#— moth writes

[help-i-lost-my-sock]

PDA Headcanons - Ace

Word count: 655

Suggestive (N/SFW)

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Ace’s initials are not “PDA” for nothing. He’s not ashamed of showing the world how just hopelessly in love the two of you are.

He loves to touch you - whether it’s holding hands, a hug, a hand on your waist, caressing your hair, a sweet kiss on the top of your head, or a passionate kiss on your lips, he loves to feel you near.

He will often have an arm around your waist or shoulders, or a warm hand resting on the small of your back. His ego will swell to the heavens and beyond if you grab onto his arm while strolling around on some island - it makes him feel loved, wanted, and needed.

When holding hands, he’ll often give it a random squeeze to make you look at him for no reason in particular, other than just wanting to see your smile.

Ace loves to feel your fingers trailing through his hair, especially when he lays down for a nap. A sunny day and a nap on Moby Dick’s deck would be incomplete without his head resting in your lap, and your fingers slowly combing through his dark, shaggy mane. Ace hasn’t known much mildness in his life, not even as a child, and especially not now that he is all grown up and an infamous hot shot. This is why your gentleness towards him makes you and your moments together that much more extraordinary.

Ace loves to show you off. He’s damn proud of himself for scoring someone like you. Anyone with eyes can see how hot you are, but to Ace, what’s inside is worth so much more. Not only are you a treat to look at, but you’re also one of the kindest people he’s ever met. And as the object of your affections, Ace is thoroughly convinced he must be the luckiest guy on Earth.

He often lets you wear his hat, especially when he’s not around. You love carrying a little piece of him with you when the real deal is unavailable, and he loves seeing you wear his things, cus that’s what couples do, right? He doesn’t really have a shirt for you to steal, so then his hat it is. He thinks it’s both cute and funny how you keep insisting on wearing it, despite it clearly being too big for you.

His kisses are passionate. Just like his devil fruit, just like his temper, and his taste in food, Ace brings hotness all around. He’ll capture your lips and kiss you with reckless abandon. And if someone’s watching? Then who gives a fuck? Let them see how much you love each other. You’ll usually be the one to break the kiss - the intensity of which makes you feel a bit awkward in public. Ace will just laugh it off.

When you guys are alone, and he can really let loose, no one can match his passion. His kisses are hot, messy, and sloppy. His tongue will invade your mouth at the slightest chance. It’s not uncommon for him to bite your lip or pinch you so he can slip his tongue into your mouth the moment you gasp.

Ace’s lips are not the only ones to express his passion. His hands will be all over you if given the chance - rubbing, stroking, squeezing, kneading, and pinching.

Ace does not shy away from biting or nipping - whether it’s your lips, earlobes, neck, shoulders, or nipples.

In the same trend, he loves to leave love-bites on your skin - a reminder of your fun times, and a heads-up to any other interested parties that you’re his, and his alone. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he gets a bit of a kick from marking you, especially when others notice and joke about it.

Conversely, however, he’s not big on getting hickeys himself but will proudly show off the red marks your nails dug in his back. 

[mothiir]

penance

the black templars discover human women. Nothing nsfw, only vaguely lewd, with canon typical violence and religious themes. Possibly will follow up with a smut if the spirit moves me

alternative summary: where is this strumpet so I might detest her with my own eyes

—

—

Isaiah takes his helm off to inhale the sweet scent of battlefield smoke. The sky is ruddy with dawn, and the last of the heretic cities is nothing more than smouldering rubble, the would-be rebels against the Emperor’s Will either dead or soon to be. Those too young, or too elderly, to have served a meaningful part in the uprising may yet find redemption as Chapter serfs or servitors — after all, there is little point to justice if there is no mercy to go alongside it. 

Sweat gilds his high cheekbones, and drips down his nape. Taking a moment away from his brothers to say his private prayer of thanks to the Emperor is one of the small ways Isaiah keeps his sanity during these long campaigns. He would fight and die beside his brethren with pride — and yet if he has to hear one more of Reuben’s jokes, he may consider —

No. No, none of that, not even in the privacy of his own head: he must be grateful, always. Mindful and grateful of the Emperor’s blessings. Reuben is a blessing. A hardship, yes, but so often blessings take the form of hardships; of lessons to learn. Reuben is an excellent soldier, and an exercise in patience. 

Perhaps it is the thought of Reuben’s damned puns that drives him further than usual, or the desire to admire the sight of a battle hard-fought. Either way, Isaiah ends up a good five hundred feet from camp before he quite realises it, crunching over charred bones and burned, unrecognisable standards.

Then: a sound. Thin, high, and vaguely organic. At once, he replaces his helmet, Captain Ezra’s words echoing in his memory: boy, there is no point prancing around like the main character in a holo — the enemy does not need to see your pretty face, and nor do I.

Anyway. The noise. His scanners alert him to a life form, hidden behind a pile of corpses. Humanoid. Rabbit-hearted, and trying very hard to remain unseen. 

He upholsters his bolter, and stalks forwards: a faceless, merciless instrument of the Emperor’s wrath. 

—

The clouds hang thick and red, like they have absorbed all the blood spilt today, and the heat is oppressive. A thunderstorm is coming; you taste it in the air. Soon, the rain will extinguish the last of the flaming rubble on this planet you once called home. It will fill the empty eye sockets of those who died for the delusions of your rulers. It will wash the land clean. 

And you doubt you will see it. 

As the Templar yanked you from the rubble, your shoulder had popped from its socket with a sick, wet crack; you had only kept yourself from crying out by biting into your tongue. Now your right arm hangs useless by your side, radiating bright veins of sheer agony. You daren’t make a move to cradle it, to ease your discomfort. 

“Your world is guilty of the crime of sedition,” intones the Templar, his voice as final as a tombstone falling into place. “Your leaders rebelled against the Divinity of the Emperor, and —“

”And I should die for it,” you manage, through lips gummed together with dried saliva and ash. “Because we let it happen.”

He pauses. The subtle tilt of his helm could be curiousity; could be an invitation to continue; could be nothing at all. But you are not dead. Not yet. Something in your chest is kindled, and you remember when you were little, at a school now nothing but ash, how your teacher would complain: that girl, she always has something to say.   

“We let it happen,” you continue, not sure if you are arguing for your life or begging for martyrdom. “We saw the upper echelons turn to Ch — the accursed powers.” Thou shalt not speak the name of the beast, you remember reading somewhere, lest thou invite it in to feast. “And we did not stop them. We worked away, heads bent and faces averted, and we obeyed orders, and the rot spread and ruined our world. I — I thank you, for your cleansing fire, for your — for His mercy. For bringing the Light of the Emperor to this place.”

You cannot curtesy, not in this shape, and so you drop straight to the ground, knees smacking into hard stone. You bare your nape, awaiting judgement, awaiting the blade, your heart singing against your ribs, that desperate song, that too-late plea: oh I want to live. Emperor above, let me live. 

—

“That is a woman,” says Reuben, like he has never seen one before. 

”Yes, Reuben, that is a woman.”

“In our dormitory.”

”Yes,” Isaiah says. ”She is in our dormitory.”

As this world lacks any proper infrastructure — due to the intensive bombing campaign needed to bring it back to the Emperor’s Grace — the Astartes have retired to their battle barge, as Marshal Ezra Rothenberg plans their next movements. 

Isaiah is honoured to consider himself part of the Edessan Crusade. There are more than two thousand of his brothers dedicated to the continued extirpation of Chaos from the Edessan system: a task that was predicted to take ten solar years, and yet is proceeding far ahead of schedule — due, in no small part, to the enthusiastic participation of the new recruits Guilliman so kindly provided them. If Guilliman hoped that the Primaris Marines would take the edge off the Black Templar’s well-known zealotry, he was swiftly disappointed. Within a few days of arriving, the only way to differentiate between the new recruits and their more seasoned brothers was size. 

Isaiah shares a barren dorm with Reuben, and three other brothers. They sleep on plain metal bunks, with a rough woollen blanket and a thin pillow. Other Chapters, Isiaiah has heard, are so decadent and spoiled as to have duvets — which are sacks of feathers — and sometimes even something called a mattress? Absurd. He pities his fellow Primaris Marines, shipped out to such degeneracy. He hopes that they can cultivate an appropriate sense of duty and decorum in the older generation. How can anyone value such petty things as comfort when the Emperor’s enemies still draw breath?

You are sitting on Isaiah’s bed, the blanket around your shoulders, your eyes wide. You have not spoken since he brought you here — barely whimpered when he popped your shoulder back into place. 

“…what is her purpose here?” Reuben says. He sits on his own bunk, opposite Isaiah, his afternoon reading (a hagiography of one of the more exciting saints) sprawled forgotten on his lap. 

“Chapter serf,” says Isaiah. 

“Do we need more serfs?”

”Yes. We do. The ones we have are — uh —very devout — “

The pair grimace. The fact that the serfs spend so long in prayer is to be admired, but it doesn’t often leave them much time to perform their duties. Isaiah is sick of doing his own mending because Serf Osric and Serf Jean are once more faint from fasting and all-night vigils to the glory of the Emperor. 

“Did the Marshal allocate her to you?”

Isaiah pulls an interesting series of expressions. ”Not…exactly,” he allows, unwilling to lie, and yet not wanting to admit the truth. “But he has been…busy, of late.”

”Yes. Busy. With crusading against the Emperor’s enemies.”

”Too busy to be concerned with this sort of thing,” Isaiah says, hesitantly, dangling the bait before Reuben, waiting for him to take it. Reuben leans forwards to better observe you. Isaiah feels a strange twist of pride when you don’t cringe from his regard, but meet his dark eyes with your own, your chin tipped up, your fingers curling into the blanket. Then you suddenly seem to remember who you are, and where you are, and drop your head in supplication. 

“Yes,” Reuben says, slowly. “Far too busy to be concerned with this. Don’t want to bother him.”

Isaiah utters a fervent prayer of thanks to the Emperor, feeling only a little guilty at thanking Him for his brother’s aid in deceiving their Marshal. But it wasn’t really deception, was it? They weren’t lying to him at all — they just weren’t telling him! Completely different. 

“Exactly! It’s beneath his concern.”

”She’s beneath his concern!”

In total accord, both Templars grin at each other, before hurriedly smoothing their faces into expressions of solemn piety. 

“Yes, brother. I am glad that the Emperor has seen fit to deliver unto us a — hang on, can you sew?” Reuben says, addressing you directly. You glance up at Isaiah, then stammer:

“Y-yes my lord —“

“Excellent.”

Reuben kicks up and off his bunk, rummages in the steel box that contains all his worldly possessions, then throws a wad of fabric at you. It unfurls into a dozen pairs of socks that look very much worse for wear.

“Start with those. Then my tunic needs restitching — the Emperor’s Most Holy Iconography is starting to get a bit tattered. Then —“

”Brother Reuben, you cannot hog the new serf —“

”I am offering her the chance to redeem the sins of her forefathers and mothers with holy labour.“

“Well, yes,” Isaiah protests. “But the holy labour cannot just be confined to your menial tasks—“

”Why — do you have menial tasks that need attending to?”

”Yes!” Isaiah says, thinking of his own increasing pile of ragged undergarments. “You can mend Brother Reuben’s socks, and then you must attend to my laundry —“

”And then she can mend my tunic —“

”No, then she must pray,” Isaiah says, belatedly remembering the importance of even the most lowly baselines in adding their voices to the Emperor’s endless praises. “And attend chapel —“

”Where Marshal Ezra may behold her?” Brother Reuben says. “The serf that we do not strictly speaking have, as she has not been allocated to us?”

Ah. Yes. He had forgotten about that.

”She must pray while she works,” Isiaih amends. “And abase herself before the Emperor’s mercy.”

”Yes. But pray quietly.”

”Do you know the appropriate psalms to recite while conducting your redemptive labour?” Isaiah says. You chew your lip.

“The correct litanies while uh…mending the socks of the Emperor’s chosen may have not been included in my education,” you say. Isaiah sighs. Truly, you came from a blighted world. 

“You will learn them,” he says. “The Emperor will guide your tongue. If you fail to learn them then it is a sign that you have not received His Grace, and in that case fear not — we will deliver unto you the Emperor’s Mercy.”

“She will learn them,” Brother Reuben says, with a fervent and touching belief in humanity’s dedication to the Emperor.

 Or, perhaps, a fervent desire to have socks without holes in them. 

—

And so it goes. The Emperor sees fit to decree that the brothers that share Reuben and Isaiah’s quarters remain on the planet to build a chapter monastery there, taking advantage of the natural resources that are now free for use. No new brothers are installed in the dormitory — a great shame, of course, but it does have the benefit of ensuring that Brother Reuben and Isiaiah do not have to face awkward questions about your presence. 

Isiaiah has never been in close contact with baseline humans before, save the serfs aboard the fleet, and he knows that it is his duty to ensure that you are free of Chaos’s taint, and suitably devoted to the God Emperor. As such, he ensures that you have the appropriate reading material, and tests you to ensure that you can recite the benedictions. The first time you stumbled over an incorrect word, he had sighed deeply and sorrowfully, reaching for his bolter. Brother Reuben had dragged him to the side and explained — in hurried whispers — that humans do not have the same eidetic memory as Astartes, and the misstep was not indicative of a lapse in faith but simply a sign of your humanity. 

Fascinating. 

There are other baseline issues that surprise both brothers. They sleep perfectly well on their hard metal bed frames, and their serfs often deliberately braid thistles into their blankets in order to better scourge their flesh for the sin of being mortal. You, however, suffer greatly for the first few days. You end up with deep purple shadows beneath your eyes, and you wince when performing even the simplest of tasks. 

“I am sorry my lords,” you stammer, when Isaiah confronts you on your constant yawning. “It is just — I am cursed to be a woman, and thus I do not have the fortitude that you have, and my body is frail and weak and cannot find rest in the blessed conditions that you enjoy.”

Reuben magnanimously permits you the use of a blanket and two of the pillows left by his brothers. Isaiah thinks that pandering to your body’s frailty could well be slowing your path to redemption, but he bows to his brother’s greater knowledge. 

He is perturbed by how much you rest — as much as six hours a night, if you are permitted to sleep continuously. Once again, Reuben explains that this is normal for the baselines. Besides, if Isaiah wants devout serfs, he is more than welcome to once more entrust his care to Osric and Jean. 

Isaiah stops questioning your rest hours swiftly. He does not want to go back to the days of having to convince a flagellant to polish his pauldrons. Without the brothers seeking them out, the old serfs seem happy to spend most of their time in the chapel, or wandering the halls while caning themselves and loudly declaring the Emperor’s benevolence to all. 

Yes, Isaiah wants to say, we know He is very benevolent and very merciful. He also wants you to do your damn jobs. 

The first real challenge occurs ten days into your time aboard the barge. You drop to your knees before Isaiah, assuming the penitential crouch you always take on when you address either of them. The sight of you prostrate at his feet — spine a neat curve, head bowed, hands clasped — always makes Isaiah’s stomach warm and twist. He enjoys seeing you so keen to atone, so eager to please the Emperor, and to receive  His mercy. 

“My lords, I humbly beg your permission to take a moment to clean myself — I have not managed to do so since leaving my accursed planet, and I fear that I dishonour your presence by performing my duties while unwashed.”

”You have washed yourself,” Isaiah says, frowning. He’s seen you wipe your face and underarms with a wet rag, and you wash your hands every time you go to the bathroom (a sensitive experience for all concerned, given that one of them has to escort you to the nearest convenience, and the other has to stand watch to ensure no one sees you).

”Yes, but — a shower, my lords, that is what I am asking for.”

Isaiah sniffs the air thoughtfully. True, you do smell a little sourer than you did previously, but he has lived with far more odiferous people; Brother Reuben during his ‘bathing too frequently is decadent and an offence to the Emperor’ phase for one.

(That particular penitence had been ended when Marshal Ezra had thrown Reuben bodily into the icy plunge pool and announced to all that the Emperor suffered enough on His golden throne — the Templars did not need to add their stench to the tribulations He endured.)

”Humans require more maintenance than Astartes,” Reuben allows. “It cannot hurt to permit her to bathe.”

Still, they do not want to risk taking you to one of the communal showers, nor do they want to send you off to the serf quarters. Several of their brothers are already suspicious of their suddenly-improved attire, and the last thing either of them want is to face questions about your presence — or, worse still, a request to share. So Isaiah fetches a large copper tub used by the medicae for those too unwell to stand upright to bathe, and fills it with water, and Brother Reuben donates one of his scraps of yellow soap. 

“Th-thank you my lords,” you say, from your usual prostrate position; then you stand, a little unsure, eyeing them almost expectantly. The tub is set in the middle of the dormitory; Reuben is reading one of his favourite scriptures, while Isiaiah tends to his bolter. ”Uh — is it okay if I —“

You gesture at your smock. Isiaiah blinks at you. 

“Are you asking permission to bathe? I have said that you may — do not waste my time with needless questions.”

He turns back to his bolter, wiping the sacred oils onto the stock, murmuring the appropriate incantations to appease the machine spirit within. A flurry of fabric; a splash; a pained squeal. 

“This water is ice,” you yell, and Isaiah, startled, looks up. 

His hand remains looped around the bolter, polishing up and down, up and down — but he finds he cannot tear his gaze from you. The water comes up to your waist, but the rest of you is bare, your flesh goosepimpled from the cold, your arms clutching your torso. Your elbows press under your breasts, pushing them up, where they glisten under the harsh dorm lighting. As you shiver, one nipple flashes.

Brother Reuben stares as well. 

“Emperor preserve me,” he mutters, and Isaiah comes to his senses, turning his eyes aside. 

“Woman!” he says, sounding only a little strangled. “Cover yourself!”

Another splash. When Isaiah peeks up — just to check that you have ceased to offend the Emperor with your naked bosom — he is gratified to see that you are neck deep in water.

”S-sorry my lords,” you say, teeth chattering.

”You are a Chapter Serf of the Black Templars,” Isiaha says hotly, his grasp tightening on the bolter, his strokes growing surer and stronger, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm. “You must act in a way that is fitting for your station! Do not flaunt yourself so! You must conduct yourself with - with decorum, and modesty. Be demure! Mindful!”

Isaiah, a little breathless after his holy vitriol, looks to Brother Reuben for moral support. Reuben is looking fixedly at his book. 

“I saw nothing,” says the other Templar. “I am blind to that which does not beatify the Emperor Himself. The nudity of a serf has no bearing on my day’s prayer. It is as insignificant as the passage of a beetle along the floor.”

”Is that why you are reading your scripture upside down?”

Reuben does not look up, even as he turns the book the right way around. 

“Brother Isaiah, if you polish that gun any harder it is liable to blast a hole in the wall.”

”It is not loaded, Brother Reuben,” Isaiah snaps. “I am conducting my daily worship to the Machine Spirit.”

”Is that what you call it?” Reuben mutters, and Isaiah elects to ignore him. 

—

“Where did you obtain the uniform for her?” Isaiah says, the next day, his voice hushed. It is just after morning prayer-drills, and the pair are walking back to their dormitory to change, before their lunchtime prayer-drills.

”I — just from the other serf’s laundry,” says Reuben, casting a quick look around. The halls of the battle barge are more akin to that of a cathedral than a space-ship, with huge domed ceilings, and statues placed at regular intervals in well-lit alcoves. Isaiah normally takes great comfort in the stern regard of his immortalised forebears, but for some reason today he feels their gaze like a brand, like he is a neophyte and they are watching him commit some secret and terrible sin. 

“They do not fit her,” Isaiah says. Reuben frowns. 

“What do you mean?”

”I mean — “ Isaiah pauses for a moment, struggling to find the words. Emperor grant him Reuben’s lack of observational skills — truly, his brother is a sterling example of blind faith. “I mean…this morning. When she bent over to pick up the scripture. Her skirt. It — moved in a way that displayed her rump in a way that is most unbecoming to a serf.”

Reuben exhales, his jaw ticking minutely. “Oh? I did not notice. I do not make a habit of looking at the serf’s rear end.”

”I was not looking at her rear end!” Isaiah whisper-shouts. “It was…just there. Wiggling.”

”Wiggling?”

”Yes, wiggling.”

”Is our serf distracting you from your duties, Brother Isaiah?” Reuben says, in a tone of concern so genuine it feels like mockery. 

“No! I just — it would bring shame upon our crusade if our serfs are not modestly attired.”

”I quite agree. However, I would argue that our serf is very well attired. Covered up almost to the throat.”

”Almost,” Isaiah says. “When she bends over to wash her face in the morning, if you stand at the incorrect place in the dormitory, and you have the misfortune to be looking for a book on the other side of the room, and then you find yourself looking downwards at the incorrect moment so you may observe the flagstones, you will be cursed with a view straight down her sleeping smock — and you will see both her breasts, exposed quite fully! It is revolting. A blight upon the Emperor.”

”How hideous! We must of course remedy this at once.”

”At once.”

”However,” says Reuben, as they round a corner, approaching their dormitory. “In order for me to avoid benighting mine eyes with such a distasteful view, I would much appreciate it if next time the serf washes her face you were to demonstrate the precise angle that I should avoid standing at. For I only wish to see what is pure and just in the eyes of the Emperor, and in order to do so we must have a full understanding of where to avoid looking.”

Isaiah pauses for a moment. After all, is it not his duty to guide his brothers when they seek to avoid sin? “Yes,” he says. “I will ensure that I show you most where you must not stand, and where to avoid casting your eyes. And — if I may make a suggestion?”

”Of course, brother Isaiah.”

”Perhaps it is not the uniform. Perhaps it is the way the serf has learned to stand and bend. Coming as she does from such a depraved world, riddled with heresy, it is natural that she does not know the right and proper way for a servant of the Emperor to move. Perhaps we should ask her to bend over a few times for us, and thus we can best advise her on how to avoid unnecessary…wiggling.”

Reuben grins at the thought of guiding a sinner onto the path of the righteous. “Yes, brother Isaiah. I do believe we should.”

[moth--blood]

Obey Me × MC with chronic migraines

[ ft. the 7 brothers (seperate), Diavolo, Barbatos ]

cws: fluff mostly, brief nsfw ref with Asmo

Lucifer

the most consistent of the brothers with getting your meds and not panicking, more importantly

he tends to get small headaches from overworking, so he offers his meatheads to make you feel better if you don't have any practical ones ("no, im not letting you chug a gallon of chocolate milk thats not going to help. ..what do you MEAN thats worked before???")

insists on you laying down and resting in his room until you feel better. doesn't matter how often it is, he always makes you stop whatever you're doing to go rest

will play his softer records while you sleep in hopes it'll help the migraine go away faster

Mammon

panics, first and foremost.

are you broken? dying? humans are fragile MC don't laugh at him he's WORRIED

especially worried if you describe the pain as stabbing. for a second he genuinely thinks you're being stabbed by some Witch's voodoo doll of you. that concern never fully leaves

his worry turns to pampering when he's realized you're not, in fact, being stabbed through a doll, and now he's full of questions

will suggest anything and everything he can think of to help you, from the lights to kisses. doesn't matter he WILL try it

Levi

in awe you came to him about being in pain before anything else

awkwardly offers to let you sleep in his tub, and to get you meds or something else you might ask for

if the lights in Henry's tank bother you he'll put blankets over the tub so you don't have to look at them so directly

if physical contact helps and you ask him to lay with you he will lose his fucking mind. he'll do it but he'll be stiff as shit for several minutes before finally relaxing

offers to read his/your favorite manga to you if the noise wont be a bother

surprisingly really fucking clingy when you're so reliant on him. it makes him feel special

will play the lofi or quiet anime music that helps him sleep if the noise won't bother you. he figures if it helps him sleep it might help you not be in pain :)

Satan

also in awe you chose to come to him with this, especially if it's NB!Satan. he takes less time to process than Levi though

makes a big show of tucking you into his bed to rest, offers to get you tea and to read to you if the noise isn't an issue

if lights are a trigger dont even worry about it his room is dark as fuck!

he pampers you a bit less than Mammon does, but he still insists on getting you things and doing stuff for you.

takes very quick notice of your triggers, and does his best to help you avoid them!

zero hesitation will yell at the others for possibly accidentally causing another attack he gets protective quick.

Asmo

immediate pampering he doesn't need to be told twice

"oh, you don't feel good? here let me take care of EVERYTHING today don't even worry about it"

if scents are a trigger and his soaps or perfumes/colognes get a migraine going he will not stop apologizing. he feels AWFUL

dims all his lights and does his best to neutralize all the smells in his room, insisting you stay and let him take care of you

will also try everything he can think of, or at least suggest it

he's not the biggest fan of the idea of doing stuff to you while you're in pain but if that helps you he'll try it. but you gotta tell him the second it starts getting worse because the pampering will continue exactly where it left off

Beel

he's so worried :(

also lowkey thinks you're dying so he's extra careful with you.

will do anything you ask bro is at your beck and call when you don't feel good

akin to everyone else he'll bring up anything he can think of that might help

more than willing to cuddle you into feeling better if you ask.

gets Lucifer to bring you meds because he doesn't wanna leave you alone, and if you're not the biggest fan of taking them he'll stare at you with the biggest puppy eyes until you do

Belphie

pulls you upstairs to the attic and insists on you sleeping it off, even if that doesn't always work

a big cuddler so he doesn't mind holding you if physical contact helps

goes and gets you medicine and a drink without even being asked, and if you question or tease him about it he'll just mutter something about wanting to sleep in peace without you complaining about your head

he's just worried don't let him fool you again

very observant with your triggers and when you're around bright lights or loud noises, for example, too long he'll pull you aside and quietly ask if you're still feeling okay. if it's a yes he'll pretend he never asked and if it's a no, he'll pull you back to the attic pft

Diavolo

also thinks you're dying at first. i mean, for all he knew you were! Solomon hardly counts as human so imagine his absolute panic when his first actual human starts complaining of excessive brain pain. several times.

after you've been around a while though, he's super calm about it

words cannot express how quickly he goes "oh okay! here, drugs"

does keep your medicine on him basically constantly, just in case!

takes you to his room or to an unused room in RAD so you can rest for a little bit, and if it's bad enough at RAD he'll just fucking leave to take you home lmao

doesn't fully understand still, but he's doing his best! it's the thought that counts even if he's unknowingly making it just a little worse </3

Barbatos

also keeps your medicine on his person after a while.

memorizes your list of triggers and things that help as soon as he realizes you get migraines at all. he uses his power to find when you mention said lists and if you ask, he'll just smile and tell you not to worry about it

also tends to pull you aside when you're around your triggers for a while to make sure you're alright. regardless of answer he reminds you he has your meds if you need them

if warm drinks or comfort foods help, he figures out how to make them and when pretty fast. he likes being efficient at getting your pain to go away as soon as possible

[thishazeleyeddemon]

Magic wars leave behind bodies, and occasionally, spells. Cast but not detonated, you can find them glowing softly at the bottom of streams that run through old battlefields.

You can’t just swim down and get them, though – touch will have them go off in your hands, and then who knows what will happen to you. One of the spellminers I worked with touched one carelessly once – not even with his hands, with the end of a pickaxe – and it was me who had to carry what was left back to his family, afterwards. You don’t go through something like that and not learn how to be careful, let’s put it that way.

----

Hey I wrote a fantasy short story (based on a prompt by @deepwaterwritingprompts) and I put it on Ko-fi! It's free or pay what you want! Please read it and tell me what you think!

[m0thsrot]

To Be Reborn You Must Break (Ronin x OC)

TW for the following: suicidal ideation, descriptions of gore, unhealthy relationship dynamics(?), bad writing because I don’t write DHGDGD this is an angst fic but kinda fluffyish

3 months. It had been 3 months since Norms started dating the devil. Satan incarnate, Lucifer in the flesh, ever-so-repulsive Ronin Beaufort. The boy he loved like a moth loves a flame, and who loved him like a maggot to rotting flesh.

The two were terrible for each other, and in that, they were perfect for each other.

It’s all Norms had ever wanted. This grotesque form of love, the kind that destroys and rebirths just to destroy again in the tenderest ways possible. The kind that felt like tender decay. It was everything Norms needed.

So then, why, even now, did he feel so fucking awful?

Those were the thoughts swirling in Norms head as he lay against Ronin’s chest in the other man’s bed, cradled like a grieving man does a fresh corpse. He was happy, he supposed. There was no better feeling than this, being warm and safe in the arms of a man that could kill you in an instant, the arms of a man who promised him mutual bloodshed and delivered. But even so, Norm couldn’t shake the never ending hollowness in his chest, a gaping emptiness that made his head hurt as pressure built in it.

“What’s goin’ on in my little god’s head there, darlin’?” Ronin spoke, stroking the back of Norms’ head with one of his hands while the other held around his torso. His dark eyes were unusually soft, though not entirely gentle. He was Ronin, after all.

“Nothin’, I’m just happy to be in your arms.” Norms’ replied with his usual shit-eating grin. Was it real? He couldn’t tell anymore. There was no difference to him and the lines between true emotion and performance were long dead.

“Yea? ‘S nice, damn right, but I want more darlin’. Why stop at limbs? Let’s tangle in each others intestines.” Ronin replied with his own smirk.

“That’s all I’d ever want” Norms breathed out, closing his eyes.

He knew Ronin said it mostly as a joke or attempt to shock him, but a large part of Norms became instantly excited at the notion, as if mingling their entrails and dying as one would fix his hollowness.

Maybe it would.

Ronins voice cut through the silence again, but this time, the sarcasm was gone. The playfulness was gone. All that remained was a kind of knowing, like how his tone was whenever Norms talked to him about his dysphoria.

“Christ, darlin’, just let yourself fall apart.” He whispered, and norms’ heart stopped. His eyes reopened, but ronin beat him to speak.

“You’re festering, rancid, rotting in yourself. Where’s the fun in doing that alone? Fall apart, Norm. I’ll kiss your broken, bloody pieces.”

There was a stillness that hung in the air for a moment. Norms’ eyes stung, his head and chest aching in grief over his very existence. He never wanted to be *this* pathetic, this exhausting and annoying. An attention-seeking burden. At least, that’s how he viewed it. But as Ronin’s grip on him tightened, nails digging into his soft flesh in a way that made it feel as gentle as a kiss, his own guilt for being so sad gave in to his emotion.

A sob. A cracked, trembling, throat scraping disgusting sob was choked out from norms’ throat. His despair was on full, visceral display.

The devil cradled the young god’s emptiness in his hands and kissed it into rotten ichor.

[hucowboyification]

Hello I am here to be a Bucktommy menace :) I don't have something super specific but the vibe of "god it's too hot to wear clothes right now"?

(Sorry this is Very short and not particularly smutty- when i say warm up mini fills, i mean mini bfjcbdjc.)

They're only inside for a matter of minutes before Tommy's shirt comes off, then his belt; but before he can pull his pants down, Buck damn near throws himself at Tommy, hands clutching at his sides while he presses himself against his boyfriend as firmly as he possibly can.

"Hey, hey!" Tommy protests between kisses before finally managing to settle his hands on Buck's shoulders, pushing him back slightly. "God, Evan. You know people can be naked for reasons other than sex, right?" Tommy laughs,

Buck stands there for a moment, looking like a puppy whose bone was stolen, before sitting down on the other end of the couch and fiddling with the remote control.

"Sorry, did you, uh-" he mumbles, flipping quickly between different shows. "Uh- cooking show?"

Tommy nods, raising a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. Buck is just... so good. And so sincere. It's impossible not to tease him.

They get ten minutes into a show (Tommy has no clue what it is, really- he's been too busy trying to pretend to not watch Buck trying to pretend to watch the show) before he finally decides to stop teasing.

In one smooth movement, he grabs Buck's arm, yanking him over so he's half laying on Tommy.

Buck looks so surprised that he just has to laugh, which causes Buck to make a somewhat ridiculously pathetic face that Tommy can't resist kissing.

"Come on, Evan- I was messing with you," he says, hands cupping Buck's face. "Just wanted to see what you'd do."

Then Buck is kissing him again, even more eager for having been denied, however briefly, and their show is forgotten; not, of course, that either of them had paid any attention to it in the first place.

Feel free to send any Tarlos or BuckTommy prompts my way!

[arcade-chaos]

Day 3: Chill

Subnautica au! Mer sun and Moon, they/them for insert, cuddles

I've been reading not enough subnautica aus, so i went a little feral. you know what thing where someone puts their cold feet or hands on their partner? Ya thats Moon. Anywhos

The base was frozen. That was the only explanation that came to mind as they groggily slipped into awareness, some logical part in the back of their brain knew they should get up and find whatever faulty wire had let the temperature drop so low, but they would be damned if they crawled out of the warm bubble of their blankets. Groggily they poked their head out, snatching up their datapad before diving back under to ignore the freeze that nipped their ears. 

It didn’t give them anything helpful, chiming off that they needed to conserve heat while looking through the paneling with their scanner. That sounded like an activity for someone not in their undersuit, preferably one with thick slippers. And maybe a hat. 

With what could only be described as the world's most tortured groan they rose, stumbling towards their wetsuit as they clung to the blankets last bit of warmth. Their feet were already frozen by the time they slipped it on, going as far as to wear the flippers to avoid frostbite. 

“I knew I should’ve stayed in the shallows.” They grumbled halfheartedly. They knew they needed to get deeper, and the rocky cliff they were clinging to was the easiest way down to the river, but hell if they didn’t miss the warm waters of the shallows. Something distant splashed up in the moonpool, a quiet rumble soothing their concerns. They frowned and shivered as they scanned the bedroom, moving down the hall to meet Moon who was, as usual, tracking water through the base. 

“Rude.” They grumbled, ignoring his purr that turned into a little coo. He shuffled in front of their scanner as it buzzed, looming up to stare at their face. “Ya stinker?” He frowned and stuck out his tongue, though it didn’t last long. Instead he placed his hand over their head, which made them pull back from the chill of the water that clung to his skin. 

“Hurt?” He whined, beginning to nose under their blanket cape for a wound. 

“No, not hurt. Just cold.” He frowned, clicking over the word a few times as he circled them. “Cold, like not warm. Shallows are warm, down here is cold.” He chuffed, his tail wetly slapping the floor as he stared at them. “You’re also cold.” 

“Cold… Bad?” He frowned.

“Not necessarily. It’s only bad if it's too cold.” They gestured to the room, scanning the wall again. “I gotta find whatevers making my base cold and fix it.” Moon hummed, following them for a bit before piping back up. 

“I’ll be back. Get Sun.” They hummed a goodbye, sighing as the scan came up clean yet again. It wasn’t life threatening by any means, they were dry enough, but the combination of flippers and blanket cape made getting around the space difficult. They managed to get through the green house, after fretting over all the plants, and into the moonpool by the time their companions came back. Sun skittered towards them immediately, stopped only by Moon tugging his tail back.

“Wet.” He chided, pulling up to the opposite wall to shake off.

“Oh NOW you respect my wishes.” They snorted, teeth chattering as they shook. It was even worse in here. The scan relieved their greatest worries, the insulation in the left wall was soaked. They pulled off their blanket and prepared to dive in to patch the hull, stopped by Sunny’s warm hands on their neck.

“Cold??” He fretted, purring as they leaned into his hands. Despite the dampness they could feel the heat coming back to his skin. 

“Ya, I gotta fix the outside before it’ll warm up again.” They hummed, content to just stay there in Sun’s grasp to soak up the heat. Sun seemed pretty content with that plan too, pulling them back as Moon snatched up their scanner.

“I'll fix.” He grumbled, clicking the button repeatedly and staring at the little laser grid it lit on the floor. 

“You don’t know how.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Get rock, point, fix.” Okay, maybe he did know. Props to Alterra for making tech so easy they supposed. 

“Only because you’re so nice.” They taunted, trying to tighten their jaw to keep their teeth from clacking. Sun quickly scooped them and the blanket up, carrying them deeper into the base as Moon sank below the water. They didn’t protest when he removed their flippers, wrapping them both in the blanket to lay on the bed. They could feel his heartbeat under his scales, coursing warmth through his limbs as he rubbed little circles on their back.

“Better?” They sighed, snuggling a bit closer to warm their nose.

“Mmhm…” They mumbled, suddenly much sleepier. Their datapad beeped as Moon resurfaced, clamoring into the room with a wet shake.

“Fix. When warm?” 

“Mm…” They squinted at the pad. “An hour or two.” Moon seemed annoyed with the answer, Sun chose to snuggle closer instead. 

“I'm warm.” He purred, seemingly pleased with the situation at hand.

“Yep, very warm.” They snorted, giggling as Moon whined at the foot of the bed. “Why are you pouting?” They taunted, pulling away to get a better look. Moon growled softly, his lure wagging. 

“... Cold.” He mumbled, eyeing the bed and Sun with clear jealousy. Sun clicked something and pulled them a little tighter, eyeing his still damp skin. 

“You can come warm up if you dry off-” They didn’t get to finish their request before he was scampering off and rubbing himself on the towels. He returned even quicker, leaping into bed rough enough to make it bounce. They were glad they opted for the two person size, even then it was squished with two mers around them. At least the blanket stopped Moon’s chill from leaching their heat. Moon purred quietly, curling his tail around their form and over Sun’s back, wiggling down into the blankets quickly.

“Cold!!” Sun squeaked, pressing even closer to the human sandwich in the middle as Moon cackled. 

“Warm.”

[silverwings22]

Help Moth Make a Decision

So I very much want to participate in ClonexOC Week. I had a ton of fun with my Arttober project and I really think that towards the end the daily practice was starting to improve my digital art skills. (I am bullied by my own lack of knowledge, having done only traditional art for 30 years, but I wanna learn.) My problem is: Picking an OC to focus on feels like trying to pick a favorite child. I've narrowed it down specifically to the Bad Batch OC's at least. For context here, Face of Blood and Ink will at least be partially posted by February. Doctor's Orders will not be. Caught in the Crosshairs and Song of the Sea are finished.

[hotmothsummer]

Hi! i rewrote some bits of the episode with starscream and hashtag bc i love them oh so very much and i feel as though the ep didnt hit the tonal beats i wanted. Check it out if u wanted more hashtag and Starscream bonding or more exploration of Megatron’s abuse

[lessons-from-moths]

have we talked about a MP100 Gravity Falls AU fic yet??? Have we done that???? With Reigen as the disgruntled owner of the Mystery Shack (Psychic Shack??? Workshop it), Serizawa as his awkward but well-meaning employee, Mob and Ritsu as the kids of his cousin who come to stay with him over the summer and cause a lot of strange shit to happen, and the rest of the cast as random citizens?? With Reigen conning the hell out of everyone but also trying to juggle the secrets of the town? With Mob accidentally unlocking a lot of those secrets and inadvertently unleashing a powerful demon? Have we talked about this AU yet?

[help-i-lost-my-sock]

A Penny for Your Thoughts (Ace & Reader)

A/N: While I love cocky, confident Ace, I felt like the softer, more damaged side of him deserved some love too <3

Summary: Ace has been feeling a bit low lately, and has been isolating from Reader, and the crew. Reader goes to talk to him, and a rather emotional interaction ensues. Please see warnings.

Warnings: Ace is having an emotional, and vulnerable moment. Ace struggling with his self-worth. Mentions of alcohol usage.

Writing prompt:

"Did you just kiss me?"

"Was I not supposed to?"

"I don't know... But can you do it again?"

Tags: Ace x Reader, angst & comfort, Ace dealing with self-worth issues

Word count: 2900

Dividers by @cafekitsune

You and Ace had been close friends for quite some time now. Very close, actually. Not quite as close as you’d have liked to be, but that did not matter much, as long as you had his friendship. Yes, if nothing else, his friendship was enough. 

Lately though, your friendship seemed to have been somewhat shaken. For some reason, Ace had been distancing from you, and all others lately. Sure, he’d still act fine when people talked to him. But that was not quite the way it used to be… The Ace you’d known so far was a bit of a chatter box - that is, when he was not fast asleep on the deck, or with his face in a plate of food. He loved to socialise with the crew, and was always offering to help wherever he felt he could be of any use. He’d often be engaged in some conversation or another, swapping tips and tops, cracking jokes, or regaling his men with tales. Now, however, he’d rather lean over the railing, gazing at the sea, lost in thought, or sit alone, isolated, than engage with others. He’d slip out during group conversations, or spend hours shut in the study, haunched over maps, and documents, working his way through endless stacks of paperwork - a task he’d always dreaded more than any other. It was not quite the same, no. 

It would be a lie to say it did not worry you. Ace was your best friend, and, if you were being honest with yourself, he was a bit more than that. It was only natural for you to notice, to miss him, and to worry. You couldn’t bring this up around others - it was clear it was not something he’d want broadcast in front of a crowd. So, you decided to speak to him as soon as you’d catch him alone. It shouldn’t be too hard. Afterall, he tended to seclude himself every chance he got those days. So, you waited. Ace had spent most of the day in the study. At lunch, there was not enough privacy to speak to him, so you let it slide. Afterwards, he disappeared, and you had no idea where. 

Eventually, night had fallen, and the Whitebeards were having a party on the main deck. It seemed like your plan would have to wait another day. The crowd grew and grew, as the music played, and the booze flowed. It was not unusual for pirates to party, and the parties on the Moby Dick never disappointed. Or at least, they never had, until this point. For, as expected, you could not find Ace anywhere in the crowd, and a party without him simply felt incomplete. 

You spent some of the night gliding through the crowds, slipping from clique to clique, from conversation to conversation, eventually setting camp up by yourself by the refreshments table. You sighed as you scanned the swaying masses, as they sang, and danced, and chatted… as if they hadn’t even noticed. 

“Hey,” came a voice from behind you, as a hand gently grasped your shoulder. You turned around to find Marco, and Thatch. Thatch had a compassionate smile on his face, and, while Marco didn’t show it on his lips, the same compassion, and understanding could be read in his eyes as he looked down at you, secluded as you were, camping alone by the booze. 

“We know,” Marco says softly. You tilt your head sideways, questioning him with a silent look. 

“You must be thinking we hadn’t noticed how Ace has been drawing himself back lately,” he starts, as he takes his hand off your shoulder, and turns to look at the merry-makers. “How can the crew party as if they don’t even notice? But we do notice. We all do.” Now that he mentioned it, it dawned on you that Ace’s presence was not the only absence here tonight - a certain carefreeness seemed to escape many that night, and certainly those close to Ace - you, the commanders, Pops, and the men of his division. Now that you were aware of it, you saw it nearly everywhere - in their eyes, as they, too, scanned the crowd; on their lips, curled in half-smiles; on the very countenance of their bodies. They could all tell something - or rather, someone - was missing that night. 

“We were hoping a party might draw him out,” joined Thatch. “The plan was to get some booze in him, and hope it’ll loosen him up enough to tell us what’s wrong - how we can help. But, as you can see…” 

“He didn’t show,” finished Marco. 

“He never showed up,” you said simultaneously. 

“Yup…But!” he added with excitement, and you saw a smile creep on Marco’s face as he turned to look at you once more. 

“We got one more thing we’d like to try.” 

“Ah, and that is where I come in, I presume?” You turned to look at them, swirling your drink, as you waited for them to continue. 

“Yep,” they confirmed in unison, before Marco proceeded to explain. “See, we found him sulking alone on the quarterdeck. Seems he came out for the booze, but didn’t stick around for the company.” 

“Ouch! Well, that’s flattering,” you remarked jokingly, knowing full well it was nothing personal. 

“Yeah, well, he won’t talk to us,” explained Thatch. 

“Yep, we’re clearly part of the ‘company’ he seems to be avoiding… Which brings us to your part.” 

“Ah, I get it. You want me to go up there, and see if I fare any better than you two.” 

Thatch was smiling, while Marco chuckled at your deduction, giving you a small smirk. 

“No,” he answered, “we know you’ll fare better than us.” The small, lopsided grin on Marco’s face made you cock an eyebrow for an instant, but you quickly brushed it off, as Thatch joined in once more.

“Yeah, we know you two are close. Hell, no one’s closer to him than you, except maybe his brothers,” added Thatch, matter-of-factly. 

“So, what we want from you is to go up there and bring him back to Earth.” 

You looked at them - they clearly cared about him, and were now resting their hopes on you, giving you a chance to help. They were giving you a chance to speak to him alone about whatever it is that’s been bothering him, just the way you’d told yourself you’d do. You glanced at your drink, swirling it around some more. Thatch’s words about how close you and Ace were made you feel warm inside. Maybe there was hope for you yet… But now was not the time for that. Snapping out of your thoughts, you looked up at your fellow conspirators. 

“Leave it to me!” you declared, shooting them a grin. 

“I knew we could count on you,” cheered Thatch, with a big smile, while Marco kept on his usual lazy smirk, giving you a small nod. They refilled your drink, and shoved a beer for Ace in your hands, before ushering you to the quarterdeck. 

You took a deep breath trying to calm your nerves, before you strutted off, shouting over your shoulder “Wish me luck!” 

“Good luck!” the guys responded, as you disappeared behind a corner. 

It was a warm night, and the skies were clear, revealing a veritable sea of stars above your head, complete with a bright full moon, and with nary a  cloud in sight. The music from the party was fading as you walked further and further away, towards the quarterdeck; its spritely rhythms now barely enough to muffle the clicking sound of your footsteps on the wooden planks. 

Indeed, way in the back, hidden out of sight, was Ace. Slumped on the deck, with his back resting against a wall, a couple of empty beers around him, and one bottle hanging by the neck in his hand. His head tilted upwards, his eyes fixed on the stars above him. He seemed so calm, so quiet, and yet, not serene in the slightest. It was as if the silent sorrow in his soul crept its way towards you, and took you by the hand, when his eyes suddenly turned to you. A smile made its way onto his lips, but failed to reach his tired eyes. ‘Had he been crying?’ 

“Hey, Y/N! What are you doing here?” Ace tried to act cheerful, and play pretend; he tried to hide his expression by finishing his drink, but you knew him far too well for that, and saw right through his act. 

“I heard you were out here,” you confessed as you went to sit down by his side, handing him the beer. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” you continued, as Ace took the bottle from your hand, “and I missed you. We’ve all been missing you.” You spoke softly, your voice barely above the sounds surrounding you - the music, the clamour from the main deck, with the clanging of beer-filled mugs, and the familiar sounds of waves splashing rhythmically against the sides of the ship. Ace averted his gaze from you, lest you saw the truth in his eyes. But you already knew. You’ve seen it the moment he looked your way. 

Shuffling around a bit, you shifted position, and made yourself more comfortable against the wall, by his side. You allowed a moment to pass in silence, not intending to come off too forcefully, as you both watched the stars twinkling above your heads. You took a sip of your drink. The sloshing of liquid punctuated the silence before you spoke. 

“Care you tell me what’s got you so down? Hm?” you questioned, as gently as you could. Slowly, you turned your head towards him, giving him a side-look, and a soft, half-hearted smile as you waited for his response. 

Ace pulled his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them; the bottle you’d given him still hanging in his hand. He thought he hid it better than that, even from you. But he should have known you’d see right through, and if he were being honest with himself, deep down, he was glad you did. He needed you to pull him out of the spiralling nightmares that had become his thoughts. But that didn’t make it any easier to get the words out. 

Ace rested his chin on his arms, staring straight ahead, at nothing in particular, as his mind scampered to string words together. Though his mouth was hidden behind one of his arms, you could see he was working on an answer by the frown that weighed on his brow. A few moments passed in silence before you placed your hand on his shoulder blade, gently rubbing his back. His eyes darted up to yours, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open, before closing it again, and averting his gaze once more. The warmth of your hand on his skin was comforting, safe, inviting; inviting him to tell you of his woes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, barely audible over the commotion of the party on the main deck. 

“What for?” 

“For making you worry… You, and Marco, and Thatch, and Izou, and Pops, and all the others…I’m sorry for shutting you all out these past few days… weeks. I’m just…” Ace paused for a moment, as he turned his head away from you again, and fixed his eyes on the swaying waves before him. “I… haven’t been myself lately, is all.” 

“Ace, it’s alright. We’ve all got our darker days. It’s - “ 

Ace draws a shaky breath, before cutting you off. “I know it’s not fit for a commander - t’ give in like that, and shut you all out. I should have done better… You all deserve better…” 

The hand that was rubbing his back froze in place, as you stared at him in shock - eyes wide, and slack jawed - struggling to believe the words you were hearing. Seeing Ace crumbling down like this certainly struck a chord. You and Ace were close, but this was a side of him you’d never seen before. Was this the same daredevil you’d grown so used to over time? Sure, you were aware that he wasn’t always that same cocky bastard. You knew he had a softer side too, and you knew he was damaged too. You knew that he struggled with his past - his ancestry, especially - wondering if he really deserved to be where he was, and be loved as he was. Sometimes he’d wondered if maybe he could have done more for Luffy - if he was a good older brother. Other times he wondered if he was doing right by Pops, and the other Whitebeards. You knew all of this, and then some. But you’d never seen him so broken before. How long had he been carrying this stone around his neck? At a loss of words, all you could do was stare at him - lips trembling as you tried to form words; throat tightening, as you tried to hold back tears. 

“I’m sorry you’re missing out on the party to sit here with me,” he continued, “but I also wanna say thank you. Thank you for your time, and thank you for your company.” He adjusted his sitting position, stretching out the leg nearest to you and allowing it to bend to the side, as his arm hung over his bent knee. “I hope you know how much I value your friendship… despite the past couple of weeks… And thanks for the drink too,” he chuckles, a bittersweet smile on his face as he takes a swig, before quickly resuming his monologue. “And thank Marco and Thatch too for trying to cheer me up. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you guys. Y'all deserve better than someone like me,” he trailed off. His head briefly dipped down against his arm, before he quickly lifted it up, and tilted it back against the wall. It was as if he were afraid that if he allowed his head to hang like that he might break down, and cry. His lips curled, and trembled with a bittersweet smile. You watched as his brows furrowed, and the corners of his mouth twitched, before he covered his eyes with his hand. From his shaking lips came a sound hard to pinpoint. Was it a sob? A scoff? A chortle? Whatever it was, it clearly captured his inner turmoil. 

Seeing him like this disarmed you completely. You gawked at him for a moment longer, unaware that large, warm tears had started spilling from your eyes, down your cheeks, and down your neck. You watched him shake his head, as if in disbelief of the situation too - in disbelief of the things he’s said, in disbelief of having allowed someone to see him like that. 

The shock still prevented you from forming proper sentences, but you could no longer sit by silently. “Ace…” 

Hearing his name carried on a breathy whisper snaps him out of his spiral, and pulls his attention towards you. Ace hardly had time to register the pained look on your tear-stained face, before you cupped his cheeks in your hands, and pressed your lips against him. You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing out the tears past your lashes. The kiss felt hot, with a thick blend of love, and pain; with all the laden words that have spilt, and all those that would not come; with all emotions that you both had been trying to hide. It wasn’t long before you slowly pulled away from him, keeping his face between your palms. The kiss may not have lasted long, but it was enough to get him to shut up, and cease his self-deprecatory verbiage, if only for a moment. You took a moment to scan the shocked, flustered expression on his freckled face before speaking. 

“I’ll decide what I deserve,” you stated, finally letting go of his face. 

You watched as Ace, who seemed perfectly stupefied by your little stunt, attempted - and failed - to pull his wits about him. 

“Did… Did you just kiss me?” He looked cute as a button as he pointed at himself, confused, as if trying to comprehend his own question. You chuckled at his reaction. 

“Was I not supposed to?” You may have chuckled at his reaction, but the truth is that you did it on an impulse, and now the reality of it all was setting in for you too. You’d had a crush on him for ages now, and never in a million years would you have imagined things going this way. But what’s done is done, and this was the moment of truth. Every moment it took for him to answer felt like an eternity, as you kept wondering - What was he going to do? What was he going to say? You couldn’t help but avert your eyes from his, as you felt a blush creep onto your face. You cursed the full moon for its glow so bright, for you were nearly sure Ace could see the deep pink darkening your cheeks. 

“I don’t know, but… Can you do it again?” 

Looking up, you found Ace watching you, expectantly, with a soft, albeit nervous, smile, and a blush to rival your own.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’d say you deserve some more.”

[halfmoth-halfman]

our little secret

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some. Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: injury mention, pet death mention, child mention Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part two. part three.

Soap has been in his fair share of safe houses.

He knows what to expect when he hears the words: a sparsely furnished studio stocked with the bare essentials. It’s not a problem for him. Safe houses aren’t meant to feel like houses; they’re there to do their job– to keep their inhabitants safe.

So his confusion is valid when Ghost mumbles something about a “safe house” nearby, only to lead him through the dense woods of the mountains they’re stuck in to the coziest-looking cottage Soap has ever seen.

Soap’s frozen, unable to stop staring at the two-story stone house with dark ivy creeping up the grey stonework and an actual babbling brook winding around the right side of the house where it runs into a small pond in the front yard. He doesn’t know where Ghost, of all people, found the one safe house to come straight out of a fairytale.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny, stop staring like you’ve never seen a house before.” Ghost’s hand harshly shoves into Soap’s shoulder, and Soap stumbles forward, turning back swiftly to glare at Ghost.

The Lieutenant had been particularly testy for this mission, seeming almost reluctant to take part in any aspect of it; regret had oozed out of every inch of Ghost from the moment he and Soap had touched down here, and Soap can’t figure out, for the life of him, why. It wasn’t like they were forced to be here; Soap was in the room when Price asked for volunteers for this mission. He remembers with exceptional clarity how Ghost perked up– as much a man like him could– and how the masked man was on his feet the second Price asked for volunteers.

If he was so eager for this mission, why did he seem so resistant to everything about it?

Tired and impatient with Soap’s lack of action, Ghost starts up the dirt path toward the cottage. It’s not hard to notice how he drags his steps, leaving small trails behind his boots. Soap follows hesitantly, keeping his head on a swivel as they approach the front door. Ghost tries the doorknob only to find it locked; his eyes slide shut, hand tightening around the doorknob before he lets his hand slide from the brass.

“Maybe we can���” Soap doesn’t get to finish as Ghost steps back to turn his gaze to the black iron sconce hanging next to the door. He pops one of the glass panes out with practiced ease, reaching in where Soap’s only now noticing there’s no lightbulb to grab a small golden key. He pops the glass back into place, sliding the key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open, allowing them into the pitch black of the house. For such a quaint-looking home, the endless void that greets Soap when he walks in is something lifted from a horror movie. Ghost shuts the door behind him, leaving Soap standing in the entryway that’s illuminated only by the misty grey of what little of the sun’s setting light is able to reach through the thick cover of the towering pines and low, looming clouds outside to shine through the small squares of glass on the front door.

“Take your shoes off,” Ghost mutters behind him.

“What?” Soap turns around– ready to ask why he should bother with etiquette for a safe house– but finds Ghost already hunched over, one hand on the wall beside him for balance as he unlaces his boots.

Soap copies him, unsure and so so confused. Ghost is as unbothered as ever, disappearing into the darkness of the house while Soap toes out of his boots. He places them next to Ghost’s, standing up right as the house illuminates in a soft amber glow.

It’s just as cozy inside as it is outside, and Soap is stupefied. His mind can’t comprehend the shadowy figure of death and destruction that is his Lieutenant among the picturesque interior of wooden countertops and decorative plants.

Ghost is none the wiser to Soap’s internal crisis, heading to a large armoire composed of deep brown wood that stands against the cream-colored wall next to the entryway. He pauses, leaning back to look at Soap over the edge of the lacquered door. “Weapons go in here.”

Soap joins him as Ghost unloads his weapons into the cabinet. The outside is unassuming— a normal, if a little taller than usual, armoire— which is why the interior catches Soap so off guard. A second set of doors— grated black metal with a keypad in the center— hang open to give them access to an impressive weapons rack that’s already half-stocked. Soap can’t help but gawk as Ghost works on hanging his knives— arranging them by handle color, then length. It’s done so casually, so routine, as if Ghost has done this a million times.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. What the hell’s up with this “safe house”? How did Ghost find it? Did he set it up? It was hard enough picturing the masked giant in everyday civilian life, let alone browsing for the perfect rustic armoire or a faux fur rug fluffier than a cloud.

Ghost walks away, heading towards the kitchen with an unusual hesitance to his steps– like he’s trying to lighten his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Soap quickly stores his weapons, trailing behind Ghost with less caution. 

The kitchen is just as immaculately decorated as the rest of the house– all creams and beiges, a large window above the sink with a collection of herbs growing on its sill, and little pops of color from the neatly organized pots, pans, and baskets sitting on the shelves.

Ghost rifles through the pantry with his back to Soap, and Soap can’t help himself.

“What’s-”

“Keep your voice down,” Ghost snaps, hushed and threatening.

“Why?” Soap huffs, gesturing to the empty space around them. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here!”

Ghost turns to face Soap with a swiftness that surprises the Sergeant, his shadowed eyes narrowed into a glare so fierce it sends an immediate shock of fight or flight through Soap. 

“Simon?”

Your voice is soft and raspy and startles Soap so badly he swears his heart skips a beat. He whirls around to see you standing across the living room, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Dressed only in a hoodie that’s obviously too big for you— and the perfect size for a certain Lieutenant— and a set of fluffy pajama shorts, you rub your eye with the heel of your hand, clearly having just woken up.

Ghost groans behind him, and everything in Soap’s head suddenly clicks together: Ghost’s reason for volunteering for this mission so quickly, his expectation of working on it alone, why he dragged his feet to bring Soap here. All of the puzzle pieces floating around in his mind slide into place as he watches you stumble into the living room, still half-asleep.

After your rescue, you’d been confined to the infirmary for weeks. The team had come to see you, sometimes lucky to catch you for the few minutes you could stay conscious long enough to entertain small conversations. You were put on immediate leave once you were well enough, and in the three months since then, no one has heard from you. 

Soap’s glad to see you despite his mild guilt for disturbing you.

You look much better than when you left— less like you’d been repeatedly hit by a bus— and well on your way to recovery. There’s still gauze wrapped around your right thigh, and a few of the worst bruises are still present on your skin, in the process of fading. The only lasting injury Soap can see is the deep scar that trails along the left edge of your jaw from your chin to your ear; you’d had trouble talking while in the infirmary, pain buzzing through your jaw anytime you moved your mouth, but now you’re yawning widely without a single care.

You make it halfway to the kitchen when your eyes land on Soap; you freeze, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Soap?” 

“Doc.”

“What’re you….” You trail off, spotting Ghost behind him. Soap watches how you take in their clothes, the dirt and dried blood stained into the fabric, and how your eyes glance over to the open weapons cabinet near the front door. The shift to Doctor Mode is instant; you straighten up, already looking them over for any possible injuries as you hasten your way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” Soap smiles, seeing some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Lt. got a little roughed up, though.” Your head snaps to Ghost, and Soap steps aside, setting a gentle hand on your back to guide you and your concern toward Ghost. The Lieutenant glares at him over your head, but this time Soap smiles back, a knowing grin plastered on his face as you fret.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ghost sighs, pulling his angry gaze away from Soap to stare down at you. He’s trying to seem stern, frustrated that you’re up and about, but you pay him no mind. It’s almost sweet, the way his gaze softens the moment he looks at you; he’s concerned for you as much as you are for him.

“‘m fine,” you mumble stubbornly. Ghost rolls his eyes as he lets you look over him. His eyes briefly flick up from your face to Soap before back down to you. Soap’s known Ghost for a long time; he’s learned how to read the subtle changes in those dark eyes, and he can see the way Ghost fights with himself before letting his eyes slide shut in resigned conclusion.

“You need to rest,” he sighs again, faint and gentle, as he lightly grabs your wandering hands and eases them off him. He glances up at Soap again, but Soap avoids his gaze, finding interest in the earthy green toaster and not even trying to hide his grin.

“I will, I will,” you huff. You step back from Ghost, pulling your hands from his to cross your arms over your chest. “Mission go okay?”

You’re talking to him now; Soap realizes when Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns to you with an easy, if a little cocky, smile and a half-shrug.

“Thought they could try and ambush us, but they were no match for us. Right, Lt.?” There’s a quiet, exasperated fuckin’ hell from Ghost, but you’re laughing— your smile not as wide on your left side— and Soap realizes how much he’s missed you.

“We needed a place to lie low for the night-” Ghost starts.

“And this was close by, I get it.” You maintain your smile, nudging Ghost’s arm with your elbow. “Surprised you got here before the storm started.”

“What? That poor excuse for cloud coverage outside? Hardly call that a storm,” Soap scoffs. You shrug, meandering to the cabinet that holds the cups and mugs. 

“If that’s what you want to think,” you tease, but Soap is too busy watching Ghost as he watches you. “All I’m saying is-” The moment you reach up to grab a glass, there’s a hand on your waist and a sturdy body pressed against your back. “-Simon, I can reach just fine-”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a glass and setting it in your hands while you pout up at him. You roll your eyes, stepping out from in front of him and smiling at Soap like nothing happened.

“All I’m saying is, I’ve lived here for a while; I think I can tell the difference between a little fog and a soon-to-be torrential downpour.” You fill your glass with water as you talk, batting Ghost away when he tries to take the full glass from you the minute you’ve filled it up.

“And since someone-” you send Ghost a pointed glare “-is in such a helpful mood, he can set you up in the guest room for tonight while I go back to sleep.” You saunter past Soap— as well as one can while healing— glass of water in hand.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Soap laughs as you pass him. You send him a sly wink, playfully bumping his shoulder before heading upstairs. 

A tense quiet looms over the kitchen as Soap and Ghost are left alone. Ghost is staring at him, and he’s staring back, neither one knowing how to break the awkward silence that surrounds them.

Until—

“So,” Soap starts, smug grin crawling across his face and vindication thrumming through his veins. “You and the Doc, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ start.”

With that, Ghost marches past him, heading for the stairs and, Soap decides this is going to be one of the top three missions of his life.

-

It’s 5:03 in the morning when Soap is awoken by the loudest clap of thunder he’s heard in his life.

It shocks him awake, shooting straight up from the bed, heart hammering and mind alert. It takes him a minute to realize there’s no immediate danger and that his biggest threat is the blue duvet tangled around his legs. Soap pauses, staring down at the soft blue blanket in confusion.

Why is he-

Oh. 

Right.

Soap takes in the room— cozy just like the rest of the house— taking this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see if he can spot any clues, any slight hints that’ll give him insight on you and Ghost. The two of you are frustratingly thorough, as the only unusual thing he finds is the heavy blanket of rain pouring down the window.

Thunder rumbles above.

A door opens and shuts somewhere in the house.

Soap is of a curious mind— perhaps too curious for his own good— but that same intense inquisitiveness is what gave him enough of a glimpse to discover his Lieutenant’s secret marriage, so who is he to fight it?

He gets out of bed, ignoring the instant chill that comes with leaving the warm covers, and changes into the spare shirt and sweatpants you had Ghost give to him. As quietly as he can, he leaves the room, heading straight down the hall and toward the stairs.

The roll of thunder echoes above once more.

Something metal clatters downstairs.

Soap tiptoes down the steps, peering into the living room when he reaches the bottom step. The lights are off, save for the kitchen, where you sit at the small circular table, and Ghost stands at the counter near the sink, pouring boiling water from an old kettle into a black mug. 

You’re still in your suspiciously oversized hoodie but have changed out of your fluffy shorts, trading them in for long pajama pants decorated with those colorful ghosts from pac-man. Ghost is dressed down significantly, only wearing a thin black t-shirt and matching sweatpants.

Soap should be surprised to see the balaclava still on, but he isn’t.

Ghost sets the mug on the table in front of you before he slides a chair over and sits down next to you. You sit up— almost dragging yourself into an upright position— looking far more exhausted than you had yesterday.

He watches you— attentive and alert in an almost too-intense way— shifting slightly with your every move. You either don’t notice or don’t care, messing with the tea bag and sipping from your cup. You wince when you swallow, and Ghost is leaning toward you, gloveless hand coming to rest just under your jaw. His thumb gently trails along the scar on your jawline, quiet murmurs exchanged and lost on Soap’s ears. 

He should go back upstairs; it’s still early, and this seems like a moment he shouldn’t intrude on.

Soap takes one step backward, the woods beneath his foot whining under his weight and settling with a pop. 

Your attention turns to the stairs, and Soap makes a snap decision. He stands up straight, heading down the stairs and into the living room, doing his best to seem casual and not like he was just spying on you.

Ghost pulls away from you, sitting back in his chair as you smile tiredly at Soap. Your voice is rough, more so than the tired rasp of someone who’s just woken up. “Mornin’, Soap.”

“Mornin’.”

“The storm wake you up?” you ask, setting your elbow on the table to set your chin in your hand. Soap shrugs, taking a seat across from you. 

“I was already up,” he lies. You raise a brow, an amused smile that says you don’t believe him, but you don’t say anything. You lean back, grasping your mug with both hands and letting the warmth soak into your fingers.

He notices the mug first, streaks of the cartoon ghost with a crooked smile peering at him through your fingers. Then his gaze moves to your fingers, where he spots a solid black ring sitting comfortably on your left hand.

“You gonna ask about it?” you ask, grinning at him over the steam as you sip your tea. Soap coughs, rubbing his neck with enough sense to look sheepish. He chances a glance at Ghost, but the man’s eyes stay firmly on you. “It’s fine, Soap. I’m sure you have questions.”

He’ll probably never get this chance again.

Fuck it.

“I have a list,” Soap says, a little too eager, leaning forward on his elbows. 

“You get three.” Ghost’s voice is flat and unamused– a stark contrast to your welcoming demeanor.

“Only three?”

“That’s one. You got two left.”

You scoff, reaching over to pinch Ghost’s arm. He grunts– more in annoyance than pain– giving you a half-hearted glare. It’s not ideal, but Soap will take what he can get. Sorting through the mental list of questions he’s been compiling since he first took notice of this little relationship, Soap tries to pick out the most important ones.

The group sits in silence while he thinks; you slowly work your way through your tea, grimacing around every swallow as the storm looms overhead. Thick raindrops assault the kitchen window, a steady waterfall pouring down the glass. Thunder booms overhead, less severe than before but startling all the same.

“Does Price know about…this?” he asks, gesturing to your ring.

“That’s your question?” Ghost scoffs.

It’s a question that’s confused him for months, so yes it is.

“He does,” you answer honestly. “So does my old Captain. They helped get all the legal stuff sorted out.”

“Legal stuff?” 

“‘s a little difficult getting a marriage license for a dead man. Some strings had to be pulled.” You speak so casually as if that’s a normal thing to say. They’re around each other so often, Soap sometimes forgets that Ghost’s callsign is more than just a nickname; he’s a literal dead man walking, the living phantom of Simon Riley.

“Does anyone else know? Your old team? Laswell?” A cold chill shoots up his spine, “Did Shepherd know?”

“No,” Ghost sighs.

“My maiden name’s on all the paperwork. Price and Owens were thorough,” you explain. “No one knows but them…and now you, of course.”

Soap nods, fully understanding the weight of this secret he now bears, but he has to wonder-

“Would you've said anything? Eventually?”

You and Ghost share a look before you shrug, staring down into your half-empty mug.

“We talked about it.”

“After Las Almas,” Ghost adds. “Got too used to keepin’ it a secret and ended up never bringing it up.”

“Old habits,” you laugh softly. There’s a swell in Soap’s chest at the thought of you two trusting him enough to tell him about your marriage, even if it never actually happened. There were times when he wasn’t sure if Ghost even liked him, but after Mexico…there was a bond there that he’s realized wasn’t as one-sided as he may have assumed.

Your laugh dissolves into a hoarse cough, and Ghost is instantly on his feet.

“Back to bed, let’s go,” he orders, no room for negotiation. You roll your eyes, standing up slowly and favoring your right side.

“Make yourself at home, Soap,” you say in your gravelly voice, glancing out to the endless rain. “It looks like you might be stuck here a while.”

-

The storm doesn’t lessen for the rest of the morning and only worsens the following day; it’s clear he and Ghost will be here longer than initially intended. 

Soap doesn’t mind, though.

He’s been given almost completely free rein of the house, presented with the rare opportunity to snoop without worrying about getting caught. 

He notices the pictures on the third day as he’s coming down the stairs. There’s a tall, thin bookshelf on the wall opposite the bottom step filled to the brim with a vast collection of novels and a few picture frames.

He checks the top picture first, carefully pulling it from the top shelf of the bookcase. It’s a picture of Ghost standing in full gear, sunglasses on over his balaclava, holding a fully grown German Shephard over his right shoulder. The dog is looking to the side where you’re standing in matching gear, hands scratching behind its ears as you make a silly face with your lips pursed. 

“Aw, I miss that dog.”

Soap jumps, nearly dropping the picture frame as you appear next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. 

“Christ, you need a bell or something,” he mutters, setting the frame back on the shelf.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” you tease. You turn to the bookcase, a fond sigh as you look over the various photos. You let yourself sit in nostalgia for only a minute before glancing at Soap with a slight grin.

“You wanna see more?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You gather the pictures in your arms, leading Soap to the living room. You set the photos down on the coffee table and gesture for Soap to make himself comfortable on the sofa while you disappear into the hallway next to the kitchen. Soap sorts through the pictures. There’s one of Ghost sitting uncomfortably rigid in the back of a helicopter as you and Trip sleep on either side of him with your heads resting on Ghost’s shoulders. Another shows you with your old team, everyone dressed in civvies and sat around a bar table covered in empty glasses. The third is a duplicate of the one Soap had found in your desk in pristine condition. 

“I have this if you want to look through it,” you say as you return a large black book in your hands. You hand it to Soap, and he flips it open while you make yourself comfortable next to him.

It’s a photo album.

An entire photo album of you and Ghost– and sometimes the dog and your old team, but that’s not important.

Soap flips through it in wonder and awe. “Who took all these?”

“My old Captain, mostly. Some were me or one of the others. I think there’s a couple Simon took in there, too.”

“What did I take?” Ghost wanders down the steps, stopping when he sees the album in Soap’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, why does he have that?”

“Don’t mind him,” you huff. You lean over a peer into the photo album, pointing at one in the bottom left corner. “That’s one of my favorites!”

It’s a picture of Ghost passed out on a tattered sofa, exhausted, with the German Shephard curled around his head as he uses it for a pillow.

“Riley was such a good dog,” you sigh wistfully. Soap snorts, glancing over to Ghost. 

“Riley?”

“Wasn't my idea,” Ghost grumbles, looking directly at you. 

“Didn’t think you worked on a team before, Lt.,” Soap says, handing the album over to you so you can flip through the pictures, pulling out ones you want to show Soap.

“It happened on occasion,” Ghost shrugs, thick arms folded across his chest. “Worked with Owens once before, and she was impressed enough to ask for me on certain missions.”

“And because he had a crush on the doctor,” you mumble, laughing to yourself as you slide another picture out. Ghost seems less than amused, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You were a doctor back then?” Soap questions. That doesn’t sound right. He’s seen you in the field with the 141, your uniform completely different from what you’re wearing in those pictures.

You hesitate, pausing in your picture collecting to knit your fingers together and pick at your nails.

“Of sorts.” Is all you say.

“It was a specialized position,” Ghost cuts in, walking around the back of the sofa to set his hands on your shoulders. “Interrogation Specialist.”

“So, you questioned people?”

“I tortured people.” You look up from the photos, meeting Soap’s eyes with a distant gaze he’s seen many times on Ghost. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is that why they called you Hornet?” Is what comes out of his mouth. It’s absurd enough to shock you out of whatever memory you were stuck in, tilting your head in confusion.

“No? Who told you that?”

“Grizzly. He said something about you being like a hornet in a beehive.” 

You have to bite into your cheek to keep from laughing, and even then, a few giggles escape you. You relax into the couch, craning your head up to look at Ghost, “I mean, I guess that works.”

“If that’s not it, then why-”

“We didn't have a medic, so I had to stitch everyone up a lot. And most of the time, we didn’t have any kind of anesthesia, and I didn’t give any warning before I started poking with the sewing needle. Grizzly complained that I was like an aggressive bee, Trip told him those were called hornets, and that was that. Not as cool, right?” Soap wants to reassure you, but your attention is back to the book in your lap.

You gasp, pulling out a photo to hold it up to Ghost, “Remember this?”

Ghost’s answer is immediate, “Don’t show him that.”

Well, now Soap has to know.

You laugh, sliding the picture back into its place, but briefly look over to Soap, mouthing later with a wink.

-

Over the next few days, Soap learns more about your relationship with Ghost. 

He learns that you met during a black-ops mission, where Ghost was meant to help escort your team– and more specifically, you– to a remote base to question some high-profile prisoner.

He learns that the two of you worked so well together for that first mission that Captain Owens made Ghost her go-to for any outside help if the team ever needed it.

He learns you spent years working together before the thought of becoming a couple even entered your minds.

And he learns that after that first time together, you and Ghost developed a specific set of rules for your relationship that’s only grown since.

You’ve told him a couple: no obvious affection in public, don’t compromise a mission for the other’s safety, respect each other’s space and the occasional need to spend time apart, no letters or phone calls unless it’s an absolute emergency.

Most were proposed by Ghost, but you agreed that it was for the safety of both of you.

He puts together clues about some of the other– possibly unspoken– rules when he watches the two of you interact. Ghost takes your health very seriously, and sometimes his tone borders on commanding when he tries to get you to rest or take medicine or drink tea without anything added to it. You sass him and roll your eyes, but do whatever he says every time. It’s the same when you ask him to get you something or try to get him to be a little nicer to Soap when he asks about some aspect of your marriage: Ghost will groan or roll his eyes but always bends to your will.

You don’t ask about each other’s missions, either. Soap watches you reorganize the weapon cabinet one day, noticing the blood on a few of Ghost’s knives. You ask if it’s his or Soap’s and if either of them needs to be looked at, but when they assure you they’re fine, you drop the subject. 

The biggest question for him, though: the rings.

Ghost’s has found its way onto his finger– the first time Soap has seen it there, while you switch between wearing yours on your finger and on that thin chain around your neck.

It’s on your finger this morning, and Soap is fixated on watching you twirl it around your finger absentmindedly while you stare over the back of the couch at Ghost’s back as he makes breakfast.

(That’s another thing– Ghost has done most, if not all, of the cooking since they got here.)

“It’s weird to see him with a ring on,” Soap quietly laughs. You turn to him, pulled out of your husband-watching trance. 

“Yeah, it’s not often we get to actually wear them.”

“One of his rules?”

“One of mine,” you sigh, gaze drifting back to Ghost. You fidget with your ring again, picking at its smooth, rounded edges with your nails.

“No wearing them where anyone can see ‘em, if one of us leaves for a mission then whoever’s staying behind keeps both of them, and if we both have to leave, the rings go in a small safe in my office.”

“That sounds-” Exhausting. “-thorough.”

“You’d be surprised how many captives forget about jewelry. It’s a whole lot easier to get information out of someone the minute you realize they might have someone they want to protect from you.”

There’s an edge to your voice, some kind of mix of nostalgia and resentment and regret.

But Ghost finishes breakfast and Soap decides it’s better not to ask.

-

Day six of waiting out this seemingly never-ending storm and the three of you are sitting in the living room cleaning your array of guns. 

You’re wearing your own clothes for once, a dark cotton tank top and black sweatpants that lets Soap see the full extent of bruising and bandages around your arms. A long bruise stretches across your neck, still purple and blue, and Soap suddenly understands the uneven hoarseness of your voice.

Your hair is up, pulled out of your face so you can focus on your work. Soap can see the scar from the humvee on the side of your head as it disappears behind your ear.

The ear that hides your tattoo.

It’s a quiet afternoon; it’d be a shame to break the peace. 

“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks anyway. You don’t answer until you look up and find him staring back at you.

“What tattoo?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“The little ghost behind your ear.”

Ghost freezes, head slowly turning to look at you. “What ghost?”

“Oh, that. I got it after Russia,” you shrug. “Whole mission was a total shitshow, but it reminded me how easily you can lose someone, so, after, I found the nearest shop and got it done.”

You return to your guns, but Ghost’s eyes are trained on you. Soap can see the gears in his head turning, and he briefly worries that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thought we agreed: no marks, symbols, or tattoos.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth, eyes flicking up to Ghost in disbelief. “So if I check out that chaotic sleeve of yours, you’re telling me I won’t find a little hornet hidden somewhere in there?”

A beat of silence.

Ghost grunts and returns to his guns and you grin victoriously at Soap.

-

The power goes out on day nine. 

Ghost is messing around with the fuse box. At the same time, you and Soap have decided to follow “sleepover law”, lighting the house up with candles, moving the sofa and coffee table to build a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the lit fireplace, and piling a collection of snacks nearby.

He can hear the two of you laughing in the living room, you exchanging old mission tales for stories about Soap’s nieces and nephews. Ghost sighs, his fourth and last idea to get the power back on failing miserably. He’s frustrated and annoyed and can feel that itch just under his skin that tells him to isolate. 

To do that, he’d have to go upstairs.

And to get upstairs, he’d have to go through the living room and pass by-

Your laugh echoes down the hallway, and Ghost can feel some of the tension ease from his bones. The itch is still there– the immediate need to run and hide to deal with any sort of negative emotion by himself– but it lessens when he remembers you’re nearby.

He shuts the fuse box, deciding he’s not going to get anything fixed right now. Instead, he wanders down the hall, stopping just before he reaches the living room to lean against the wall and listen to you and Soap.

“I have to ask-” Soap starts, mischief laced in his voice, “-the mask. Does he ever take it off?”

“If he wants to,” you reply through gentle laughter. 

“Really? So what if he doesn’t want to? Does he sleep with it on?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about when you two…”

There’s a brief pause before you snort and answer in a quiet purr, “Sometimes.”

“Nah, yer bum’s oot the windae!”

“...I don’t know what that means, but you asked!”

“You’re not serious!”

“Totally am! I mean…I wouldn’t’ve married him if I wasn’t into it.”

Ghost loves you more than anything in the world, but there’s nothing more he wants right now than for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

-

It’s late, almost reaching into the early morning hours, and Soap cannot sleep. He doesn’t know what’s keeping him awake; he just knows that no matter what he tries, he can’t fall asleep.

After the third hour of tossing and turning and grumbling, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. He does his best to keep quiet, all his stealth training kicking in.

He’s halfway across the living room when–

“Watch your step.”

It takes everything in him not to scream as your voice travels up from the floor. Soap looks down to find you lying on your back on the fluffy brown rug, your legs outstretched and resting atop the coffee table.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus! What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Came down here for some floor time.”

“Floor time?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You raise your brows at him, reaching out to pat the empty spot next to you.

He stares down at you, but you meet his gaze, eyes wide and unblinking to the point it almost freaks him out. Soap relents, bending down to lay next to you. You clap your hands in victory, scooting over to give him more room.

Soap gets himself comfortable, crossing his feet on top of the coffee table next to yours. You two lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet dark. 

It is kind of calming, he has to admit.

“I used to do this with Riley,” you speak softly, barely above a whisper. “I’d lay down, and then he’d lay on me. At first, I thought he just wanted to use me as a pillow, but I think it was more of a grounding thing…he was a smart one, that dog.”

“What…happened to him?”

“He got old. K9 unit retired him, and Simon and I took care of him until…Simon was devastated when we had him put down. He refused to come back here for months after. Said the house was ‘too quiet’.”

“Could always have a kid or two,” Soap jokes. “House wouldn’t be quiet for a long while.”

“No,” you snap.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbows so he can face you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not…you’re fine, Soap.” You release a long sigh, pulling your feet off the coffee table and sitting up straight. You stretch, back popping painfully from too much time on the ground.

“We’ve talked about kids,” you mumble, fingers moving to fidget with your ring. You look back at him– grey moonlight reflecting off your watery eyes. “Maybe in another life.”

Soap pushes himself to sit up completely, reaching out to settle a comforting hand on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact– relaxing when you realize you’re alright– and Soap pulls his hand away with an apologetic smile.

“Another dog, then? Or a cat? Ghost seems like a cat person.”

You make a sound, some sort of half-scoff, half-laugh that’s muddled by the knot in your throat.

“How 'bout a fish?” 

“A fish it is, then.” Soap hears your watery laugh as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You scoot back to sit next to him, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll name him Soap, just for you.”

"Thanks, Doc."

-

It’s a whole two weeks later from the day they arrived when the water has eased enough outside for Ghost and Soap to go out and check the roads. 

You sit on the porch, tucked into a dry chair and another one of Ghost’s hoodies with a hot mug of tea warming your hands. Initially, you wanted to go with them, but Ghost refused swiftly and sternly. You argued that you needed the fresh air, and the compromise was made that you could settle on the porch and keep an eye out while they walked down the road.

Everything looked good, no mudslides, no floods, no fallen trees, so he and Ghost decided to head back and get ready to leave. 

Soap spots you as they near the house, staring off towards the brook near the house. You look so calm, so serene that he almost hates to disturb you. But Ghost has no qualms about interrupting your peace as he marches straight up to the house. You don’t seem to mind, judging by the way your face lights up at the sight of him.

He’s had almost every question answered, Soap realizes as he watches Ghost offer you a hand to help you out of your chair, and you use the momentum to pull yourself up and kiss him on the cheek. 

There’s only question left-

“Hey, Ghost?” he asks, once the three of you are back inside. 

Ghost pauses his cooking, looking back at him over his right shoulder.

“How did you propose?”

“What?”

Soap expected that, but he hadn’t expected you to start snickering from where you’re perched on the counter next to Ghost with your head resting on his left shoulder.

“It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And there’s no engagement pictures in that photo album so-”

“I didn’t.”

“You…what?”

“I didn’t propose,” Ghost sighs.

Oh…

Oh!

Soap turns to you and your triumphant– if a bit smug– grin. “I beat him to it.”

“By two days,” Ghost huffs, turning back to the food on the stove. “Patience is a virtue, but not one of yours.” You giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder over his shirt. Ghost nudges you away with a grunt. You lean back for a few seconds before setting your chin on his shoulder so you can stare lovingly at the side of his face. Ghost sighs, letting it happen and turning briefly to lightly tap his head against yours.

“How did you know?” 

The question spills from Soap’s lips the moment he catches that little interaction.

“Know what?” you ask, turning to lay your head down, smushing your cheek on Ghost’s shoulder.

“That you wanted to propose. How’d you know you were the ones for each other?”

You sit up, eyes never leaving Ghost, who’s gone unusually still. An uncomfortable tension fills the air, swelling like a balloon ready to burst.

“It was after Sweden,” Ghost mumbles minutes later. He puts the stove on low heat and turns to you, your eyes meeting as he steadily holds your gaze. “We were clearing out that abandoned building, and you found this kid, couldn’t have been more than five…maybe six? They were so scared, but you managed to get them to calm down and come with us. We cleared the place but got ambushed as we were leaving. You gave me the kid and shoved me out of the back exit and-”

“Took a bullet meant for you,” you finish softly. Your hand comes up to graze just below your stomach, absentmindedly clenching the fabric over the spot.

The face you made when he’d brought up children flashes through Soap’s mind.

Maybe in another life.

“Didn’t realize how scared I was of losing you until that moment. You always seemed so sure, so indestructible, like there wasn’t anything that could kill you, like you’d always be there. And then you weren’t, and I thought that was the end until you finally got out of surgery. Wasn’t gonna let you get away after that.”

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You try your best to wipe them away, a smile of a million different emotions directed at Ghost. Ghost reaches out, sets a hand on your knee, and you meet his eyes before glancing over and realizing Soap is still there– grinning like an idiot.

“Well, I knew the day we met,” you laugh through your tears. Ghost scoffs, playfully squeezing your knee before returning his attention to the food. “It’s true; you can ask Firefly. Moment you started training with us and flipped Grizzly on his ass, I told her, ‘I’m gonna marry that man’.”

“Fuck off.”

-

They’re packed and ready to leave the next morning.

Soap’s tugging on his boots while Ghost locks up the weapons cabinet, and you stand off to the side, watching. You haven’t said a word all morning, just leaning against the wall with your eyes fixated on Ghost. 

Ghost shuts the cabinet with a sigh as Soap finishes lacing up his boots. Ghost glances at him, different this time– a silent ask for a moment alone with his wife.

Soap gets the message, loud and clear.

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll be back in your infirmary treating our stab wounds soon enough.” You huff in amusement, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Soap.” He nods at you and turns to head out the door.

He leans against the wall just outside the front door, staring at the clear brook water that washes over smooth stones until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and realizes he can see straight through the glass of the door where you and Ghost stand, feet apart from each other.

He should look away, get a head start down the road.

But when has he ever done that?

Instead, he watches Ghost slide the mask from his face, giving you a single nod before you launch forward and attach yourself to him. He holds you close like he’s trying to absorb you into his body, keeping you as close as physically possible. You pull back from him– only slightly– and Ghost wipes away the tears falling down your face. He reaches behind your neck, messing with the clasp of your necklace before his ring slides down the silver metal to meet yours at the bottom.

Your hands wind their way around the collar of his jacket, pulling him forward into a kiss he eagerly accepts. There’s no such thing as a goodbye kiss in the Riley household; goodbyes imply never seeing each other again, and that is a future neither you will accept. Instead, it’s a promise. 

A promise to stay alive, to come back. 

A promise either of you has yet to break.

You pull away, murmuring something against his lips. Soap’s never been a great lip reader, but it’s not hard to tell what you’re saying.

You better come back to me, Simon Riley.

Always.

Another kiss, and the mask is back on, slid into place by your steady hands. Ghost sets his forehead against yours, one last moment together before the inevitable separation. 

Soap turns away when Ghost steps back from you, focusing his gaze on a small leaf on the ground until Ghost walks out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

[mothiir]

which primarchs are into their partner crying?

cw: dubcon, noncon, explicit sexual content.

Fulgrim - absolutely loves it when you breaks down into overwhelmed tears, sobbing with pleasure, unable to form words as he wrings another orgasm from you. He thinks you are beautiful when you cry, and won’t hesitate to tell you this, cooing it as he licks the tears from your face, all while whispering in your ear that you are beautiful, perfect, darling, all his. He will fuck you until you cry, then make you sit for a portrait — if the tears stop flowing at any point he will sigh, like all of this is a great inconvenience, set his paints aside and busy himself between your thighs until you begin to weep once more. Yes. Perfect. Like that. He is not above whispering degrading filth into your ears when you are at your most vulnerable — telling you what a stupid sloppy whore you are after you have just taken his load to your face, or cooing about how wonderful it will be to watch you bend over and take his legion, one after the other. Once you start weeping, he will gather you close, kiss your neck, tell you not to fret, that he doesn’t mean it, not really. He just loves seeing you look so puffy-lipped and red-eyed.

Konrad - as ever with konrad, it is a weird dramatic mix of he really really likes it when you cry, loves it when you’re weeping and begging him to stop hurting you, is never harder than when you are sobbing to the point where you get snotty and ugly and gross…and yet he also hates the fact that he enjoys it and will not admit how much it turns him on. the end result of this is that he will make you cry, and then blame you for being such a weak little human — you are innocent of any crime, which is why you are in his bed rather than on his flaying rack. Why must you snivel so? Has he not been merciful? Has he not been kind?

Alpharius/Omegon — they love it when you cry, but in very specific circumstances, in that they prefer it to be more psychological. They like it when you get teary with confusion, unable to tell which one is touching you, or which of their sons fucked you the night before. They thrive in subterfuge, and rendering you a teary, frustrated mess before fucking you senseless makes them feel oh so good at their job.

Perturabo — of course he likes it. He likes it when you cry because he’s too big for you to take, when you are stretched to breaking point around his dick, but still have another dozen inches to take; he likes it when.— normally despite, rather than because of, his efforts — you cum, and cry from the sheer overwhelming sensation. basically, he likes tears because they make him feel Big and Strong and Manly.

The Emperor — had to throw him in there, because you cannot tell me that one of Big E’s favourite things isn’t cooing and murmuring encouragement while you cry that he’s too big, it’s too much, you can’t take it. And he will say yes you can, you absolutely can, he’s not a god but he can perform miracles — namely, sheathing his considerable sword in your dagger-sized scabbard. And yes, he will say that almost verbatim. He’s a barbarian warlord. He has a limited range of metaphors.

As a bonus: Leman Russ absolutely hates it when you cry. He doesn’t mind a bit of scrabbling and kicking, but he does not like whining and snivelling, and — depending on the nature of your relationship — he will either stop at once and cling to you, or scruff you and tell you to stop that whining because he’s getting soft.

[moth--blood]

embracing my neurodivergence and assigning Obey Me characters sharks!! you cannot change my mind im right

[ ft the brothers, dia, barb, luke, simeon, solomon, thirteen ]

Lucifer

is a mix of a Lemon shark and a Great White.

they're both surprisingly chill animals who just look really scary; Great Whites have been known to swim in small pacts of their own species for hours, just hanging out. Lemon sharks have EXCELLENT memories and frequently befriend the divers who study them! they like being touched on the nose and are very protective of their diver friends.

Mammon

is a mix of a Thresher shark and a Spinner shark.

Both are relatively docile, and quick swimmers. he's more Spinner than Thresher, as Spinner's are faster and much nicer!

Levi

is a Thresher, Horn, and Grey Tip Reef shark mix.

Thresher sharks, as stated above, are relatively chill. they also constantly look nervous which i think is cute. Horn sharks are the most familial of sharks i could find, being some of the only (if the only) sharks who temporarily care for their pups. they've been known to immediately flee when humans get close, they're very skidish. Grey Tip Reef sharks are the most aggressive of the reef sharks, just barely, though they're only aggressive if provoked.

also i think all of them are cute and i think levi would like these three........

Satan

is a Salmon Shark / Great White mix.

both look really scary, but they can be really chill! Salmon sharks specifically have been known to be very aggressive in the ocean, but they almost never attack humans. Great Whites, as mentioned with Lucifer, are also pretty chill when un-provoked :)

Asmo

listen. listen i think they're both very cute. asmo is either a cookie cutter or a leopard shark.

Cookie Cutter sharks are kind of like Facultative parasites, and I think that fits asmo specifically for the reminder that, no matter how cute he is, he isn't harmless. he's still an Avatar of Sin. Leopard sharks, alternatively, are absolute sweethearts and are very docile towards humans

Beel

was the easiest to assign, almost no thought necessary, he is carpet shark <3 specifically, whale shark or a horn shark.

whale sharks are gentle giants, and absolute babies. they eat a LOT, they're kind, they're the most active of carpet sharks. they are built like busses and i woukd love to pat one on its big ass nose <3

horn sharks, as aforementioned with levi, are the most familial. and i think they fit beel because hes so family centered, is a little cute

Belphie

like his twin, is only carpet shark. specifically, a tasseled wobbegong and a nurse shark.

tasseled wobbegongs are stationary ambush predators. they're relatively chill, but they have been known to jump out and attack divers and swimmers who get too close. Nurse sharks are special, being some of the only sharks who are able to sit on the ocean floor for long periods of time because their gills evolved to filter water without having to move. while nurse sharks dont sleep, per se, Wobbegongs do! they're nocturnal!! sleepy stationary sharks for the sleepy boy

Diavolo

is a great white.

as previously mentioned, looks scary, but is a babie

Barbatos

lemon shark;

also as previously mentioned with Lucifer, looks scary, but is very nice and protective of those he's fond of.

Luke & Simeon

both are Angel sharks, but luke is also a lantern shark because he litol

for the angel shark case, Angel's are. SO chill. they're not giant fans of humans but sometimes they'll let divers pick them up n stuff!

if i am to go off of vibes specifically:

Lucifer, Satan, and Diavolo are all great whites. scary looking.

Asmo is a baby salmon shark. cutie.

Mammon is a spinner shark. speedy cutie.

Beel is a whale shark. babie.

Belphie is a bull shark. pretty, asshole.

Levi and Solomon are reef sharks. skidish, pretty, can be an asshole.

Barbatos is a lemon shark. scary, pretty.

Luke is a lantern shark. little.

Simeon is an angel shark. angel.

Thirteen is a chain catshark. pretty.

[thishazeleyeddemon]

Izutsumi didn't know what to think about the older woman.

She wasn't that much older - she still had a face that was round with residual baby fat. It gave her a deceptively soft appearance, that was belied by her bright eyes.

Falin Touden hadn't much left in common with the feral chimera Izutsumi had seen that day in the dungeon. Just the feathers...and the eyes. Bright, reptilian eyes, golden and predatorial.

A lot like Izutsumi's own eyes.

Izutsumi skulked around the edges of her campsite, watching her, thinking.

Laios and Marcille thought the woman was an angel, so that obviously didn't mean very much. Marcille thought she crapped diamonds - the women might be friends, but Izutsumi wasn't convinced Marcille knew Falin very well. Chilchuck had had a better story - a kind and intelligent woman who was an amazing healer and nonetheless didn't know fuck all about people. Soft and polite and reserved.

Izutsumi tried to match the picture up to the woman in front of her, and it didn't quite fit.

She watched her. Falin was sprawled out against her pack, picking through her dinner. Roasted rabbit, it smelled like - not as good as Senshi's fare, but still a warm, red smell that made Izutsumi's mouth water.

Falin looked up at the sky.

"You know," she said, as if to no one, "If you want some, you should just ask."

[alittlemoth]

Dark Choco Cookie x gn!Reader

Spoilers

Angst then fluff

Nightmares are nothing new for him, ever since he was cursed he has had them. Even though he has long since left the sword behind the nightmares remain.

His nightmares lately involve you, the love of his life. Tossing and turning in his sleep as in the middle of the night in your shared home and bed a nightmare comes.

You in his arms, killed by his own hands. The terrified expression of fear and betrayal rests on your now lifeless face. He screams in agony, tears running down his face, for he lost the love of his life by his own hands.

You are awoken by a scream, your love screams your name as he sleeps you shake him "love, honey wake up" he awakens with a jolt, seeing your face he calms but still not quite believe it to be true, he asks with fear in his eyes "how do I know your really alive?" "Come here" you said barely above a whisper. You held him to your chest asking him if he hears it.

Bu dum bu dum bu dum

"your heart..." You two sat there for quite a while holding each other close. "My heart is beating, I'm not leaving you anytime soon honey" you too just held each other for the rest of the night cuddling and letting each other know that you'll be by each other's side.