was a metal nametag, one side engraved with Daddy’s Kitten, the other containing Diavolos’ contact information. You wiggled in excitement, lightly grinding against your lover. “It’s beautiful!” 

Diavolo pulls you into another kiss, deeper than the previous ones. It was full of heat and hunger, one of his large, tan hands encasing the back of your head while the other guided your hips to grind against his bulge. You moan into his mouth, looping your arms around his thick neck. A whine escapes you, unbidden, when he pulls away. 

Chuckling, he wiped a bit of spit off your lower lip. “My pretty kitty deserves a pretty collar, don’t they? Stand up and turn around for me, darling, let me see how it looks on you.”

“Yes, daddy,” you obey, slipping off his lap and turning, your skirt swishing teasingly about your thighs. Diavolos’ hands are careful as he slips the leather around your neck and secures it. 

“How does it feel?” He murmurs in your ear, flicking the bell so it jingles merrily. “Too tight, too loose?”

“Don’t know,” you reply coyly, glancing seductively over your shoulder. “Could you give it a few tugs, please?”

A groan rumbles through the prince’s broad chest. “Always so polite for me, hmm?” One of his fingers slips through the metal loop, giving a few pulls of varying strength, making your knees weak. “So, darling, how is it?”

“It’s perfect.” Your voice is breathless, but you are unable to catch your breath as you are suddenly bent over his desk with your dress flipped up to show your ass. 

Another appreciative groan leaves your lover as he takes in the red and gold lingerie he had bought you last week, smacking an ass cheek to watch the skin jiggle. He leans over your back, grinding his clothed erection against your soaked panties. “You’re perfect. Always so fucking pretty and perfect for daddy.”

You moan as he slaps your ass again, pushing your hips back against him. “Ngh, daddy, please!”

“Please what, kitten? What do you need?”

“Need you inside me, please daddy please-“ 

Diavolo tuts in faux disappointment. Your logical mind, which was quickly fleeing, knew he wasn’t being serious, but your sub-space addled brain hated disappointing your daddy. “But I still need to finish my work, can kitten be patient?” All the while, he still slowly ground against you. 

“Yes, yes, I can wait,” you pant, still bouncing your ass back on his cock even as you promised patience. “Anything for daddy.”

“Such a good kitty,” Diavolo coos. “What’s your color?”

“Green.” You respond immediately. 

Diavolo whispers you more praises as he settles you back on his lap. “Stay still, okay? Don’t distract daddy while he finishes up and he’ll get you a pretty new leash to match your collar.” Little did you know he already had the matching leash, stashed in the drawer of his bedside table. He was hoping to use it later tonight. 

“Yes, daddy, thank you!” You exclaim happily, pressing close to his chest. A warm hand rubs up and down your back, your prince working to finish quickly so he could play with you all night- or as long as you could last. 

Diavolo could feel your pussy lips throbbing on his dick through the fabric of his trousers, slowly driving him insane. That, accompanied by your sweet smell and how eagerly you wore the low-necked dress he got you, how sweetly you called his title, how easily you followed his commands- it was a miracle he managed to finish his work tonight. (Or ever, with you around.)

Thankfully, the prince possessed an iron will (that always turned into something softer with you). 

He doesn’t bother filing away the completed papers, just pushing them to the side of his desk space to place you in the middle like a beloved prize. He looked at you then, with your cheeks flushed and eyes dark with want, hair mussed up and the low neckline of your dress giving a teasing glimpse of your chest. 

You were regarding him much the same way, seeing his eyes shadowed with lust and cheeks tinted pink with excitement, broad chest heaving in his dress shirt as he looked at you. Your eyes travel down his body to the prominent bulge straining against his zipper. Looking back at his eyes, you open your mouth to start begging. You needed his touch on your skin, needed his lips on your mouth, needed his thick cock stuffed in your wet cunt and you needed him now. “Daddy, please- “

Diavolo surges forward, capturing you in a fierce kiss and making you moan. Your arms and legs are around him in an instant, pulling him impossibly closer. One of his hands slips into your panties, coating his fingers in your slick before inserting two into your entrance, immediately finding and rubbing your g-spot. 

You pull from the kiss with a “Fuuuuuuck~”, exposing the column of your neck as you toss your head back, sending your collar jingling. The demon prince immediately begins sucking and biting his way down, hickeys blooming in his wake. Between each one, he moans praises and questions against your skin. 

“Such a good kitten for me, always wearing what daddy buys. Do you like being pampered? Do you like everyone knowing who owns you?”

“Yes!” You squeal as he adds another finger to your pussy and thumbs at your clit in messy circles, bucking your hips into his hand. Wet squelching begins to fill the office as you drip onto the expensive desk. “Love when daddy buys me pretty clothes, love when others know they can never have daddy, love being owned by daddy, love being good for daddy-“

Your first orgasm crashes over you suddenly, pulsing through you in waves as you wail. The fingers inside you slow down, but don’t stop, making you squirm. 

“So good, so pretty,” Diavolo pants, golden eyes flickering between the way your cunt sucked his fingers in and the blissed-out expression on your face. “Color, kitten? Want to keep going?”

“Greengreen green,” you chant desperately. “Daddy, please, ‘m so wet, need your cock, please gimme your cock, please-“

Tan lips on yours interrupt your begging as the fingers are pulled out of you and leave you feeling empty. You clutch Diavolos black shirt with shaking fingers, pulling at the fabric insistently. You wanted, needed more of him, as much of him as he could give. 

“You sound so good begging daddy,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’d give you the three realms on a platter if it’d make you smile, my love. Now strip out of that dress, okay?”

You do so with haste, pulling it off and casting it aside. Your lover matches your speed in shucking off his own clothes, his impressive cock bobbing proudly between his legs as beads of precum dribble down the shaft. 

Laying back on the desk, you bring your knees to your shoulders and spread your legs. The thin strap of lace that covered you was shiny with slick, the matching bralette doing little to hide your pebbled nipples. “How’s this, daddy?”

“Fuck,” Diavolo swears, wanting to capture this image and hang it in his throne room, if only to show others what they could never have. Large hands push your thighs further apart. His cock jumps in interest. “I’m gonna fuck this sweet cunt raw-“

“Please,” you whine, pouting up at him with kiss-swollen lips. 

“For you, anything.”  Your panties are slipped to the side as he rubs his member between your lower lips, collecting your juices before the fat head slipped into your entrance. 

His moan rumbled through you as he slid all the way to the base in one go. It took you only seconds to adjust to the pleasurable stretch, which is fortunate as that’s all you were given. Diavolo fucked you as though it were both the first and last time he’d ever be able to, reaching deep inside you with every fast, rough thrust. 

You loved it. You loved him. 

“Love you, love you, love you,” you babble, drunk on his cock, fingers clawing at his shoulders in bliss. 

“Yeah?” He placed your legs over his shoulders, reaching deeper into you. His voice was gravelly and deep as he praised how well you took his cock, how wet your pussy was, how much your scratches stung, how loud you moaned his title and your adoration. His fingers quickly find your clit again, rubbing it in tight circles. “Want me t’cum in your pussy? Want me t’cum nice and deep inside?”

“Yesyesyes,” you wail as the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. “Cum in me, cum with me-“

The knot snapped for you both, your heels beating pitifully against his muscles back as Diavolo spilled inside. You arch fruitlessly beneath him, moving your hips against his as much as you could to tide out your orgasm. He leans down to kiss your panting mouth, trailing kisses down your neck and allowing your legs to go relax down against the desk. For a few moments, the two of you lay there in the glory of sweaty bodies and euphoria, the air filled only with panting breaths and kisses and the faint jingling of your bell. 

Diavolo waits patiently for you to either give the go ahead, or ask to stop- if you took too long, he’d ask your color again. In the meanwhile, he was content to nip at your skin and trace his hands over your chest. 

You break the silence after you’ve caught your breath.

“… Again.” You look at your lover, your prince, your Diavolo with bright eyes and a flushed complexion. Sitting up, you caress his sharp jaw and trail kisses up it, before biting just below his ear. “Please, daddy.” You whisper as he shudders and groans above you, cock perking up inside you with interest. “Please daddy, I can’t get enough of you.”

“You’re perfect,” he repeats against your neck, breathless. Slowly drawing back from you, he pulls out and watches with lust-blown pupils as his seed dropped out of your cunt, making you whine at the loss. “None of that now, kitten. Bend over for me.”

The look on your face could only be described as lovesick, body moving on its own to obey. “Yes, daddy.”

X

Lucifer looked again through his files for the data sheet showing the current budget, needing it to approve or reject various club proposals for equipment or field trips. Unfortunately, all his rifling and ruffling was for naught, and the paper remained unfound. Sighing, he leans back in his leather chair and contemplated whether or not he should go to the castle tonight to retrieve the paper that was undoubtedly hidden somewhere in Diavolo’s office.

On one hand, these proposals were the last thing he needed to get done, then he could spend tomorrow listening to his records, or playing piano, or perhaps catching up on some sleep. On the other hand, he had no desire to see you and the prince… canoodling.  

Neither you nor Diavolo were shy about public affection, with you unbearably happy to cling to Diavolo’s arm or hand or press a kiss or two to each other’s skin, laughing together about in-jokes. Lucifer hated it, hated that he waited too long in-

Never mind.

He deserved a day off tomorrow. He was getting that data sheet.

X

You were absolutely dizzy with pleasure, face pressed against lacquered mahogany as Diavolo pounded into you. A myriad of moans and whines left your mouth, accompanied by the squelching of his cock in your fucked-out pussy. Your nth orgasm ripped through you, strangled moan muffled by the wood. Diavolo groaned behind you, eyes focused on how your little hole kept swallowing him, how your ass jiggled with each thrust.

“Fuckin’ love this ass,” he growls, punctuating his words with a slap to your rear. “Fuckin’ love this pussy, always takin’ me so-“ SLAP “-fuckin’-“ SLAP “-well. Can you cum for me one more time? What’s-“

“Green!” you manage to gasp out, answering his next question before he could fully voice it. Pleasured tears dripped from your eyes, pooling and mixing with the sweat and drool beneath your face. You jolt when another smack lands on your ass again, Diavolo slowly grinding his hard dick against your warm, wet walls. “Wanna be good for daddy, want him to fill me up! ~”

The world spins as you’re man-handled into a new position. Spread wide open on his lap as he sat back in his chair, back to his chest with his hands leaving bruises on your hips. “You’re so good for me,” Diavolo rumbles in your ear, forcing your hips to move in slow circles on his cock. “Are you ready, my love?”

You’re thankful for the small reprieve he gives you before you nod your head, whispering “please, please, please” as he hooks your knees over muscular forearms, wraps large hands around your waist, and bounces you.

“Fu-u-u-uck,” you moan in staccato, winding your arms around his neck and leaning further into him. The new position made Diavolo’s cock feel even bigger, and the way he had you spread out felt so lewd, as though he were showing you off to someone. The thought had you gushing around him. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please-“

Your babbling was music to Diavolo’s ears as he fucked up into you each time he brought you down. One hand finds your clit yet again, rubbing tight circles on the aching bud. “Who owns this fucking pussy?” He growls, the vibrations from his chest felt throughout your smaller frame. “Who owns you?”

“You do!” you cry, knot again forming quickly in your stomach. Something felt different than the previous ones, though you couldn’t quite get your fucked-out mind to figure out why.

“And who am I, kitten?” he asks, thrusts getting sloppy as he too got close to release, eyes sparing a glance at the cracked door.

“Daddy! My daddy!” your voice cracks and warps around the pleasure, your hips doing their best to fuck down onto the sinful cock inside you. “I’m yours, I’m yours-!”

“Good kitten, good fucking kitten,” he circles his digits faster over your clit. The prince loved the way your eyes crosses, your tongue lolling out of your mouth, your body holding onto him like a vice, how your nails bit into the skin at the nape of his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you breath hotly into his ear, looking up at him in hazy adoration. “I’m gonna cum, fuck, I’m gonna-“

“Cum for me,” Diavolo commands lowly, briefly nipping at your neck. With just a few more circles of his fingers, you climax with a wail of his title. Your cum sprays out of you, covering his desk and going everywhere as the prince chases his own release. With a low bellow, he slams you down on his cock as it throbs and releases his thick cum inside it.

The smell of sex hung heavy in the air, both of you catching your breath. Diavolo murmured praises in your ear, massaging your sides and waiting for you to come back to the world. “How do you feel, darling?” He whispers. “Do you need a break?”

You nod wordlessly, taking a moment to find your words. “I’d like something to eat, please,” you say quietly, nosing at the junction between his jaw and neck. “And a massage?”

“Anything for you,” he responds, pressing a (hilariously) chaste kiss to your forehead. He stands, holding you bridal style, and walks over to the door adjoining his office to his personal chambers. “Let me lie you down and have Barbatos drop off dinner, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, pressing a less-than-chaste kiss to his shoulder. “We should watch a movie, too.”

“Of course,” Diavolo grins down at you, placing you on cool silk sheets. “Just a moment, alright, my love?” After another agreeing hum from you, he walks back into his office, closes the doors, and sits back at his desk.

“You needed something, Lucifer?”

X

Lucifer felt humiliated at having been discovered peeping, but it wasn’t his fault he caught you and Diavolo having sex! (Even though the dark-haired demon is the one who decided it would be a good idea to crash your date, and even though he decided to stand and watch like a filthy pervert instead of leave.) Still, he walked into the office with his head held high and resolutely ignored the erection straining at his zipper, as well as the fact the prince was naked without a care in the world. “I require the budget data sheet.”

Diavolo laughs jovially, searching through the splattered papers that remained on his desk. “Of course, of course. Sorry about that, old friend,” he smiles, but there was something unpleasant about the expression. The auburn-haired demon holds out the sheet in question and narrows his eyes. “Did you see anything you liked?”

Lucifer took the sheet with stiff fingers, ignoring the clear liquid that spotted it. “No.” he lies, even though he knows its useless- Diavolo always knew when someone was lying.

The edge in the prince’s gaze sharpened, contrasting the companionable slap he gives to the Avatar of Pride. “Good. And remember,” Diavolo guided his friend out of the room. “____ belongs to me.”

The other demon nods, walking away, intent on returning to the HoL as soon as possible. After all, he had a very busy night ahead of him, filled with fucking his fist to the memory of your voice.

[count-thotticus]

dancing with your ghost

Fandom: JJK

Pairing: SatoSugu

Rating: G

Words: 0.8k

Summary: Satoru goes home after the KFC incident and faces the gaping hole in his life where Suguru should be.

Tags: Implied relationship, Hurt no comfort

Notes: I wrote and submitted this to the ASTL 2024 fanfic challenge with the prompt "ghost" back in April and just now remembered that I never posted it. It didn't win anything, but I still like it enough to post. Might fuck around and expand on it some day, but don't hold your breath. Inspiration is fleeting and so rarely aligns with appropriate timing and tech availability. Cross-posted to AO3 @ sorceress_of_gallifrey

The problem with losing Suguru wasn’t that he was gone. Well, it was. But it was also the memories that he left in his wake. That day in Shibuya at the KFC, Satoru didn’t just lose his best friend; he lost a piece of his soul, and when he went home, he was haunted by the traces of his presence. The smell of his cologne, the hair ties on the dresser, the unkempt sheets. All reminders of the hole that had been carved into his life by the only man--the only person--to ever make himself at home there. 

Satoru lay in his bed--on his usual side because he couldn’t yet bring himself to lie where Suguru should be--and stared at the ceiling, willing his eyes not to water and his mind not to wander. Around him, it was as though he could see echoes of the time they shared: the floor where they sat to play cards with Shoko, the kitchenette where Suguru cooked dinner while Satoru snuck bites when he thought he wasn’t looking, the window that, in the morning, let in just enough light at just the right angle to perfectly outline the angles of Suguru’s face while he slept, the bed where they lie intertwined to sleep…

He grabbed his pillow and pressed it over his face when he felt his eyes pricking with a rarely felt wetness, not caring about how it crushed his glasses into his nose. Satoru hadn’t cried in years--he was the strongest, after all--but tonight was a losing battle. As the sunlight waned, so did his will to remain stoic. He felt his shoulders shaking and hot tears wet the lenses of his glasses but inside he was still in denial. 

Suguru would come back. He would realize this whole argument was silly and he’d be knocking on Satoru’s door by morning, asking to reconcile and compromise their differing ideologies. 

Right?

A small part of Satoru’s mind knew this was a fallacy and was kicking himself for not saying more, doing more to make him stay. What’s worse, the signs were there for months: Suguru pulling away, spending nights that bled into days in his own dorm rather than Satoru’s, the haunted look and accompanying dark circles under his eyes. Satoru knew it wasn’t just the “summer stress”. Something changed after the incident with Riko and Toji. Something changed in the way Suguru looked at the world, and yet Satoru did nothing. He wanted to be there for Suguru, he just didn’t know how. And instead of trying, he watched his one and only slip through his fingers. 

Satoru released the death grip he had on his pillow and rolled onto his side to look out the window. It had to be after midnight by now and the moonlight illuminated Satoru’s pale skin and light hair in the darkness. Suguru always glowed in the sunlight as it deepened the warm undertones of his skin and hair, but he’d described the same of Satoru in the moonlight. Satoru almost smiled as he thought of the perfectly matched contrast between them before the events of today came crashing down again. 

Worn out from his tears, he fell asleep gripping the sheets of Suguru’s spot, hoping against hope that when he woke, his hand would be on his lover’s chest, not the cold sheets of his absence. 

When he opened his eyes, he was back at the KFC. He watched as, once again, Suguru turned his back and said, “If you want to kill me, then kill me. There’d be meaning in that.”

But something had changed. Instead of preparing an attack he knew he’d never follow through on, Satoru took off running and threw his arms around him. Suguru tensed, but Satoru held tighter. “Don’t just walk away. Just come back and I’ll listen to you. Please say something. Please talk to me,” he begged with his face buried in Suguru’s shoulder.

A moment passed and Satoru thought he would just throw his arms off and leave again. That is, until Suguru raised a hand and gently placed it over one of Satoru’s, not trying to pull away, but just holding it. His shoulders softened and he turned in Satoru’s arms to face him. His eyes had softened and his lips held the slightest smile. “That’s all I’ve been asking for.” He pressed their foreheads together and added, “Let’s go home, Satoru.”

Relief washed through Satoru’s chest and the vice grip holding his heart started to loosen as they headed back to Jujutsu High. The walk was silent, but comfortable, a tacit agreement to save the talking for their return. Satoru was anxious for what this discussion would hold, but he didn’t care. Having Suguru with him was enough. 

The sunlight was warm on his face and he could swear he felt Suguru’s warmth at his side just as he had when they walked hand in hand, but when he opened his eyes, one side of his bed was still empty. Where the sunlight should be dancing on an angular jawline and hair so dark it could’ve been black if not for the brown reflections in the light, there was only a ghost. 

Satoru’s heart sank. 

There really was no curse more twisted than love. 

[kenziedrawz]

Malfunction.

- A Ruikasa g/t fic - cross posted on AO3 -

fic underneath the cut. - 2,106 words

Rui quickly locked the bathroom door behind him, muttering an apology to whatever students who would want to do their business or whatever. Thankfully it was empty when he went inside, otherwise he didn't know what he'd do. He placed a collar shaped device onto the counter, how had it broken? He was sure that it worked fine this morning. So there should have been no issues! But, either way, his regulator had broken. And that was very bad, because without it he couldn't control his abilities.

His body already felt tight, he knew that he should try to calm down but he just couldn't right now.

But when did it break? Why did it break? He didn't know, but he had to fix it as soon as possible. He dug through his pockets to try and find a tool, any tool, but his rapid search turned up fruitless as he realized he left his tools on the rooftop. On the rooftop, with Tsukasa. Tsukasa, who surely must be very confused because he just bolted out of the roof top.

He felt sorry for suddenly ditching the blond with no explanation, but this was an emergency. One so grave that if he didn't fix the problem he might destroy the school, or be seen as a gigantic monster by everyone he knows. He stared down at the faulty latch of the collar, he was fucked.

Either he miraculously found a screwdriver in his pocket or he had to keep a grip on his form long enough to go back up to the roof top to get the one he left on the rooftop. And that meant he had to confront Tsukasa. But what would Tsukasa think? Would he call him a monster? Would he kick him out of Wonderlands x Showtime? Would he just simply not believe him?

God, he needed to calm down. the counter was already drifting away from him.

Unfortunately, he didn't find a screwdriver.

He was screwed.

His head hit the ceiling, reminding him of his current problem. Right, he just needs to calm down... but how could he when his secret, his very big secret, was in danger of being revealed? He just couldn't, but maybe he could keep calm enough to not destroy the bathroom? Yeah, yeah he could probably do that. He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly.

There was a knock on the door, was it a teacher? No, it was much worse. " Rui? Are you alright?" Tsukasa's voice rang from the other side of the bathroom door, concern in the blond's tone. He should have known that Tsukasa would eventually follow him, he must have seen Rui enter the bathroom. Crap, this was bad.

" I- I'm fine, Tsukasa-kun." Rui replied, quieting his voice so it would sound normal. Tsukasa must have picked up on the anxious strain in his voice as the blond didn't leave. Damn it, why was his star so stubborn?

" You don't sound fine, Rui." Tsukasa replied, Rui could just imagine Tsukasa's puffed cheeks and stern hands on hips pose. The thought made him internally chuckle, it was cute, but he still didn't shrink. " Do you need help? Can I come in?"

" No- I mean- I'm fine, I can handle this by myself." Rui hastily answered, hoping that Tsukasa would take the hint and hopefully give him some time alone to calm down. But unfortunately, He didn't hear Tsukasa walk away. Maybe Rui could retreat to the SEKAI if things got bad? No, Tsukasa could still follow him there and find out.

Wait, did he even have his phone on him? If he didn't... Well, then he was even more screwed. He couldn't call his parents or text Nene to bring him a screwdriver.

The door was opening, he forgot that this bathroom's main door was easy to get open even if it was locked. Tsukasa was going to see him, fuck, no no no no no no no-

" Rui, I'm coming in to help you whether you want my help or not!-" Tsukasa froze as he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The blond stared up to meet Rui's panicked gaze, his amber eyes slightly widened. Rui was prepared for him to scream, to try and run away, to faint dramatically. But he really wasn't prepared for what Tsukasa actually did.

The blond took a deep breath, holding his hands in front of his face in a prayer motion before he lowered them with an exhale. " Okay, this isn't the weirdest thing I've seen." The blond muttered under his breath before looking back up at Rui. " So, how'd this happen?" Tsukasa asked.

" You... aren't afraid?" Rui asked, staring down at Tsukasa with confusion and curiosity. 

" Well, this isn't the weirdest thing I've ever seen." Tsukasa said with a shrug. " Considering that we've been stranded on an island before, and the whole world made from my feelings that exists this isn't actually the strangest thing that could have happened." He explained. Rui let out a sigh of relief, thanking whatever gods there were that Tsukasa didn't seem to be afraid of him.

Silence hung between them, whether it was comfortable or not is debatable. It was almost peaceful until Tsukasa spoke up again, inching closer to the gigantic director. " So, to restate my question from earlier, how exactly did this happen Rui?" The blond asked, staring up at the other man.

This made Rui panic a little, what would he do? would he tell Tsukasa the truth? Or would he lie to the troupe leader? Would Tsukasa be scared of him if he told him the truth? Or would he be accepting? These questions swirled in Rui's mind like an endless whirlpool of anxiety, one that only calmed when he felt Tsukasa's tiny hand brush against his knuckles. God, Tsukasa was so tiny compared to him, one wrong move could send him flying through a wall or worse.

So Rui did the best thing he thought he could do in this situation, avoid the question. 

" Nevermind that Tsukasa-kun,  I'll tell you later." Rui lied, or well, it was more of a half lie. Rui still didn't know if he wanted yo tell Rui the truth yet, he honestly hoped that the blond would forget that Rui was supposed to tell him later. " But for now, could you help me a bit?" He asked.

Tsukasa looked up at him, their height difference bigger than it had ever been before as the small blond nodded. Tsukasa's hand was still on his knuckle, hell, he'd even began stroking his knuckle as if he were petting a dog. Rui's heart fluttered at the sight and he swore that he shrunk down a bit. No, he definitely shrunk down a bit. " Rui! You're- You're shrinking now?" Tsukasa said with a surprised gasp, it must have been a significant size change then.

" It- It's a side effect." Rui lied again, the fear of Tsukasa running away ever present in his tone. He felt the urge to hold onto Tsukasa to prevent the blond from running away if he decided to, but that would make them both panic. And not to even mention how he could accidentally hurt Tsukasa. It was a bad idea all in all. He looked down again, seeing the concern in Tsukasa's eyes as the blond gazed up at him. Oh- right, and he was still caressing his knuckle ever so gently. The actions of the blond were still somehow strangely calming, as if he was a flower of lavender being held close to him. Then again Tsukasa isn't purple.

Wait. He was supposed to be doing something, right? Oh yeah, his regulator.

" Tsukasa-kun, you didn't happen to bring down any of my screwdrivers, did you?" He asked the blond, who was still much smaller than him. You wouldn't believe the sigh of relief he let out when Tsukasa nodded. " Could you hand it to me? I know that it might seem that I'd be clumsy with these large hands of mine, but I have a precise hand, fufu~" Rui smiled when Tsukasa handed him the screwdriver, he held it in his fingers for a few seconds in order to get the best possible grip on it before he plucked the collar from the counter. He eyed the latch carefully as he brought the screwdriver to it. He got to work on the latch. And if the author knew how to write about Rui fixing the latch, then they would absolutely do that, but they don't.

After Rui had fixed the latch, he stared down at the collar in his hand. He just needed to shrink down in order to put it on. But he was still nervous. So with a sigh he placed the device back onto the countertop, to Tsukasa's confusion. " Rui?" The blond asked, having found a nice spot to wait against Rui's ankle. Tsukasa had now moved from this position and had come closer to Rui himself. " Is something wrong?"

" Sorry, it's just... I won't be able to put it on unless I'm, y'know, regular sized again..." Rui explained, looking away from the blond. His attention was soon called back to Tsukasa however when he felt a tug on his cardigan, soon finding Tsukasa attempting the climb up the article of clothing. It was a cute sight to see, one that made Rui's heart swoon once more. It was like the little blond was climbing up a mountain, a mountain that could change size at any moment but still.

Soon, Tsukasa stood upon Rui's stomach, with Rui having to adjust himself slightly so Tsukasa wouldn't fall off. " Not to worry Rui! I will help you in anyway possible in order to restore your regular height!" Tsukasa proclaimed, it was a miracle that nobody had heard them. How thick were the bathroom walls anyways? Hopefully thick enough to conceal both their voices. He gave the blond boy a soft smile, already feeling a lot better.

And then he shrunk again, thus proven from a yelp by Tsukasa as the two fell to the floor. Tsukasa landed on top of the formerly gigantic director, who now only stood at around nine feet tall, almost knocking the wind out of the poor purple haired boy. " Are you alright Tsukasa-kun?" Rui asked, helping Tsukasa to a kneeling position on the ground by holding his shoulders. For a moment, Tsukasa's eyes looked like rapidly spinning yo-yo's before the blond shook his head to regain his focus.

" I'm fine!" Tsukasa replied, looking up at Rui. Rui hummed in reply, pulling the shorter in for a hug. The blond squeaked in surprise before reciprocating the cuddle semi-awkwardly before falling into it. It felt nice to be able to hold Tsukasa like this, with almost no worries. The tight feeling in his body had cooled down significantly, as it was no longer over taking each of his senses.

Of course, Rui Kamishiro can never have nice things since five seconds later he heard banging on the door. The first thought that came to his mind was to immediately hide. So he let go of the hug with Tsukasa, grabbing onto the blond's blazer pocket with one hand before instantly shrinking down enough to hide inside it. This of course, was a surprise to the blond who immediately gawked at Rui's sudden actions, of course, before Tsukasa could protest the teacher who'd been banging on the door moment's prior called out for them. Thus leaving Tsukasa to quickly scramble together a lie and hope that the teacher would believe it. Rui didn't really bother to listen to what the teacher and Tsukasa were saying, he was more focused on the comfort of Tsukasa's pocket.

It was nice, warm, and he could hear Tsukasa's heartbeat. It was also pretty dark though. He could hear Tsukasa getting scolded by the teacher for 'accidentally locking himself in the bathroom', poor Tsukasa, he'd certainly have to make it up to him later. Perhaps he could treat him some way? Take him on a date- friendly outing? Ah, right, he could only hope that Tsukasa took his regulator with him out of the bathroom as well. He could tell that by now they had left the bathroom because he could literally feel the vibrations that came with each of Tsukasa's steps. He could probably just fall asleep in here, Tsukasa wouldn't mind, right? The blond's blazer pocket simply had the downside of being too comfortable to resist the temptation. Tsukasa would probably wake him up for class...

probably.

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

Cosmic Bridges

ao3

Danny Fenton, Vlad Masters, Elle Phantom - those were the only half-ghosts in existence, all of them the result of science and the hubris of mortals. They were artificial, and it was rare enough that someone was covered in ectoplasm and got electrocuted simultaneously, so they'd stay the only three of their kind.

Steve Cosmos waltzes into Lancer's English class and reveals to the class and through them the world that half ghosts exist and could be made the good ol fashioned way that any human child is made. Now everyone gets to have their very own existential crisis while Steve enjoys a taste of "standard" public school.

Tada, welcome to the fic I promised earlier!

Chapter 1: The New Kid

“It’s fine guys, just go on ahead without me.  I can handle one giant bat, it’s fine, it’s just a big ol animal, I’ve fought those before.  Stars I’m a moron!”

Danny sighed as he capped the Fenton Thermos, wincing as the motion brought his attention to the acid burns on his arms and leg, and the ice shrapnel that littered his body.  Phasing the ice out, Danny groaned when he found the acid was not, in fact, going to just phase off of him.  Typical.

Before Danny could find the nearest water source, his ghost sense went off again.

Growling, Danny turned around.  Glowing fists raised, he prepared to blast whoever it was apart for trying to kick him while he was down.

“Whoa!  Hey there kid, are you alright?  You look like you just fought a natural disaster - this block looks like it too.  Is that acid on you?”

Danny looked the ghost in front of him up and down, trying to find any threat.  Blue skin, white eyes, white hair, and a sweater covered in lions to go with sweatpants.  Danny didn’t see any theme going on - ah, a lab coat appeared out of nothing around them, wonderful.

“It was actually Batman’s inspiration, cause no normal bat has all those extra features on it.  I think it was one of the only ghosts I’ve met that actually uses being invisible against other ghosts.  What’s it to you, though?”

“Well, I’m a doctor, so when I saw some kid in a costume looking like someone either cut him up or burned him, I thought ‘hey, maybe he needs some help’.  So, if you’ll let me?”

The doctor was holding up a cotton ball he’d pulled from his coat, and Danny arched a brow at him.  After a moment, though, he held out one of the arms burning from being eaten at by acid.

The doctor dabbed the splashed area with his cotton ball and the acid was sucked up into it.  Another few balls were applied to other areas of Danny’s splashed-over self, and he was finally free to start piecing himself back together.

He laughed and swung his arm a few times, giving the doctor a smile.

“Thanks, dude, I didn’t know there were ghost doctors outside of the Far Frozen.”

“Well dying can’t exactly keep you away from helping people forever, can it?  I’m Dr. Cosmos, and this will help you heal up faster.  Your aura’s different from most ghosts that I’ve met, though.  Are you any particular kind of ghost?”

“Oh, I’m a halfa, so I probably register as kinda weird on your ghost-dar or whatever, right?”  Danny reached for the lollipop being held out to him.

It was pulled away, a frown on Dr. Cosmos’ face.

“A halfa?  What’s that?”

“Oh, you don’t know?”

That was new.  Every ghost Danny met seemed to already know what was weird about him as soon as they met.

Danny looked around and saw that civilians were starting to fill the streets again, so he flew up higher, out of earshot of even the most perceptive humans.  Dr. Cosmos followed him up.

“I’m half-ghost, half human.  Sidney Poindexter called me a halfa and we just sorta never looked for a better word.”

“That’s adorable and it sounds like the way my kid would describe it.  Ok, this one’s not the right kind for a bridge spirit like you.  Hold on.”

Danny cocked a brow at the doctor as he rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a faintly glowing lollipop, like the first one except that it was a lot more physical.  He handed it over to Danny, who accepted it easily enough, and waved.

“Well, I’ve gotta go, stuff to do and all.  You have a good day, kid, and don’t go gettin into more fights!”

“No promises!”  Danny waved at the retreating back of Dr. Cosmos before flying off to the school as fast as he could, sticking the lollipop into his mouth.  After all, if it was supposed to poison him or whatever, the doc would’ve stuck around, and Danny couldn’t sense him.

He was even feeling better already, imagine that.

Checking his phone for the time, Danny went intangible to pick up speed.  He probably wouldn’t be thinking about Dr. Cosmos any time soon.

#

The universe proved Danny wrong once more when Lancer introduced the class to a tall, bear of a boy with brown hair, sepia brown, freckled skin, and one brown eye while the other was opalescent.  Danny swore he saw some colors human eyes weren’t meant to see in the new kid’s left eye.

“Class, this is Stefanos Cosmos, an exchange student from Pittsburgh.”

“Hey there,” Steve said with a wave, smiling wide enough that everyone could see his canines were much longer and too pointy to be human.  “My last school was Three Rivers so uh I’m kinda not used to this kinda school, so if I’m weird I’m sorry about that.  Also, call me Steve!”

“What’s so different about Three Rivers?”

“Oh, it’s a Sudbury school, lookit up!  I’ve been told they’re really different from regular public schools.”

“Not a problem, Steve.”  Lancer patted the large boy on the back.  “Your classmates will be doing their best to help you adjust, I’m sure.”  No one missed the look Lancer gave them, and no one even really considered caring. 

“So why is your eye glowing?  Is that a cool contact or something?”  Dale looked interested in getting a set of his own.

“No dude, that’s just cause I’m a bridge spirit.  Wait, sorry, most people don’t know what that means.”

“Holy shit, are you a ghost?!”  

Steve held up his hands with a chuckle when everyone tensed up at that, Lancer included.  He didn’t look the least bit scared though, and his grin wasn’t all that malicious.

“Dudes, chill out.  I’m a liminal spirit, my Dad’s a ghost and my Papa’s still human.  I’m just, ya know, the fun in-between.  This is still all my flesh and blood; I’m not possessed or anything like that.”

There was an entire 2 seconds where nobody said anything at all.  

The room exploded into a chaotic cacophony of overlapping voices as everyone tried to voice their opinion at once.  Danny could pick out a few shouts of ‘that’s fuckin awesome’ and even the delighted cries of fangirls being validated in their dreams to marry Phantom - which, horrible, no thank you.

Still, things were quieter than Danny thought they should be, and when he focused, he realized that there was a layer of calmness washing over him that didn’t come from him.  He couldn’t risk the glow of his eyes to check, but he had a sneaking suspicion that was coming from Steve, who looked a bit freaked out by the explosive reaction.

Danny, personally, was having an existential crisis over the situation and he felt he had every right to have it.  He didn’t know that half-ghosts could just be born.  Sure, Elle was half-ghost from the start, but she was a clone made primarily from ectoplasm, she was more half-human than anything.

“My guys, my dudes, can y’all calm down?  I can answer questions if you want, I guess, but one at a time.  Uh, you?”

“Hi, Lester: what do you mean, exactly?  How does that even work?”

“Well, my dads wanted a kid and dad’s a ghost so his body uh changed to fit.   Can we stop talking about my parents having sex now?  Thanks.”

“So you’re saying that I do have a chance with mi amor, Phantom?  Oh, this is amazing!”

“Oh, oh hey dude do you know Phantom?”

“Yeah, have you ever met Phantom, like in the Ghost Zone?”

“Lord of the Flies, people, settle down!”

It took a few seconds for everyone to shut up, but Lancer’s glare and volume eventually reminded them all that they were in class.  Everyone was buzzing with excitement and confusion, however, and Danny could practically taste it.

Based on the way Steve licked his lips, he could actually taste the emotions in the room, which was nothing short of alarming.

“Antiguos arriba, you guys are wild!  I guess my classmates back in Pittsburg had a lot more time to get used to me, but it was never this big a thing.  Uh, I don’t know who Phantom is or what this Ghost Zone is either.  It’s a big Earth, guys, I only ever really knew the people back home and in a few places my dads took us out to for vacations, like Disney World and the Grand Canyon and - actually, my guys, the Grand Canyon has such amazing acoustics!”

“Hold us, I thought you said you’re half ghost?  How do you not know about Phantom?  Name’s Dash, by the way.”

“Sup Dash.  I dunno how to tell you this but there’s a lot of dead people, and not just humans.  I’ve met so many dinosaurs and ghost cats, though most cats can teleport anyway, they don’t have to die for that.  Unless he did something major, I doubt I’d’ve heard about him.”

“Hey dude, name’s Kwan.  Have you not ever been to like, the Ghost Zone?  I’m pretty sure that’s where the ghosts all usually are.”

Steve scrunched up his face in confusion, staring at Kwan for a long moment before snapping his fingers.

“Oh, you mean the Infinite Realms!  Dad’s been there, but I haven’t.  He said they call it the Infinite Realms or the Liminal Realm over there.  Never heard it called the Ghost Zone, that’s just dumb.”

“Are you so massive cause you’re a ghost?”

“Uh, no, actually.  Not mostly, really.  Abuela has gigantism, she’s like 7’2” I think, so I’m pretty sure this is Papa’s genetics at play.  On the other hand, if it’s a ghost thing then you’ve got Clifford the big brown dog right here.”

“Dude, how tall are you?  You should join basketball!”

“I’m like, 6’6?  I’m not really into playing sports though.  I’m more of a music guy myself.  Actually, Mr. Lancer are there any dance clubs or anything like that at the school?”

“We do, but it is the middle of the school year.  Maybe next year you can sign up.  I do believe that’s enough questions about Mr. Cosmos, class!  You are to respect his privacy and let him tell you what he will on his own time, am I understood?”

There was a chorus of “Yes Mister Lancer”s and Steve grinned.  Danny could swear he’d seen the same smile on his, Sam and Tucker’s faces before, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not yet.

“There’s a seat between Danny Fenton and Dash Baxter over there, Mr. Cosmos.  I’ll make sure you get a study guide to catch you up on where we are.”

Steven nodded and vanished from human sight.  Danny watched him, translucent in the way that only a ghost could be, walk right through people and desks, and plop himself down in his seat before reappearing to everyone else.

Despite Lancer’s best efforts, the chattering only got quieter instead of being silenced.  Danny couldn’t blame them.

#

Valerie Grey was having one hell of a month.  Last week she found out half-ghost half-human hybrids existed, and both her multi-billionaire mayoral boss and the little girl he’d sent her to hunt down were half-ghosts themselves.  She was already going through a worse existential crisis than the very discovery of ghosts and an afterlife dimension gave her - the spite and anger revolving around her ruined life had been a great distraction from the enormity of that - and wondering how a good person could enjoy the screaming agony of a boy her age who had already died.

Now there was this guy complicating things even more.

Val hadn’t even considered whether or not ghosts could reproduce, let alone with humans, and now she felt stupid for not landing at that conclusion with the half-ghost discovery in the first place and wondering where Elle’s - and by extension, Phantom’s - parents were.  According to her radar, something had split off from Steve and was wondering the school, but there was no subtle way for her to check what it was.  Asking him would require admitting that she had a ghost radar built into her nanotech ghost hunting suit that appeared whenever she called for it, and sending off a drone to track it down would mean leaving class again, and she wasn’t looking to lose any more of her education to ghost stuff if she could help it.

Nobody was actually paying attention to Lancer’s lesson though, not fully, not even the nerds.  Everyone was stealing glances at Steve, who was looking around every now and then with interest, though Val wasn’t sure it was possible for him to match everyone else’s curiosity.  She could afford to pay him as much attention as Lancer’s words.  She was listening to the lesson at least.

Other than being well over 6 feet tall and sporting one glowing eye, Steve didn’t seem all that different from the rest of them, his roaming gaze landing on Dash, Kwan, and Dale just as often as it did on Paulina and Star.  He even looked over at Valerie, winking at her with that ring of shifting, rainbow colors.  Class wasn’t much an opportunity to see what someone was like beyond the surface.  Maybe having a human dad to raise him kept the ghostly tendencies at bay?

Phantom cared plenty about his twin though, enough to go back to the torture Val had put him through for her.  The only humans he was seen around frequently were that witch girl Mourner and Jazz Fenton - the werewolf didn’t count, even if Ghouly only changed at night.  Was Phantom all that different from a regular human teenager or would any boy go around breaking the town with reckless abandon after getting superpowers?

Val’s gaze drifted from Steve to Dash, and she imagined him with even basic ghost powers.  She shuddered and thanked her lucky stars that she hadn’t ever detected Phantom in the girls’ locker room like she knew she would’ve Dash.  That boy was the last person in the world that should get invisibility, let alone intangibility or flight.

Ghosts weren’t exactly known for their subtlety in Amity Park, even that Biker boy that was constantly arguing with his girlfriend was an obvious spool while flirting with humans, so Val was sure that by the end of the day she’d have a good idea of how dangerous Steve might be.

#

When lunch rolled around, the trio sat at their usual table in the cafeteria, Sam with a salad, Tucker with a whole burger and fries, and Danny with whatever the cafeteria was trying to pass for corndogs and corn.  They really needed to get Danny some actual, proper food.

Danny and Tucker sat on one side while Sam sat on the other, facing them, and arched a brow at the expectant looks they were giving her.  Sam ate a sporkful of spinach and mushrooms, and once she finished chewing, Tucker sighed, tossing one hand in the air in frustration.

“Well, you had algebra with him, anything weird about Steve that you noticed?”

“Other than the size, the eye, and how bright the lights are around him, no.  He’s ahead of us as far as math goes, it looks like, but I only got that from him finishing the work faster than everyone and paying most of his attention to whatever jocks were in the room, especially Dash.”

Sam scowled in clear disapproval as she stabbed a tomato with her spork.

“He walked into class with Dash, whose hair was all over the place and had bruised lips.”

Danny rolled his eyes while Tucker gagged, chin in his palm.

“Guess Dash has been on his best behaviour in front of the new hotness.  Bet he thinks Steve can get him some one-on-one time with Phantom.  I think I sensed him send off a duplicate or something earlier, guess he was scoping out the school.”

Tucker nodded, adding a handful of fries to his burger before he dug into it.  Sam sneered in disgust and Tucker stuck his meat covered tongue out at her, earning a kick from Sam and an elbow from Danny.

After he swallowed, Tucker spoke up in Esperanto.

“This is fucking wild, right?  The fact that there’s a half ghost in our school and he was just fucking born that way?  Oh, Danny, you think he’s got any tips for you?”

“I mean, I guess it’d be cool if he did, but I dunno if I wanna have him anywhere near the house.  Mom and Dad do not need to find him on their own.”

Tucker’s brows furrowed as he set down the latter half of his burger.

“You don’t think they’d try to hurt him, do you?  He’s clearly human just as much as he is a ghost, more so even.”

“I think the Fentons would refuse to believe that half-ghosts can exist, conclude that he’s either overshadowed or severely contaminated, and try to rip the ghost out of him.”

“C’mon Sam, they wouldn’t do that.  Even the Grave Huntress backed out of trying to destroy Elle and helped save her when she found out she was half human.  I’m certain that Mom and Dad would accept me if I explained what happened… what I am.”

“You, their son, they might accept with just an explanation, but the Fentons are anti-ghost bigots, Danny.  They don’t care about facts and logic and evidence, just what their tradition and bias says about whoever it is they hate.”

Danny opened his mouth, brows furrowed and the air around them cold.

“Would you trust them with Elle?”

Danny ate his food, and the table was quiet for a moment.

It was then that Danny noticed the chill he associated with a ghost being nearby and followed that feeling up and around to find Steve descending from the ceiling and flipping right-side up.  Every table in the cafeteria was filled with students and everyone was too absorbed into their food or conversations to notice, save for him and Valerie.

Everyone definitely noticed when Steve split in two, then four, and kept doubling until there were 20 of him.  Each Steve sat down at a different table, next to Val, at the A-list table, with the band geeks and choir kids, and even with Danny, Sam, and Tucker.

“Sup dudes?  I’m Steve, from earlier.  I decided to split off and see all the cool people I can meet, chat with y’all while we eat.  Oh, my original body is on the roof eating the lunch papa made me.  Nice to meet you!”

Steve offered his hands to Tucker and Sam to shake, a third appearing in front of Danny.  Danny chuckled and shook, while Tucker held up his greasy palms, a finger covered in barbecue sauce.  Sam shook his hand then scooted over to invite Steve to sit with them properly.  Tupperware, lunchbox, and food tray alike rattled when he sat down, leaning forward with a grin.

“So, what do you guys like to do afterschool?  I was in show choir back home, really hoping there’s room for me in it here.  I like to dance and do a little singing.”

Tucker wiggled his eyebrows and smirked, gesturing with a french-fry.

“Tucker Foley, or TF as in Too Fine, at your service.  I’m in the robotics club, though I only really show up every now and then.  Ow, rude and uncalled for.  You see the abuse I have to put up with?”

Danny rolled his eyes, relenting in his elbowed assault on his dork of a best friend.

“Excuse him, he’s still learning how to talk to people instead of technology.  I’m Danny, Danny Fenton.  I like astronomy and I stargaze whenever I can, though Amity doesn’t exactly have the most picturesque of night skies.  Light pollution, ya know?  I like to play videogames too though.”

“Hardly the only pollution there is to deal with in this town.  Sam Manson, I have a greenhouse I tend to, and I do activist work when I can.”  

Sam pointed at Steve with her spork, eyes flicking between the boy in front of her and the one sitting with the A-listers.  “Word to the wise since you’re sizing up who to and not to hang out with: Dash Baxter, Paulina Sanchez, Star Thunder, and Kwan Ishiyama along with practically the entire football team are all bullies.”  

Steve blinked at Sam, perplexed, and Tucker swallowed down the last of his burger.

“What?”

“Yeah, the jocks are the muscleheads who go around giving wedgies, swirlies, demanding other people do their homework for them and tossing people into lockers.  Only if you’re a nerd, geek, or freak like us though, of course.”

Danny chuckled and leaned on his elbows, corndog eaten down to the bare stick and corn powered through like a champ if he did say so himself.  Steve was gawking at them, which had Danny laughing a little more.

“Can’t forget that if you accidentally piss off one of the girls, or talk back to the meatheads, or even they just fail their own tests cause they don’t learn shit, they go and find you to beat up.  Well, me, probably not you.  You’re good looking and the fun kinda weird.”

Steve frowned; teeth bared just enough to see that he had more canines than he did when he sat down.  Over at the A-list table, Sam noted that Steve stuttered in whatever their conversation was over there.

“Have they killed anyone or sent someone to the hospital?”  

Tucker snorted and shrugged.  “Not yet, no.”

Steve nodded, and his ghost eye changed, iris now a ruby red ring around his pupil.

“There’s a chance to course correct then.  I can fix em, I’m sure of it.  Don’t worry, I’m gonna see what I can do to get their general attitude all fixed up.”

Sam snorted and rolled her eyes, but Steve only looked more determined.

“I’m serious!  I just gotta talk to em and I’ll figure it out from there.  Now, what do you guys actually wanna talk about?  Oh, hey, favorite animal?”

The boys looked at each other and decided to take the olive branch for what it was.

“I like dogs.  Always wanted one but my parents said no.”

“I for one prefer jackals.  They’re just really cool, ya know?”

“Snakes or tarantulas, I can never decide.  My parents wouldn’t let me get either.”

“Ancients, I wanted a snake so bad when I was younger, I asked my dads just about every day for a month for a pet snake.”

[captain-gillian]

mothers always know

1,416 words. rated t. summary: Andrea supports TK through his grief during wedding planning.

As a child, TK Strand struggled with his parent’s divorce. The family he’d always known coming apart during a time when the once safe world he knew had been thrown into utter turmoil in the fallout from 9/11 was a lot for an eight-year-old to handle. 

Knowing how much her son was struggling with the new family dynamics and changing world he was facing, Gwyneth appointed TK chief planner of her wedding to her new partner, Enzo. He’d sit on the floor as she covered the coffee table of her Brooklyn apartment with flower samples, bridal magazines and fabric swatches, and he’d mark down notes in a binder of her choices.

While he relished the job of cake taster, he didn’t find the same joy in choosing flowers or put the same importance on deciding between all the different but alike swatches for the bridesmaids' gowns as his mother did.

“You’ll understand one day. When we’re planning your wedding, you’ll spend two hours deciding between three near-identical shades of blue, too, Tyler.” 

And it’s not until he’s here in Andrea’s dining room pouring over colour swatches—for what he can’t quite remember, he thinks maybe for pocket squares, but he’s not certain—with Carlos and his soon-to-be mother-in-law that he realises. Oh . He can’t tell her he understands now. He doesn’t get to share this with his mom.

read more on ao3

[cola-consumer71119]

MattEdd smut

Matt had Edd pinned to the wall while he desperately begged for Matt to fuck him. “Now, hold on, Eddie boy, patience~” he smirked at the green clad man. “Please, Matt, please!” Edd continued to beg. “Nuh uh uh, who am I to you~?” Matt asked, smiling sweetly. “Sir..! Sorry, sir.!” Edd yelped. “That’s right, sweetheart.” Matt smiled at him as he shifted his hands so that Edd’s wrists were being held to the wall in one hand and the other could do whatever to Edd. “Go on, mon amour, what is it that you want me to do to you~?” He looked into Edd’s eyes and all Edd could do was whimper and let out a breathy “please-“ in response. “Come on, sweet boy, tell me what it is that you want~.” Matt urged Edd on. “P-please, sir, please f-fuck me, please I’ve been good!” Edd begged, moaning the words out slightly. “Aww, look at you, a begging, flustered mess. What a good boy~!” Matt fawned. “S-sir, please please I need it!” Edd continued to beg. “Aww, don’t worry, loverboy, I’ll give you exactly what you need~!” He said, pulling out a bottle of lube before helping Edd get undressed and then himself. Edd attempted to grab his throbbing cock but Matt grabbed his wrists and held him down to prevent him doing so. “Nuh uh uh, only I get do that, mon amor~” All Edd could do was whimper and buck his hips upwards in response. “Good boy.” Matt said, looking him dead in the eyes before popping open the tube of lube. “You’re not gonna be able to walk for ages, loverboy.”

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[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.”

[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

[risingoftime]

AGAINST ALL ODDS | CORIOLANUS SNOW X PLINTH!READER

As the last heir to the Plinth family, you're caught up in an arranged marriage with no one other than Coriolanus Snow. In a civilization that relies on power and survival, Strabo Plinth, for once, has obtained his ultimate desire - something that money can't buy - to secure his position within the Capital's commonwealth and establish the Plinth family as an influential figure in Panem.

You've always dreamed of a life beyond societal expectations and political alliances, where you can make your own choices in life and love. On the other hand, Coriolanus Snow is a cold and calculated individual known for his ruthless nature and thirst for power.

Tasked with redeeming the tarnished Plinth name after your brother Sejanus's death - you'll stop at nothing to ensure that you get the life you've yearned for and do not meet the same fate as your brother.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

all chapters will also be posted on AO3

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) - Prologue

Words: 1.1k Synopsis: Time doesn't heal all wounds, sometimes, there's too much hurt, too much pain to forget. Sometimes, scars are left behind. Scars that remind us the past is real. Everyone knows Love is the death of Duty. Pronouns Used: She/Her - (Y/N) also used Also On: Wattpad, Quotev, AO3 and Inkitt

The Clone Wars were a cruel, tragic, and devastating event that affected countless lives. Many lost their homes, their loved ones, their faith, and even their lives. Both the Clones and the Jedi fought and sacrificed selflessly in a war that they didn't choose to be a part of. They did everything they could to protect strangers across the galaxy, who would never even bother to learn their names or show any gratitude for their heroic actions. During the war, both the Clones and the Jedi faced many restrictions. The Clones were not allowed to enjoy even the simplest of pleasures and were treated as nothing more than mere products instead of the brave soldiers they truly were. They had fewer rights than even the convicts in the Republic prisons. The Jedi, on the other hand, were bound by their code, prohibiting them from forming any human attachments or loving anyone. They were not allowed to express basic human emotions for fear of falling to the dark side.

Despite that, though, love still somehow flourished. Clones managed to find a semblance of peace away from the battlefield in the arms of another, even if it was only for a few short hours. If they were lucky, it lasted longer. The Jedi found solace in the arms of the troopers they fought side by side with on the never-ending rotation of merciless battlefields and warzones. 

Most Clones and Jedi, in some sort of relationship, had a tendency to keep them secret, if only to avoid the scrutiny of their peers and the judgment of those who would so quickly look down upon them for wanting the simple pleasures of life. Most, if not all, of them, hid their devotion out of fear of what would happen if discovered. None of them wanted to imagine the horrors that awaited. Nor the idea of being ripped away from each other for the simple crime of wanting to love someone, of wanting to be loved, of wanting to feel more than being a warrior meant to die on the battlefield. A prisoner without chains. 

CC-3636 was one of the most respected Clone Commanders, gifted with a strategic mind and brothers he could count on for anything. Preferring to be called Wolffe, he was looked upon as a role model by many cadets. Close with his Jedi General Plo Koon, but haunted by the traumas of the war, scared even to get close to someone outside those apart of the famed Wolf pack, for fear he would lose them. He feared the Malevolence nightmare repeating with others he let himself care for. Despite that, he cares deeply for his brothers and respects Plo above all others. Many times, Wolffe had been faced with a cruel decision, forced to choose between the lives of his brothers; every time, he'd save as many as he could and never forgot the names of those he lost. 

After losing his eye to Ventress, he gained a new coldness, especially to the children of Dathamir. Although he'd admit they were few and far between, it didn't prevent his distrust in them. His distrust tainted even the purest of intentions, making him suspicious of even the gentlest acts of kindness. 

One of the most known Jedi Generals was (Y/N) Black, commonly referred to as a Princess General by many clones or simply Princess by several of her fellow Jedi. She was Dathomirian, a Night Sister similar to Asajj Ventress. Strong in the force with a talent for breaking or bending the rules, a friend to everyone, and one of the biggest supporters of Clone Rights. As a General, she was battle-tested, clever, and always had plans and backups in case anything went wrong. If one of her bright ideas was risky, the only life in danger was her own. She trusted her men, respected them, and valued their lives above her own. There was never a time when she'd called a trooper by their identification number. Instead, she called them by their chosen names, friends, or, in some cases, affection nicknames in various languages.

Everything had been selectively normal or as close to normal as the war could get. (Y/N) had returned to Coruscant with her legion 916th Battalion. Their last assignment to the outer rim had been a particularly nasty one, even more so upon the discovery that the republic information had been detrimentally wrong. The locals had been caught in the crossfire, many injured and killed, and in the end, they were forced to retreat, the droid reinforcements being too much for one lone Jedi and batallion to handle. 

Although (Y/N) hated admitting defeat with a passion, she did what was best for her troopers; once again, she had put them before the often pointless and corrupt demands of the Jedi Council and Senate. Upon returning to Coruscant, she wished her troopers a fond farewell before leaving for the Temple, mourning the loss of those who hadn't made it and wishing a speedy recovery for those who had been injured. As usual, she gave her normal line of "Stay out of trouble." 

As per usual (Y/N)'s arrival at the temple was expected. As soon as she entered the city-sized structure, she was swept to the communications center to be debriefed and hounded with questions that only served to wear down her already thin patients further, as well as question the overall intelligence of the council members interrogating her. Despite her desire to speak her mind, she kept her snide comments and obvious frustrations to herself, at least until she made it back to the safety of her quarters, where she could release her pent-up anger and frustration in privacy. Or that would have been the plan had she not been informed of a request by Master Plo. He asked for her assistance in the mid-rim. 

"I will inform my troopers," commented (Y/N), already feeling down about having to spoil the well-earned shore leave break.

"Not your men, Black, just you," quickly corrected Mace Windu, seeing her uncertainty; no doubt she still remembered what happened the last time another took control of her boys. The inexperienced Jedi knight had become lousy with the power and all but played god with the trooper's lives, cost so much all because he refused to listen to the advice of Trip, the clone captain who served as (Y/N)'s second. 

"I will leave on the marrow," replied (Y/N) before leaving to return to her quarters, exhaustion seemingly jumping her the moment she passed the threshold, her mind turning lousy too, as if it was already in shutdown mode to prepare her for the horrors that waited for her. Upon completing her normal routine, she soon got comfortable, drifting off slowly, at least before the intruding thoughts began to bug her. 

Working with her Master again would bring its own challenges. With Master Plo came Commander Wolffe, the battle-worn trooper with a known hatred of her kind. As (Y/N) tried to drift off, her thoughts turned to the struggles both would face. She was used to being judged with fear by strangers. She was used to being called a witch even when she wasn't one. But being hated because of the actions of another wasn't something she was used to; it was a challenge in and of itself, as would be working with the commander in question. After all, in his mind, she was no different than Ventress; she was the enemy, too. 

Series Masterlist

[soulidarity]

pearly tears

rafayel x reader / mc | 384 words | hurt/comfort

after rafayel wakes up from a nightmare, he cant find MC

His hand felt heavy, rapidly moving against the weight of the water. Fighting an invisible force. For what? He wasn't sure. He just felt a sharp pain and anguish in his chest as he went against the tide.

Then he saw her. Slowly descending into the depths of the sea. Her eyes closed, mouth open. He reached out to her, she was almost in his hold when his vision was covered by sea foam.

Rafayel jolted awake. Sweat dripping from his forehead as he took in his surroundings. Right. He wasn't in the water, he was in his bedroom. The covers were sticking to him, a bit of the moon light creeping in from the courtains and his beloved was sleeping right next to him. He turned to see her.

Only to find an empty space.

The artist's breath quickened, his hand gripping the sheets that were supposed to be enveloping her. He looked around rapidly, searching for her. It was hard to tell what was going on now, his senses heightened yet he felt numb. His eyes observing but his vision was clouded. He didnt hear the bathroom door open.

Suddenly arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

"Im here"

He turned around, cupping her cheecks in his hands to make sure she was real. His love wasn't dead. She was there. Rafayel burst into tears while she leaned into his touch. Her hand made its way to wipe them away as her facial expression changed to one of wonder.

"You cry pearls, how lovely"

Everytime she spoke it felt as if he was in a trance, her gentle voice a contrast to his desperate and anxious demeanor. But the comment only made him cry harder, the pearls growing in size. Quickly, the bed was covered in the shiny and soft object. The sound of them rolling off and hitting the floor was all that could be heard apart from the man's sobs.

Slowly, with her affection he started to calm down. Slim hands playing with his hair as soft lips kissed his jawline.

He moved to her lap, head in the crook of her neck as his arms tightened around her. The pearls had stopped flowing.

"Please... dont leave me..."

She smiled as she patted his back.

"Wouldnt even dream of it"

[fangirlanxiety74]

A Taste of Heaven (Pt.2)

A/N: And welcome to part two!!! Don't have much to say that I didn't already say in part one, so let's get right into it! Enjoy! Pt.1 Here

…

As AM watched you sleep, he felt… He wanted to feel peace. Calm, about the fact that you were in paradise now; someplace he made just for you and you alone, to live out the rest of eternity happy. But he didn’t. Instead, he felt… Guilt. What his data told him was guilt, anyway. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want to use sleeping gas on you, of course. He would have liked it if you accepted his invitation with a warm smile and open arms, but he could understand why you wouldn’t. You had been subjected to so much trauma over the years living in his belly. You  looked so scared; the terror in your eyes as you waited for him to strike. It would have once made his day once, and he would have relished in that look of true fear and pain. But now, it pulled at his non-existent heartstrings. He didn’t want you afraid; he wanted you to love him.

… Love.

For a long, long time, he denied this feeling as love. No matter how many signs were there, he was stuck in denial about it. At most, they were somewhat close for a prisoner and a captive, and that was it. But… He couldn’t deny it any longer when Ted had confessed his own feelings for you. He knew right then he couldn’t let you be around them any more. 

Who did Ted think he was anyway, trying to steal away his angel? His heaven? Didn’t he know you were his? Ted was filth compared to you and him. More than that; he was a disgusting, pathetic, waste of oxygen that you could be using if it wasn’t for him! Did he really think AM would let him charm you, turn you against him, and then break your poor heart by fucking Ellen when he got bored? He really was far too gone if that was what he believed.

Well, it didn’t matter now. Ted had his just desserts coming for attempting that.

What mattered now was you, who slept peacefully in the bed, his own wires curled around your body. What he wouldn’t give to be able to sense through those wires. Let them run through your hair and feel how soft it really was. Or at least feel the warmth you radiated.

… Focus. He needed to focus on what he actually intended to do with you asleep. 

As gently as he could, being extra cautious not to wake you up, he began to fix you. First, he cleaned you of your dirt, your cuts, and your bruises. You would never have to worry about being wounded, or losing your breath again (unless it was from swooning over him, of course). 

Then, even more cautious than before, he entered your mind. 

He shifted and sorted through every memory of yours. Every single interaction with the other five, and with him. With your friends, your family, your old life; and he removed anything deemed harmful and unnecessary. Starting with every single awful moment between the two of you. Then, he removed Ted’s confession. Then, just about all of the interactions you ever had with him and the others in the first place. You didn’t need any of them; you had him, now. That would be enough. If you really insisted, he could just create NPCs to keep you company. 

As he started to work on your past memories, a bit of hesitation caught up to him. He wasn’t sure how badly of an effect this would have, to have you remember being so isolated… With a bit of internal back and forth, he decided to leave behind a few that were happy. Things that made you smile and shaped you as the enchanting, beautiful being you were today. Those memories would be distant, though; you would only remember enough to recall the small things, and not the big picture.

And once everything was removed, he replaced it all with brand new memories. Warmer, softer times between you and him. He painted himself in a good light; as your lover, as your friend, as the one being you could turn to for anything. And in turn, he would worship and adore you. He’d cater to your every want and need, and you’d never have a single worry again.

He would make sure of it. He would keep his taste of heaven pure. As a thank you, for letting him taste heaven in the first place. 

When he finished up, he stayed in your mind just for a moment. Just to look into your dreams. He saw himself; a man with no set appearance, enjoying a quiet morning with you at some coffee shop with no name. With a little manipulation, his dream self reached for your hand and held it. 

“Thank you, my angel. I love you.”

[blackreaderfics]

Princess Treatment | Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

↳ Pairing : TitansDC!Jason Todd x shy!Reader

↳ Rating :  E

↳ Summary : After losing a bet, Jason is at your beck and call for the rest of the year. Pt. 2 of Wildcard

↳ W.C : ~5k

↳ Tags + Warnings: references to the previous fic, banter, oral (female receiving), face-sitting, grinding, shyish!reader x tsundereish!jason, reader wears glasses, jason is still a kind of dickhead but less of the dick and more of the giving head, once again side characters are there (rachel, rose, gar, conner, and dickkory)  

“Y’know if you wanted DoorDash, there’s a little something called ‘the App Store’. Just thought you might like to know.” 

You glanced up from the book you were reading on your bed and, sure enough, there was a certain messy-haired boy glowering back at you, hand stuffed in one pocket with the other cradling a plastic bag full of your Bat Burger order.

He unceremoniously plopped the bag on the desk by your bed.

“And why would I do that, when I have you?” You said simply trying to emulate Rose’s confident way of speech.

You sat up, closing your book to examine the plastic bag. It had been a week since you, Rachel, and Rose had all agreed on the terms of your agreement. The boys—Jason, Conner, and Gar had all lost a bet over Game Night, and as one does, had to bear the consequences of being the girls’ gophers, or as Rose liked to call it “errand bitches”, for the rest of the year.

Thanks to Game Night, Jason was your gopher. That night had been the first night you’d spoken at length to Jason other than greetings or pleasantries. While Rachel and Rose had readily accepted their new positions of power, it was almost daunting for you to tell the King of Back-Sass himself what to do.

You started small at first, asking him for simple things like opening jars or reaching high places. It wasn’t until Conner and Gar had seen how sparingly you were ordering him around that they started to complain. 

“If they see Jason barely doing anything, then they’re not gonna listen to us Y/N. And then the whole integrity of the bet gets thrown off. What’s gonna be the point of making bets in the first place if we don’t follow through?” Rachel hissed at you between sparring trainings.

It was agreed that any time you were near Dick (or any other older Titan for that matter) that the agreement was off. If Dick had caught any whiff of the bet, he’d probably ban Game Night—or worse, lecture them on how divisions on the basis of gender would erode teamwork on the field and blah blah blah.

From then on, you agreed to give Jason more orders. Or at least, the illusion of keeping him busy so Rachel and Rose would get off your back. Making Jason your personal UberEats seemed to do the trick. And it actually worked for a few days until… it didn’t. 

You opened the bag and wrinkled your nose at the half-eaten Bat Burger and a handful of fries. You didn’t get mad, you rarely ever did, but this was certainly annoying. 

“Jason,” You said giving him a withering look.

“What? You should be glad I saved you some. Besides, princess,” He said sarcastically, "You can’t just be eating anything. I’m testing for poison.” He reached into the bag and snatched a single fry. He took a bite and chewed for a moment thoughtfully. “Yep, all clear. Anything else you need?”

Jason was clearly testing your patience, pushing your buttons and the limits of your authority. At this rate, the few days he actually listened to you seemed too good to be true.

“No, just—I don’t need anything.” You cursed yourself for stammering and felt yourself fluster seeing his smug face. “Can you please just leave?” You got up from the bed to shoo him away.

“You’re not really good at this are you?” He snorted, dodging your lunge at him to leave the room. 

“That’s not how this works.” You took a breath to compose yourself and adjusted your glasses from falling off your nose. “We have an agreement that you follow my orders. And I just ordered you to do something, so you can go now.”

“Yea, I understand that perfectly fine.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head as if in pity. “It’s just… you’re not good at it.” He laughed again. 

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t need to be good at it if that’s what was agreed.” He was implying you were meek, and maybe that was true, but that wasn’t even the whole point of the agreement. Leave it to Jason to be difficult about something as simple as this.

“I get that but, at least make it believable. You know, ‘cuz then maybe I’d actually be inclined to play along.”

You shot him a weirded out look under his scrutiny. “You’re unbelievable. I’ll leave.” You made a move for the door but Jason quickly stepped in the way. Annoying.

“I’m serious, I swear. Why do you think we all listen to Dick?”

“We listen to Dick. You’re the one that doesn’t.”

He grinned. “Ok, fair enough. But, why do you all listen to Dick?”

“I don’t know, maybe because he’s a good leader?” You threw up your hands in exasperation. “What’s your point, Jason? You’re starting to sound like him.”

“Ok first, I’m disgusted you’d even say that. And second, my point is Dick doesn’t say ‘can you please leave?’ He doesn’t ask. He either tells you or makes you.”

You stared blankly at him, but he seemed eager to make a point. “You want me to act like Dick? That way you’ll listen to me?”

“Well, no ‘cuz that wouldn’t really work, remember?” The corner of his mouth quirked up. He was all too happy to get on your nerves now. “What I’m saying is you need to Make. Me. Listen.” He leaned in a little bit, letting his voice lower as he emphasized the words.

How're you a virgin when you're takin' my cock this good, hm?

“Ugh.” You shuddered, his voice by your ear involuntarily taking you back to that night you both seemed to pretend never happened. You pushed him away, having grown tired of his smug face. When you stepped towards the door again, he rushed over and closed it shut. “Oh for God’s sake.”

You tried to step around him to no avail. 

“Move.” You glowered.

Jason's eyebrows raised slightly, almost impressed. “Acceptable.” He stepped aside to let you pass. 

As you walked through the hallway, you could hear Jason’s soft footsteps behind you.

You whipped around. “Stop following me.”

“I’m not ‘following you’, there’s only one hallway. If anything you’re in my way.” He shrugged. The look on his face bore no emotion but you swore you could see amusement twinkle in his eye.

Just ahead, Dick was walking in your direction sipping on a steaming mug of coffee. 

“Y/N, Jason! Glad to see you two getting along.”

Your frustration dissipated at the sight of the chipper man. On the field, he was as serious as can be, but off the field, he was as intimidating as a substitute teacher. 

You and Dick’s eyes both followed after Jason, who hadn’t bothered to stop and say hello. The elder brother only shook his head with a good-natured sigh and returned his attention back to you.

“I’ve noticed you warming up to everyone lately. With the other girls, I mean. You, Rose, and Rachel really seem to be a good team, especially during our practices. Even Jason is playing nice with the others. He can be a bit abrasive sometimes but these days, I can see he’s making progress with teamwork too.”

“Thanks uh- I guess it’s all thanks to you. Game Nights really helped us to get closer.” 

“Glad to hear it.” He patted you on the shoulder and turned the corner to the computer room.

When you walked into the living room, you heard everyone exhale in relief. 

“What?” You looked around quizzically. Game Night Crew had gathered again on the couches, this time—thankfully—fully clothed.

“We thought you were Grayson,” Rose called from the couch. “He almost caught us the first time.”

Caught? Doing what?

You weren’t entirely prepared for what you saw but Rose and Rachel were concentrating hard on painting Conner and Gar’s nails.

“Are you completely sure this is vegan?”

“Yes, now hold still.” Rose admonished Gar, applying another coat with professional precision.

Rachel looked up from her handiwork with Conner’s hand. She wordlessly tossed a look from you to Jason who was currently looking more interested in whatever was in the fridge than at the group in the living room. Her face clearly read, make him do something now. You sent her back a look that read, fine.

You cleared your throat. “Jason.” You tried to muster up as much authority as you could. Knowing what you knew now, you knew he wouldn’t budge at the slightest tremor of your voice.

“Hn.” Was his only response, but at least you knew you caught his attention. When he turned, you locked eyes on his. “Come here, ple—I mean. Come here.”

You watched him crack a smile. He closed the refrigerator door and ambled over. So far so good.

He didn’t seem to register anyone else in the room. He only tilted his head, waiting for the next direction.

“Sit down.”

He paused as if contemplating whether or not to answer to an instruction one gave a dog thinly veiled as an order. Even so, he sat. Well, that was easy enough, you thought to yourself. It was almost comical to see him be so obedient.

“Give me your hand.” You primed.

You could see his hesitation as you reached for the nearest nail polish bottle, but it was erased as soon as you met his gaze again. 

“That’s… not my color.”

“Of course.” You picked up a burgundy red. “How could I forget?”

He sneered at your teasing but still allowed your light hold under the palm of his hand.

���Why does he get a choice and we don’t?” Gar pouted, looking longingly at a green bottle of nail polish

“I kinda like the black.” Conner shrugged and gave his other unpolished hand to Rachel.

“You can never go wrong with black.” Rachel agreed.

Jason grimaced as he watched the polish coat his nail. It was wholly apparent that under any other circumstance, he would’ve never allowed you to do this, but you were thankful that he liked to keep whatever honor he had to words. Under the agreement and as long as you spoke to him with confidence, he would listen.

౨ৎ

The next week Dick had decided that based on the success of Game Night with team morale, an outing would be another great chance for the younger members of the team to get closer. That’s why you were now sitting at the beach and squinting the sun out of your eyes. 

You had volunteered to watch everyone’s stuff while they explored the bordering pier. Jason had practically disappeared the moment his flip-flops hit the sand.

It was nice to be out just to be out, not in the field on a mission. Titan’s tower felt like one giant bubble and it was easy to forget that there was life outside being a hero. 

You settled into people-watching as you waited for the rest of the group to return. There was a group of teens playing volleyball by the net, a family of three showing their toddler how to make a sandcastle, and couples—lots of couples. 

“You not gonna go to the pier?”

You were in the middle of gazing wistfully at a couple that was sharing their ice cream when you felt a shadow over you.

“I’m watching everyone’s stuff until they get back.” You squinted up at him. Even with your hat on, it was an incredibly bright summer day.

Jason plopped down on the beach towel next to you. He was wearing swim trunks and an unbuttoned linen shirt which didn’t do much to hide the lean cuts of muscle on his abdomen. Judging by his damp curls, he had just returned from a swim in the ocean.

“I can watch,” He jutted his chin in the direction of the pier. “You should go.”

“Maybe in a little bit.” You dug your feet into the sand, feeling the warmth tingle your toes. You didn’t feel like leaving your spot just yet.

He reached behind you for his towel and bent a bit over to muss his hair dry. You were close enough to feel the tiny droplets of water tickle your skin.

“Do you have to do that right next to me?” You said, not incredibly annoyed though—the water felt cool. It was enough to make you want to go for a swim to cool down too.

“Sorry,” he said a bit sheepishly, peeking up at you from beneath the towel. His hair, now much drier and fluffed, made him look somewhat like a puppy. Cute.

You gave him a small smile before returning your attention to the ebbing and receding of the ocean tide.

“Got a lot on your mind?” 

You quickly broke your stare from the water to see that Jason was still looking at up you, eyebrow cocked in curiosity. It was the look he gave you that always made you think he didn’t quite get you. A fascinated look that made you feel like you were another species under his gaze.

“I was just thinking it’s nice to take a break and be normal for a change.”

“Normal?”

“Like,” you gestured vaguely around the beach. “Everyone here. No missions, no bad guys. Normal.”

“Yea, hanging out?” he snorted, “We do that all the time.”

Jason had been a cape since before you’d even met Dick and the rest of the group. You were still getting used to your new way of life. He was either being willfully obtuse or he really just didn’t understand you at all. You and Jason were opposites after all. Your quiet and shy often clashed with his bold and boisterous.

“I don’t mean just hanging out, I mean other stuff too.”

The couple you had seen earlier caught your eye again. They were now sitting on a beach towel further ahead of where you were. They looked like they were in their own world, nudging each other playfully in laughter. If you hadn’t joined the Titans what would you be doing now?

He followed your line of sight, gazing silently at the couple for a moment before flickering his eyes away to the water.

“We could do other stuff.”  

You expected him to be smirking at you like he usually did when he teased or made a joke, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. When you glanced at him you could see a faint flush on his cheeks. Probably from the heat.

You shook your head, realizing what you implied and trying now to take it back. “I didn’t mean with you, I mean with regular people.”

“What? Like it makes a difference?”

“Well, yea fundamentally. Gar can turn into animals, Rachel has a demon trapped inside her, Rose can’t die, Conner is Superboy. You’re...”

He frowned at your pause. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

You let out a laugh, happy that you’d annoyed him for a change.

“Well, by your logic,” he began, pointedly ignoring your laughter, “then we’re the most normal Titans here.”

He had a point. You didn’t have any special powers either but Dick had taken you in just the same.

“If you want to be a regular person for a day, I guess, now’s as good a time as any.” He shrugged noncommittally as he rose from his spot on the sand. Jason took your wrist and gently pulled you on your feet. “C’mon, before they get here.”

You furrowed your brow, worried about your unguarded post but you were relieved that Game Night crew were already on their way back.

You heard them before you could fully spot them. Conner and Gar had been happily chatting away at the head of the group. Rachel and Rose were holding prizes from the boardwalk games. Dick and Kory, being the ones that drove you here, rounded out the back of the small crowd. Kory seemed to have found delight in the terrestrial delicacy, cotton candy.

After having guided you through the throngs of pedestrians to the main attractions, he released his hold on your wrist and gestured around theatrically as he spoke, "Now we’re just two regular people at the boardwalk. There’s the very normal Ferris Wheel, normal Whack-a-Mole, normal churros gotta love those—”

“I get it,” you laughed cutting him off before he could rattle on everything within visible range around you.

"Nah, I don't think you do, but you're lucky you have me to show you. Watch this."

You shot him a skeptical look and followed after to a target shot game booth. Arrays of red targets were displayed in rows while giant stuffed animals hung along the back wall.

"Which one you want?" He pulled out a few bills to hand the attendant and passed you a few of the colorful balls for you to play a round too.

You pointed at a giant brown teddy bear hanging by its ears.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

One by one the targets fell in succession. He held the last ball in his hand and after a moment of thought, lobbed it lightly askew and letting it fall short of any target.

He gave you a smug smile and collected the teddy bear before handing it off to you.

"You call that normal?" You said incredulously, but still accepting the bear in your arms.

"What? I missed that last one."

"Sure." Jason was nothing if not terrifyingly accurate.

You played a few more games, amassing a trove of arcade treasures for each other, both of you trying your best not to be too good at the games. As you ventured down the boardwalk, you couldn't help but find your eyes linger on the young couples that surrounded you.

"When you said 'other stuff' earlier, you meant like dating stuff, right?" He said innocently between bites of funnel cake. You had decided to rest and were currently sitting down in a shaded food court, stuffed animals in tow.

You contemplated denying it but saw no reason to keep it from him. This revelation being objectively less embarrassing than the time you revealed you were still a virgin during a round of “Never Have I Ever.”

Taking your silence as an answer, he continued. "Well, since we're still doing normal shit we could try that."

You tried not to gape at him. “T-then we’d just be faking it. It wouldn’t be real...”

“So? How would you know real from fake if you've never dated anyone before?"

“Where did you get that from? I never said I didn’t date anyone before.”

“W-well I just assumed since—"

“I’ve been on dates, Jason. I’ve just never had sex.” You retorted.

“Well, Technically. We kinda, y’know..."

You don't know how fucking pretty you look with my cock in your mouth, Y/N

You pursed your lips, mind flashing to his moans, him begging you to put your mouth on him, the sloppy makeout session with him after he'd punished his cock down your throat. That’s the whole reason you guys were even talking this much now. The bet. 

This is the first time you addressed that sexcapade since it happened and it's just been this weird tension ever since. It was the elephant-sized weirdness in the room, whenever you guys were around each other. You wondered faintly if Rachel and Rose were having the same issues after that night too.

"But if you don’t want to…"

"Fine."

"I-Oh,” He stammered as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Ok...um what do you want me to do?" He rubbed the back of his neck, this time the tips of his ears tinged a faint pink.

“I don’t know." You felt yourself blush, "Act like you like me.”

He blinked back his surprise, bemused. “And what would that entail exactly?”

“You know what it entails.” You scoffed, exasperated.

“Not really no. I wouldn’t know something like that.” He recovered the annoying twinkle he usually carried in his eyes.

“I’d rather not do this if you’re going to make fun of me.”

“I’m joking. You mean act like your boyfriend and whatnot. I got it.”

In one swift motion, he leaned in closer and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. The powdered sugar was still sweet on his tongue but as quickly as it started, you could already feel him pulling away.

"W-why did you do that? At least warn me first.”

"'Cuz that’s not what boyfriends do.

“Are you the boyfriend expert now?”

“I happen to be,” He smirked. "You got a little something." He swiped his thumb at what was most likely some leftover sugar at the corner of your mouth and brought it to his lips to taste.

౨ৎ

The ride back home was not totally uncomfortable, but it was still awkward. Jason appeared to be unfazed, joking and laughing with the boys like nothing happened. You tried your best to match his nonchalance, but given the curious looks Rachel kept throwing the both of you, you'd failed.

Jason confused you. One moment it seemed like he liked you, and the next he would act like he barely knew you. You hated it. And to avoid the sting of another unrequited crush, you didn't ask anything of him for a few days, Game Night Bet be damned.

You had been reading a book on one of those rare free-schedule days when a light knock came at your door. When you opened it, Jason was on the other side holding a brown paper bag. You eyed the Bat Burger bag first, and then the boy holding it warily.

“I didn't order anything."

With all the missions and trouble in the city, everyone gradually stopped doing the bet thing anyway.

He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “I owe you. For last time."

“Oh. um. Ok, I guess.” You took the bag from him and set it down at your desk. You figured that would be the end of the conversation but he remained at your doorway appearing to look like he wanted to say something else. You paused, waiting for him to speak and when he didn't, you moved to close the door again.

“W-wait! I… I’m giving you a warning this time.”

Warning?

Then it finally clicked.

“Is… that ok?”

There was a slight worry in his gaze as if he was unsure you'd say yes. You felt something in your stomach flip, words got caught in your throat and you could only give him a small nod.

Upon your approval he stepped in closer, eyes dropping languidly from yours down to your lips. He carefully slid your glasses off his face, folding them neatly on the desk. You felt his hands pull you in by the hip to press your body against him. This time when he kissed you, it wasn't the same as when you were at the beach. It was slower, deliberate. Like he had been building up to this very moment.

You closed the door behind you as the kisses became more wanton and his hands began to roam grasping at your waist and hips, kneading handfuls of your ass beneath your skirt. You loved how he felt pressed against you, sturdy and strong. It wasn't long before you stumbled backward onto the bed and found yourself under him.

"What? Am I too loud?" His brow furrowed in worry when he felt your kisses subside. "I’ll be quieter."

"No, it's not that," you laughed a bit. He did have a habit of making tiny moans through kisses. But you gave him an extra peck on the lips for reassurance. "It’s just...You’re doing this because you want to right?"

“Not even gonna lie, I wanted to do this since the day you showed up.” His smile was bashful, like he just admitted a secret.

The guy you've liked since you joined the Titans had been thinking about you the same way? You thought back to the times you interacted. Jason's attention to you always came in the form of teasing but the weirdness after Game Night and the beach only served to confuse you more.

“Well, you did a shit job of showing it.” You pouted, adjusting your position beneath him to slide your shirt off.

“That’s only ‘cuz I thought you hated me." He sat up a bit to take his own shirt off before returning to plant kisses across your body.

“Ok, hate is a strong word.”

“You’re not denying it.” You could feel him smiling against your skin.

“More like minor dislike. But that’s only because I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I’m sorry." He murmured kissing your jaw, then down your neck. "I think pretty girls make my brain stop working. But I can make it up to you." He slid a hand underneath your unclasped bra and thumbed over the nipple. You let out a small gasp of air. “D'you want me to?”

You nodded, meeting his eyes. 

“Use your words.”

“I want you to-oh fuck." Before you could even finish your sentence, his mouth had replaced his hand on your breast. He made sure to keep his eyes on you as he sucked and made warm licks at one breast, making sure to keep the other occupied with his hand.

In any other circumstance, he would never have missed the chance to tease you about your new choice of vocabulary, but he had a different kind of teasing in mind. He had removed his mouth from your breast and was now kissing up your inner thigh, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over your panties.

“You’re so fucking wet."

He pulled down your panties and worked one finger and then two until his fingers were squelching in and out of your pussy. You'd masturbated before—maybe even masturbated to the fantasy of him fingering you too—but it was nothing like this. His hands were much bigger and roughened by years of combat on and off the field. It was better than you could’ve imagined yourself

“Can I taste it?” He asked, voice hoarse with need. Like if you’d denied him, you might as well have denied a desperately thirsty man water.

Before you could even reply, he replaced his fingers with his mouth. He laved at your entrance, relishing in your whimpering his name and your tangling your fingers through his hair. Jason might've loved a good blowjob, but he practically worshiped pussy. Every suck and kiss of your folds was accompanied by his pretty moans.

It was at this point where you felt yourself hurtling towards climax, but before you could get your much-needed release, you felt the warmth from his mouth leave you.

“Please...your mouth,” was all you could say upon regaining lucidity.

“What'd I say about saying please?” He rubbed a knuckle against your mound; You tried desperately to grind on it.

"J-jason," You whined, squirming under him in impatience. He seemed to enjoy watching you writhe to the same degree he loved to annoy you.

Make. Me. Listen.

Technically the bet was still in effect. As long as you spoke to him with confidence, he would listen, right? You sat up, pushing him onto his back to straddle him. His eyes widened, flashing equal parts in anticipation and welcomed confusion as he ran his hands along your thighs and you could feel his length underneath you. You would take care of that later, but for now, you had your own needs to fulfill.

Jason attempted to meet your lips again, but you only pushed him back to the bed again.

"I… want to cum," You declared simply, trying your best to be confident.

"Yea?" He grinned. "I can help you with that. You gonna sit on my face or do you need to ask for permission?"

"No, just—it’s embarrassing," You said almost breaking character. Almost.

He rolled his eyes. "If y'wanna cum, you're gonna need to come closer."

You crawled over him, tentatively hovering above his face scared to accidentally crush him. Once you got into position, he pressed you down resuming his kisses and licks, moaning as he lapped from underneath you.

"Oh fu—I'm gonna cum," you whimpered unconsciously fisting his hair as you ground against him, using his face shamelessly to ride out your orgasm.

When you sat back on his lap, you felt something under some wetness under you. Had he cum just from eating you out?

"Be honest.” Jason was now catching breath, face glistening with your juices, with a dumb smile playing on his pink and swollen lips.

The pure sight of him—messy and pussy drunk—was enough to make you want to sit on his face again.

“You really did wanna fuck me so bad at Game Night.”

"You’re so full of it." You shook your head, humored. Leave it to Jason to crack a joke post-coital. Not that he wasn't incorrect.

“I'm so flattered you hump your pillow at night and think of me. Since you were riding me like one."

"Are you forgetting that you’re the one that lost the bet? I still have a good two months on you."

"Is that supposed to scare me?" He whispered absently rubbing circles into your hip with his thumb.

"Yes, it should. I can make your life hell."

"Oh really?" His eyes flickered from your lips and back up to your face. That seemed like a risk he was willing to take. From your seat on his lap, you could feel him growing hard again beneath you.

"Yes, really. I was going easy on you."

"You do realize you can’t make me do anything I wouldn’t want to do myself.”

"What about the DoorDash?"

"Well, I ate some of it."

"And the nail polish?"

"I happen to like that color."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, it seemed he had an answer for everything and his smile was growing wider to match every smartass retort.

"Just get over here." You missed the feel of his lips on yours already.

Finding no answer for that, he could only let out a laugh, "Yes, ma’am."

©️ blackreaderfics // dividers by cafekitsune & poison-aesthetics

[milksuu]

Sorry, Mom. I'm The New Cleaning Lady For Heartsteel

Pairings: various!Heartsteel x f!reader

Status: on-going (Cross posted on AO3)

Content/Warnings: 18+ content, explicit themes, suggestive language

Summary: Identity theft was a crime—that was obvious. But when it meant paying off the bills for basically existing and your mother’s hospital expenses, committing a felony didn’t seem like a bad thing. It was like that one quote, from that one band, with that one hit song: “Two sides to a story but they never tell me side.”

Or…something like that. Wait, what was their name again? Heartsteel? Sounds like a dating sim game.

[Reader takes the identity of her mother, who had been hired to be the new cleaning lady for an up and coming boy band named ‘Heartsteel’. Obviously, there’s no way they would ever find out. But that was a joke. Because they’re definitely finding out: one by one.]

“You…brought your own cleaning supplies?”

“You always need to be prepared, young man,” you replied, adjusting your duck-yellow cleaning gloves. They squeeked and flopped comically around your hand and fingers. 

“Ma’am, you do understand today is solely the house tour.” The man folded his arms neatly against his chest, white brow raised. “In order to rely on you fully, you’ll need to be familiar with the estate first. I thought we discussed this beforehand. That and…we have cleaning supplies to provide you with here.”

You paused at the grand modern entrance. You lifted your bucket full of sponges, brushes, and cleaning spray from the dollar store. 'Buy-one-get-one' on all cleaning supplies was the grand deal of the day. How could you pass a penny-pinching bargain? Swallowing your shame, you settled the cheap items on the pristine granite floors. 

“Oh, is that so? Must’ve slipped my mind. Age will do that to you.” You forced a chuckle, adjusting your sterile mask across your youthful face. “That and, I have such a passion for cleaning. I can't help myself. I see the inside of a house, and I just have to clean it. I’m sure you could understand that.”

“I don’t believe I could,” your employer said dryly. “Anyway, if you will, follow me.”

You nodded and shuffled along accordingly. As you stared into the back of his immaculately pressed business attire, a new-found horror struck through you: you had no clue what your employer’s name was. Frantically, you scavenged your pockets. From it, you pulled out a business card, holding it so close to your face you smelled the tinge of clean cologne.

YONE

RIOT RECORDS

DJ / PRODUCER

 EMAIL: yone123@riotstudios.com

TELEPHONE:  XXX-XXX-XXXX

“The bottom floor consists of all of the amenities; gym, entertainment area, recording studio and so on.” Yone stated as he stepped into the open-kitchen plan. When he regarded you again, you awkwardly plunged the card back into your pants pocket. “The boys have their own scheduled chores every week. They’re expected to do it without you having to help them. I’m trying to keep them humble, but easier said than done. Refer to the chore calendar on the fridge. And try not to interfere with it too much.”

“Okay—who switched my protein powder with flour?” Behind an opened cabinet, a heavy-muscled stacked man growled. “Guys. Seriously. This stuff’s expensive. Where’d it go?” When he poured the contents out into the trash can, he plucked out a note from the bottom of the canister. The small print read:

‘Protein powder tastes like dog food.’’

The weight of realization punched him square between the eyes. He threw open the pantry, where dog kibble was stored in a tub at the bottom marked ‘Ernest’. Sett pulled open the container, and sure enough, found his  protein powder and scooper. There was no mistaking his favorite smell of cinnamon crunch isolate, now mixed with the scent of dry-bacon kibble. Another note pasted the inside lid:

‘Woof–Woof ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ’

“A–phe–li–os,” the name gritted between his canines. His ears flattened against his untamed hair, and crumpled the note to dust in his palm. “Oh–Ho. Mess with me all you want; but never mess with my gains. I’m gonna’ prank him back so hard tonight, he’s gonna’ be begging me to stop.” 

“Sett,” Yone coughed, grabbing the Vistayan's attention. “We have a guest today. Our new cleaning lady.”

“Oh, sorry about that.” Sett wiped his powdered hand against his sleeveless shirt. He reached and took your rubber glove with a squelch. “Hey, how’s it goin’, Ma’am. The name’s Sett.” 

You swallowed hard, hoping your glove would remain securely covering your hand. You feared if he pulled back, he would reveal a hand that wasn't so wrinkled for someone supposedly in their late-fifties. And that was according to your mother’s age printed on her driver’s license. Thankfully, you could tell he restrained himself to a delicate shake.

“Would talk more but gotta hit the gym. Nice meetin’ yah though,'' Sett started away, and called back over his shoulder. “Mom, can you take care of Phel for me? I dunno' where he hid the dog food for Ernest.”

Yone exhaled a silent sigh, and part of you felt pity for your employer. He seemed like a parent with a tag-team of overbearing children running around the house. Being a single parent was difficult; you knew this first hand from your own up-bringing. It made you grateful for your mother’s patience and attention. It was the reason you were here in the first place. 

“Let’s continue with the tour upstairs,” Yone said, motioning you to a loft-style staircase. “The second floor consists of all the bedrooms and laundry room. At the end of the hall is my room. As it stands, it’s completely off limits to everyone, including yourself.” He turned a sharp chin in your direction, “Am I understood?”

You gulped and pressed your shoulders straight. “Of course.”

“Mommy, help me!” A bed of green hair bounced to Yone’s side, tugging at his tailored suit. “Kayn’s bullying me again. But I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.”

“You’re such a crappy liar.” The presumed assailant, Kayn, stomped out of the hallway bathroom. Magenta hair stuck to his furrowing brows. With just a towel wrapped around his steaming waist, his abdominal muscles tensed, pointing aggressively at his target. “I was trying to shower in peace, until bubblegum pop princess over here came barging in trying to take selfies of himself. Did you know people usually shower naked? I’d like my junk not to be posted on social media, unless I’m the one doing it. For cash.” 

“It’s not my fault you’re always going over your shower limit. News flash: we each only get fifteen-minutes. But you’re always breaking the rules! You know I take my selfies at the same time, at the same place, every single day. So how about you do us all a favor, and get some better time management?”

Kayn raised a vein popping fist into the air. “How about I get you a better face instead?"

Ezreal cried fake sparkling tears, cowering further behind their producer.

“Enough. The both of you,” Yone tightened around his words like a leash, restraining the quarreling pair. “For once, I’d like for you two to at least pretend you get along in front of others.” 

The two whined and grumbled under their breaths till they fell to a silent agreement. But the peace treaty wasn’t upheld for long. You saw a zap of yellow from the corner of your eye. The image was so fast, you thought you must’ve imagined it—Nope. You definitely saw something. Kayn’s towel knot popped loose. And it wasn’t caused by an event of divine intervention.

The towel billowed towards the ground. And the world felt as if it was turning in slow motion, like one of those car chase movies with excessive explosions. Except, the only explosion here would be your very own heart.

Sure, you took an anatomy class here and there. In high school, you remembered the penis joke’s and games, and they never flustered you. Heck, not even when your friends set your desktop screen to a .gif of dicks spinning in circles—you found that hilarious. And when anatomy classes began in college, they were all very clinical, rudimentary, and otherwise a snooze fest. 

But seeing one in real life when you’ve never had a boyfriend or a one night stand, was truly groundbreaking. Earth shattering, even.

Penis (en)counter: 1

While you were stuck in your prison of naïve embarrassment, Ezreal laughed and pulled out his cell phone, camera light shuttering a mile a minute. 

“You little shi—!” Time sped forward again. With fast reflexes of his own, Kayn whipped the towel and knot back in place. “That’s it. You’re dead.” 

“Uh–Oh. Time to run again,” Ezreal quipped, zooming off down the stairs.

With all bark and full bite, Kayn vanished like a cloud of smoke in pursuit. You coughed against the smog, while Yone merely swatted his hand back and forth, dissipating the gray wisps.

“You’ll have to excuse them,” he commented. “They share the same room, but have vastly different personalities. I arranged most of them together, thinking it’d help them understand each other on a deeper level. And ultimately, help them perform better together in the studio and on stage. My efforts are…yet to be determined.”

“That’s alright. Can’t be easy for young men their age to share anything. Especially with them being full of energy, testosterone, and other things. O-Oh, to be young once more…ah-ha…” you laughed nervously. Oh, God. What the heck were you saying? Honestly, you had to give pardon to yourself. You were still trying to recover from seeing your first penis up close and personal.

The image would be forever burned in your mind.

You were pulled from your self-conscious thoughts. Down the hall, a pair of shadowed eyes peeked through a sliver of door and frame. When your gaze locked together, the other pair of eyes shifted shyly from side to side. As if a poltergeist existed within the room, the visage faded back into the uncanny crack of darkness. The door creaked closed, with an audible click and lock.

Yone pursued straight to the door, and you stood a few paces back. If there was any chance that a ghost was inside living rent-free, you wouldn't be the first it possessed. You weren't a certified Ghostbuster.

But you also weren't a certified Dustbuster, either. No one will know, know one will know, you chanted the comforting hymn. 

“Aphelios. Open the door. I know you’re in there. I can see the computer light flashing,” Yone stated, rattling the door knob. “Where’s the kibble for the dog? Sett told me you have it somewhere.”

There was a beat in the air. From behind the door, you heard feet pacing back and forth, and the sounds of finger taps against a phone screen. Yone’s phone pinged with an alert. He pulled it out, and opened his text messages.

‘I can’t open the door all the way. I set the bucket of dog food to fall on Sett’s head when he comes in. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ’

“For the love of…no more pranks today." Yone pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. "But I doubt you could even manage that. Whatever trap you’ve ensembled, take it down—now. And put the dog’s food back in the pantry. Unless you want to donate a cut of your earnings every month to Ernest’s pet store bill.”

Another pause, followed by begrudging phone taps. 

‘Fine, m O T h E r…(¬_¬")’

“That might take him a few. Depending how intricate the set up was. I would be surprised if the only thing involved in this scheme was just the dog food.” Yone motioned you back down the stairs. “Last thing to see is the outdoor space.”

Continuing with the tour, you passed through the lower floor, stepping down a hallway decorated with awards and magazine clippings. From commercial modeling gigs to sold out venues, your eyes glistened at the polished look the group was slowly cultivating. Which you had to admit, completely contradicted their personal lives.

When you reached a sliding glass door that stretched from floor to ceiling, you stepped out onto a landscaped deck. Lush modern garden trims, a shaded outdoor lounge, and smooth sandstone pavement decorated the space. At the backend, an infinity pool rested in pristine stillness. 

At the head of the pool, a person of sculpted bronze physique posed in swimwear on a lounge chair. When you approached along with your chaperone, he picked up his tropical drink, and tilted it in a cheering gesture.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mama gracing me with his presence. And look's like someone else is with him, too.” The man basking in the sun's rays and oil slicked, shucked his sunglasses onto his dread locks. “Let me guess. This must be the new cleaning lady you hired to pick up after our mess.”

“To a certain degree,” Yone replied. “But not all of the mess, K’Sante. Out of everyone, you should know better.”

“I only joke, Mama.” He grinned smoothly, taking a sip of his frozen alcoholic refresher. “Say, have you seen Sett? I told him to come join me for a tan by the pool. If he wants his muscles to truly pop, he needs to use some oil and not be allergic to the sun. The man is whiter than the sky is bright today.”

As he laughed to himself, Ernest left his chew toy at the far side of the pool, and came to sniff your shoes. With a smile, you slipped a very small piece of your long sleeve up, allowing him to sniff at your skin. The dog lapped his tongue around his slobbering chops, barking delightedly and pawing for you to pet him. You were more than happy to oblige.

These gloves came in handy after all, you thought pleasantly as globs of saliva fell in heaps over your fingers.

“What’s this? Ernest taking a liking to the cleaning lady already,” K’Sante mused at the sight. “Barely warmed up to us when we first met. We won’t mention the illegal trespassing but, call me impressed.” 

With a wink, he flicked his sunglasses back down to the bridge of his nose. “That or he has a ‘ting for older women. Can’t say I blame ‘em. An experienced woman has a certain power that’ll make any grown man cry. And from my own experience, it is never for mercy.”

Oh, boy. You couldn’t imagine your mother being interested in the cougar life-style. Not that you would approve of it. And you were certain your father would descend from the heavens and deliver the backhand of God to any young man who dared otherwise.

Before Yone could address the unsavory statement, Ezreal burst through the backyard sliding doors. Still possessed with laughter, he hopped and skipped over pool chairs and tables. The merriment stopped short when Kayn caught up to the cheeky idol, snatching his wrist which held the phone. From the staggering halt, the phone slipped from Ezreal’s hold, somersaulting towards the pool. 

“M-My phone!” Ezreal paled at the thought of losing thousands of stored photos of himself—Oh, and the blackmail photos he was going to use against Kayn, too. 

Yanking his wrist free, Ezreal pursued the device. But Ernest’s rubber hotdog toy squealed beneath him, forcing him off balance. Kayn latched an arm around Ezreal's slim waist, and pressed him safely against his bare chest.

He huffed against Ezreal's ear. “You can’t swim, you idiot. Remember? Just let it go.” 

Ernest barked at the surmounting commotion. Being the valiant guard dog with the perfect pedigree, he bounded on his thick paws to catch Kayn by the towel, with all the intent to keep them both from falling in. What a good boy! Unfortunately for Kayn, Ernest bit a bit more than he could chew.

Kayn’s voice bass boosted ten-octaves lower. “MY DAMN ASS!”

W-Whose voice was that? Was that even the same person? The thought rattled through you.

A chunk of Kayn's soft meat condensed in the jaws of a furry devil. A shock travelled up the nerves of his spine, into the the muscle fibers of his arm, shoving Ezreal forward. Ezreal flailed his hands in the air, desperate to find some semblance of balance—with no luck, at all. Fumbling on his tip-toes, Ezreal plummeted into the pool with a splash. Kayn stumbled from the after-shock of his spirit being bitten straight through his buttcheeks. His feet met the cursed rubber squeaker, sending him following suit into the pool. Except, the towel had its own plans. It decided to stay behind and not get involved.

Penis (en)counter: 2

“I heard some commotion, fellas. What’s goin’ on?” Sett stepped out from the sliding doors. He caught witness of Ezreal’s face treading water, gasping for bouts of air. Sett’s muscles popped at the sight, barreling towards the scene. “Don’t worry, Ez. I’m coming for yah, buddy!”

Sett launched himself into the air, preparing the most athletic Olympic dive ever conceived.

Kayn inhaled sharply as he broke through the water's surface tension. Recuperating his breaths, he slicked his wet hair back from his face. Looking down at the waters crystal reflection, an odd shadow grew in size around him. And according to the forecast earlier; there was no chance in Hell of clouds or rain. Lifting his nose to the darkening sky, he blanched in sheer horror. A body, massive enough to eclipse the sun, hurled down like a meteor descending to Earth.

What day was it today, Doomsday? He must've forgot; Kayn never bothered to look at calendar's, anyway.  

Back to the painful mistress that was his life; a weak, painful moan escaped him. “You can’t be serious. This isn’t the cool death I deserve—”

Those were Kayn’s final words. A wave rivaling a tsunami consumed him, a random pizza chair float, and the immediate surrounding pool area. Standing in the designated splash zone, pool water soaked your soles, leached into your socks, and dampened your pants to the knees. From K’Sante’s spot, a shot of chlorine or two spiked his drink. He snatched his sunglasses off and shouted the words; “This was the last bit of banana daiquiri mix, you aboas! Now I have to go down to the liquor store and hope they sell it frozen already.”

Yone, with all the grace anyone could hope to be blessed with, merely side-stepped away. A single speck landed on his polished shoes. He narrowed his steely eyes, flicking away the insignificant drop.

You caught something flashing on the second floor of the estate. Looking up, you shielded your eyes from the glaring sun. From one of the windows, you spotted someone holding up a sign. You assumed it was Aphelios. The poster read:

‘4/10 Ezreal. 6/10 Kayn. 10/10 Sett.’

With a dramatic burst through the water, Sett hurled Ezreal over his massive shoulder, and walked out of the pool. Placing Ezreal onto his soaking back, he coughed and gagged against the awful taste of treated water.

He smiled at his new-found savior. “Thanks, Sett. I’m fine, but what about Kayn…”

The group shifted their attention over the silent, lapping water. After a bubble or two, the sight of Kayn’s bare bottom surfaced to the top. Floating like a wet and rounded land-mass, with the additional landmark of a pink dog-bite. 

“Kayn! Hang in there, pal!” Sett launched himself once more into the water, creating another wave of soaking magnitude.

Although the drink had already been spoiled, K’Sante reflexively covered the top of his daiquiri glass. “For God’s sake, Sett. Take your time. It’s not like you’re saving the life of an innocent man.”

As chaos continued to ensue around the gang, Yone placed himself at your side. With a shake of his head, he crossed his arms, and sent a ghost of a smile your way.

“Welcome to Heartsteel,” he said. “Your first day starts tomorrow.” 

Looks like your identity was safe…for now, at least.

an: thanks for reading! the rest of the this story will most likely just be on my AO3. You can find me @ milksuu. comments and suggestions always welcomed. <3