#I'm sure there are others but these are all the ones I could think of for now

[enigmeyyy-writes]

I definitely think a lot of this is really interesting now that I'm rewatching the show again to write my fanfictions...

Katara definitely had her faults (and it was kinda wrong of her to tell her older brother that he didn't love their mother as much, especially because he most likely had more memories of her alive in comparison), but she was still a 14-year-old girl thrust into adult responsibility in the middle of a war. She is misunderstood a lot of the time from a fan's perspective because (in all honesty) a lot of us watched the show as kids and either thought she was super cool or super annoying. I even only started to find Katara annoying after I was older--and that was mainly because in times when she did attempt to "solve" things or "fix" something she wasn't mature enough yet to understand how to handle it responsibly. Sokka was a lot like this too, and we see him getting blamed a lot less. Both of them were standing in as leaders in their tribe during the war, and both of them left. Sure, the Avatar showed up, but even Aang was running away from responsibility until he realized he had to face the consequences of his actions!

Past this point is a lot of me talking about how I'm addressing a lot of this in my fan works, so check it out if you're interested!

I think a lot of my thoughts on this topic stem from the fact that I want to explore the emotional and responsibility commitments the characters of ATLA have weighing on them. In the AU I'm writing, for example, the characters (set in canon) are aged up and a lot of them have more people they are attached to. Since this was a Katara-centric post, I'll also include what I have in mind for my Katara fic.

Growing Pains centers around the letters Katara sends home to her and Sokka's childhood friend, Mali. He was the oldest of the boys left behind by the tribe because he just didn't quite make the age cut, and now serves as a hunter and protector for the tribe. He was definitely upset when his friends left him, but he knew that if they were to travel with the Avatar he had to stay and protect their tribe. Katara sends her letters detailing the stories of her adventures to Mali but soon realizes that she left a lot behind at home for what was turning out to be a perilous and risk-filled adventure.

And on the Aang side of things (because let's face it, a twelve-year-old boy having childish immaturity and the weight of the world on their shoulders is NOT the best combination), I wanted to explore more of his energy and experience of learning maturity after hardship in a Book 3 and post-war fic titled Spitfire.

Spitfire centers around one of Zuko's childhood friends (an OC because I think he deserved friends he could actually trust prior to joining the Gaang) named Soru coming to terms with the fact that he never truly was against the Avatar even though he's from the Fire Nation. Escapism at its finest--truly. As Aang has to come to terms with the new reality the world is entering after the defeat of Fire Lord Ozai, he has to learn how to deal with the weight of the political aspect of society the rest of his friends (and former enemies for that matter) were already wrapped up in.

All in all, I really think exploring aspects of the characters of such a beloved show that aren't really addressed is such an interesting thing to do. I applaud all other ATLA writers on the platform (and any platform) for either just sticking to canon or coming to terms with the flaws that are either over-exaggerated or under-represented in fanfiction, but I am not one of you! I want to explore the inklings of depth we get from this fun show, especially since I'm approaching this from a perspective in which the characters are older and arguably have more responsibility on their shoulders.

I'd really appreciate it if anyone would check out my stories (will be posted on here and ao3) or at least show interest in them! I've worked really hard to put all the details together behind the scenes, so any support or showing you enjoy my works/ideas is greatly appreciated!

I just watched Avatar for the first time all the way through, and yeah, it’s great, but the one thing that surprised me was how different Katara was compared to the fandom interpretation I’d seen and internalized before watching.

Like, before you watch Avatar, you’ve seen all these memes about Katara and her mom, and based on those memes, you assume it’s one of those lines you have to get used to hearing at least once every episode. But then you watch the show and realize that she only talks about her mom maybe five or six times per season and you also realize she only brings her up when she’s trying to comfort someone or empathize with them because that’s how she processes her grief and that’s one way she connects with people.

Or you hear the infamous line, “then you didn’t love [our mother] the way I did” and you prepare yourself for one of the worst character assassinations ever only to see the scene after nearly three seasons worth of context and realize she was kinda right. She’s been the mother, the nurturer, the comforter. She’s been patient, gentle, and accommodating where everyone else has gotten to be insensible and reckless and childish, and the one moment where she allows herself to feel her grief, suddenly she’s this evil bitch and not, y’know, a 14 year old girl whose been thrusted into adulthood in a way no other character has. A 14 year old girl who should be allowed immaturity and raw emotion and anger instead of the patience and grace she’s been forced to extend to every character without even the smallest amount of gratitude or even consideration in return.

Or you see all of the clips where Katara puts Aang in the “friendzone” and you expect to have this wishy washy back and forth where Aang is putting his feelings out there only to have Katara neither commit nor express any clear reciprocation or rejection. Then you watch and realize that, as cute as the ship is initially, that there’s never a point where Aang returns any comfort or grace to Katara despite her always doing this for him to the point of coddling. That for as much as Aang says he loves her, he never seems to outgrow his perception of her so he can recognize her as someone who feels grief, anger, and pain as much as she expresses love, kindness, and maturity. And instead of having moments where he learns to see her beyond her strength or compassion, you’re instead given moments where Aang forces his feelings onto her, both romantic and non-romantic, and Katara is expected to just…shoulder those feelings the way she shoulders everyone else���s.

Katara is the most misunderstood character in the show. As much as people recognize the complexities of Zuko, Sokka, and Azula, they struggle to do the same for Katara because they see her struggles as somehow lesser, and therefore, less deserving of sympathy. They can handle her so long as she’s being endlessly patient and loving and kind, but the moment her endless love, patience, and kindness runs out, she’s suddenly this annoying bitch who can’t shut up about her mother or reciprocate Aang’s feelings. But Katara’s trauma does matter as much as anyone else’s. No, she wasn’t banished from her kingdom. No, she didn’t lose her entire community, and no, she isn’t the only one who lost her mother. But the difference between her and everyone else whose experienced loss because of the Fire Nation is that she’s never given time to process her trauma. Aang gets to lean on Katara constantly. Toph gets to express her feelings to Katara, and yeah, Sokka also lost their mother, but unlike Katara, he isn’t put in the position of being a substitute for everyone’s parent. He even admits that he sees his sister as a mother. The only characters who ever comfort Katara or allow her to vent is Zuko and her father and that’s, like, three scenes in a show where the other characters are consistently given opportunities to seek out Katara for unconditional support.

The fandom interpretation of Katara has been so bastardized that even those who haven’t watched the show know her for this fanon version and not for who she is. She’s such an interesting character beyond her fandom limitations, though. She’s brave, hot-headed, and hopeful as well as gentle and caring. She wishes to learn waterbending, not only because she wants to fight in the war, but because she wants to continue her culture’s practices because, and people often forget this, she also lost an entire subculture within her already fractured tribe. And she wants to defeat the Fire Nation both because of her deep love and empathy for other people, but also because she wants to avenge her mother. But because some of the fans have reduced Katara to a bitch who constantly whines about her mother and friendzones Aang, you wouldn’t know any of this, and it sucks because she’s the only character whose been dumbed down to such an extent.

[moody-alcoholic]

Inspired by: Service Dog Johnny by the amazing void-my-warranty. I had the idea of; what if the roles were slightly different. What if Johnny invited Simon to come and fuck his girl to get over his fears.

Anyway. I'm super nervous about this because I really don't think I can do SDJ justice but enjoy none the less. Also void if you're seeing this you're awesome thank you for gifting the world SDJ.❤️

Part 1

Summary: John MacTavish x reader x Simon Riley (kinda), WC: 3.2k

CW: +18 content MDNI, Voyeurism, exhibitionism, fingering, angst, implied past abuse.

Enjoy <3

---

It’s Friday when Johnny springs the news his friend is coming round that evening. He didn’t give you much time to prepare, or get the house clean but you do the best you can. Johnny does go to the store for you and picks up some beer for them both. 

“You don’t need to do anything special.” Johnny says opening a beer. 

“I don’t mind, it's not that big of a deal, I like cooking.” You say, he comes over and wraps his arm round your waist kissing your neck.

“What exactly does he need help with?” You asks stirring the food. 

“Well, it’s.” He sighs, taking another sip of the beer. You turn to look at him, he seems nervous. 

“Would you ever be up for a threesome?” He asks suddenly. The question shocks you a little, you reach over and pick up your glass of wine. You weren’t expecting that, not the most unusual thing Johnny has asked you about when it comes to sex though.

“I mean, would you?” You ask taking a sip to quell the nerves. 

“Depends on who the other person is.” He says, running his hand through his hair. You take another sip and put the glass down. 

“What has this got to do with Simon? Is he the person you would want to have a threesome with?” You ask frowning. He takes another swing of his beer. 

“It’s not that simple.” Johnny says, you shake your head, now you’re even more confused. 

“I want to help him have sex.” Johnny says, holding his hands out. 

“Help him have sex by having a threesome?” You ask. 

“There’s more to it than that. It’s not just a threesome.” Johnny says. “He’s, he’s been through alot. Being intimate, it’s something he’s not very used to.” 

“Okay. Is he shy?” You’re not sure what to say, you've never even met him. 

“Shy? No, not Simon, well-” Johnny’s sentence gets cut off by the ringing of the door. 

“Just trust me, okay?” He says coming over to you and resting his free hand on your shoulder. You nod, you trust him. Now all of a sudden you feel nervous, you weren’t nervous before now, Johnny leaves the room to answer the door. So he’s invited Simon round for sex? Did Simon ask for this or is this one of Johnny’s master plans?

Or well, maybe he’s not here for sex because Simon has intimacy issues apparently. He should be talking to a therapist, what does Johnny expect to do? You have to keep a straight face though, you don’t want to make him more uncomfortable then he probably already is.

You turn off the stove hearing Johnny laugh as he comes in with Simon. You turn and smile at him, you put your hand out to shake it as Johnny introduces you. He’s not what you expect and he doesn’t seem shy. 

He’s massive, bigger and taller than Johnny, he’s definitely good looking, fit, brown eyes and blonde hair. With the way he holds himself you can tell he’s a soldier, Johnny does the same when he’s nervous, he probably doesn’t even realise it. 

“Thank you for cooking, you didn’t have to.” Simon says as you all walk over to the dining table. 

“I told her the same,” Johnny says, nudging him.  

“I don’t mind, besides when was the last time you had a home cooked meal?” You say going back into the kitchen while Johnny and Simon sit down. You finish your glass of wine swallowing the nerves, it’s going to be fine. What's the worst that could happen, you all have sex? 

That wouldn’t be the worst thing. 

…

Johnny and Simon seem to get on great, after a beer they both relax. You just enjoy listening to them talk about their last deployment. You don’t mind letting your second glass of wine mull you out. After everyone is finished and your stomach’s have settled Johnny insists on moving to the living room.

You all end up on the sofa, you find yourself relaxing against Johnny as he wraps his arms around you. Maybe Johnny won’t bring it up or maybe he’s waiting for Simon to bring it up. It’s not your job surly, you look up at Johnny, blinking at him, maybe he’ll get the idea. 

He smiles and kisses your forehead. Maybe not. You sigh looking back over at the bottle of wine and unopened beer cans on the table. 

“When was the last time you got laid LT?” Johnny asks suddenly. You snap your head back up to look at him. He’s got a cheeky grin on his face looking over at Simon. You hear him clear his throat, now you feel bad. Fucking epitome of subtle as always Johnny.

“Why do you want to know?” Simon replies, you look over at him. He’s resting the beer on his knee, he doesn’t seem nervous. More irritated that Johnny asked him. 

“Just looking out for you Si. Need you to blow off some steam before we’re back to work and you’re busting my balls again.” Johnny chuckles, at least that makes Simon smile. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” You ask him trying to steer the conversion away from the awkwardness hanging in the air. 

“No.” You swallow the lump forming in your throat. You let out a breath sitting up. Johnny frowns at you. 

“I’m going to the bathroom.” You say, Johnny smiles his hand resting on your hip for as long as can. 

When you make your way back down you hear Johnny talking. You hang back for a second and eavesdrop. 

“I wanna help you Simon.” Johnny says.

“You don’t have to.” Simon replies.

“Well of course I don’t have to. I want to.” Johnny replies, Simon sighs and you hear a can open. “I think it would be good for you, if you want. We’ll take it slow, promise.” 

You feel a lump rise in your throat at Johnny’s words, you always knew he was close with his unit but you didn’t know he was this close. You let out a breath and slowly walk back into the room. You see Johnny move his hand off Simon’s thigh and you go over to pick the empty cans off the table. 

“Need anything?” You ask, trying to keep your voice level. Johnny and Simon both shake their heads. You go into the kitchen anyway to throw out the cans. You hear Johnny coming in, his hands slip round your waist. You smile at his touch and turn to face him. 

“Do you mind doing this?” Johnny asks, his thumb comes up to brush your cheek. 

“Do you?” You ask. He smiles, nodding his head. You smile back, reaching up and kissing him. 

“We’ll take it slow. You want to stop at any time we will.” Johnny says his hand rubbing your arm. 

“I don’t think it’s me you need to be worrying about.” You say. 

“Sorry I sort of sprung this on you, I didn’t know if he would agree.” He says, you frown. 

“Did you speak to him about this before tonight?” 

“I hinted at the idea.” 

“Hinted?” You scoff. “John MacTavish, you're the least subtle person I have ever met.” You wrap your arm around his waist pulling him against you. He hums with that cheeky grin on his face. 

“What happened to the bra?” He asks. You smile. 

“One less obstacle.” He kisses your forehead. You follow him back into the living room, Simon has moved onto the recliner. This time when you sit back on the sofa you don’t lean against Johnny. 

Simon seems to be suddenly extremely interested in what’s going on on the news. Johnny’s hand lands on your thigh and rubs it. He turns and leans in to kiss you, he takes his time mapping your mouth out, you relax into the kiss forgetting Simon’s there for a second.

Johnny’s hand slips up your shirt groping your breast. You hum in his mouth and he pulls away from the kiss. He removes it, gripping the hem of your shirt. You raise an eyebrow at him, what you’re just going to fuck while he watches or maybe joins in.

Johnny tips his head to the side smiling. You swallow the nerves and hold your hands up so he can slip your top off. A satisfied noise leaves Johnny and before you can start to feel really embarrassed about anything he’s already locked his mouth round one of your nipples.

You can’t help moaning and running your hand through his hair. He had it cut while he was away, you want him to grow it out again so you have something to grip onto. Johnny’s tongue flicks your nipple and he gently nibbles it before he pulls his mouth off with an audible pop. 

“What do you think, Si?” Johnny asks, looking over at him. You look over to see Simon press his lips together. “Pretty ain’t she?”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks as he nods, it doesn’t last long though. Johnny pulls you closer to him, planting his lips on yours and pressing his tongue in your mouth while his thumb rubs circles on your nipple still wet from his mouth.

He breaks from the kiss pressing his forehead on yours. “How ‘bout you go show Simon how good you are?” He says, it’s almost a whisper. You nod and he gives you one last quick kiss before you stand up. 

Johnny's hand lingers on the small of your back for as long as he can as you step over to stand in front of Simon. He doesn’t look that nervous, you know he is though, the way his lips are pressed together avoiding your eye line. His hands gripping the chair arms. You’re not sure what to do, make sure you don’t freak him out is probably a good start. 

“I’m not a virgin.” He says, you clench your jaw feeling awkward. “It’s just been a while, I'm out of practice.” 

“How long?” You ask.

You bring his hand up and place it on your breast. “I like having my nipples played with.” You say letting go of his hand, encouraging him to squeeze. You smile at him, you need to keep yourself open and calm. 

“Couple of years,” he says, like it's the most embarrassing fact in the world. Now you just feel bad for him, again. You reach down for the hand resting on the chair arm and pick it up. You can see the bulge in his pants, that's good, one less obstacle you need to worry about. 

His hands are rougher than Johnny’s, his grip is tighter, you’re not sure if it’s out of nerves or not. If he relaxes it will be easier, you don’t think that's going to be happening any time soon. His thumb brushes over your nipple and you reward it with a hum, trying to make your body relax even more. 

His other hand comes up to your other beast and before you know it he has both his thumbs running over your nipples. It feels good, if this were any other situation-or Johnny you might be able to cum just like this. 

You feel Johnny step up behind you, his hands land on your waist as he pulls you back against him. 

“Wanna see what else she likes?” He asks, resting his chin on your shoulder. Simon looks up at him and nods. Johnny leaves you and Simon drops his hand as you both watch Johnny move the coffee table out the way. When he’s done he goes over to the sofa and pulls the throw down on the floor, sitting down with his back against the sofa. 

“Come.” He says gesturing at you, you raise an eyebrow and walk over anyway, he spreads his legs and pats on the floor between them.

“Pants off, back on my chest.” He says, you nod pulling them off. This time you don’t get embarrassed thinking about Simon seeing you. You sit down between his legs and rest up against his back. You look over at Simon who’s face has turned a light red. Maybe this is too much, too fast. 

He hasn’t said stop though. Johnny reaches over and pulls your knees up so Simon has a perfect view of you spread out against him. You can feel his own cock pressing against your lower back, his hands run down your thighs eventually pressing on your clit. 

You try not to squirm, keeping yourself still. You let out a breath as Johnny moves his fingers round soaking them in your juices before pressing them back on your clit. You moan this time at the new sensation, his fingers pressing little circles with ease. 

That’s good though right? You should be looking like you’re enjoying yourself. This is a fun activity not something to be afraid off. 

“She likes this too, Si. Wanna feel?” Johnny says then presses a kiss into your neck. You watch as he shifts in the chair, for a second he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. He lets out a sigh and stands up out of the chair, he steps over then kneels down in front of you. He watches for a second as Johnny changes his strokes. 

You see Simon swallow before he reaches out. Johnny’s fingers are replaced with his. It’s a whole different sensation. His movements are slower, more unsure but the pressure is there and from having them both play with your nipples your body is slowly building up to that sweet release. 

“Put your fingers in her.” Johnny says after a few seconds. Simon looks up at him then quickly to you, you smile and nod at him. He shuffles on his knees again taking his fingers off your clit almost like he’s unsure. 

You watch his adam's apple bob then he presses a finger into you. You can’t help moaning, his finger stops, you smile at him and he continues to press it in until he can’t anymore. You feel Johnny’s cock twitch behind you. He’s enjoying this, he moves his fingers back to your clit. 

“Feel good love?” Johnny asks in your ear, you nod. “Use your words darlin’ tell him how good you feel.” 

“Your finger feels good Simon, you can use more if you want.” You say looking up at him. You think you see the faintest smile creep onto his lips. The next time he pulls his finger out he adds another. The new stretch makes you part your legs further, scooting your position slightly so his fingers rub against your g-spot with each thrust. You moan again, this time tipping your head slightly. You want to come but not until Simon’s ready, you don’t want to scare him. 

“See not so scary after all.” Johnny says, you can hear the smile in his voice. You look up at Simon who seems like he’s in a world of his own, maybe that's where he needs to be to get through this. You wonder what happened to him, you didn’t bother asking Johnny. It must have been something horrible. 

You let out a moan trying not to clench down on Simon’s fingers, you don’t want to spook him. Johnny hums in your neck, you know he’ll know you’re close, sometimes it feels like he can read your body better than you. 

“What to make her cum?” Johnny asks, you almost want to nod and scream yes. Simon looks up again, he hesitates for a second, his fingers stopping in you. He nods and you smile at him. 

“Just don’t take your fingers out okay?” Johnny asks, you swallow, you don’t want either of them to take their fingers off you. Simon nods again, his fingers start moving again, he makes sure to press in all the way. He speeds up too, you’re not in control anymore, maybe it’s for the best. 

Johnny’s fingers on your clit are relentless, you’re focusing on not spooking Simon or clenching around his fingers until you cum. Johnny hums in your ear and it sends shivers down your spine. He can tell your close cock twitches behind you. You’re not sure if you need to give an audible warning to Simon though. 

Your breathing increases as does your moaning, you’re close and you need to make your mind up. 

“Johnny.” You call his name, it’s almost like you need to wait for his permission, you’re not sure what to do.

“Yeah baby, come for us.” His voice low in your ear. Christ, that's all the permission you need, you tip your head back and close your eyes moaning as you clench down on Simon’s fingers. He stops moving but you don’t care. Johnny rides you through the orgasm as Simon’s fingers leave you. 

“See, not so bad.” You hear Johnny say. You open your eyes as you feel Simon get up to his feet. 

“Si?” Johnny asks as he moves to leave the room. You sit up.

“Bathroom.” Is all he says as he leaves the living room.

“Is he okay?” You ask leaning forward between Johnny’s legs. You turn to look at him watching out the door. You both hear the downstairs toilet door close. Johnny looks back over at you and smiles, you can see the concern in his eyes though, he’s not as slick as he thinks he is. 

“You did great.” He smiles, leaning forward to kiss you. You can’t help feeling like you’ve done something wrong though. Maybe it was all too much for him. 

“I’ll go check on him.” Johnny says helping you to your feet. You smile at him and nod. Maybe he just needs a second. You feel bad all of a sudden. Johnny leaves and you shiver, the room suddenly feels cold. You’re just standing there naked, you’re not sure if things are going to continue. 

You reach over pulling the other throw off the couch and wrap yourself up. At least this way if he wants to keep going you don’t have to go through the hassle of taking all your clothes off. You want to sit down but your curiosity gets the better of you and you head over to the living room door. 

You hear the toilet door open. No one says anything, you make sure to keep out of sight of the hall, trying to focus on listening. 

You hear Johnny sigh. “You did so well mate.” There’s a sniffle in response, is he crying? Now you really feel bad for eavesdropping. 

“Wanna stay the night?” Johnny asks, there’s no response.

“Want a mask?” He asks, you frown, a mask? “Guest room, in the chest of drawers.” You hear movement and step back over to sit on the sofa. You’re still getting comfy as Johnny walks in. He smiles at you and comes over to sit next to you. His arm comes round your shoulders and he pulls you up against him. 

“Simon’s going to stay the night.” He says kissing the top of your head. You nod trying to swallow the guilt of eavesdropping on their conversation. Johnny reaches over to pick up the remote and unmute the TV. 

“Is he okay?” You ask. 

“He’s fine. He just needs a minute.” Johnny says. You nod 

“Thank you.” He says. “Really I mean it. You didn’t have to do this.” You look up at him and smile, it makes you feel all warm inside.

“I love you johnny.” You say. 

“I love you too.”

---

[v1x3n]

BLOOD. TEETH. GUTS! ── ripped apart.

♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141

♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

♯ TAGS - angst - mentions of torture, breakdowns, violence, possible sa, argument, johnny being a dick, starving.

─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─

The buzzing fizzes up your ears. Constant. Painful.

It's like static. Yeah. Static blocks out all other senses, the only thing you could focus on was the ringing, forever ringing that fills your head.

Then you look up at him. The guy that caused the pain - well, one of the guys - the guy who's currently standing at the fucking door to your therapist's office.

Why does HE need therapy?

Your eyes were full of shellshock, the memories of the eyes you were looking into, feral as they glared at you whilst ripping your teeth out one by one. But now they look at you, sadness overfilling the wet eyes. The corners are red, just as yours are. Just as yours will always be. Breathing slightly picks up as you stand up.

"I'm sorry, do you two know each other?" Jones starts to speak, following you with her eyes when your legs shake slightly, your movements taking you slowly to the right. Moving to the side of the sofa. "Why the f-fuck are you here." your breathing picks up vastly. Flashes of blood, teeth and guts pop into your head as you're reminded of what he did to you.

"Oh god, fuck- y/n." Johnny steps forward, closing the gap between you two as your breathing thins. Short sharp breaths you inhale and exhale. "Why the fuck are you here!" demanding an answer you didn't want. "Jones is my therapist, trust me, she helps tons." Johnny says casually. As if you two were friends, fucking friends. This wasn't casual though. You were fuming, steam almost flowing out of your ears, your face glowing red.

"What the fuck do you need therapy for?" you scoff, your eyes looking at him up and down, giving him the hackiest of looks. Eyes squinting, trying to see what he truly wanted, trying to see underneath all the lies that dared to utter from his mouth. "A lot of people go to therapy, y/n-" Jones starts but you cut her off, fury raging stronger than your natural kindness. "You. Don't. Fucking need SHIT!" Blood. Teeth. Guts.

You step forward, crashing all around you as you inhale the familiar scent of Johnny. The one you used to link to drinking together or that one time you accidently walked in on him showering and saw him using your shampoo. But now all you saw was when he would harm you. Hatred fuels through you as the scent overtakes you, a prick of tear showing at your waterline. Dripping down your angry face.

"I- bonnie-" he steps back. The tension in the room filled it, an overwhelming atmosphere all around you - you couldn't be here anymore. Your breathing picked up faster than before as everything seemed to move at 2 times speed. "Fuck off!" you barge past him, making sure to push him into the doorframe as you walk by.

Johnny grunts as he hits the wood. The hard frame probably bruised him but fuck him. You didn't care. Actually, you hoped he was hurt. You hoped he would feel the pain that you did - that he put you through. And it would take a lot more than a small push.

It was a stupid idea to follow you, wasn't it?

Tears stream down your face as you scream at him, "you fucking dickhead!!"

Blood. Teeth. Guts.

The images flash through you as his hand reaches toward you, "Y/n, I'm sorry. We made a mistake." "no fucking shit!!" swatting his hand away from you, he couldn't fucking think for a second that you would let him near you. He was lucky you touched him when you barged past him, he was lucky you were talking - well screaming - to him. He was lucky you didn't kill yourself after everything. "I told you! I fucking told y-you that it wasnt me!" sobbing out whilst shouting at him, hitting his chest with more and more anger as you continue to talk.

"Why do you need fucking therapy? Was it so hard for you when you tortured me? When you ripped my teeth out? When you CUT my fingers off?"

People around you were looking. But you didn't care, you didn't care about the stares. All you cared about was your rage. You hadn't let out much emotion since it happened, nothing but what was burning inside of you. Every person you knew told you that you needed to let it out before it started spilling. You were just letting it out. This wasn't even half your rage.

"I didn't fucking want to - and yes it was hard! You were my best friend!"

"And yet you didn't believe me?"

"how- how could I? You would've done the same thing if you got told I fucking betrayed you."

You look up at him, misery in your eyes. "I would've found more fucking information before ripping someone's teeth out!" you hiss spitefully at him, glaring at him as you do so. You were so sick of that fucking excuse, 'we had to do it', bullshit.

They didn't have to strip you, they didn't have to tie you up, they didn't have to starve you. They didn't have to be so fucking cruel about it all.

"You don't fucking understand how hard it was for me to do that."

"Excuse me, you two need to calm down" a doctor walks up to the two of you, surrounded by some other doctors, yet you ignore them. Your eyebrows rise in utter shock. "I'm sure it was really fucking hard!" You yell at him. Blood. Teeth. Guts. Drops spill down your face at a rapid speed. The doctor's eyes dart between the two of you, concern etched into his features. He takes a deep breath. "Please, you two are upsetting patients. Let's just all calm down." He suggests gently, hoping to diffuse the situation.

"'Calm down'" you mock, "Yeah! Sure! Let's just forget about fucking everything!" Your tears flow down your face as the man in front of you sighs. You step towards the man who harmed you, daring him to come closer. Your steps are like thunder as they stomp towards the man. "I'm sure you'd fucking love it!" Unable to contain your anger, you take a swing at Johnny. Blood. Teeth. Guts. Unluckily he swiftly dodged. After taking a deep ragged breath, you could hear commotion around you as the doctors rushed to you and closed in. Random hospital words that you didn't know were thrown around. You feel hands pulling you back, voices urging you to stop. Pulling you away from the situation but you wouldn't stop.

You defy, trying to push them off as you see Johnny being escorted away through glimpses of your tears. The images flash through your mind, over and over. On repeat. Blood. Teeth. Guts. Blood. Teeth. Guts. Like a never-ending cycle of rage. The security guards finally intervene, separating you from the doctors. As they try to escort you out, tears stream down your reddening face as you try as hard as you can to part from their aggressive grasp. As you get more and more uncooperative, a silver cold metal shoots into your neck - instantly effective as you slump into the many guards' arms.

Johnnys eyes are wet as he is brought away, looking over at you slanted in the many guys arms/ guilt and regret evident in his weary eyes.

[bewaryofpity]

OH YOU DEVIOUS LITTLE FREAK!!! i am begging for "It’s my thigh or nothing. I’m not helping you get off" for nico. you know exactly where my brain is at. i need this. i deserve this. do what you were put on this earth to do 👹👹👹

fine, here, take it 🙄

16. “It's my thigh or nothing. I'm not helping you get off.”

.

For some reason Nico thought it was a great idea to only pack the shortest swim trunks he had in his closet for your short holiday before the regular hockey season would start again. The first day was fine, the second one just as good, but now he had a golden tan and those thighs looked way too good to be left alone.

You couldn’t help but admire him as he was lying on the sunbed, skin glistening after taking a swim in the pool you were currently in. You laid your forearms by the pool edge, resting your chin on them as you intensely looked at your boyfriend peacefully tanning and blissfully unaware of the dirty thoughts that were clouding your reason.

This wasn’t unexplored grounds for you two, he did make you get off his thighs many times before, but his muscles were bigger now, or so they looked so to you, his skin was perfect, and his hair was getting golden.

You licked your lips as he shifted his leg a bit to the side, getting a better view of his inner thighs, and you thought he was doing this on purpose.

“I can feel you staring, you know.” He said, a smirk growing on his lips.

You giggled, a small blush creeping on your cheeks. “I’m just enjoying my view.”

He brought his arms underneath his head, cracking one eye open to look at you despite the sun shining on him. He mumbled a small c’mere and you swam your way towards the built-in stairs, swaying your hips as you walked up the steps.

Nico hissed at the feeling of your cold, damp body against his warm skin when you dropped down, straddling his hips. Instinctively, his hand caressed your hips, playing with the strings of your bikini.

“I think my view’s better.” He grinned. Your hands trailed up and down his abs, nails barely scratching at his skin, while his kept drawing patterns on your thigh. Your body was blocking the sun now, a soft halo traced your silhouette, outlining you in a golden glow.

His grin grew when one of your hands reached to pull at the bikini’s string, untying the knot in one swift motion, your pelvis half exposed. As you reached to undo the other, his hand grabbed at your wrist. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Let me have some fun, there’s no one around anyway.”

And how could he stop you when you looked so beautiful on top of him. He reached for the strings of his trunks, but you swatted him away. You could take care of his half hard cock later. His breath hitched as you untied the other knot and lifted yourself up to slide off the bikini under you before settling back down, straddling his thigh.

You were already steadying yourself with your hands on his taut stomach, rolling your hips forward while he let his hands drift until he was cupping your ass. A breathy moan left your lips as you started to rub yourself against his thigh, spreading your slick all over it.

“Fuck,” he gasped as your knee nudged his hard cock. He glanced around a little, trying to make sure nobody was wandering around the pool area. Nico palmed your ass with one hand before giving you a light smack and dragging his thumb to rub slow circles on your clit with the other.

You gasped, grinding yourself down on his thigh trying to reach your peak. Your head fell forward, and that’s when you saw the mess you were making on his leg. Glistening and shiny against his perfect skin, your juices were sticking to his hair and the sight sent a quiver to your clit.

You rocked your hips up and down, trying to alleviate the desperate warmth growing in your core. You bit your lip when your cunt clenched around nothing, begging to be filled.

Your hips stuttered a bit as you kept riding and he guided you along with his hands squeezing your hips. "Nico," you whined. "Let me just—"

You slowed down your movements and fumbled with his swim trunks, but he stopped you before you could drag them down. “Oh no, pretty girl,” he teased. “It's my thigh or nothing. I'm not helping you get off with my cock.”

He clenched his thigh and dragged your hips down, resuming the pace you had before. Your head tipped back, showing off your neck and tits, your nipples hard through your bikini and Nico had to fight to keep his lips off you.

"Fuck you." You said through gritted teeth and he laughed. You held onto him as your lips parted. You were panting, shaking, still grinding, making soft little gasping noises, your eyes drifting closed. Nico squeezed your hips tighter when he felt you jolt and shake as you came on his thigh, moaning his name like a mantra. As the roll of your hips started to slow, you peeked down at the mess you created, more of your cum spilling over.

“You okay, pretty girl?” You nodded your head, still coming down from your own orgasm, chest heaving. You couldn’t help but drag your fingers through the sticked hair of his thigh, spreading the slick around before raising your hand, cum string snapping as your fingers reached up to his mouth.

Nico looked up at you, your gaze hazy and pupils blown, before he took in your digits and licked around to get a taste, a mix of salty and sweet, his sweat and your honey-like slick.

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 2

Summary: You save Soap's life. Yours continues to go off the rails. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, panic attack, my continued attempt to write Soap and Ghost's accents, military inaccuracies, more canon divergence, Soft!Simon. MINORS DNI A/N: I truly cannot believe how sweet you guys were about the first chapter. Thank you so much for being so kind! I apologize for the wait. I was almost done with this chapter when I decided I hated it and scrapped all of it and started over. I also finished another draft of my novel! Busy times. This is definitely more of a slow burn romance and I'm thinking it'll be around 10 or so chapters.

Well, at least you were out of the hospital room. It wasn’t far from the hospital room, but the horrendously beige room down the hall had a television and a few chairs you could sink into and a small kitchen that always seemed to be stocked with snacks in neat boxes on the counter. Were they good snacks? Not really. But you weren’t about to complain when it was a break from the nutrient dense and flavorless food they’d been shoveling down your throat the last handful of days.

Coronation Street was playing on the television as you soaked a plain biscuit in your tea. This was probably a breakroom of some sort, cleared out of anything that you could have possibly used to communicate with the outside world and you were pretty sure the blinking light in the corner was a camera to make sure you weren’t going to do anything ridiculous. Like climb out a window.

No.

You just wanted out of that stupid room with its uncomfortable bed and terrible pillow and beeping machines.

The biscuit crumbled in half when you tried to remove it and you stared at your tea for a stretched moment as the soap opera continued to drone on. Dammit. You shoved the rest of the biscuit into your mouth and then sipped on the tea for a moment before digging out the remnants of the biscuit with your spoon. Not your proudest moment.

You were pulled from your sad cup of tea and entertainment by the door opening and Soap walking in, arm still in his matching sling.

“Why am I hearing about ye not taking yer pain killers?” He asked instead of a greeting. You found that Soap did that. He barged right into things. No slow starts for him. It would be endearing if this were any other situation.

And just like you not saying anything to Ghost about your sister and why she wouldn’t be found in any intel about you, you wouldn’t give Soap a straight answer either. You were not going to take any of those pain killers if you didn’t feel like you needed them. You knew… Well, that didn’t matter right now. “Are they telling you my medical history? I don’t think that’s legal on either side of the pond.”

He frowned. The big Scot frowned and you almost laughed with how it made him look like a puppy. “Don’t ye need it? Ye were shot.”

“I’m aware of that. Trust me.” You turned and grabbed at the sleeve of biscuits, knowing it was a blatant change of topic. “These are awful, by the way.”

Soap snatched them out of your hand and scowled at them. “These are shite. Why’d ye do that to yerself?” He then pivoted and rummaged through the cabinets you weren’t brave enough to open and then set down a pack of shortbreads in a fancy looking tin which he popped open with one hand (you tried not to be jealous about that particular skill). “That’ll be the only thing going near yer tea.”

The shortbread was delicious and you wordlessly made another cup of tea for yourself and a cup of coffee for Soap. You were prouder than you wanted to admit to hear you guessed correctly when you said he looked like he preferred coffee and prouder still when you dug some out of the cabinet and made it just the way he said he liked it as he settled on the lumpy couch beside you to watch the rest of the episode. He knew what was going on better than you and regaled you with the storylines long since finished and convoluted family ties of the characters. It was nice. Soap was…nice.

He had finished his coffee by the time the episode ended and scooped up your mug on his way toward the breakroom’s tiny kitchenette and set them both in the sink. He turned back toward you, bright blue eyes scanning your face for something. He had a casual set to his shoulders, even with the sling, but you knew the look of a smart man trying to pick his words carefully. Soap honestly reminded you, just a little bit, of a guy you went to highschool with, who looked the part of loveable idiot but eventually went to an ivy league school on a football scholarship. He was currently a doctor, knee deep in cancer research, if those annoying alumni emails had any truth to them.

“Just say what you need to say. I’m sure I can handle it.”

The corner of Soap’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I wanted to let ye know that yer intel was good.”

You just nodded. That would explain why you hadn’t seen the other three lately. They had been sent to Kastovia. “That mean I can go home?”

Soap sighed and your heart shriveled a bit more. “No, lass. I’m sorry.”

Someone had left a calendar in the breakroom. You had tried to keep track of the days that had slipped by, but you just wanted to be sure. You counted on your fingers how many days you thought had passed, but the pain killers the first few days after the tunnel had made everything hazy. You worried your bottom lip with the blunt edge of your teeth as you flipped through the next month and dragged your finger down to the day you knew Kirby was due.

Just a few short weeks. That’s all you had. You needed to be there. You needed to be back in time. You’d promised Kirby you would be. You’d never broken a promise to your younger sister and you didn’t want to start now. Those stupid, useless tears stung at your eyes again and blurred the calendar dates. “Fuck.” You wiped at your eyes, trying to keep them from falling before anyone saw, before you felt more useless and trapped than you already did.

Another episode of Coronation Street was playing, a hum at the back of your mind, but it started to mutate and grow until it was a screech. You needed to get to Kirby. They had what they needed from you. You would sign anything they wanted, change your name, dye your hair, live off the grid. But you needed to see Kirby.

You promised.

The door opened easily and you strode out into the hallway. Did you know where you were going? Not really but you just needed to leave. You could figure out the rest later. After all, Kirby always said you landed on your feet. It was time you proved her right. You turned down another hall and yelped when a meaty hand clapped on your uninjured shoulder. You turned, tamping down the urge to throw an elbow and snarled as you realized it was only Soap and his ridiculous blue eyes.

“What’re ye doing?”

“I’m leaving. I have to go.” Your heart thudded painfully as you turned, slipping out from his grip. The edges of your vision started to blur and you hated that you knew what this meant. It had been years since you felt like this—but this situation hadn’t exactly been great for your mental health.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Each beat of your heart hurt.

“Ye cannae do that, lass. Ye know that.”

“I’m leaving.” You turned again to leave and grunted when he pulled at the back of your shirt. “Let go of me.”

“Lass-”

You turned and tugged your shirt free, letting the snarl curl your mouth as your vision continued to tunnel.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

“I’m leaving!”

What happened next was not your finest moment but you’d also been through worse. Soap reached for you again and after you pulled out of his grip once more, he lowered his shoulder and ran at you, hauling you up and over. His arm anchored you down, a weight across your back as his shoulder dug into your stomach. You didn’t even freeze as he turned, presumably to bring you back to the breakroom. Your arm pushed out of its sling and you wrapped your hands around one of his thighs and let his next step help pull you from his grip. Heat lanced across your shoulder as you wiggled against the grip until you yanked your legs free and kicked them above his head and over your own until your heels hit the ground. And then you were throwing yourself forward and dashing down the hallway. Out. You needed to get out. You needed to leave. Every breath burned a little more and-

The tile was cool against your cheek but Soap’s arms were a heavy firebrand as they banded around your waist. “Calm down. Calm down fer me.”

You thrashed against his hold as he stood but he didn’t seem to care and it wasn’t like you were a match to those dumb, hulking muscles. But still, your memory was hazy as he dragged you back to the breakroom and shoved a shortbread into your hand.

“Now, I’ll talk to someone. But ye cannae do that. Ye understand?”

By the time Simon arrived back on home soil, they’d moved her and Soap to a different part of the base. A hall of barracks that had been recently constructed but not yet assigned to a different squadron had been a good place to hide away their injured sergeant and American informant. Laswell had informed Price of the move and then sent along a video in lieu of an explanation.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure how many times he watched her claw and wiggle her way out of Johnny’s grip but Price did eventually take the phone away from him. (But not before Simon sent himself a copy.) She was wily. Strong. Stubborn.

Even when she had tears smeared across her face.

It was easy for Simon to claim one of the rooms as his own—it had always been better for Simon to be on base anyway. His flat in Manchester never felt like home. Just an expensive place to rest his head when he was ordered to take his mandated leave. Knowing the others were down the hall was more comfortable than any sort of high priced pillow anyway.

The mission had been successful. And a shitshow. The second, and larger, cache of gas in Kastovia had been exactly where her intel had said it would be in a barren steel plant. But the handful of missiles had been an unexpected find. As had the small militia that awaited them. While they had been easily dealt with, one of them managed to set off what Simon could only describe as a failsafe to take out the entire plant and the surrounding area. The gas dissipated quickly but not before it had caused extensive damage. Makarov wanted them dead. And he wanted her dead, too, if the picture one of his men had pinned up beside a map of different caches and routes to take over borders was any indication. It was upside down and some artist had taken it upon themselves to scratch out her eyes and draw an obvious axe buried in her neck. Charming. There were a few smaller pictures beside it but he didn’t get a clear look at them.

The explosion meant they didn’t have more than the one picture Gaz took of the map and Simon’s lungs burned a bit every time he took a breath. Nik had been quick in the exfil but still cut it close. Too close. And it grated on his every nerve that Makarov hadn’t been there. Still in the wind.

Simon had been told to visit the medbay before going to bed—Laswell was supposed to be arriving tomorrow for a debrief—but he thought that was more of a suggestion than an order. He’d dropped his bag on the floor and rinsed off before lumbering into the small bed, letting the standard-issue sheets scratch at his skin. It felt like coming home. And he watched the video again, feeling a strange smile push at his mouth.

He could bother Johnny about her ability to get away from him in the morning.

The doctor whose name you couldn’t be bothered to remember told you to start physical therapy. And, just your luck, Soap had been told to do the same. If he was wary of you because of your outburst, he didn’t show it at all. He would smile at you, eyes crinkling, over his coffee whenever you opened your door at the crack of dawn. A tea would be in his other hands and ready for you. It was a nice routine as more days continued to slip by.

You’d stretch and grumble about the slowly fading pain in your shoulder and Soap would do the same. At least you didn’t need to use the sling anymore. But this was, pathetically, probably the closest you’d had to a friend. He’d talk and talk and talk. About his mom and sisters up in a small town outside Glasgow. About the dog he had as a kid—“Boots was the best dog a boy could have, lass, lemme tell ye.” About anything that seemed to pop into his head as the sun would intermittently peek out from behind the low hanging clouds to splash warmth across the dead grass beneath your sneakers. You counted it as a win that they let you outside. It was behind a fence with razor wire at the top, but a win is a win. Mostly. Maybe they were seeing if they could actually trust you outside those beige walls.

You’d swallow nails if it meant you could be at Kirby’s side when she needed you.

One of the more ridiculous exercises the doctor had you and Soap do was passing a yoga ball between one another—of course, you had to move your arms a certain way to get the right stretch or whatever, but it all felt a little silly, even with the twinge growing more pronounced with each pass. Hands on top and on bottom, twist so they’re on the side, hand to Soap. He’d repeat.

“This feels very stupid.”

“Aye. But they’re watchin’ so we’d best play nice.”

The yoga ball nearly slipped from your suddenly-slick fingers. “What do you mean?” You’d heard a bit of thudding from the empty room next to yours last night but thought it was a faulty air unit. Was there someone else here?

“They got back last night. Give ‘em a chance to settle before they say hello, aye?” Soap’s blue eyes sparked with mirth and you might have shoved the ball back at him a little harder than necessary. He just laughed at you.

You chanced a glance at the rectangular windows cut into the metal building, close to the sharp edge of the roof. He was probably just being funny, but now you couldn’t fight the feeling of someone watching you. And why did your mind conjure Ghost’s ridiculous mask?

He hadn’t said much after you had told him you weren’t going to pour your heart out to him. But he’d continued to stare until he and the others left for Kastovia without a word. One guy who’d found you “mysterious” while you were in undergrad thought that he could figure you out and stared, too. Thought that his attempt at a psychology degree would unravel all…well, all of you. He gave up after a couple of months. Ghost didn’t seem the type to give up. But that still didn’t mean that you were going to tell him anything.

You threw another glance toward the window and the yoga ball hit you in the face.

Simon stared down at the inhaler. This was stupid. The doc had hurriedly explained that being exposed to the gas during the explosion had done a number on Simon’s lungs. At least he wasn’t Price who’d hit his head on his way out and was told he’d had a concussion and also needed the inhaler. Gaz had been the only one who’d managed to get out mostly unscathed aside from needing a butterfly bandage for a cut over his eye.

His next breath burned and Simon finally shook the damn scrap of plastic and took a puff just as he heard the back door open. He stood and watched Johnny and the woman trudge out into the dead grass, carrying a few bits of equipment, including a yoga ball, craning his head just enough to see them through the high window. And well, if he stood on the small desk chair to watch, who would know?

He couldn’t hear them but he watched her throw a few glances toward the window. And then Johnny hit her in the face with the yoga ball. She promptly slingshotted one of the resistance bands at his head in retaliation.

“Heh.”

The debrief later that morning with Laswell had gone as expected: More intel was good. Makarov not being spotted was bad. They needed time to heal. Farah and Alex would investigate possible gas caches just within Urzikstan’s borders.

The picture Gaz managed to grab was helpful and did verify a majority of the intel they had already. But it did mean that Makarov’s network was larger than they had ever thought. One of Laswell’s contacts had enhanced the slightly blurry picture and Simon recognized each of the 141’s faces, pinned to the board, too. They were targets just as much as she was. Small bits of paper stemmed from Price, Soap, and Kyle’s pictures and Simon knew what they represented even without the fancy tech trying to make it clearer. They were hunting for weak spots. Family. Friends.

They needed to leave. Keep low. Hide. Simon hated it. He hated that the others had families on the line and he could do nothing but take a few puffs of his stupid inhaler and wait. These were men who’d become his brothers-in-arms and their families were at risk. He knew what it was like to lose.

Price’s hacking cough basically ended the debrief and Laswell said she needed to make some calls, disappearing to another part of the base and Price griped as Kyle urged him to go back to medical. Johnny said he was going to start packing.

Simon walked away as Price continued to grumble and walked down the small hallway toward the bunk rooms and–

BANG.

Simon paused just for a moment, straining his ears as he pushed further down the hallway. With how the mission had gone, he couldn’t rule out that someone had attempted to get onto base and finish the job the gas couldn’t. There were security gates and checkpoints, of course. The high fences. And this part of the base was underdeveloped for now. But having a traitor in the midst wasn’t something Simon could write off.

“Fuck,” came an annoyed voice.

The tension slipped from his shoulders as he pushed open the nearest door.

Sitting in a chair in front of the mirror atop the tiny dresser, she was picking at her stitches with a pair of needle nose pliers. A small pile of the twists sat atop the dresser—apparently she’d been at this for a while. Simon walked in, watching as she leaned closer to the mirror, trying to see the stitches across her shoulder better as she plucked at them. She’d jammed her tongue between her teeth and the strap of her thin top had been tugged down. A book, probably pilfered from the breakroom, was open beside her.

(Simon stared. Just for a little.)

The pliers fell from her hands and bounced off the dresser before hitting the floor. That had been the sound he’d heard.

“Need a ‘and?”

She let out what he could only describe as a squeak as she turned toward him, hurling the book at his head as the pliers slipped from her other hand. He caught it without letting loose the laugh he felt growing.

“Jesus Christ! How long have you been standing there? Don’t you knock?”

“Heard something. Thought something bad ‘appened.” Not a lie. He tossed the book onto the bed. He watched her mouth curl at the edges and Simon wasn’t sure if she was going to yell at him or laugh.

“Right.” She stared at him for a little longer before bending down to grab the pliers again. She settled in front of the mirror again and stared at the remaining stitches. At least the ones she could see. Simon had a clear view of the mess of stitches on her back. She’d never reach those.

She stared back at him in the mirror. The grip she had on the pliers was tight and grew tighter when he stepped closer. But he still easily pulled the tool from her hand and then reached down to turn her chair around to face him.

“What’re you doing?” She asked as he started to untwist the next stitch.

“Helping.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Doin’ it anyway.”

Well, fuck.

You could do very little except stare at Ghost as he undid each of the stitches. You weren’t stupid enough to tell him to fuck off. What he was doing was nice. You couldn’t deny that but why the hell was he doing it? He was even bigger from this angle as he loomed over you. But he was being gentle with you, so gentle. And silent. Maybe it would be better if he talked to you through it all or said anything at all, but he was…quiet.

And so were you.

Until the door opened again and Gaz came in, gun drawn. You had pivoted back toward the door, only for a moment before Ghost let out a short, sharp breath from behind his mask and nudged you back into position. You still managed to see Gaz holster his weapon with a smile on his face, perfect teeth glinting in the low light. “All good here, LT?”

He grunted but didn’t turn to look at his teammate. You chanced a look up at Simon to see him still singularly focused on your stitches. His dark eyes didn’t stray from them even though you were sure he could feel you looking at him.

By the time he reached down to turn your chair again, letting him start on your back, you found yourself liking how quiet he was. Small talk had never been your forte and you surmised that it wasn’t high on Ghost’s list of skills either.

When his thumb pressed into your spine, covered by the harsh fabric of his gloves, you tried not to shiver as you let him move you so he could see the stitches better. And he removed those, too.

It was when his finger trailed against the new scar on your back, barely a whisper of a touch, that you couldn’t stop it. God, you really were pathetic. When he moved the strap of your shirt back up your shoulder, you managed to bite the next one back. “Thanks,” you said, the word uneven and warbled. “You going to help Soap take out his, too?” You weren’t sure if you were being sarcastic or not.

The way Ghost tilted his head made you think he wasn’t sure, either. “Cap did ‘is already. Looks like shit.”

And you laughed.

The nondescript SUV rocked slightly side to side as it tore down the road. Gaz seemed hellbent on getting wherever you were headed quickly. There had been some good-natured ribbing about not letting Ghost drive. They seemed to like each other, a good camaraderie between them that seemed as easy as breathing. But you guessed that would probably happen in their line of work. Defying death together usually did that. Price, however, did seem at least a little put out about not being the driver.

And you were stuck at the back of the SUV, listening to them talk amongst each other. To his credit, Soap and Gaz both tried to involve you in the conversation. They would ask what you had been doing in London, if you’d ever been outside the city, if your shoulder was giving you trouble. It was nice.

They were still nice.

You didn’t really understand why they were trying so hard but you weren’t about to ask. Especially not now when you had a black bag over your head. They didn’t really trust you but it had been a weird kindness when you’d felt Ghost buckle you in and place a light blanket over your lap before you’d departed. It was probably a silent order to go the fuck to sleep seeing as you hadn’t been sleeping well since you’d hastily weened yourself off the most intense pain killers. It didn’t help that you’d been shuffled outside right after midnight and told to get in the back of the vehicle without much fanfare. And you knew better than to argue.

You had a bag over your head and were heading to an unknown destination. The power dynamics didn’t exactly scream trustworthy. They kept you alive, that was true. But they didn’t trust you. Funny.

You leaned your head back against the seat and sighed, the fabric rustled against your mouth. It was a strange feeling. Weirdly comforting, like when you’d push your face into the pillow and scream when you were a child, desperate for an outlet.

“I can see why you like the mask,” you muttered.

“Whot?”

Hm. You said that out loud. Well, too late to take it back now. “I said I see why you like the mask.”

“She’s bloody insane,” Gaz whispered. But you liked to think he was smiling while he said it.

“Maybe Ghost’ll lend ye one of his? Ye two could match.”

There was an answering smack and “och, what was that for, LT?” before the blanket was adjusted over your lap.

“Go to sleep.”

You smiled beneath the bag. And, knowing you had nothing better to do…you went to sleep with Ghost’s low rumbling echoing in your ears.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[imstillalexcomic]

It's never too early to start thinking about Halloween, right? You know, that holiday where we all get to go a little bananatown?

Like, that holiday where I get a little silly and go into the office dressed as something like only one or two of my coworkers know?

Definitely an idea that I'm pretty sure only two are aware of is Ranma, but frankly I'm surprised it's that high already.

Full disclosure, I already got my costume for this year ready (never too early), but why not draw other ideas I had, plus anything else that I think could be fun for the future??

WHY NOT I SAY!

[korn-dawg]

I wanna be mean to loser ellie so bad mock her a bit make fun of her moans put a vib in her and ask her in a sickenly sweet tone what’s wrong in public could you write anything about this hc or anything

YESSSS OMFG THIS IS FIRE HOLY SHIT OFC I CAN 🤩🤩

✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯

loser!ellie who comes home one day with a remote controlled vibrator, giggling childishly when she shows it to you

loser!ellie who jokingly suggests going on a date to a fancy place to test it out

loser!ellie who doesn't expect the enthusiastic yes from you, thinking you were gonna shut her down

loser!ellie who thought you were going to be the one wearing it. dear, was she wrong

loser!ellie who walks into the restaurant, trying so hard to ignore the toy shoved in her cunt, pushing right up against her g-spot when she sits down

loser!ellie who gets through the first few minutes of conversation, slowly starting to relax. that is, until the waiter walks up to the table

loser!ellie who watches you slide your hand in the pocket of your bomber jacket, the same pocket you slipped the remote in when you two got out of the car earlier

loser!ellie who starts trying to place her order before the damned thing inside her buzzes to life at the highest setting possible, causing her to jerk forward with a half-smothered moan, almost slamming her face into the table

loser!ellie who gives you the dirtiest look when you order for her, pawning her behavior off as "she's getting over a cold"

loser!ellie who finally catches her breath when you turn it off, giving her the most nauseating sweet "are you sure you're okay, babe?" to which she responds to with a disgruntled "i'm fine."

loser!ellie who thought you were going to apologize with a kiss on the cheek, leaning into your lips until a imitation of her noise hit her ears

loser!ellie who gets so red as she pushes your face away while you giggle, the deep crimson almost masking her freckles

loser!ellie who panics when the waiter comes back, already seeing the sick little grin spreading across your face

loser!ellie who starts feeling the buzz again as he starts talking, asking if you two wanted the AC turned up cause he noticed how red she was

loser!ellie who looks at you to answer, only for you to gesture for her answer instead, turning the intensity of the vibrator up

loser!ellie who manages a little "yes, please." before gripping your leg under the table, fingernails digging into your thigh as she attempts to concentrate on not cumming in her pants that very second

loser!ellie who unfortunately didn't get the relief of an orgasm, as you turned it off completely right as she was about to tip over the edge

loser!ellie who was getting annoyed with you keeping up the concerned girlfriend façade as you dabbed her cheeks with your napkin, talking how the waiter was right about how red she was

loser!ellie who could barely eat when the food came, especially not when you turned the toy on every time she went to take a bite, acting as if nothing was happening at all

loser!ellie who excused herself from the table to go to the washroom, to which you didn't follow after, opting to just mess with the remote without seeing her reaction. not being able to see her reaction, though, meant you didn't know when to stop

loser!ellie who was thanking whoever was watching over her that the restrooms were private, because she was currently leaning against the sink with the small object vibrating inside her, unable to support her own weight

loser!ellie who reached for her phone when it started buzzing in her back pocket, watching as slews of dirty texts from you came through, one after the other

loser!ellie who came twice in the washroom, hand clasped tight over her mouth as her legs shook violently, almost falling over multiple times

loser!ellie who looked like a newborn giraffe walking back to the table, nearly tumbling over her own feet

loser!ellie who rushed you along while you ate, the feeling of her soaked boxers pressing her own sticky cum back up against her pussy being oh so unbearable

loser!ellie who jumps on you as soon as you two were back in the car, reaching a hand in her pants and pulling out cum-soaked fingers, shoving them in your mouth harshly

loser!ellie who watches as you sucked them clean before grabbing her by the face opening her mouth by squeezing her cheeks tightly, spitting her arousal back onto her tongue, telling her to never try that again

loser!ellie who lowkey got her shit rocked when you two got back to your place, twitching in overstimulation and fucked stupid by your strap by the end of the night

✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯

hey gyus i think i got carried away at that end part there

✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯✮✯

taglist !! :

@lolitalovess @saturnhas82moons @odettesoddities @mars4hellokitty @hihihhihahahha @peskylez @kylorey25 @lipglosskxsses @hwasddeongbyeoli @kaykeryyy @kissyslut @meow4510

(i hope i didn't fuck that up and tag a random ass blog 😭)

[iamyouknow-yours]

My first therapist participated in medical gaslighting - ie insinuating I was not autistic and that I was "just anxious" and not in fact chronically ill. Turns out I'm both. This fucked me up for years (still fucks me up tbh) and it delayed my diagnoses that could have radically changed my life. It also encouraged my mom and family to participate in said medical gaslighting and force me to go to school (which was actively harmful and traumatising for me and my sense of self worth).

I really like my current therapist. A lot. She is incredibly helpful. She's knowledgeable about autism and chronic illness and disability. She also actually listens to me and takes my feedback and just really gets me.

But goddamn if my choices were no therapy or my first therapist? No therapy all the fucking way baby!

My second therapist was also pretty shit and actively made my relationship with my mom worse.

So yeah jeez, therapists are still human beings who can be extremely biased and complex. And they are in a position of power over you where you make yourself vulnerable. So you really gotta make sure you trust them and that they have your best interests at heart and that they're not abusing their power (even unknowingly, like I don't think my first therapists were thinking mwahaha let me fuck up this patient, they just had extreme biases and blind spots and were ignorant about a lot of things).

Also!! There are different types of therapy. CBT is one of the most common types of therapy and it is really effective for a lot of people. But for others (especially neurodivergent people), it can be harmful. There are lots of types of therapy and not all of them work for everyone.

An incomplete list of things in no particular order that help me alongside therapy and alongside each other, all of them have pros and cons and fall short in some areas (also I'm still chronically disabled, none of it cured me, sorry)

Psych meds (there are so many types out there, I'm on 3)

Online chronic illness group chat support group

A good support system (excellent, weird friends - it's really important to be friends with weirdos, it's good for you, I'm a weirdo too) (also my mom <3)

Accommodations (mobility aids, stuff at uni like extra time, all that jazz)

An OT who specialises in chronic illness and neurodivergency

A dietitian who specialises in neurodivergency and has learned about my chronic illnesses for me

Having hobbies - create stuff, it's good for you. It's okay if you don't keep the same hobby after a few months. Just keep doing stuff.

Exercise (yeah I know but unfortunately doing some stretching and going for a walk with my dog does actually help my mental and physical health, does not cure me though shut up Barbara)

Meds n shit for physical stuff

Animals - having pets, I recommend, it's like touching grass but woah they're in your bed

Drinking enough water and eating regularly (again I know, it's not gonna fix you but dear lord I feel like shit when I don't do these things, and yes sometimes it's really fucking hard)

Journalling

A truly fantastic GP/managing doctor (I cannot state how much I adore her, she's so lovely and believes me and listens to me and just excellent)

Learning how to rest properly - did you know there are different types of energy and different types of rest? Obvious right but I was only resting my body and now I'm learning to rest my brain and get emotional rest and social rejuvenation and be in nature and have a sense of community - these are all important!!

Reminders (so many reminders) and google calendar (I know google sucks, give me a good alternative and I'll use it) and Shovel (I got it when it was cheaper, it's a planning app for adhd people that I can't live without for uni)

Media I enjoy - fics, youtubers, shows, movies

Leaving the house for fun reasons as much as I can (uni, errands, and appointments don't count, walking the dog half counts, but I need to leave and go to an event or cafe or go to a friend's house) (this ends up being not as often as I'd like but it's important to me)

Getting enough sleep (one of my psych meds has the truly fantastic side effect of making me sleep well practically every night. I can't state enough how much this is fantastic. Did not cure me though, don't worry, your aunt wasn't correct)

I have gotten quite a few asks which can be summarized as "my therapist doesn't believe me and keeps blaming me for my problems, but I know I have to stick with therapy if I want to get better-", and I need everyone to realize that therapy isn't inherently good and effective, nor is it always necessary for getting better. Having a bad therapist can actually be more harmful to your recovery than not having one! If your therapist makes you worse or doesn't help you, it's okay to walk away, whether to find a new one or to find healing in something else. You are in fact not morally obligated to see a therapist just because you're mentally ill.

[theplumsoldier]

undercover(s) (18+)

summary: oh no, there's just one bed!

pairing: tim bradford x f!reader

word count: 5,4k

warnings: friends to lovers trope, dirty talk, vulgar language, pet names, unprotected sex, creampie, riding that thick dick, praise, mentions of injury (reader), let me know if i missed anything<3

You were perched in front of the mirror, admiring the woman gazing back at you through long lashes.

“It's giving brat.”

False lashes, acrylic nails, threaded brows.

“You know, I'm actually kind of diggin’ it.”

Little black dress with an open back, Jacquemus handbag, golden hoops, perfumed skin, high-heeled boots.

“Damn, I look good.”

Through the mirror, you could see Tim still at it with the device, a little black box with an antenna that could detect signals from even the smallest, most high-tech recorders. It made a static noise as he hovered the stick over just about every surface and object.

“Alright. It's safe,” he finally concluded once he was content with his work.

“Could have told you as much. My contacts are good,” you sassed with a smug look, leaning your hand on your hip.

Tim shot you an incredulous look as he packed away the gear. “Yeah, you can drop the bratty attitude now, smartass.”

You chuckled as he removed the gun from his belt and put it on the dresser. “I don't know—it's kinda growing on me.”

Though you had never been undercover with Tim before, you were confident you knew him well enough to feel when something was off with him. You had known each other for a long time, and right now he was being off.

And you knew exactly why.

“Come on, it's not that bad,” you sighed, finally moving away from the mirror and stepping out of the shoes.

There was only one bed.

He arched a brow at you and rolled his eyes. “The hell it is. We're supposed to play brother and sister and we're sharing a bed?”

You snorted at his tone—speaking as if it would jeopardize the whole operation. 

“Look, even if anybody thinks anything of it, I refuse to believe it'll become a problem. We'll just roll with it,” you reasoned nonchalantly.

“What?” he mouthed in disbelief. “Roll with it? I—” he cut himself off, brows knitted tightly as he ran with hands over his face.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction and folded your arms as you leaned against the wall. “I'm sure we won't be the first incestuous couple residing in Buttfuck Arizona.”

You were clearly making him uncomfortable and you were having way too much fun with it.

Tim seemed to be looking anywhere but at you. You wondered if it was the one bed or the way you looked in the dress. You hoped it was the dress.

His jaw clenched as he inhaled sharply through his nose, his mouth set in a tight-lipped twitch. He shook his head when he finally glared at you, quickly turning to unload the gear from your suitcase. "Okay—just… Get your head on straight, yeah? Meeting's set in twenty.”

***

You winced as Tim tightened the string working through the flesh of your upper arm, the hand that wasn't holding the needle holding your shoulder in a firm grip. The pain was nothing you hadn't experienced before, but his touch made you hyper-aware of every sensation in your body. Including the heat rushing to your cheeks and ears.

“Stay still,” Tim ordered, his steely blue eyes focused on his patchwork as he closed the wound and bandaged it for you. “Let me know if there's any discomfort.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you sighed, your tone lower and shakier than you expected it to be.

The deal had gone sideways, but not completely off the tracks. Tim seemed worried that your cover was blown but your instincts told you not all had gone awry—you had been caught in a knife fight with your target's enemies. While the target fled the scene and bullets ricocheted, you and Tim secured the gangsters before heading off, too, leaving the rivals disabled for when backup swooped in. You had convinced Tim the operation was not compromised—that if anything, you had substantiated your cover.

Tim went out to pick up some food and you jumped in the shower, careful not to ruin the work Tim had just finished on your arm. By the time you finished up, Tim returned with a plastic bag and you ate on the bed. You could practically feel the tension in him radiating from his body and though you tried to tune it out, there came a point where you could no longer stand it.

“Look, if you're that worried about it, we can call it off,” you proposed. “I trust your gut so if you feel like something's off, we just pull the plug. Check-in's in an hour.”

Tim looked up with a furrow, appearing confused by your suggestion. It had crossed your mind that the ordeal with the rival gang earlier on was not the only thing pressing him—the whole situation probably made him uncomfortable.

While you were used to undercover work, he had really only dipped his toes into the world. You had known each other for years; you've had drinks far into the morning, deep conversations, and seen each other adapt to life's challenges. You knew he felt comfortable around you, and you felt comfortable with him, but it made sense to you that this whole scene was somewhat unfamiliar to him.

Your jobs forced circumstances where you worked together, but you had never been entangled in a situation where either one of you got seriously hurt. It was one thing knowing someone you cared for could find themselves in a dangerous situation at any given moment; a whole other when you're present and see how things go south in a matter of seconds.

Tim shook his head, swallowing down a bite of his burger. “You've done this kind of work a lot longer than me, it's your call.”

It bothered you a tad, him showing you unconditional trust in a life-or-death situation. If he really thought there was the slightest chance you had been made, you would rather have his honesty.

You chewed your lip instead of the fry in your hand, watching him quietly, trying to read him. In all the years you had known Tim, he had always been stoic, his warmer traits only showing once his guard had been breached. While he wasn't exactly an open book, he was always blunt on his opinions—just not now.

It had to be more than just about the operation. 

“We'll do the check-in to let them know we're good. We can revisit in the morning.”

Tim bobbed his head but didn't look at you.

You arched an eyebrow at him, deciding to switch topics. “So… you wanna flip a coin on the bed?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “No, you take it. I can make myself comfortable on the floor.”

Your brows knitted together and you gave him a quizzical look. “What? You sure—I mean I certainly prefer sleeping cozy, but it doesn't feel fair to just—”

“Doesn't matter. You take the bed. I'll be fine.” he insisted and finished his meal, wiping his mouth with a napkin before standing. “I'm gonna take a shower.”

Tim scrunched the trash together and threw it in the bin before locking himself in the bathroom.

You sighed and drank from your watered-down soda.

Tim planted his hands on the counter in front of the bathroom mirror, letting his head fall to level with his shoulders as he exhaled deeply. He cursed himself for agreeing to this operation.

It was one thing to know you got hurt, and another to see you suffer injury on his watch.

This is what you do, he reminded himself. You are used to this.

Tim was angry with himself for letting this get to him, although he was more disappointed that your - well, your character's - blatant flirting with the criminals bothered him in such a way—his blood boiling whenever someone looked at you with primal urges.

He had no right.

Even worse he was disgusted with himself for entertaining the thought—how your acrylic nails would feel scratching the skin on his back, how your soft and supple flesh would mold in his palms, how your glossy lips would whimper soft mewls, and how your lashes would flutter shut in bliss.

Tim inhaled sharply, clearing his throat, and turned on the shower. The splashes that hit the tiles added a backdrop to his obscene thoughts while he rid himself of his clothes, goosebumps forming on his skin.

He stepped into the downpour, leaving the shower head attached to the clasp in the wall. Tim subconsciously held his breath as he let the water burn his skin, feeling the need to inflict pain on himself to clear his mind. Regardless, the scorching sensation passed and soon enough he gave in and pumped his aching cock in his hand.

When he had showered - and shot his load down the drain - he put on a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a white shirt before walking back into the room.

You had already gotten under the covers, your eyes focused on the open page of your book. You had put aside two blankets and a pillow for Tim to make use of. The TV was on low volume, viewing a baseball game, and the remote was left at the end of the bed.

Tim’s jaw clenched and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him, seeing how you had laid out this display for him to feel comfortable when he had just jerked off thinking of you in a way friends were not supposed to.

He made a spot for himself on the floor, leaving his watch and handgun beside the pillow.

“You made contact?”

“Yup,” you replied softly, turning the page.

Tim hummed in response and settled on the hard floor cushioned by one of the blankets. When you felt his attention focus on the television, your absentminded gaze left the book and you watched him instead.

Even in a relaxed position, he maintained his characteristic rigid demeanor. Your gaze was caught by the broadness of his frame and the way his shoulders appeared constrained by the white fabric that hugged them.

Tim didn't seem too invested in the sports channel and soon he turned it off, lying down. You followed suit and put your book away, turning off the bedside lamp with a small grunt.

“You can read on if you want,” he said lowly.

You chuckled as you got comfortable in the bed, head leaning over the edge just enough to watch him from above. “Is that your way of telling me you're scared of the dark?”

A huff left his still body, and a grin pulled at your lips and although it was too dark to see, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Go to sleep.”

You laughed. “Yes, sir.”

You weren't sure for how long you had laid there before you began feeling restless. Instead of merely zoning out, your mind seemed to focus on every little detail. Outside the wind was ominously howling, a windchime clinking soft pitchy notes, and Tim seemed fixated on every little sound, whether it was a car door shutting or you turning in bed.

The silence inside was tangible, and you could practically hear Tim's mind running at a hundred miles per second.

Another heavy sigh escaped him as he turned on the floor with a grunt. Initially, he hadn't thought it would be that bad - Tim reminded himself he had slept in worse conditions while in the army - but now that he was here, the carpet smelled like tobacco and the ’80s pattern seemed to crawl.

He rolled on his back again, draping one arm over his eyes.

You shifted under the covers, the springs creaking beneath you. “How are you doing down there, bro?”

“Don't call me that,” he scoffed quickly, clearly far from sleep and you grinned.

You debated it in your mind before deciding to just throw it out there. It didn't have to be weird. You could literally just not make it weird. “You know, there's enough room for the both of us up here.”

Yeah, that wasn't too weird.

Right?

“What?”

Okay, you had made it weird.

The suggestion made Tim tense up, and his mind did not hesitate to picture the scenario. He knew you well enough to know the offer was innocent, but he couldn't help but imagine things far from innocent.

You chewed down on your bottom lip and tried to joke your way out of the position you had just put yourself in. “Easy, Sargeant—not offering to get handsy, just a side of the bed.”

There was another pause and the air was too thick for comfort. You were quickly coming to regret your offer, wishing the mattress would just swallow you whole before Tim could say another word. It had been a long time since you had been this embarrassed.

A moment later you could hear him move, but you didn't dare look.

“Move, then,” he suddenly muttered, and a shiver chilled your spine—he was already on his feet, so close.

You swallowed and made space for him in the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You felt a heat rise to your cheeks when you realized he had brought the blanket from the floor, your subconscious having irrationally convinced you that you would be sleeping under the same.

Tim's movements were almost mechanical as he lied down, and you found yourself shifting further to the edge of the bed, afraid to accidentally touch him.

God, you wanted to touch him.

If nothing else, then just to see his reaction—find out whether he wanted you as much as you did him.

You stared up at the ceiling, trying to slow your breathing as your whole body tingled. You could hear Tim's breaths as well, measured and controlled like everything else he did and it bothered you for some reason. If only he would just slip up, be a little easier to read.

Tentatively, you tilted your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. His hands were folded across his stomach and his eyes were shut, taut muscles barely moving an inch as if it might actually kill him to shift.

Tim couldn't possibly be comfortable like that.

He looked like a damn robot waiting to be recharged.

While this rigid man lay unmoving beside you, your heart was hammering away in your ribcage and your thighs rubbing together like the act might stand a chance of relieving you in some way.

You returned your gaze to the ceiling, breathed out, and rolled onto your side so that your back was facing him.

The thought of what you might feel if you pushed yourself against him made you inhale sharply.

Stop it, you cursed yourself mentally.

You didn't know how long you were laying there, just staring at the wall, but at some point your eyelids finally grew heavy, sleep slowly but surely, pulling you in.

Tim wasn't as lucky.

His mind wouldn't let him get a second of rest with you lying this close to him. He tried to focus his mind elsewhere but he was all too aware of the proximity.

His mind continuously betrayed him, replaying every moment during the day that had made him feel like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—the way you had practically teased him while doting on yourself in the mirror, the way that damned dress hugged your body in ways that made him feel like a fucking schoolboy with uncontrollable hard-ons, the way you had flirted with the criminal at that meeting and the way it made him feel possessive in a way he had no right to.

Then you had offered to share the bed with him, making it sound so casual like you knew it wasn’t the worst thought you could have had—reigniting the idea of “getting handsy” in his already spinning head.

You had to know what you were doing to him.

He felt like a coiled wire about to snap; like the subtle heat radiating off of your body threatened to burn him alive.

Then you shifted.

A tiny, barely noticeable movement so small he might as well have imagined it.

But then it repeated, this time accompanied by a small sigh.

In your sleep you inch closer to Tim, instinctively seeking a warmth the covers fail to provide you.

At first, it's just your foot grazing his calf, but then you rolled over, closer to him, and your knee bent so that it rested on his thigh as you nestled deeper into the mattress.

Tim tensed and held his breath, his entire body going rigid beneath the sheets.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you continued shifting, moaning as if displeased, and rolled closer, molding your body against his side as if it belonged there.

He knew he should pull away—you're asleep, completely unaware of what you're doing. But it really did feel like your body belongs this close to him. Tim can't make himself move.

But then your hips moved, ever so slightly, and it didn't feel so innocent anymore.

Tim couldn’t think straight, his head spinning, conflicted. He was as still as a statue, stiff and unmoving. You sighed, soft and breathy, content and utterly unguarded against his body, his scent filling your lungs with safety.

Worse is when you murmured his name in your sleep. Though barely a whisper in the quiet room, it slipped through the cracks and under his skin, searing Tim from the inside out.

Before he could stop himself his hand moved down, ghosting over your hip to see if you would stir, if this was real. It was the faintest touch and while you didn't flinch, Tim was spiraling at the feeling of the curve of your body hiding beneath the cover.

His hand tentatively weighed down on your hip, ever so carefully feeling you in his palm. He froze when you shifted again, but you only pressed further into his touch and his breathing stuttered in response.

Another content moan escaped your lips, and Tim's jaw locked while his fingers clenched in reflex, tightening his grip on your hip.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat and your spine went taut as Tim's grasp pulled you from your semi-asleep state.

Your lashes fluttered against your skin and for a moment you were afraid to open them fully, fearing the man whose scent had captivated your dream might not be real.

But Tim was very real and very close, the warmth of his hand seeping through the cover and into your skin, branding you.

It took you a moment to separate imagination from reality, but when it sunk in, you melted completely.

For a moment neither of you spoke, the darkness of the room swallowing everything bar the feel of one another. The creaking bed might as well have been a cloud, peacefully floating about in the dark of the night.

Tim felt captured as your gaze studied his features, your hazy eyes full of something he didn't dare assume, but could only hope.

“Tim—” you breathed quietly, lips quivering with the unspoken, and Tim's heart ached at your voice; a raspiness, a hesitance.

He knew he should pull away, apologize, do something, but he couldn't move or say a thing. Not with the way you looked at him with desire in your eyes and your bottom lip caught under your teeth.

You didn’t pull away, you couldn’t and you didn’t want to, and judging by his hand still holding onto you, he didn’t want you to either.

You weren't entirely sure what was happening, lust and warning bells waging war in your mind, but your primal needs took over and your hips did an experimental grind.

A curse slipped from his lips, low and guttural, and he exhaled your name, a confirmation that he wanted you as much as you did him. Tim's digits dug into your hip, his stormy eyes latched onto yours as he swiftly moved on top of you, bracing himself with a strong arm beside your head—

And fucking hell it was spinning.

His lips were so close, his warm breath ghosting your skin, raising goosebumps. Your chest heaved heavily with each breath but instead of the air entering your lungs it was only him.

Another second passed and it was one wasted not on Tim, so as the next ticked in you closed the space between you completely, pressing your lips against his in a feverish kiss.

Tim's sturdy body molded against yours, his rough palm sliding up to cradle your cheek as he kissed back with an eagerness resembling your own.

All that had pent up in the course of the day, or perhaps for longer, was released then, your bodies syncing to become one in the dark of the night.

Sighing against his warm lips, you allowed your hands to find purchase on his shoulders, feeling around for any inch of revealed skin. Your fingertips slid under the sleeve of his t-shirt, tracing the hard lines of his flexed muscles, and your other hand snaked up to the back of his neck.

You could feel yourself getting more heated by each second, hungrily licking into Tim's mouth as you allowed yourself to be completely engulfed in everything him. 

In turn, Tim worked on removing the blankets separating you so that your bodies were flushed. 

When you felt his frame pin you and his erection press against your sex, you gasped into his mouth, every stolen glance, every flirty comment leading up to this moment, suddenly sparking every nerve ending in your body alive. Feeling his undeniable lust for you made your world tilt on its axis, making this feel overwhelmingly real. And yet, it was somehow not real enough to convince you it was not merely another fever dream. You needed him inside you, to claim you and to fill you up, to leave marks on your skin that would linger in the morning.

You bucked your hips against him, pathetically trying to relieve yourself with some sweet friction.

A low groan vibrated against your wet lips and he held your waist down with a rough grip, squeezing the exposed flesh.

You whined, looking up at him with doe-eyes. “Tim, I wanna feel you.”

“You will,” he promised, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear making you shudder and writhe.

His stubble tickled the sensitive flesh of your throat and his mouth suctioned the skin, tongue pressing and teeth scraping, quickly contorting the pout on your face into a breathless moan.

Tim's hand brushed past the waistband of your shorts and panties with practised ease, and when two long digits dragged through your wet folds, another breathy moan escaped you.

“Fuck,” Tim cursed as he felt how wet you were for him, watching your reaction with dark eyes as he dipped the fingers into your needy hole. “Tell me—did you have a little dream about me?”

Your jaw went slack, lips parted in a silent gasp, as he slipped two fingers into you, knuckle deep. No sound escaped your throat, but you couldn't exactly stop the wet squelch coming from your wet cunt.

His palm guided your face back to his, stormy blue orbs searching for an audible answer. You hadn't even realized you'd been holding your breath. “S'that why you've soaked yourself? Were you havin’ a little dirty dream ‘bout me?” Tim's fingers sunk back into your sobbing pussy.

“Yes,” you finally exhaled shakily, eyes rolling back as he slid his torturous fingers out and back in, curling them against your gummy walls. “F-fuck—yes!”

“Was it the first time?” he quizzed, clearly pleased with himself and—well, you were very pleased with him, too. He planted a chaste kiss just below your ear. “Hm? Have you dreamed of me before?”

“Ye-yeah,” you hummed, your mind barely grasping the words he spoke, everything a hot haze. “Sometimes… when I touch myself.”

“Good,” Tim murmured, scissoring his fingers into you while leaving feather-light open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

You shuddered, biting down on your wet bottom lip, focusing on the contrast between his delicate touch tracing down your collarbone and his fingers stretching you deliciously. He lifted your shirt, exposing your breasts and you moaned as he sucked on the soft flesh above your perked nipple.

Clamping down on his long fingers, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Breathing shallow, eyes rolling to the back of your head, Tim picked up on the clues.

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he encouraged. “I got you.”

Tim continued fingering you through your orgasm, pumping slowly but purposely as you creamed around his digits. Thighs shaking involuntarily, hands struggling to hold on to anything, you cried out a shaky moan. Riding against Tim's hand, you clawed at his neck as you came down from your high, quivering lips teasing his.

“Attagirl,” praised Tim and softly patted your jaw, prompting you to open and he shoved his fingers down on your tongue. Barely out of your daze, pussy still throbbing, you moaned around his digits, sucking them deeper into your mouth when he pressed his erection against your thigh. “Shit.”

Tim pulled his fingers back out and hungrily licked into your mouth, tasting the honeyed essence on your tongue.

Your hips bucked against his hard cock, greedy for more. Looping your arms around his form, you turned him over and straddled him, the creaking of the mattress emphasizing your needy movements.

Tim inhaled sharply, large hands squeezing your waist, pressing you down against his clothes hard-on.

Steely blue eyes that looked to be brewing a storm watched you intensely, loving how fucked through you looked after just one orgasm. Hair disheveled, lips plump, neck and cheeks flushed.

Grinding down on Tim you sighed, leaning down to kiss him passionately, acrylics poking into his chest where you found purchase. You were still out of breath, but you didn't care—oxygen was no longer what kept you alive, he was.

Moaning your name, Tim felt a wave of heat rush over him, veiling him completely in your scent and desire. He could hardly believe this was happening. One thing was you dreaming, moaning his name and letting him care for you; a whole different kind of reality was you grinding down on him, rubbing your sweet little cunt over his rock-hard, twitching cock.

Tim's jaw clenched when you reached down to free his neglected erection, an inhale getting stuck in his throat as the feeling of your soft fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft.

He was heavy in your hand, certainly bigger than what you would consider average. Thick and veiny girth with an angry head leaking precum. Swiping your thumb across the weeping slit, you brought it between your lips, moaning at the salty taste.

Tim hissed and sighed your name, hips bucking upward, eager for you to sink down on him. He was getting impatient and you could feel it in the way he held you, so you drew his throbbing cock against the soaked fabric of your panties.

His grip tightened in warning before he spoke in a low tone. “Don't be a brat now, sweetheart.”

You choked on the chuckle you emitted when you pushed your panties to the side and lined him up. Pushing the angry head between your slick folds, forcing an intrusion— “F-fuck, Tim,” you cried out, sinking down on him.

The stretch was intense, a sharp pain that shot into your abdomen, but you tried to ground yourself in the moment, focusing on where you were—on an undercover mission with a colleague, a friend, a man you had suppressed your attraction to for all too long.

You inhaled deeply, your hands falling to where his were placed on your hips, guiding them up to your breasts as he allowed you to accommodate him. Doing an experimental squeeze around him, he cursed and you began moving.

“You're so big,” you shuddered, leaning forward so that your bodies were flush, grounding you, cupping your hand against his clean-shaven jaw. “Feel so full of you, Tim.”

Sinking back down on him, you began to feel the pleasure overpowering the pain, the stinging stretch becoming absolutely delicious as you felt how your walls hugged him, clinging onto him. A wanton moan rasped from your throat as you sunk back down on him, reveling in how your cunt molded to fit around his thick girth.

Picking up a comfortable rhythm that had him rubbing against all the right spots, you met his gaze, salacious eyes staring back at you through layers of desire.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he admitted coarsely, breaths heavy and jaw slack. “Ridin’ me like you were made for me—fuck… Sweetest girl, you feel so good around my cock.”

His praise settled in your chest, pulling at your heart's strings. Clashing your lips against his, you picked up your speed and Tim's hands squeezed at the soft flesh of your asscheeks, resting there, helping you keep the rhythm steady.

Your tits bouncing against his chest, ass slamming down on his thighs, and your tight, juicy pussy sucking him in—Tim prayed to God this was not the last time you would ride him.

The sexiest moan you had ever heard reverberated from Tim's chest, the sight of the strings of your slick attaching to his pelvis as you bounced bringing something resembling primal instincts out of him. A ring of your milky cum circled his engorged shaft like a pearl bracelet, hugging his base and making a complete mess on him.

“Shit, baby—I won't last long f’you keep going like that,” Tim rasped, but made no sign to stop you. A breathy, self-satisfied grin escaped you but it contorted into a moan when Tim's thumb began drawing tight circles on your bundle of nerves. He pulled you down by your hair, fingertips rough yet soothing against your scalp. “S'that what you want? Hm? Wanna milk me for all I'm worth, yeah—go ahead, sweetheart. I'll fill you up,” he coaxed.

The pressure Tim applied to your throbbing clit made you whimper pathetically, though it was barely audible over the obscene moans and slapping sounds of wet, sweaty skin-on-skin contact.

The muscles in your thighs were burning from the strain but you didn't dare stop riding him, needing him to fulfill his promise of filling you up with his seed.

Tim showered you with praise, spurring you on as he noticed how your moans crescendoed. His thumb rigorously rolled against your clit, hips bucking up and fucking into you as he chased his own orgasm. “That's it, baby—come around my cock.”

And the brink was no further away than that.

You came, pussy clamping down on his rock-hard cock, pulsing walls practically massaging Tim's thick shaft.

You desperately tried not to get sloppy, wanting him to fill you, but you were a moaning, writhing mess, and your movements stuttered.

Tim wasn't one to break a promise though, and he fucked you through your orgasm, cock relentlessly fucking into your crying pussy. Incoherent pleas for him to fill you with his cum tumbled from your lips, and he didn't leave you begging for long.

With a final thrust, hot spurts of his seed painted your velvety walls, Tim's swollen cock pulsing against your insides.

Breath heavy, panting, you slowly slid off him, limply falling on his side, barely grounded as the high wore off. Tim's large hands supported you, one cradling your cheek, thumb caressing the warm skin, while the other dragged between your legs as he whispered reverent praises.

“You did good, sweetheart.”

Your heart fluttered and you whimpered when he scooped his leaking cum from your pussy and made an effort to push it back in. Lacking the strength to do more, you merely nuzzled your head deeper into his embrace, and he pulled you closer. “Does that mean we can do this again?” you asked, somewhat sheepish.

Tim's chest rumbled with a chuckle and he placed a kiss on the crown of your head. “Of course, but you have to let me take you out on a date once we get back.”

The butterflies in your stomach began flapping their wings harder. “Deal,” you agreed with a tired smile and kissed his collarbone.

[malicexo]

Unprofessional Thoughts

idol!San x Staff!Reader

smut, mirror sex, overstim, begging, secret fucking, corruption, 18++, MDNI!!

You should have known from the moment you got assigned to be San's stylist for the day, that this would be dangerous.

It started subtly, him lingering too close when you adjusted his mic, the way his eyes would flicker over you during styling sessions, the teasing smirk that never seemed to leave his lips. You told yourself it was all in your head. That he was just like this with everyone.

But you knew better.

“Need something, sweetheart?” San’s voice was a low purr as you fumbled with the in-ear monitors, cursing your shaky hands.

“No,” you said too quickly, clearing your throat as you focused on the task at hand. “Just making sure everything’s secure.”

He chuckled, tilting his head so your fingers brushed against the side of his neck. “You’re always so nervous around me,” he mused. “It’s cute.”

You froze, heat crawling up your spine. “I—I’m not nervous.”

San hummed in amusement, eyes dark as he watched you struggle. “Really? Then why are your hands shaking?”

You yanked back, flustered beyond belief. “I have other things to do,” you mumbled, turning away.

But of course, he wasn’t done with you yet.

Later, backstage, you were checking over his outfit one last time before he went on stage when he suddenly reached for your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. “You should really stop running from me.”

Your breath hitched as he pulled you just a little closer, his gaze flickering to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “You make this too fun.”

“San,” you whispered, trying to sound firm, but it came out far too weak. Unconvincing.

He grinned, utterly shameless. “You like it when I do this, don’t you?” His fingers ghosted along your wrist before dropping back to his side. “I think you like being flustered.”

You swallowed hard, unable to form a coherent response. The worst part? He was right.

The announcement for showtime cut through the moment, and with one last smirk, San leaned in just enough that his lips barely brushed your ear. “Don’t miss me too much while I’m on stage, sweetheart.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing there, hot-faced and completely screwed.

Later that night, you were back in the dressing room, gathering scattered accessories and clothes while the staff packed up. Most of the crew had left, and you assumed San had, too until you felt a presence behind you.

“Were alone...” his voice came low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned, only to find him standing much too close, still in his stage outfit, the sweat on his skin making his black shirt cling to his toned chest. His hair was slightly messy from the performance, his lips curved in a knowing smirk.

“I'm leaving.” you stammered, stepping back, but he followed, his fingers catching your wrist again—so casually, like he owned your reactions.

“But I wanted to see you,” he murmured, eyes dark with something unreadable. “Wanted to know if you were still thinking about me.”

You swallowed, heart pounding as his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your wrist. “I—I wasn’t.”

San chuckled, clearly entertained by your pathetic attempt at denial. “Lie.”

His free hand lifted, ghosting along the hem of your shirt, his fingers barely brushing your skin beneath the fabric. The air between you felt thick, charged.

“I think about you, you know?” he mused, tilting his head as his gaze roamed your face. “I think about how pretty you look when you get all flustered for me.”

Your breath hitched as he stepped even closer, caging you between his body and the vanity behind you. His lips hovered just above yours, the heat of his breath teasing against your skin.

“I wonder,” he murmured, “if you’d still be this shy if I really touched you.”

Your knees nearly buckled, but before you could even process what was happening, he leaned in—

And then, just like that, he pulled away.

With a wicked smirk, he let go of your wrist, stepping back as if nothing had happened, leaving you breathless and dizzy.

“See you at work tomorrow, sweetheart,” he winked before disappearing through the door, leaving you aching for something you never should have wanted.

“See you at work, sweetheart.”

That one little word had been echoing in your head all fucking night.

Sweetheart.

He said it so casually — like he hadn’t just leaned in close enough to kiss you in the empty dressing room, breath hot against your lips, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he was thinking about breaking every single unspoken rule between you.

You’d been holding your breath — waiting for him to close that tiny little space.

He never did.

Just smirked.

Winked.

Left you standing there flushed and shaking while he disappeared through the door, leaving you aching for something you should have never wanted in the first place.

You told yourself you’d forget about it by morning. That it was just San playing one of his little games — always pushing, always testing how far he could go before you snapped.

But then you walked into the dressing room the next day — clipboard hugged tight to your chest — and San was already sitting in the makeup chair, legs spread wide, black tank top clinging to his chest.

His dark eyes flicked up the second you stepped through the door.

“Morning.”

Your stomach dropped.

Fuck.

You froze — gripping your clipboard like it might stop your hands from shaking.

“A—Morning,” you muttered, bowing, eyes locked on the floor.

You could feel him smirking without even looking.

He knew exactly what he was doing to you.

He was testing you again — waiting to see if you’d pretend last night never happened or if you’d finally crack and let him ruin you the way you both knew he wanted to.

You made a beeline for the rack of stage outfits — pretending like you didn’t feel his eyes dragging down your body.

Professional.

Stay professional.

You were halfway through double-checking the fitting schedule when his voice drifted through the room.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again after last night.”

Your breath caught.

He was still sitting in the chair — arms draped lazy over the armrests, legs spread wide like he was inviting you to climb right into his lap.

His voice was so low, so casual — like the two of you were the only ones in the room.

You glanced around quickly — heat creeping up your neck.

There were three makeup artists in the corner. Staff moving in and out. Cameras tucked into the corners of the ceiling.

He knew you couldn’t react.

That’s exactly why he was doing this.

“I—” You cleared your throat, clutching the clipboard tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

San’s smile flickered — slow and lazy.

“That’s cute.”

His eyes dragged down your body — stopping at the little gap where your blouse was tucked into your high-waisted skirt.

“You always this shy when someone’s about to kiss you?”

Your whole body flushed hot.

Fuck.

He was pushing you right to the edge and he knew you couldn’t say a damn thing.

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes back on your clipboard.

“I’m here to work, San.”

He leaned back in the chair — all sharp smirks and cocky little tilts of his head.

“But you want me to finish what I started, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

His smile flickered wider — so fucking smug.

“That’s why you’re shaking right now, sweetheart.”

You gripped your clipboard tighter — nails digging into the paper.

This was a game to him.

A long, slow game he’d been playing for months — pushing you inch by inch, waiting for the moment you’d finally break.

You hated him for it.

You hated how bad you wanted him to win.

“Need me to help you calm down?” he murmured — voice so low you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Your thighs clenched together automatically.

San’s eyes flicked down.

Ohhhhhh, he fucking saw that.

You needed to get out of this room before you did something stupid — something you couldn’t take back.

You spun on your heel — ready to run — but San’s voice stopped you cold.

“That’s okay, sweetheart.”

“I like watching you squirm.”

You sucked in a sharp breath — heart slamming against your ribs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, hating how weak your voice sounded.

San’s fingers brushed down your arm — just the lightest touch — barely enough to be inappropriate.

Enough to wreck you completely.

“Yes, you do.”

You were going to lose your mind.

You were going to let him break you.

He winked again.

Like he already knew you’d spend the next four hours with your thighs pressed tight together — aching and wet under your little skirt — trying to pretend your sweet, polite professional little self wasn’t already completely ruined for him.

You’d been avoiding him all day.

Keeping your head down.

Sticking to the schedule.

But San had been watching you.

Waiting.

It was after rehearsal when he finally made his move.

You were sorting through accessories in the wardrobe closet — pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you from across the hall— when he shouted your name from across the hallway.

“Y/N… can you help me with something?”

You froze — heart slamming hard against your ribs.

His voice was all polite and sweet — the way it always was in front of everyone.

But when you walked over to him— his dark eyes were already on you.

Waiting.

“What—What do you need?”

San’s smile flickered — slow and lazy.

“My necklace.”

His fingers curled around the silver chain on his neck — thumb dragging along the clasp.

“I can’t get it off.”

You should have made someone else help him.

You should have stayed right where you were — safe behind the racks of clothes.

But your body was already moving — clipboard tucked under your arm, legs carrying you across the room before your brain could catch up.

It wasn’t until you slipped through the doorway that you realized he was standing in one of the back storage rooms — dark, secluded, far away from anyone else.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Locked.

Your stomach dropped.

“San—”

He turned slowly — leaning back against the table like he hadn’t just trapped you on purpose.

“You always come running when I ask, don’t you?”

Your heart was slamming so hard you swore he could hear it.

“This isn’t funny—”

“Never said it was.”

His fingers brushed up the back of his neck — tilting his head just slightly, offering you the chain.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

His dark eyes flicked down to your hands.

“Help me.” he pouted.

You swallowed hard — throat bone-dry.

You were supposed to be professional.

Supposed to keep your hands off him — supposed to forget about last night and every other time he’d whispered filthy little things to you under his breath when no one else was listening.

But you moved anyway — hands shaking as you reached for the clasp at the back of his neck.

He was so warm.

So close.

His head dipped lower — breath fanning soft against your cheek.

“You’re nervous.”

You sucked in a sharp breath — fingers fumbling with the clasp.

“N-No—”

San’s smirk flickered — soft, almost teasing.

“Lie.”

His hands slid down slow — brushing against your waist.

You froze.

“Relax, sweetheart…”

His voice was so soft — barely more than a murmur against your ear.

“It’s just me.”

That’s what made him so dangerous.

He never had to force you.

He just pushed — so soft, so sweet — until you were the one crossing the line without even realizing.

“I… I need to get back to work—”

San’s fingers slipped lower — toying with the hem of your little work skirt.

“But you don’t want to leave, do you?”

Your whole body flushed hot — heat pooling low in your belly.

“San—”

His fingers curled around your chin — tilting your head up until you were staring straight into those dark, lazy eyes.

“Say you want me to stop.”

Your breath caught.

You couldn’t.

You both knew you couldn’t.

That’s exactly why he was doing this.

“That’s what I thought.”

His mouth brushed against your jaw — slow, teasing little kisses down your neck.

“You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

Your knees buckled.

He caught you — one strong hand gripping the back of your thigh, bringing you closer against his waist.

“You’ve been waiting for me to fuck you since the first day you saw me.”

You whimpered — hips grinding up into him completely on instinct.

San’s smile flickered.

“There she is.”

His free hand slid between your thighs — fingers dragging up slow, lazy along your soaked little panties.

“Soaking wet just from me locking the door.”

You let out a broken little sob — nails digging into his shirt.

“You know how long I’ve been waiting to get you alone, sweetheart?”

He pressed two fingers right against your soaked little slit — not pushing inside, just teasing — watching the way you squirmed against him.

“You think I don’t notice how you squeeze your thighs together every time I call you that?”

“You’ve been begging me to fuck you for months without even knowing.”

You were shaking — thighs clenching around his hand.

“I—I’m not—”

San’s fingers slipped inside — two thick fingers stretching you open, making you silently cry out into his shoulder.

“Lie.”

He fucked you with his fingers slow and deep — thumb circling your clit, coaxing out every filthy little sound he knew you were trying to swallow down.

“You gonna let me ruin you in this room, sweetheart?”

“You gonna let me fuck you so hard you can’t even look me in the eye at work tomorrow?”

You sobbed — hips grinding down into his hand like you couldn’t stop yourself anymore.

You went silent.

San’s smile flickered wider — so fucking smug.

“That’s what I thought.”

You were still trembling against him — two fingers buried deep inside you, panties shoved to the side while San whispered filthy little lies into your ear.

“You were made for this, sweetheart.”

His thumb circled your clit slow and lazy — just enough to keep you on the edge without letting you fall over.

“You just needed someone to show you how to beg properly.”

Your whole body shook — tears hot behind your eyes, thighs squeezing tight around his wrist.

“I—I can’t—”

San’s smile flickered — so sweet.

“Yes, you can.”

He squeezed your throat tighter — making your head tip back, breath hitching in little broken gasps.

“You’ve been waiting for me to break you, sweetheart.”

His fingers fucked into you deeper — slow and steady, stretching you out inch by inch.

“You’re not gonna act shy now.”

You whimpered — nails digging into his biceps, hips grinding down into his hand without even meaning to.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head — bottom lip wobbling.

San’s smile flickered wider — so fucking smug.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pressed his thumb harder against your clit — slow little circles that made your whole body arch into him.

“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?”

Your thighs clenched around his hand — head falling back against the wall.

“N-No… I can’t—”

San’s teeth dragged down the side of your neck — biting just hard enough to make you cry out.

“You can.”

“You will.”

His fingers slammed into you harder — wet little sounds filling the room as you fell apart around him, crying into his shoulder while he fucked you through it.

“That’s my good girl…”

You were still shaking — thighs sticky, breath broken — when he finally pulled his fingers out of you.

San held them up between you — two fingers soaked in your slick — watching the way your glassy little eyes flicked down to them.

“You made such a mess for me.”

You were still too wrecked to answer — chest heaving, cheeks flushed hot.

San grabbed your chin — forcing your mouth open with two wet fingers.

“Clean it up.”

Your whole body locked up.

But you opened your mouth anyway — letting him push his fingers down on your tongue.

San leaned in close — thumb smearing your own slick across your swollen bottom lip.

“You gonna let me ruin you in here, sweetheart?”

You whimpered around his fingers — glassy little eyes flicking up to him like you didn’t even know how to say no anymore.

San’s cock twitched hard against your thigh.

"You think I don't see the way you squeeze your thighs together every time I get too close?"

You whimpered - thighs clenching.

San's dark eyes flicked down.

Ohhhhhh, he saw that.

His voice was so soft — so sweet — like he wasn't about to ruin your whole life in this room.

"You just needed someone to break you in."

Your head was spinning — heart slamming against your ribs.

"San-"

He loosened his grip on your throat

His hands yanked your skirt up around your waist - fingers sliding under the waistband of your soaked little panties

Your whole body arched into him — breath catching in little broken gasps.

He ripped your panties clean off - tucking them into his pocket like the psycho he was — before turning you around and shoving you up against the wall.

His hand slid down your spine — pressing you flat against the cold wall.

"You know why I picked this room, sweetheart?"

You shook your head - breath ragged, thighs trembling.

San's hand wrapped tight around the back of your neck - forcing your glassy little eyes up to the mirror mounted on the wall.

"So I could watch what how pretty you are when I fuck you."

You let out a broken little sob - thighs squeezing shut.

San kicked your legs apart — pressing the tip of his cock right up against your soaking little cunt.

"You gonna let me ruin you, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically - cheeks burning, eyes already glassy.

San smirked - slow and dangerous.

"That's my girl."

He slammed inside you in one deep thrust — making you scream into his hand as he stretched you open.

"So fucking tight..."

He fucked you slow at first — long, deep strokes that had your eyes rolling back into your head.

"You feel how perfect you fit around me, sweetheart?"

His hand slid back up around your throat - squeezing tight as he forced you to look at yourself in the mirror. "Look how pretty you are when you're finally letting me have you."

Your whole body was shaking - face smushed up against the mirror, palms flat against the wall while San's cock dragged deep into you from behind.

"Look at yourself, sweetheart."

His voice was so soft — breath hot against your ear.

"Look how  messy you get for me."

You couldn't stop whimpering - little gasping sobs echoing off the walls as his cock stretched you open, wet little sounds filling the room every time he slammed into you harder.

"You gonna cry for me, baby?"

San's hand wrapped tight around your throat

- squeezing just hard enough to make your head spin.

"You gonna let me have you?"

You blinked up at your reflection - glassy little eyes wide and dumb - tears streaking down your flushed cheeks.

You hated how pretty you looked like this.

How much you loved the way he was wrecking you- Fucking you so deep you could feel him in your fucking stomach -

Dragging out every filthy little sound you didn't even know your body could make.

"You should hate this, shouldn't you?"

San's fingers slipped down between your legs

- circling your swollen little clit in slow, lazy strokes.

"You should tell me to stop..."

You whimpered — hips bucking back into him without even thinking.

"But you like it."

San's breath was hot aginst your ear — soft, syrupy sweet.

You sobbed - legs shaking under him.

"You like knowing you're gonna spend the whole day walking around work with my cum dripping down your thighs."

You squeezed your eyes shut — face burning.

"N-No-"

San laughed softly - cock dragging so slow, so deep inside you it made your whole body tremble.

"Lie."

He slammed into you harder - one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other circling your clit until you were crying into the mirror.

"You gonna cum for me?"

You whimpered — head falling back against his shoulder, body twitching underneath him.

"You wanna cum on my cock in this little room where anyone could walk in?"

He was so fucking mean - dragging you right to the edge, making you work for it.

"You want me to fill this tight little pussy up?"

Your whole body locked up - walls squeezing tight around him at those filthy little words.

San groaned against your ear - hips snapping harder, slamming you up against the wall.

"That's what you want, huh?"

"You want me to fuck you full and send you back to work?"

You sobbed - nails scratching down the mirror - thighs trembling as the first orgasm hit you so hard your whole brain shut off.

"There she is..."

San grinned against your ear - dragging you through it, fucking you even harder...

"That's my good girl."

You were still crying — half-conscious — when he finally pinned you flat against the wall, hips snapping rough into you, cock buried so deep you couldn't even breathe.

"Can I fill you up, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically - brain completely broken - too fucked out to even speak.

"Please—"

San's teeth sank into your neck — hips slamming into you one last time as he came so deep inside you  

you could feel it leaking out before he even pulled out.

"Ohhh" he moaned.

He held you there — cock still twitching inside you — hands gripping your hips so hard they were definitely going to bruise.

"You look so pretty like this, sweetheart."

You whimpered - completely wrecked - body boneless in his hands.

But San wasn't done.

He reached down - grabbing your soaked little panties off the floor.

"Open."

Your lips parted on instinct — brain too dumb and cockdrunk to even think about saying no.

He stuffed your panties into your mouth - making you taste yourself while he slid them back up your shaky thighs.

"Don't take them off."

His fingers pressed against the ruined fabric - pushing his cum deep inside you.

"You're gonna wear them all day."

"Every time you feel me dripping out of you, you're gonna remember you're mine."

You were still shaking when he finally fixed your skirt — smoothing it down over your trembling thighs like nothing ever happened.

"Go back to work, sweetheart."

[windvexer]

Advice for if your practice is feeling stressful or unfulfilling (that isn't 'just stop practicing')

Before you expand: long text post!

I think it's interesting that the first line of advice stressed and unhappy practitioners often receive is 'stop practicing! take a break,' because besides a breather this doesn't actually do anything. When a person is done with that break they're still going to have the same stressful, unfulfilling practice they did before.

Stop practicing is useful advice for someone who is about to deep-fry their brain in uncontrolled Witch Fire. It's useful advice for someone who experiences unexplainable catastrophe every time they engage in magic.

I'm not sure it's useful advice for people who want to practice and are actively seeking help figuring out how.

So here are some ideas. Feel free to add your own.

If your practice has too much of a time load:

Scrape over-engineered ritual. Examine ritual formats. Are you spending a majority of your practice time engaging in elaborate ritual? Where can that be paired down?

Swap ritual for enchantments. If ritual performs an action (laying a compass), can you substitute for that ritual action by making enchanted objects that take less time to activate (enchanted compass altar cloth)?

Minimize ingredients. If you regularly perform spells that require lengthy enchantment of ingredients, can you use fewer ingredients to achieve the same results? If you're using more than 3 correspondences for any spell, is this because you are wise in your own ways, or because you just feel that more is merrier?

Mash rituals together. Do you have a string of rituals, even small ones, that you perform one after the other? Is it possible to reorganize these so they're all done at once, in the same ritual? For example, setting out an offering to the gods, a different offering for the ancestors, another for helper spirits, etc. Can you combine these all into one single offering?

Check for over-tending. Is it possible that you're repeating magical acts, like feeding wards and cleansing, more often than you need to? Did you arrive at this schedule through trial and error, or did you just guess this is how often you should do them?

Check for your own levelup: spell maintenance. If it's been a while since you re-evaluated your ritual/offering/maintenance schedule, your increase in skills may mean you need to do these tasks less often to achieve the same result.

Check for your own levelup: techniques and routines. Some techniques, like carefully entering trance, grounding, and centering, are like training wheels that wear ruts into our paths of magic. As we improve in skill, old rituals and techniques that have been carefully couched in these helpful devices may become ingrained in us so that we can perform them in almost any state of mind, much faster and easier than we could before. Experiment with any technique you've been doing for a while and see if you still need to perform time-consuming meditative or focusing techniques before you can perform the skill.

Be reasonable with your own goals. I find most 'laywitches' give themselves daily and weekly schedules that would put actual cloistered monks to shame. Did your spirits tell you they expect daily offerings, or did you decide on that an run with it? Where are you overcompensating and overexerting in your path when nobody, including yourself, asked you to?

If your practice has too much of a work load:

Much of the advice of the prior section applies. Also,

Just work less. Are you putting in 100% effort when 20% or 30% would do? Are you treating every act of magic like a performance review that will control the outcome of your magical career? I'm not being sarcastic; an actual solution to your path being too much work is to just put in less effort. If you've never tried this you may be shocked at how effective magic can be when you're only doing what needs to be done.

Find simpler, more reasonable stuff. Find new techniques, and spell and ritual formats that are paired down to fit the amount of effort that's reasonable to exert for any given magical act. If you can't work with correspondences without a lengthy act of activation, find a way to cast simple spells that doesn't rely on correspondences.

Limit research and prep. Ask yourself how much research you reasonably need to get started on any given project. Remember that a huge amount of a witch's education is experiential; you will probably never know enough until you've already done it three or four times.

Be goal-oriented; prioritize actions. Ask yourself if you've set arbitrary workloads before you can get started with anything, such as forcing yourself to write artistic grimoire pages before you're allowed to perform a ritual you're interested in.

Learn skills to help prioritize actions. If your practice is consumed by acts of upkeep such as cleansing and empowering objects, focus on learning energy sensing so you can reasonably determine whether or not an object actually needs to be cleansed or empowered.

Administrate your own practice - what can go on the back burner? Make a list of all your active ongoing projects and maintenance, including upkeep of energy batteries, spells that require maintenance, and situations you want to change and are casting spells on. Prioritize them; see which ones you can set aside.

Restructure your projects to minimize maintenance. Consolidate spells and projects where possible. For example, if you have multiple protection spells for many people that require upkeep, condense them all onto a protection altar so you can feed and tend to them all at once.

Work in batch and bulk. See where you can do batch work to lighten your load. You can bulk enchant candles and incense, instead of enchanting incense every time you do a ritual. You can enchant oils, waters, and incense to feed your spells, taking time out of upkeep.

Levelup your charging and maintenance skills. Learn energy work to attach energy tethers to batteries and other important projects so they're able to drink from the wellspring you attach them to, and stay charged.

Scrape routines that don't serve you. Examine any daily routines. Are you doing them because they're helping you, or because you feel like you're supposed to be doing something every day? See if you can replace more intensive daily routines with something less tiring, like a prayer to your path itself.

If your practice feels too silly:

You have a right to privacy. Cocooning is valid. It's fine to take steps to limit who can see and potentially judge your practice. You can keep things to yourself until you're ready.

Tend to your emotional wellness. Self-therapy, in any form you feel comfortable with, can help mitigate the inner eye of judgement.

Reduce your beliefs to palatable doses. Believing in magic for only the duration of your work is perfectly fine. You don't have to 'believe-believe' 24/7. If you're not ready to integrate the belief of magic and spirits into your baseline worldview, don't - you can agree to buy in to those beliefs only while you practice techniques and cast spells, and then put them away the rest of the time.

Scrape stuff you really can't get past. Ask yourself what about your practice feels silly. Are there trappings - like altars, ritual movements, and speaking aloud - that you don't like? Change them. Is the idea that religious faith itself is a bit cringe? Self-therapy (or you know, the regular kind) may be assistive.

Ask for help modifying your process.Is there something very specific about a ritual or technique that you just can't get past, but you don't know how to change it? Research and see what other substitute rituals are available. Ask others and see if they can help you brainstorm.

Embrace the silliness. It's not going anywhere. Believing in your practice and holding it dear and sacred is not the same as being ✨super serious gravitas✨ all the time. There are lots of things about witchcraft, and the acts of the witch, that are silly and make you realize you're doing something ridiculous. I came out here at 2 am after it's been raining to climb down a slippery riverbed to get a branch of a tree that I think is talking to me?? Because some medieval guy said Tuesday is the planet Mars and I think trees talk to me?! Ridiculous. Yet I still love it dearly in a sacred place in my heart. It can be silly and glorious at the same time.

Cast a wider net. See if you're barking up the wrong tree. Traditional Witchcraft, folk magic, lodge magic, chaos magic, eclectic neopaganism... these things are not interchangeable. If you've never explored different traditions, why not give it a go? You might find another path that feels a lot more natural to you. A lot of people fall into a certain path just because they don't know what else they could be doing!

If your practice feels unfulfilling:

What are you doing to bring yourself fulfillment? Why did you get into witchcraft? Make a list of your top 5 reasons (if you have that many). Which techniques, spells, and rituals are you regularly performing are designed to deliver these desires to you? If one of your goals of practicing witchcraft is to 'feel connected,' how often are you performing acts where the only goal is to make you feel connected?

Grow your path deliberately in the direction of your needs. What do you wish you had in your life right now? Is it the feeling of being loved? Inner peace? Feeling like nature is alive and watching you? Look for what techniques and rituals in your practice will bring these things to you. If there are none, find or develop them.

Ask for help and share your feelings. If you work with gods and spirits, do you regularly tell them how you feel about your practice and ask them for help finding fulfillment?

Find contentment in the process. It's vital to find joy in the process. If you have regular routines or upkeep you need to do, how can you modify it so that process in and of itself is satisfying to you? Try considering the visceral element of witchcraft: the words, scents, sounds, moods, and thoughts that you want to experience in your present moment. Witchcraft is experiential: a great deal of the experience you create in the tidepools of routine is under your control.

Contemplate the larger purpose. Some witches do have magical chores and responsibilities they can't or shouldn't shirk. If this is true of you, and you can't modify those routines, try refocusing on why you're doing them and the importance they hold in your path. See if you can find balance elsewhere in your practice that feels rejuvenating; sort of a 'work-play' balance of your own craft.

Set short-term goals you can celebrate. Are you undertaking a lot of 'workout routines' that are designed to basically make you magically buff, or get good at a particular skill, but you're doing them with no endgoal? Try creating short-term goals that excite your sense of wonder or accomplishment. Like, practicing tarot until you can read the Celtic Cross, or practicing energy work until you can make a four-element layered energy shield. Build goalposts for yourself, both in the short and long-term, and celebrate your successes.

Scrape routines you're not doing for any good reason. Are your regular practices things you're doing because they fill you with mystery and wonder, or because you're just pretty sure that's the kind of thing witches do? If you're bored or unfulfilled by a particular routine, consider stopping it altogether, especially if you can't think of any short-term goals that it's helping you work towards. Think about the reasons you got into witchcraft: what practices would help you fulfill those reasons, while also feeling good to practice?

Seek out a likeminded community. A good working group of friends can be invaluable. My close group of witch friends, whom I've been hanging out with for years, started as a Tumblr post asking if anyone wanted to make a small server to study witchcraft. Reach out and see who's out there to study with, talk to, and practice with. It can be loads of fun to do short-term study and practice challenges with friends, and a great way to get feedback and support.

Evaluate your spiritual relationships. Although it can be painful and challenging, sometimes we enter into our paths working with gods and spirits that after some time, we need to move on from. Is it possible your path has become stagnant because you don't want to keep working with a god or spirit that your path has been built around? It may be time to see how you can move on.

When 'take a break' might be helpful advice to heal your practice:

Of course, YMMV :)

'Taking a break' doesn't mean stop being a witch, stop believing in magic, or stop 100% of your practice. It can also mean putting a lot of projects on the back burner, switching to bare-minimum (or below minimum) maintenance, and squashing regular routines.

I'm talking specifically about taking a break in the interest of your own practice - not the conditions under which someone is ""allowed"" to stop practicing witchcraft.

Take a break to rest and let your seeds germinate. 'Fallow periods,' when you have no desire or motivation to practice witchcraft, and when it seems like there's nothing for you to do, are normal. Some witches experience this cyclically, perhaps during certain seasons or when predictable life conditions are met. There's no need to force yourself to practice when it's just not flowing. The snow on your mountaintops needs to melt to replenish your waterways, bestie. There's nothing wrong with you, the sun just isn't out yet.

When you're hitting yourself with a hammer. When something in your practice is triggering or harming you, and stopping will have no consequences, then stopping your practice for a while is probably a good idea. Use the downtime to seek healing or reformat your practice.

To open your life up for necessary work. Not every witch can out-path every problem. Consider taking a break when the problem is something you will have time and energy to work on if not for your regular magical practice.

When you're about to deep-fry your brain with Witch Fire. Consider taking a break when the problem with your practice is that you are practicing too often - such as fatigue due to excessive spellwork, divinatory obsession, trouble staying out of the spirit world (compulsive astral travel), or focus on spirits/magic/the spirit worlds are starting to erode your home, school, or work life.

To let the ripples settle. When you've done so much magic or ritual work that your life is a boat on a stormy sea, and you just need to batten down the hatches for a while and let things settle.

[uniasus]

The sputter of a coffee pot let Danny know he'd failed in his plan to slip out of the apartment before its owner woke.

He kept his eyes closed as the rest of his body woke up. He was sore, and a shift on the couch let him know it'd take longer to heal from the newest GIW weaponry. The sharpnel cuts on his cheeks felt healed though, and in his pocket he could feel the three marble-sized ghost cores humming softly.

He'd gotten out of the GIW facility. He'd rescued some of their other captives. And the dark apartment he'd broken into had been surprisingly well stocked in terms of medical supplies and even more surprisingly unempty.

He should have known it wasn't though; he felt the liminality of the guy, whose muttering Danny barely heard over the click click click of a stove turning, from across the room. He must have been pretty out of it last night.

Danny opened his eyes. The front door was feet away. If the guy was distracted with breakfast, Danny could slip out. Open the door, or waste a bit of ecto to sleep through the floor. Except from his position he saw the bloody towels on the bathroom floor.

It'd be polite to clean up his mess. It'd be smart to burn any traces of his DNA.

With a groan, Danny pushed himself up. Yup, that blast to his side was a motherfucker. It'd partially healed, but he was not looking forward to wandering around Gotham looking for a way out of the city.

"Don't move," the guy called out.

Danny got more comfortable on the couch, slowly moving to lay against the arm rest. By the time he'd settled, the guy sat on the coffee table, holding a fried egg on toast and a mug of coffee.

Danny eyed them, ravished.

"You want these, you gotta give me a name," the guy said. "I thought you were one of my brothers last night, but you're obviously not."

"Your brothers get in a lot of fights?"

"Whole family does."

Danny nodded. The Fentron weren't much different, if you considered ghost hunting ghost fighting.

"Danny," he offered.

He got the coffee, but the man withheld the egg. "Got a last name?"

"... Nightingale."

The guy didn't believe him, but handed over breakfast. Danny ate the fried egg in three whole bites. When was the last time he had a meal?

"I'm Jason Todd," the apartment owner said, sipping his coffee. "If you tell me who shot you, I'll make you two more of those."

Danny clutched the coffee. He'd prefer more sugar, but if black coffee was what he got, that'd be what he drunk.

"You wouldn't believe me."

"This is Gotham. We have a lot of weird shit."

"I don't want to put you in danger."

"Again, this is Gotham. You never know when you'll be caught in a rogue attack."

Danny looked at him. Jason looked like a fighter. Not just his broad shoulders and defined arms, but the seriousness in his eyes. The sure tone of his voice.

The very well-stocked first aid kit, and the pretty high-quality care considering he'd been half asleep last night.

Danny slipped a hand to his pocket, to the ghost cores he'd rescued. He had more to save. He didn't think he could do it alone.

But he didn't want to put a liminal on the GIW's radar.

"I'll clean your bathroom instead."

Jason sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He reached toward Danny, who flinched, but the older man simply ruffled his hair.

"You're wincing, you're staying on that couch all day. And if you don't want to tell me, I won't press. Just like I'm not going to ignore a starving kid. Two eggs enough?"

Danny curled into his coffee mug. "Can I have sugar in my coffee too?"

"Sure thing, Danny."

Muscle Memory (DpxDc)

Jason barely remembered getting back to his safe house or even finding his way to bed. The night had been so tiring, so busy, and so many parts of his body hurt.

The moment his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. Drifting off into dreamland for some much need sleep.

That was until a noise stirred him up from his sleep. It was a soft creak of one of his many loose floorboards.

It was in a flash that Jason was up, eyes still heavy with sleep, and a gun held to his thigh as he exited his bedroom. The soft light coming from his bathroom was the first hint.

When he pushed open the bathroom door, the sight before him had him holstering his weapon. Black hair, blue eyes, and blood. That's all Jason needed to see.

Jason would swear he wasn't still half asleep, that he knew this wasn't one of his brothers. In reality, still sluggish from a hard night and sleep deprivation, Jasin's brain had automatically assumed it was one of his baby brothers.

As he immediately settled into patching up the wounds, holding back questions for now. It wouldn't be the first time one of them came to him for aid when they didn't want Bruce to know they were hurt yet.

It was pure muscle memory as Jason worked. Yes, he didn't like the injuries, reminding himself to ask which rogue did this in the morning.

Now wasn't the time for an interrogation. Not with the barely concealed tears in those eyes, or the dark bags that decorated beneath them.

He barely grumbled for the teen to take the couch, reminding that there were extra blankets in the hallway closet. Dropping a few pills into the boy's hand to help with the pain he was surely in.

Jason left the mess in the bathroom, leaving it a problem for more awake him. He waved the boy off when he tried to speak, telling him they'll talk in the morning.

In the end, Jason was glad to finally face plant back into his bed. Barely bothering to curl up under the covers before sleep took over once again.

When morning came, Jason almost forgot about letting one of his brother's crash in his place. Stumbling out of his bedroom to immediately notice the lump on his couch.

He put a pot of coffee on, grabbing his phone, ready to let Bruce know that whoever came to him last night was safe and sound.

Except, when Jason moved over to confirm who it was, he finally noticed. This wasn't one of his brothers. And last he heard, Bruce hadn't taken in any new strays.

Jason stood over the sleeping boy, phone in one hand, and mind figuring out what to do. His mind replaying the half-asleep memories from last night.

It made sense, now that he thought about it. The boy had seemed so scared, so surprised that Jason was helping. The boy hadn't done anything either by the looks of it.

He didn't seem to have taken anything or even snooped. The boy seemed to have just crashed on the couch like Jason had told him to. He didn't come here to rob him or cause trouble. The kid had broken into his safe house only to raid his first aid kit.

The kid had broken into his safe house only to raid his first aid kit.

Well, Jason wasn't about to put Alfred's teachings to shame by being a horrible host either.

[nerdygirlramblings]

someone's in a rut 🤭 and we meet Ren's family (part 1)

a/n: part of this chapter inspired by Broken Beyond Bearing by @lostintransist and by comments from @pyxrin

cw: poorly executed accents, omegaverse biology, heat/rut cycles

previous

Days begin to blur together. A run followed by infiltration and exfil trainings on the moon (what the others called the rubble-strewn field). Or weight training and asset retrieval in the brick, the windowless building in the hangar, before sparring. Grift work, your own term for information retrieval, before the shooting range. Never the same thing two days in a row. On rare occasions, either Soap or Gaz had you along while training recruits. It was the closest thing to working with your old squad.

And each time, just as you find your footing with the advanced field training, Price introduces new elements: time restraints, 'enemy' combatants. You have never felt as lost before, so unsure of your place. The only thing that keeps it from being completely disheartening isn't Gaz's reassurances or Price's praise or Soap's compliments. It's Adam. It's stopping in to requisition a windcheater in your size and hearing how you made it out of the brick faster than Ghost or how Soap struggled for a long time with grift work. It's confirmation from an outside, and thus unbiased, source that your progress is fine. That they won't regret asking for you.

Until Price calls you into his office. All you can think about is how you didn't know about the standardized step size and the trouble it caused on the moon. Or how you went three rounds without finding the needed intel before Price called time. That Soap teasingly pointed out, "Yer thinkin' tae hard," like saying it will make you get out of your own head even though it's all you know how to do. Crowded pubs and loud, dark clubs flash in your memory, each one a failed attempt to manipulate a mark.

You're sure he's going to put you back into the rank and file. Who needs a woman, and an omega at that, who can't master the basic things the task force needs to do. You're terrified and heartbroken before you even get into his office.

The desk seems more imposing than ever, and Price's face, for the first time, is unreadable. Even his scent is locked down, no dying ember smell wafting around. He's smiling, but you've been taking pseudo acting classes from him for more than a fortnight. The smile could easily hide his intentions.

He clears his throat, and you pull your gaze from where you'd been staring at your hands. For the first time since you met the man, Price seems nervous. He reaches up, scratching his beard and running his hand over his scent gland. "Er, we 'ave some leave coming, me an' the others, and I wan'ed ta see if ya'd like to stay here or go home?"

A long moment passes before you respond. "I'm not sure I understand, sir. You take leave tagether, but I'd go home?" The furrow between your brows deepens. Before he can clarify, you ask what's been eating at you. "Is this yer way 'a transferrin' me off the team?" Even you can hear the plea in your voice. Please don't let me go.

"Oh, Ren, no! No. Tha's not what this is," he rushes to say. The blush that creeps up his neck is a surprise. Is he embarrassed?

"'S just, well, we try not to use suppressants unless we're on a mission. Fucks too much wi' the body's natural rhythm, yeah? Throws off anyone on 'em too long." You nod in understanding. If you didn't have such a bad reaction to them - foggy thoughts and slow movements - you'd prefer to be on suppressants all the time. Instead, when your heart hits, you take yourself to medical for a heat-induced isolation. They're horrendous on the system, but it's a short-term problem while you're in the service, though your omega purrs that a pack would remedy that problem.

"So, er, we made the decision years ago to take our leave together when, er, one of the alphas has a rut." He's fully blushing now, and you get it. He's just told you either he or Ghost - he didn't specify, and betas like Gaz and Soap don't have ruts- is going to lose themselves to their base instincts soon.

You're quiet through all these revelations, and he plows ahead, only the faintest hint of ozone in the air to alert you to his distress. "Simon's rut is in another week or so, so we'll take leave from this Wednesday ta the following Friday ta give everyone a cushion on either end for prep and recovery." The room feels warmer, and you know it's because your own internal temperature is spiking, your omega excited about the idea of Simon's knot.

"So, er, ye'll all be gone, sir?" you clarify, forcing your omega to think of other things.

He nods, a hint of smoke in the air. You can smell his distress dissipating, replaced slowly by ease and contentment. "Yes. We 'ave a place on the edge 'a the Lakes. We'll head there and be back after the rut. Adam said yer dad's due with a litter soon?"

The idea that Adam shared that bit of your family with Price puts you on edge until he adds, "Adam suggested ya take leave when we do but go an' see yer family." He rushes to add, "If ya want."

Now it's your turn to be embarrassed. Once again, it's Adam to the rescue. It warms you down to your center that Adam made such a thoughtful recommendation to Price and that Price took it. If you hadn't heard it yourself, you'd think he was takin' the piss.

"Yes, sir," you stammer, lost at what else you could say to this plan. "That would be lovely. I know my family pack will be happy ta have me home."

next

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden

[gold-onthe-inside]

with love, from reid

who? spencer reid (s8) x blake!reader summary: after a case ruins spencer's carefully planned valentine's date, he does his best to make up for it. but all you needed was him. and all the gifts in the world are nothing compared to yours. word count: 3.3k based on: Valentine’s Day Request - Spencer and his partner are separated for Valentines Day (maybe he went to go visit his mom or he was on a special assignment like in Minimal Loss and a storm grounded flights) but he uses every method possible to give his partner the most amazing Valentines Day ever. a/n: i'm so sorry for sitting on this request forever, but inspiration struck today i guess. hope you like it anon.

Spencer’s not like other guys. It’s the mantra you have to keep using to keep your head on straight. But being cheated on by someone you had been about to marry changes your whole perspective on things. Makes it harder to trust, even the most angelic man you’ve ever met. You have to take a deep breath every time he gets a call from JJ or Penelope, have to remind yourself that there’s a valid reason for every missed date, every morning you wake up without him. Because it’s scary how much you like him, how often you think about him.

The scarce amount of time you both get makes the little moments more important, and he knows it. In his head, he’s been building it up, down to the cardigan he would wear on the 14th. He’s calculated the exact amount of time it takes to get from Quantico to your hospital, chosen a restaurant within walking distance — something right up your alley with exotic food and a quiet atmosphere. He knows how many footsteps it’ll take to get there, how many topics you can cover, all of it, down to miniscule details. The flower arrangements that would wait for you both. The menu he had memorised in his head, knowing exactly what you would order. The average time it would take for you both to finish eating while talking. The train back to his apartment, where your favourite movie would be waiting.

If only he could control this unsub the same way. But they were no closer to finding the unsub on the 13th as they were two days ago. He’d been putting off the call all day, staring at his phone until Alex had pointed it out, unravelling the first stitch of his sealed lips. The seam split and he told her everything — the date he’d planned, the flowers he’d bought in advance, the reservation that was waiting for you. He receives the pat on the knee he’d been expecting from Alex, the promise that you’d be understanding (who would know better than her, really?), and her stern voice telling him to call you.

You can hear the regret in his voice when he calls, the tired fatigue that makes you smile sympathetically. “Did you get home okay?” he asked, scuffing the back of his sneakers against the floor, standing right outside the precinct, stars glittering above him, much brighter in Tennessee than in DC. It’s a whole nother date on his bucket list — going star-gazing with you.

“Yeah, just now,” you replied, and he can see you in his mind’s eye, taking off your boots and neatly arranging them in your rack, keys in a clay dish that an 8 year old had made for you, the crick in your neck that he wants to massage for you. “How about you? Any closer to finding your strangler?”

“No,” he huffs, leaning against the railing. There’s a slight chill in the air, but he can’t feel it, not right now. He just wants to hear your voice. “But that’s not important — I just wanted to make sure you made it home safe.”

You huffed a small laugh, and he can hear you bustling around over the call, maybe changing into your pyjamas, or hunting for ingredients to make a quick dinner for one, and a frustrated ache builds behind his eyes. He wants to be there, with you, listening to old jazz music and making dinner and small talk. “I think I’m in less danger than the FBI agent hunting down a serial killer, honey.”

“You’re always in less danger than I am,” he grumbles, the beginnings of a smile playing at his lip. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back and picturing the dimly lit kitchen in your apartment, the scent of spices and the warmth of old vinyl records. “I miss you,” he confesses in a soft, almost broken tone.

He hears you pause, a palpable beat passing before you murmured, “I miss you too.”

“I wish I could be there,” he says. He wants to run a hand down your back, trace his knuckles over your cheek to feel the softness of your skin. “I had a whole night planned for us tonight.”

"I know, lovely," you murmured, leaning on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to your ear. "There'll be other nights."

He sighs. He hates having to cancel on you, especially now, when they’re already so rare. “Not like this one,” he mutters, and he knows you can probably tell by his tone that he’s pouting like a child.

“Why, because tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day?” you asked, talking while making a quick pasta.

He’s quiet for a second. Then — “Yes,” he admits in a near-whine. “It was going to be a special night.”

"Spence... Every day is Valentine's Day with you," you said, knowing exactly how cheesy you sound and running with it anyway.

Spencer’s just grateful you can’t see his face right now, because he knows he’s blushing a little, that he has an adorably smitten smile on his lips and he’s sure it would only embarrass him if you could see. “Sap,” he accuses lovingly.

"Said the man who collects ticket stubs of every movie we see," you retorted, grinning into the phone.

He sputters. “That’s — that’s — you’re not supposed to know about those,” he complained. “I keep those for myself, they’re a private collection for a reason.“

“Wow, what happened to what’s yours is mine?” you teased him, watching the pasta boil, and Christ, you felt like a lovestruck teenager right now, like those sickly sweet couples in Hallmark movies.

“That’s — there’s exceptions to that rule,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t you dare touch those. I’ve sorted them in chronological order, by the way — if one is out of place, I’ll know it was you messing around, looking over my things.”

You laughed into the phone, bright even with how tired you felt, because he brought it out of you, a glowing feeling in your chest that made the ache in your feet hurt a little less. It’s a sound that never fails to make his heart skip — the softest, most wonderful noise he’s ever heard. “I wish I was there,” he says again, his voice suddenly quiet and heavy with want.

"I know," you said quietly, watching the water grow cloudy as your pasta cooks. "But those women need you more than I do right now, Spence."

“Stop using logic on me,” he says, only half-joking, his expression serious even though you can’t see it. “I want to be selfish with you tonight.”

"Sweetheart, you don't have a selfish bone in your body," you replied affectionately.

“It’s not fair,” he complains, still playing the part of the pouting child in his mind, just whining and grumpy because he wants to be with you. “I was going to give you flowers, and take you out to dinner, and I was going to drive you home and kiss you so much—”

"We can still do that," you said, cutting him off before he could fill your head with ideas and then you could say goodbye to sleeping peacefully tonight.

“Not tomorrow,” he says. He’s almost definitely pouting right now, staring down at the pavement, his eyes dark under his lashes. “And it’s only Valentine’s once a year, I wanted it to be perfect.”

You fretted as you turned the gas off, putting off straining the pasta as you turned into the phone. “Why’s this so important to you, angel?” you asked softly.

It’s one of the things he loves about you — the gentleness with which you handle him, the way you ooze with care and curiosity instead of coddling concern. “This is our first Valentine’s,” he replies, slightly petulant. “And I wanted it to be good. Something you could look back on. I had it all planned out.”

Christ, you could cry with how much Spencer cared about you. You couldn’t remember anyone, boyfriend or not, who loved you this much. “You know it would’ve been perfect, regardless, right?” you asked gently. “You and me, that’s all I need. Even if it’s over a phone line.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just listening to you speak. “You deserve the best,” he says eventually. “You deserve flowers. And an elegant restaurant. And a movie. And a home cooked meal.” And me, he wants to add, but he doesn’t. “Not a phone call and the knowledge that your boyfriend is across the country.”

"Sweetheart, I get all of that from you even when it isn't Valentine's," you said, in that same gentle tone. "Besides, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you were here when you could be catching a killer."

“Why do you have to be reasonable?” Spencer groaned, rubbing a hand over his face again because you’re being entirely too logical for him to fight with right now. “That’s not fair.”

You chuckled, crossing your arms and leaning on the counter. "We'll have a make-up date, I promise," you said. "Just how you planned it."

That seems to pacify him a little bit, because he lets out a soft sigh. “Okay,” he agrees, slightly begrudgingly. “But I’m in charge of planning. You don’t get a say in the matter.”

You fake a tsk, as if planning mattered at all to you. "Fine. Whatever you decide."

That makes a soft, contented sound form in his throat — one bordering on possessive. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and you can all but envision the smirk on his lips.

"Go find your killer," you chided him, grinning stupidly, but there's no bite in it.

He lets out an amused huff. “Yes ma’am,” he teases, before his tone softens again. “I miss you. I’ll try to come home as soon as I can, okay?”

"Okay," you replied. "Stay safe, please."

“I will,” he promises, because he knows how much the thought of him getting hurt scares you. “Don’t worry about me.”

You snorted quietly, like it was possibly to not worry about him on cases. "Bye."

“Bye,” he responds quietly, and he wishes he could kiss you goodbye, trace the line of your lips with his fingers and feel the pulse in your neck against his fingers. “Sweet dreams.”

"You too," you whispered before hanging up. Spencer stands there for another moment after the call ends, his phone still in his hand and his heart heavy, and he wonders if it’s possible for someone to actually ache from missing someone this much.

And then Morgan’s calling him inside with his newly minted nickname since dating you — ‘lover boy’ — to adjust the geographic profile and he’s unwillingly dragged back into the vortex that is his job. And he has to shove any thoughts of you to the back of his mind for the time being, the lingering ache at the edge of his chest a constant, nagging thing that he has to continuously push past to focus on the case.

The whole team is working hard to try and solve this, but progress is slow. Somewhere between analysing blood spatter patterns and doing his own research to figure out their unsub’s deal, he does his best to plan your make-up date, paranoid that someone would see him looking for places to take you and make his day worse. Eventually, tired of having to look over his shoulder, he bites the bullet and calls Garcia for help, even if it would no doubt get back to Morgan and the rest of the team.

And then he has to deal with Garcia’s excited squealing, her incessant questions about you both, her comments about how cute he is and how she needs to meet you. He keeps his head down and grits his teeth, because he knows she means no harm, and it’s a small price to suffer through just to have this night be perfect.

The first thing to arrive was a bouquet of tulips with your morning paper waiting outside your door, a pretty arrangement of red and pink that matched the outfit you were going to wear to work — the whole department had agreed to come in red, white, and pink colours — and you can’t stop smiling as you go to put in a vase with water.

He gets the picture texted to him in the middle of a briefing with Hotch and the team, barely able to restrain his smile as he checked his phone under the table.

You: They’re beautiful, thank you.

He’s oblivious to Morgan giving him an odd look as he texted you back:

Spencer: Only the best for the most beautiful girl in the world.

Spencer tucks his phone back into his pocket when the meeting ends, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Morgan. He knows he’s going to get bombarded with questions he doesn’t feel like answering, and for once he’s glad they have a case to work on so he can use that as an excuse not to interact with him.

The second arrival was a package sent to your office, because of course he had your shift schedule memorised, and you signed for it, grasping the brown paper package that was obviously a book back to your desk. There’s no reason for you to hide it, not in the sanctity of your own office, but it’s as if you’re back in school, your crush sending you a note that you unfurl under your desk, finding a hardbound copy of Persuasion, arguably your favourite Austen novel.

You do your best not to blush, picking up your phone to text him, chewing on your lip before flipping to the right chapter and sending him a direct quote.

You: There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.

Spencer’s in the middle of examining a body when you sent him the text. But as soon as he feels his phone vibrate, he pulls it out without a second thought, uncaring of the fact that Morgan and Rossi are looking his way. He has to hold back a smile because no, he won’t give Morgan any ammunition.

Spencer: You have my whole heart.

“You two are sickening, I hope you know that,” Morgan told him, a smirk on his lips.

Spencer’s head snaps up in alarm at the sound of his voice, and he quickly drops his phone in his pocket, face flushing. He’s silent for a minute, trying to regain his composure and come up with something to defend himself. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he replied weakly.

"Uh-huh," Rossi replied, masking a smile. "Can we look at the body now, or does your girlfriend have more input?" He wouldn’t be surprised if you did, to be honest, but he’d rather keep you out of this part of his world. He just shook his head, stepping closer to the slab.

Your last gift came in just as Valentine’s Day was about to come to an end, Spencer silently tracking into your apartment, 5 minutes away from midnight, cringing as he opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible. You’re asleep, your breathing soft and deep, the soft, soothing sound filling the room. He kneels by your side of the bed for a moment, just looking at you: all loose-limbed and relaxed, your face soft and sweet against the pillow. He can’t help the little smile that tugs the corner of his mouth up, and he wonders how he got so lucky. Softly, he reaches out, fingertips gentle as he brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You flinched, startled awake, until you recognise Spencer's eyes blinking back at you. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," you breathed out. "You should have told me you were coming."

“I was trying to be quiet,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so only you would hear. His hand brushed the curve of your jaw, a soft, almost reverent motion. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You sink back into your pillows, shifting inside so he can sit on the edge. "I would have waited up for you if you'd called first," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hip right against your knee, his fingers still trailing along your face, then resting on your thigh over the covers. “I tried to get home earlier,” he said, and he sounded exhausted, the stress of the case weighing on him. “But the team was debating something. And then paperwork...”

"You don't have to explain," you said softly, shaking your head, making a mess of your hair.

He watches you, his gaze lingering on the mussed locks on your head, the sleepy bleariness to your eyes, the pinkness to your cheeks, and he feels a surge of longing so strong it borders on painful for a moment. He loves you like this — soft and sweet and rumpled with sleep, and he wants nothing more than to curl up next to you right here and now. “I hate being away from you for so long,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I missed you so much.”

"Should've caught your guy faster then," you said, shifting up to meet his lips with yours. "Happy Valentine's."

He returned your kiss, his fingers trailing up to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. “Happy Valentine’s,” he murmured against your lips, before he was kissing you again, harder this time, and you could tell he was tired by the urgency with which he held onto you.

"I realised something when you were away, you know," you murmured against his lips.

He pulled back slightly so he could look at you, his fingers still trailing along the back of your neck. “Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head to the side and studying your face with those sharp, intelligent eyes of his.

You nodded, looking at him with your own fond gaze. "I love you," you said softly. Plain and uncomplicated.

He had heard those words plenty of times in his life, but he’d never tire of hearing them from your lips. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he moved his hand to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Say it again?” he whispered.

"I love you," you repeated, your smile glowing in the dark, streetlights dancing over your ceiling.

He felt something in his chest settle at the words, at the reassurance that you really were here, and you were his. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your nose, the. corner of your mouth, then the underside of your jaw. “I love you,” he murmured against your skin. “God, I love you so much.”

Your arms winded around him, his face burying itself in your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin, his arms wrapped around your waist. His hands slipped up under your sleep shirt, his touch warm and soft against your back, and he practically sunk into you, needing the closeness, needing to be surrounded by you.

"I know the day didn't go to plan," you murmured, "but this is the best Valentine's Day I've ever had."

His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, like he couldn’t get enough of having you pressed against him, and he pulled his head back from your neck so he could look at you properly. “Me too,” he said, then reconsidered. “Well, the whole day was hell, but this… this is perfect.”

"Yeah?" you asked, pecking his lips.

He chased your mouth, kissing you again, lingering on your lips for longer. “Yeah,” he replied softly. “Being with you is all I need.”

[emo-gremlin]

how emotional would Harley be if he saw the one he loved down in the factory and he reunited with them? What are you head canons for that?? (I just wanna see tears and angst tbh)

💻 He genuinely thinks it's some kind of programmed hallucination when he first sees you. He wouldn't put it past Leith, the two hated each other with a passion.

💻 The second he sees you, and realizes its...it's really, truly you...his anger rises. Not at you, but at Leith, at Stella, at Dr. White, at EVERYONE who put him in this accursed machine!

💻 The fact that Leith never gave you any closure boils him to no end. He NEVER wanted you to see him this way. He had hoped that the bastard would have at least told you he died on the job, or SOMETHING, ANYTHING but making you stay up at night without any answers.

💻 He knew he wasn't a good man, he wasn't the best partner either, he'd admit that. But you...you never deserved to be part of this, to even SEE any of this. You were too good, too pure for this.

💻 He tells you, no, COMMANDS you to leave. To forget about him, forget everything you've seen here. He'd make sure to get you safe passage to the surface, he'd deal with the Prototype.

💻 When you tell him you're not leaving without him, you can hear the pain and sorrow in his voice. He was not the best at talking about his emotions, he never was, but you could tell...He regretted everything, it was HIS fault that you came here, HIS fault that these monsters were hunting you down...

💻 While he still had pride in his work, his accomplishments, the progress he'd help make, it hurt him to see you, battered and bruised, all because of what he'd created.

💻 He tells Yarnaby to stay by your side. He may not be able to stick by you, but at least he can give you more of a fighting chance.

💻 Its the Prototype that takes him out, his final words...."I'm so...rry m-my...lov..."

Don't mind me imma cry in a corner

[hacash]

#you know I’m a bit lukewarm on starmer personally and I don’t like a lot of the social policy decisions his government has made#but I have been both surprised and impressed by how he’s handled the trump situation and subsequently the trump-Zelenskyy meeting#*that* is what I wanted when I voted for an uninspiring speaker who used to be a human rights barrister!#also#‘keir starmer - who is not a tactile individual if we’re being honest’ fucking took me out#but they’re absolutely correct#he’s neither tactile nor particularly dramatic in his presentation of himself#so you can know 100% for certain that when he does things like whip out a letter from the king mid convo#or walks out into the street in breach of typical protocol to hug someone#that he is very much doing it pointedly and on purpose (via @teacakesanddreams)

I hope you don't mind my sharing your tags, but I think this is a really good example of why voting for the best-not-perfect candidate is important. Like, I don't like some of Starmer's social policy decisions either, but at the end of the day I voted for him and a Labour government because they were better than the alternatives.

And regardless of what you think of anything else Labour has done, you can't deny this weekend has been a class act: not just symbolically but with everything that's been happening with the other European leaders (and Canada) in responding to Trump's absolutely piss-poor response to Russia and Ukraine. I'm sure there'll be things that could go better, but I feel like a lot of what's been done has been done well. But can you imagine the Tories doing as good a job at backing Zelenskyy up in the face of all the bullshit from the White House? Can you imagine Farage's response?

We have Labour in power right now probably because a lot of people looked at them and thought 'well, they're not the best but they're better than the Conservatives and Reform'. If all of those people hadn't made the choice to vote for the best-not-perfect candidate, we'd probably have had one of those two parties in power, and last weekend would have gone very fucking differently.