#Soap carving is so fun :)

[minim-of-murdrum]

Soap Scugs

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was getting my associates degree I took a course on human sexuality. It was really fascinating and wonderful. One of our assignments was to write about the first time we ever masturbated which was very uncomfortable and silly at the same time.

Mine was extremely boring because there’s nothing exciting about a five year old realizing that climbing the fire pole feels really good.

I told a coworker at the time about the assignment and she laughed and told me about her daughter. They had these really old dining room chairs with carved legs. The chairs had smooth wood bulbs going up them that the kid loved to rub on.

Her mom didn’t want to dissuade her or make her ashamed but she also needed to establish that masturbation should always be private. So she talked to her daughter and explained that she could do that but must do it in her room alone.

The result of which was that everyone was aware the girl was going to masturbate when she dragged the chair into her room to be alone with it.

My friends was my favorite though, because his discovery was in stages. He liked it when his penis would get hard as a kid because it meant he could grab it and pretend to be flying a helicopter. His aha moment was when this happened once in the shower and the grabbing plus soap made him realize something else might be going on.

That was funny on its own, but nothing could match when in the most betrayed tone he said, “It was so much more fun then, before stuff came out at the end.”

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Previous << || >> Next

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: suggestive, non-explicit smut. kissing. smoking. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[joluvsfinnick]

Etched The Same

f!reader x finnick odair soulmate au

a mini 3 part series

summary - soulmates share a scar. you earn yours in blood, while he earns his in silence. but, he doesn’t tell you. not because he doesn’t feel the same, but because he’s terrified you’ll look at him and wish it had been someone else.

warnings - none

a/n - AHHHHHH i’ve been so so excited to post this!! writing it has been so much fun and i’m praying it ya’ll enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it. anyways. here’s part one!! :)

You’ve never really spoken to the blonde-haired, sea-green eyed boy from your district before.

You’ve seen him in passing, across the square, on television screens, carved into Capitol posters like something untouchable. You’d heard all the girls giggle when his name came up, whispered about how devastatingly handsome he was. Finnick Odair, District 4’s golden boy. Victorious. Untouchable.

And now, so are you. But you don’t really feel it. Not when the nightmares still dig under your ribs. Not when the ocean air no longer smells like peace.

It’s been a few months since you returned from your Games. You’ve been left alone for the most part, which you’ve appreciated. You spend most of your afternoons on the dock now, legs dangling over the edge, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might give you answers. Or take you with it.

The waves lap gently at the wooden posts beneath you. Seagulls call overhead, but their cries sound too loud, too bright, like they don’t belong in a world that still feels gray.

And then, without warning, you hear the creak of wood behind you. Someone drops down beside you with the kind of ease that makes your shoulders jump. You whip your head toward them, half ready, half afraid, but stop short when you see him.

Finnick.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just swings his legs over the edge like he’s done this a hundred times. Like this is just another summer evening. But you know better. You know what it’s like to pretend you’re okay just so people stop looking at you like you’re broken.

“Still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he hums, voice low, like it might shatter something if he speaks any louder.

You don’t answer at first. Your gaze shifts back to the fading sun, its gold bleeding into orange over the surface of the sea. A breeze carries the smell of salt and fish and something softer, like lemon soap on skin. You’re not sure if it’s real or if your memory’s playing tricks.

“Will it ever?” You almost snort.

He chuckles, not because it’s funny, but because of how terribly true it is. There’s something hollow in the sound, like laughter with all the warmth scraped out.

“No,” he says. “Not really.”

Silence stretches between you like a net that neither of you wants to break. You hear the distant clatter of a fishing boat returning to shore. Somewhere down the coast, a child is laughing. The sound feels foreign now, like it belongs to another life.

“You come here often?” You cringe. It’s so painfully cliché, but the silence is painful, you can’t help but ask. Voice quiet, careful not to break the spell.

He smiles, but shrugs. “Sometimes. When I don’t want to be found.”

“Is that often?”

A beat. Then a soft, dry grin tugs at his mouth. “Lately? Yeah.”

You nod. That much, at least, you understand.

The ocean rolls beneath your feet. The dock creaks gently. He doesn’t press you for anything. Doesn’t ask how you’re doing, because he already knows. Instead, you sit in the dying light together, two kids made too old too fast, letting the sea try to carry your silence away.

After a while, he leans back on his elbows and glances sideways at you.

“You know,” he says, with a mock-serious tone, “if I’d known we’d be bonding over mutual trauma, I might’ve introduced myself sooner. Maybe brought a bottle of rum and a dramatic monologue.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Oh? what, no roses and a candlelit dock dinner?”

He grins, clearly pleased to have coaxed a reaction out of you. “I didn’t want to come on too strong. I figured I’d save the roses for after our next soul-crushing memory swap.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, just barely. It’s a strange feeling, smiling without guilt. Like maybe it’s allowed. Maybe he is, too.

Finnick swings his feet a little and hums. “You’re different from the girl I saw on TV.”

You glance at him. “How?” Stupid question honestly. Everyone is different than what’s portrayed on Panem TV. He, of all people, should know that.

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Quieter. Meaner. Less likely to sit next to me without trying to drown me.”

“Still time,” you say dryly, though your voice is softer than before. He laughs, really laughs this time, and it cuts through the fog a little, warm and unexpected. And just like that, something shifts. Not all the way. Not yet. But enough.

—

The dock’s quieter today.

No fishing boats in the distance. No seagulls screaming overhead. Just the steady hush of waves curling against the shore, and the gentle creak of wood beneath you as you sway your feet above the tide.

You hadn’t meant to come back, not really. But something about this spot has started to feel like… yours. A sliver of stillness in a world that doesn’t slow down.

You wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin there. Breathe in the salt and the silence. Your mind starts to wander, brushing against memories you don’t want, until—

“Wow,” comes a voice from behind you. “Back to where it all began. I’m honored.”

You don’t even flinch this time.

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, there he is again, Finnick Odair in all his uninvited glory, barefoot, shirt loose, hair wind-tousled like he just stepped off the cover of a Capitol romance novel. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask dryly.

He drops down beside you with that same practiced ease, legs swinging over the edge. “Not officially. But I figured since you didn’t flee last time, I might be growing on you.”

You raise a brow. “Growing is a strong word.”

He gasps, mock-wounded. “You wound me.”

“Good.”

Finnick laughs. Not hollow. Not tight. Just warm. The kind that catches you off guard.

“You’re fun when you’re not brooding,” he says.

“I don’t brood.”

“You definitely brood.”

You shoot him a sideways look, but your lips twitch before you can stop them. “I just like being quiet.”

“Mm. And yet here you are, tolerating me.”

You shrug, eyes drifting back to the water. “You’re not the worst.”

“Oh, don’t be sweet,” he teases. “I might start thinking you like me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. A gull cries in the distance. The tide shifts just slightly. For a moment, it’s quiet again. But not heavy like before. Just… comfortable.

“Do you always show up like this?” you ask, half-curious, half-mocking.

He leans back on his hands. “Only when I’m hoping someone might be here.” You glance over, but he’s not looking at you. And somehow, that makes it worse. It makes your stomach twists. He turns suddenly, flashing that signature grin again, like he’s tugging the mask back into place before you can ask what he meant.

“Anyway,” he says, “if I’m going to keep showing up, we should probably establish a routine. Tuesdays, tragic silence. Thursdays, emotionally repressed flirting.”

You laugh, genuinely this time. “Fine. But I’m not sharing my snacks.”

“Oh, heartbreak,” he sighs. “This is going to be harder than the Games.”

—

It becomes a weekly thing. Then an almost daily one.

You never plan it. You never ask. It just… happens.

You show up at the dock. Same spot. Same hour. The sun dips low and golden across the waves, and within thirty minutes, like clockwork, he’s there. Sometimes with two apples, maybe a few sugar-cubes. Sometimes humming. Sometimes quiet, carrying some invisible weight behind his grin.

Other days, he doesn’t come at all. You don’t ask why. You could. You almost do. Sometimes he’s gone for 3 days. Sometimes 5. Only once has he been gone for an entire week. But when he shows up again, smile worn thin and eyes a little duller, you don’t press. You’ve never been good at comforting people, and you know better than to start now. Besides, it feels like there are things you aren’t supposed to know yet. Things he’s not ready to say.

So you sit together. Close enough to count his freckles. Far enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. Time passes. Quicker than you thought it could. Quicker than it has any right to. And somewhere along the way, you start to realize you’re falling for him.

That golden-haired boy with laughter in his mouth and sadness behind his eyes. His flirting always makes you blush, soft comments about your smile, about the way you crinkle your nose when you laugh. Teasing remarks about how you’re clearly obsessed with him because you keep showing up in his spot.

But even as your stomach turns at every smile, every accidental brush of his hand against yours, you remind yourself it’s nothing. Because it is nothing. You both have soulmates out there. People with marks and scars that will match your own in some perfect, cosmic design. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe ten years from now. But until then, you promised yourself you’d wait.

Fate has always been something you took seriously.

You grew up on stories of it, especially your parents. The way your mother met your father as a girl from the outer area of District 4 while he was a more wealthy town boy. The way she collided with your dad at a market stall. Literally—knocked into him hard enough to scrape her elbow on the ground.

It bled. She winced. Apologized.

And he just stood there staring. Then slowly rolled up his sleeve.

Same mark. Same shape. Same scar.

Your mother cried, right there in the middle of the street, and ever since then they’ve been inseparable. That was fate. Not this. Not some boy with the Capitol at his feet and sea salt in his grin who made you feel things he had no business making you feel. So you keep your walls up. You smile when he flirts. You laugh when he teases. You pretend it means nothing.

Even though it means everything.

The ocean stretches wide, calm and endless under a sky turning soft shades of dusk. You sit on the dock beside Finnick, legs swinging just above the water’s edge. He leans back on his hands, eyes fixed somewhere far away, like chasing a memory. After a long pause, you break the silence.

“You ever think about your parents? How they met?”

Finnick shrugs, not meeting your gaze. “They weren’t soulmates, if that’s what you mean.” You blink, surprised. “They just… found each other, even without some perfect fate or magic pulling them together. They chose each other. Every day.”

You study him, then ask softly, “Do you believe in it then? The whole fate thing?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, half bitter, half wistful. “I mean, it’s kind of hard not to when there’s so much proof.” He pauses, his gaze shifting to his feet. “I want to. I do. But I don’t know if it’s something that’ll ever happen to me.”

You turn to look at him, sensing something fragile beneath his bravado. “Why not?”

His eyes meet yours, honest and raw. “Maybe I’m not meant for that kind of connection. Maybe some people just get left behind.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “But your parents… they made it work.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. That choice, that fight, that’s real. Maybe more real than fate.” He bumps your knee with his elbow, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice teasing, “if we were soulmates, I’d be fine with it.” But then his smile falters for just a heartbeat, a shadow flickers behind his eyes, something softer, more vulnerable. You catch it, but before you can ask, he’s back to leaning against his hands, staring out at the water like it holds all the answers.

—

Over the years, you and Finnick keep finding your way back to each other. It’s never daily, never constant, but at least once a week, like a quiet promise neither of you says out loud. It becomes a ritual, a flicker of normal in the chaos surrounding you. You’ve grown close, the kind of close that feels like friendship but lingers just a bit beyond. Sometimes he joins you at the victors’ house for dinner with your family. Those evenings are soft, warm laughter, easy conversations, the kind of moments you both clutch onto. But beneath it all, there’s something stirring. Something unspoken and fragile that neither of you dares to name.

“You know,” Finnick says, elbowing you lightly as you sit on the dock, the salt air mixing with the fading warmth of the sun, “if that soulmate of yours doesn’t show up, my offer to take his place still stands.”

You scoff, shooting him a sideways glance. “Careful, Odair. You’re flirting with disaster.”

He grins, eyes shining with mischief. “Or maybe I’m flirting with you. Which, honestly, sounds a lot more fun.”

You finally meet his gaze, eyebrow raised. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m still holding out for fate to sweep me off my feet.”

Finnick’s smile softens for a moment, just enough that you catch it, a flicker of something real beneath the teasing. He leans in, voice dropping low. “Fate’s tricky. Sometimes it shows up when you least expect it. Other times, it’s stuck in traffic or something.”

You laugh, nudging him. “Or maybe it’s waiting for you to grow a pair and catch up.”

He smirks, eyes locking on yours with a spark that’s hard to read. “Maybe I’m just testing your patience.”

“Testing me?” You lean closer, voice playful but your heart skips. “Be careful, Odair. You might just make me fall for you instead of waiting on that soulmate of mine.”

His grin falters for a heartbeat, replaced by something softer, almost serious, before he masks it with a sly smile. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You bite your lip, trying not to let the sudden warmth in your chest show. “Depends if you’re worth the risk.”

Finnick chuckles, but the sound is quieter now, as if he’s hearing something only he knows. You glance out at the water, the colors of the sunset painting everything gold, and suddenly the space between you feels charged, alive with all the words neither of you dare to speak.

Then your voice drops, quieter, almost fragile. “I really want to find my soulmate, Finnick. I,” You pause. “I don’t think I could ever truly love someone unless fate brought us together. If it’s not meant to be, I don’t know if I could really feel like it was real.”

Finnick’s grin vanishes, replaced by a shadow crossing his face. His heart clenches in a way that feels like it might break. The idea that you believe in fate so absolutely, that you need it to love, crushes something deep inside him. Because he wonders if fate will ever bring you to him.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to smile again. “Well… maybe fate just likes to keep us on our toes.” You don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes, and for a moment, the teasing fades into something honest and raw. But neither of you say the words hanging heavy between you.

Maybe someday. But not tonight.

Sometimes, when you’re laughing across the table at one of his jokes, your eyes crinkled and bright, Finnick lets himself believe. Maybe, just maybe, you’re looking at him the way he looks at you.

There are moments when you’re walking side by side down the shoreline and your arm brushes his, and you don’t move away. Moments where your gaze lingers too long, where you tilt your head and smile like you see something in him that he can’t even see in himself. Sometimes your voice softens when you say his name. Sometimes your fingers graze his wrist and stay a second longer than they need to.

And in those moments, he starts to think, maybe. Maybe she feels it too. But then, like clockwork, it slips through his fingers. Then, the memory of you and him on the dock comes spinning back. “I don’t think I could ever truly love someone unless fate brought us together.”

And just like that, the hope he’s dared to hold flickers out. Because Finnick knows he isn’t fate. He’s never been anything close to it. He’s a Capitol weapon, a face in a mask, a boy stitched back together by survival and sacrifice. You want signs from the universe. A scar that mirrors yours. A string pulling you toward someone who’s always meant to be yours.

Finnick was never anyone’s to begin with.

So, he swallows whatever warmth had been rising in his chest. Offers a teasing smile in return. Pretends your words don’t hit him like a stone to the ribs. And he tells himself it’s fine. Because even if he’s not your fate, at least he gets to be your almost. And sometimes, when you look at him like that again, he lets himself believe all over again.

—

You don’t mean to lean into him. Really, you don’t.

But it’s late, and the house is quiet, and for once, there’s no noise in your head. Just the rhythm of waves crashing outside, the distant creak of a floorboard upstairs, and Finnick’s breath, steady beside you.

And your body, exhausted from always pretending not to feel.

You let your head tip, just slightly, until it finds his shoulder, then his chest. You freeze for half a second, tense and wary, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays there. Still, warm, quiet. Like he’s been waiting for you to do this the whole time. Your eyes slip shut, and for a brief, stolen moment, you allow yourself the weakness. The comfort. The fantasy of what it might be like to stay here, to be held without questions, to love without fear.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen to the beat of his heart beneath your cheek and pretend it’s your own. And still, even now, even with the weight of his warmth beneath you… you remind yourself:

You’re waiting for fate.

Even if part of you already know. it might’ve been him all along.

He feels it before he fully registers it, your head against his chest. The soft, hesitant weight like a whisper, a secret confession without words. His breath catches. His heart hammers, louder than it ever has before. For a split second, everything else falls away: the Games, the Capitol, the emotional scars that mark them both. Just you. Just this moment.

Finnick’s fingers twitch, aching to hold you close, to never let you go. But he stays still, afraid that if he moves, the fragile thread holding this quiet peace might snap. Because even here, now, with your warmth pressed to him, a wall stands tall inside his chest. He knows. He knows the truth you don’t say aloud. The unspoken hope that fate will bind you to someone else. And the painful possibility that maybe… you’ll never want him.

So instead of pulling you closer, he rests his hand lightly over yours, careful not to scare away the delicate moment. He lets his mind spin with every “what if”, what if this could be more, what if you’re feeling this too, what if he’s the one you were waiting for all along?

But then the silence stretches, and the doubts crowd in, fear and pain twisting inside him. Because loving you feels like the most dangerous thing in the world when everything else is uncertain. So he just holds you. Quietly.

Hoping somehow that’s enough. And somehow, for now, it is.

—

But those moments are soon left behind as the announcement for the 3rd quarter quell creeps up on both of you. You’re both in your living room, watching Snow dig his filthy hands into the clear bowl and unfold that tiny slip of paper.

Then, he speaks. His tone evil and vile as he announces the Quell theme.

Finnick goes silent, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. You don’t understand what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. Instead, you stand abruptly and retreat to your room, shutting the door behind you. You curl into your bed like a child, small and scared, the weight of it all crashing down.

Time stretches. Too long. Until finally, soft footsteps shuffle outside your door. A quiet knock. You don’t have to ask. You know it’s him.

Without hesitation, the door creaks open, and Finnick slips inside. He moves carefully, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet. He settles on the edge of your bed, head dipping between his shoulders like the weight of the world rests there. No words come. None are needed yet. He sits there for what feels like forever, still as stone, like he doesn’t trust himself to move. Like if he does, something inside him will split wide open.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. You just stare at the wall, at the way the shadows crawl along the edges of your room like they’re trying to swallow the world whole. The silence stretches. Breath after breath, heavy with things neither of you are brave enough to say.

And then, finally—slowly—he moves.

The mattress dips under his weight as he slides beside you. There’s a long, wavering pause before his hand finds your shoulder, then your waist. He hesitates again, like he’s asking without words, and then you feel it: the weight of him curling in behind you, his arm slipping around your middle as he exhales shakily into the crook of your neck.

You don’t stop him. You don’t even breathe. You just let yourself sink into him.

His chest rises and falls against your back, uneven and trembling. Your fingers find his and curl around them, and for the first time since the screen went black, your lungs stop aching. There’s nothing to say. No promises to make. Just two broken hearts tangled together in the dark, holding each other like it might keep the world from ending.

Neither of you know who’ll be reaped. Maybe it won’t be either of you. Maybe you’ll both get lucky and your names won’t be called.

But something deep down inside is telling you otherwise.

[bunny-jpeg]

love talkin', john 'soap' mactavish - you loved johnny, he was the kind of lover that would be the star of a well-made romance novel. he could be fun and cheese. but also seductive and alluring. those blue eyes on more than on occasion made your panties drop a little quicker than you hoped for. he was the type of man that left you wanting more, you could name many things you loved about johnny. from his laugh, to his caring nature, to even that stupid mohawk.

but what you loved most of all about your sweet johnny mactavish was, he was a total motor-mouth when he got in the mood.

"there she is." he cooed as he got himself between your legs. you could see his blue eyes peer over your pussy. his pupils were a bit widened from the immense lust the coursed through his body as he got ready to make you feel amazing. he wasn't one to have empty promises, he promised that it would be the oral sex of a lifetime and that meant putting his entire self into it. he kissed at the top of your pussy and the bottom of your soft stomach, "don't make girls like ya anymore. a real aphrodite." he laughed before the kisses continued. he was hard in his tight briefs, he rubbed up against the covers to get a little friction against his aching length, "saw those statues while in greece." in reference to his latest mission, "thought i saw you up there, bonnie. she had all the right curves. price thought i was losin' my head." he then licked up your pussy, he could taste your wetness and it made him shudder. only the best for him. he adored you, you were the first doll he had ever had his hands on that made him feel alive. remember when he first met you all bundled up in heavy winter clothes (it wasn't even that cold). but now there you were, laid out on your shared bed in your shared flat with johnny between your legs as he pleasured you in ways that made your heart leap. he exhaled deeply against your sex and felt a shudder of pleasure through his spine before he fully started to make-out lazily with your cunt. between heated groans, he said to you, "look at her, all ready for me. i bet ya missed me, i was only gone a week but i bet you thought about me every day. but don't worry, beautiful. i thought about every second i could." his tongue caught your clit and rubbed up against it. which made your toes curl, "thought about the girl back home and the big dinner you were gonna make me. know how to make a welcome home special." then lazily fingered you.

this wasn't about finishing as fast as possible. it was about johnny becoming familiar with your body once more. it was one thing to fist his cock to images of you, it was another thing to have you in the flesh. to see you laid out on the bed you both shared, in the home you both lived in. the nook of domesticity that you and johnny carved out. his eyes closed as he lazily made out with your achy cunt. his fingers only added additional pleasure to your heated core. he loved it, he loved you. he often wondered what god allowed you two to meet. what higher power sent an angel into johnny's life to make it so much more brighter. johnny thought he was a sinner, but it was hard not to bask in your holiness when he was sloppily making out with your heated sex. he groaned as he licked at you clit, his fingers moved at a steady pace. he could feel the want in his blood as he held onto your thighs with one hand and continued to finger you with the other. he panted heavily against you, his mouth kept running like a tap on full blast. he opened his eyes once more and eyed you, "they should be puttin' tasteful nudes of ya in every museum in the world. i want the every livin' soul to know how beauty you are." he groaned, "fuck, i love ya. ya have no idea how much you mean to me. you're beautiful in every way i can think of. it's not fair to the other girls ya know. so tone it down." he laughed as he continued to finger you. his tone was joking and he absolutely loved the feeling of your pussy around his fingers. he kissed at you pussy some more, which left you in a heated lust. you squirmed under him and let the pleasure mount in you. your beautiful moans only pulled him further in. he kissed your clit and ran his tongue across the nub as he said softly, "my beautiful, hen."

when you finally climaxed, you gripped onto his short hair. you pulled his face up against your pussy as close as it could get. your toes curled and you let out a steady stream of heavy pants and whines. the pleasure crashed over you like a heavy wave and he loved it. yes, bonnie, suffocate him with your pussy. it would be a fitting death for him. when you finally relaxed you grip on him and he could breathe properly. his eyes were darker, heavy with lust with your wetness on his nose and down his chin. he looked like an animal as he licked his lips with hunger. he gave you a stunning smile and laughed, "ya really know how to get a guy like me goin'." he moved up to his knees, you could see the dark spot in his briefs, "and while i'd love to give you pussy some more lovin'. i think i'm in need of some too." he cupped his cock. he was grinning like a fool when he said, "why don't we get the two of them acquainted again." then gave you a wink <3

[leyavo]

| I am my father’s daughter | 12 |

💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader

PART TWELVE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over a year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help 2.9k+words

[18+] MDNI | TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

Previous parts -> [series masterlist]

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

Johnny’s been off his game all week, he’s normally a sharp shooter. Says it how it is, not caring what he says if it’s important enough to make a difference. It’s no different than divulging intel, the Captain should know. This key piece of intel though could be similar to a ticking time bomb, he’s not sure if he wants to be on the receiving end of John’s rage or yours for that matter.

There’s only so many times the Captain can pull him aside and ask him what’s going on. He can’t lie to the man’s face and he’s beginning to crack. He’s fought off worse interrogations and never given anything away, but this is not his usual domain. Not when it comes to your safety. He gave you time and it doesn’t look like you’ve confessed to the Captain.

Johnny traces the gold cross on his chest, like a wee boy in confessional he’s trying to pluck up the courage to confess his sins. Kissing you. Another thing he has to tell the Captain before it gets too messy. He can’t even look him in the eye or string a sentence together when he’s asked once again what’s going on in his head, because it’s all bloody you.

Now Johnny ain’t the type to pick apart his interactions outside of work, but then you had to kiss him. No warning, no hesitation as your lips smashed into his. His teeth still feel the clash of your mouths meeting and he hasn’t worn his jacket hoping the crease of your hold stays in the fabric. A reminder that it happened. A sign maybe? To never do it again. He’s gone over and over again on the why? Can’t understand it, if he’s being honest.

Out of everyone you’ve spent the most time with Johnny. Since your stay in the hospital he’s fallen into the routine of walking round the base with you, not every day though. You’re a tough one to crack, a little open and honest with him when it’s flirty and fun, but he notices the flitting gaze when he aims too far. Digs too deep, there’s so many layers he’s yet to discover and figure out. He knows not to mention your mother or dad too much, instant withdrawal if he utters Lena’s name.

You’re also a tease, big time. It’s something Johnny likes the most about you, that even though you’ve been hurt many times before you feel safe enough around him to be playful. There’s still hesitant moments, silent pauses before some of your interactions and Johnny waits for you to take the lead. He can’t help but chase you when you pull him in. Should he be going after the Captain’s daughter? No, but you might have something to say about that.

The narrow corridor stretches further as Johnny squeezes past the bodies, its natural for the high traffic of people when they're so close to being back out in the field. Another thing for the sergeant to work over in his head and your little kiss doesn't help him focus. He's thinking about the money, your mother and his minds trying not to imagine the worse. If it were his family, he'd want to know. The Captain's door swings open before Johnny can lift his hand and knock against the worn wood. An analyst carrying a wad of brown files clutched to their chest, she slips past him and nods in thanks, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. Like everyone else running around this particular sector the Captain looked weathered. Deep rims carved under his eyes, thick beard and moustache scraggly and untrimmed. He's been sleeping in his office awaiting a call and the go ahead from Kate Laswell.

"Here to confess ya' sins, Son?" The Captain doesn't divert his focus from the computer monitor, brows furrowed and finger tapping the mouse. Now that Johnny’s really paying attention, he can see the exact frown that settles on your face sometimes, line not as prominent on you though.

“Soap?” The Captain snaps, none the wiser what the sergeant’s about to blurt out or that’s he sweating buckets.

Johnny stills, it's not every day the captain throws around a 'son' and he know's his focus has been divided. He doesn’t take a seat, the only possible outcome is the captain lunging at him and he’d prefer to be quick moving if that’s the case. Not that he’d blame John for going at him. Johnny would let him have one swing at least.

The Captain sighs and leans back in his creaky chair. "I warned ya' not to get involved," he says, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "You've been all over the place this week, it's unacceptable considering everything else that’s going on. This op is years worth of planning, no time to be messing around Soap." And he's right, Johnny know's he deserves the verbal lashing and maybe even a physical one if he mentions the kiss. He's never let a women get to him like he has you.

Messing around, because that's all it is? Right. It's not the kiss that's thrown him off balance, its the money and the way you spit out your mother's name. "She kissed me, but I’m not sure why exactly other than to distract me from the fact she told me she gave your money to her Mam,” Johnny rambles on, he doesn’t know why he’s worded it the way he has. As if the Captain would be interested in talking about his daughter’s liking to Johnny.

“You what?”

Captain, father…Johnny has no idea which one he’s facing now. He takes a step back as John rises from his seat and leans his hands on the desk. He’s overstepped a boundary, one foot hovering over the grave and as long as he doesn’t dig a deeper hole he might be able to walk away unscathed.

“Say that again?”

“Uh, she gave your money to her Mam,” Johnny says, wiping his clammy hands on his jeans. “One kiss, not tongues or anything. Won’t happen again.” Christ, he should not have said that. Why was he a babbling mess when it came to anything to do with you? He feels like a kid in the headmasters office waiting for a punishment.

The shrill phone ringing saves Johnny, but he doesn’t move until the Captain dismisses him with a flick of his hand. Laswell’s name falling from his lips as he held the phone up to his ear. The call they’ve all been waiting for. He releases a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding as his boots step out into the corridor again.

And like clockwork, Kyle’s texting him to meet at the pub and wind down before they get dumped in the next op. Johnny's hoping drinks with Kyle will clear his mind and absolve him from telling the Captain something you should have. The usual tradition of getting wasted before the serious stuff kicks in, the prep work and legal jargon they have to sit through in order to get the job done. Nine times out of ten the Captain makes an appearance towards the end of the night and Simon sits in a dingy corner nursing a whisky, but they aren't tonight. No, Simons gathering intel on foreign land and returning tomorrow, John’s buried under a mountain of paperwork that needs to be finalised before midnight. Leaving Kyle, thank God least he'd be able to have some fun. Take his mind off your kiss.

He doesn't expect to see you though, a glass of what he's guessing is white wine. You take a sip, placing it on the table and turning back to the man by the pool table. The usual dark hoody hangs on the back of your chair, a black lace top sticking to you like a second skin, not leaving much to his imagination. You've paired it with the same faded black jeans, torn at one knee and a pair of scuffed boots. It's not the tight fit that draws Johnny in though, its the off shoulder sleeves and the smooth planes of your back on display. The scabbed gash just below your neck in the centre peeking out from beneath the blunt cut of your hair. A smile pulls your lips and you glance down to the guys hands by his side. Always assessing others movements when they're distracted.

You’ve been to this pub a few times with the team and some of your work colleagues, but Johnny’s never seen you so relaxed. No furrowed brow or wedged between Kyle and the captain staring at your drink. Maybe it’s your dad’s absence, but it looks good on you.

Johnny leans against the sticky bar, watching the scene play out. Classic move, the blokes hand on your hip and the other helping you set up the cue stick, his front presses to your back. The red ball hits the edge of the pocket and rolls back to the centre. You stand, little pout on your face as the hand on your hip slips away. Missing on purpose.

"Might wanna get in there before he does," Kyle interrupts, elbowing Johnny and reaching over to take his pint. He takes a sip and returns it to the bar. "I'm going home with Tina," he says, searching the pub and waving to a leggy redhead across the room. "Keep an eye on the kid, yeah?" He doesn't wait for reply, knowing Johnny would have done it without being asked.

Downing the rest of his beer, he asks the barmaid for another and a white wine as well. Johnny waits till the mystery man disappears to the toilets and walks over to you. "You look nice," Johnny says, smirking as you gasp, unaware he was behind you.

Your eyes dart to his hands as he slides the drinks onto the table, rarely do you meet others gaze, but Johnny seems to be the only one who can hold your undivided attention. As if you're mesmerised by his restraint, because all he wants to do right now is lean in and kiss you. Maybe with tongues.

"So do you." You lean against the pool table, cue stick still in your grasp. “This where you tell me my times up?” You cock your head to the side and flutter those long lashes. And not even a minute in your presence, your brow furrows. Johnny would much rather see the sweet smile you’d flashed at the last guy, but he’s going to have to work for it.

Why are you straight to the point with him, but can’t pluck up the courage to talk to your dad? Johnny’s chest aches, dull throb pulsing and tightening at the fact that’s he’s beat you to it. Should he confess his third sin today? Maybe even make some more if he’s got the guts to.

“You know your Da’s a good guy,” he says, picking his beer up and observing the poorly served head of foam sitting on top. Too distracted by you and the guy earlier to notice the barmaids shoddy work.

You scoff, discarding the cue stick on the velvety green pool table. “Why does everyone keep telling me that?” You nudge an orange ball towards the corner pocket, watching it drop to the bottom and roll back into table waiting to be played again.

“Cos you’re the only one that chooses not to see it.” See he can be honest and straight with you. “What’s he done that tells you otherwise?” Sharp shooter, but he also causes destruction, hopefully never for you though.

He knows you’re the type to stand back and observe every interaction the Captain’s had. Doesn’t matter who’s approached him, you’re searching for a reason not to trust him. Pushing his buttons slightly to see if he slips up and shows you exactly what you’re afraid of.

Another man hurting you.

You shrug, “I don’t know what he’s supposed to act like.”

“That’s natural, you haven’t had a father figure around to compare him with.” There’s no other way of saying it, no sugar coating it to soften the blow as you wince at the thought. “Why don’t you just talk to him about your Mam? He’ll understand.”

“It’s complicated,” you mumbled, rolling another ball across the pool table. “You wouldn’t understand.” You shake your head, arms crossing over your chest and shoulders slumping forwards. Closing yourself off once again when he pushes too far.

The pub grows louder, bodies pushing past and you grab your hoody from the back of the chair shoving it over your head. Downing the white wine Johnny brought over, wiping your lips with the cuff of your sleeve. You’re walking through the crowd without another word, Johnny trailing after you.

“Help me understand?” Johnny says, hand slipping into yours as you stops you by the entrance. He doesn’t recognise his own voice, a softer tone reserved only for you. He’s used to snapping and snarling or talking too fast that he’s has to repeat himself, dull down his accent for others to understand him. You always understand him though.

You’re silent for a minute, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Fingers curling into fists under your crossed arms, no doubt weighing up how much you’re going to share. Little crumbs he keeps collecting as he tries to understand you more.

Johnny’s an open book, giving you anything you need to feel comfortable. He’s got nothing to hide, no shame holding him back. Hoping that you might take a leaf out of his book and do the same. He wants you to make the first move, tell him what you want. The captain’s an after thought now, someone he can deal with later if this goes any further. Again, it’s all down to you and if you’re willing to take him.

You sigh, gaze connecting with his “Ugh I preferred it when you were over there,” you say, pointing to the bar. “Not talking to me.” Flirting with him, your own form of self defence. Anything to dodge the serious conversation and chase a lighter one. Did you like him as much he liked you though?

A fine drizzle hits Johnny as he stumbles after you outside. He guides you under the shelter whilst you sort out a cab. You’re talking to him about the waiting time till next pick up, but he’s still wondering if he should just say what he’s thinking. He spends the fifteen minute drive to the house silent and you’re stealing glances at him, talking to the driver and thanking him when you exit the car.

You’re muttering under your breath, shouldering the front door open and tugging Johnny indoors with you. Johnny doesn’t think as he walks past you and heads upstairs, opening his bedroom door as if it’s still his.

“Johnny,” you snap, blinking up at him as he doesn’t answer whatever question you just threw at him. “Oh right, now you don’t talk?”

“That why you kissed me?” Johnny leans in, daring you to meet him halfway. He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol spurring you on, but you don’t shrink nor do you break eye contact with him.

You shrug, stepping forward and tapping the cross he forgot to tuck under his shirt. “Maybe, you do talk an awful lot.”

“Then shut me up.”

“Ohh, don’t think the Captain will like that,” you say, clicking your tongue. He mirrors your smile, your eyes flitting to his lips.

"You do everything the Captain tells you?" Johnny asks, walking back as you enter the room and close the door. His heart thumping in his chest, the lock sliding into place. All, your doing.

“No, do you?” You grab the front of his shirt, but Johnny surges forward and presses his lips to yours. He doesn’t get a chance to reply, your fingers sinking into the hair at the nape of his neck. Pulling him closer to deepen the kiss, he hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you up, walking to the bed and dropping you on the unmade sheets.

The bed frame creaks as Johnny’s knee sinks into the mattress, his elbows caging you in and he leans down, nose nudging your jaw. Your hands slipping under his shirt, cold fingers tracing his skin.

•

“Wait,” you whisper, pushing his chest lightly. “Gotta change quickly.” Johnny shifts to the side allowing you space to climb out of the bed.

You try not to overthink it, undressing and throwing on an oversized T-shirt, the same one you wear to bed most nights. A little worn and fraying at the edge. You wipe the smudged makeup under your eyes and spray some deodorant. There’s nothing to overthink though as you turn round, Johnny’s laid on his stomach, arm hanging off the edge of the bed. His soft snores filling the room and you clamber over him, tucking yourself under the duvet and covering him too.

“Of course you’re a loud sleeper too,” you whisper, moving closer to Johnny. His warmth drawing you in. “How am I supposed to shut you up now?”

You wonder if he’ll be there in the morning, if he’ll still feel the same. Is it too soon? Maybe, but everything with Johnny felt natural and easy. You shouldn’t feel this way, not after everything else that happened. Part of you checked out of the last relationship months before you left…well you’d tried to leave a few times, but it never stuck.

Shouldn’t it feel like this? You want it to. Johnny murmurs in his sleep, face turning to you and body shifting, his arm draping over you as he pulls you closer. His tight embrace calming your racing heart and you melt into his hold, closing your eyes.

[Part thirteen]

I actually found Johnny's pov hard to write and I hope you enjoyed it. Ohhh John knows :O From this point on it's going to really angsty and hard…be prepared aahhh 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @elita1 @tired-writer04 @kaoyamamegami @gallantys @leon-thot-kennedy @trulovekay @harley101399 @misshoneypaper @rpgsandstuff @tomatto1234 @lolyouresilly @madsothree @astrothedoll @grandfartvoid @delaynew @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @little-mini-me-world @exitingmusic @majocookie @elegancefr @jesskidding3 @thepowers-kat-be @frangiipanii @ye-olde-trash-panda @sleep101 @bluebarrybubblez @shitaaba @muraaaaaa @vajjaa @rafaelacallinybbay @jeannieboys @poetoflawed @idleviewer @darling006

[izzyezalea]

Hi! So glad people are enjoying my first fic!

Please ask me anything, I'm new to this, so give me ideas and recommendations - I'm happy to write for all call of duty characters - IE 🩷

Three Minutes

Simon “Ghost” Riley x FReader | Bomb Defusal | Lovers in War

The building was silent, save for the creaking of metal and the faint drip of water somewhere in the dark. Every shadow looked like it could lunge. Every corner, a trap. Ghost moved like death itself—silent, fast, focused. The rest of 141 was clearing the perimeter, but he hadn’t waited. Couldn’t.

Not when it was you.

You’d been missing for two days. Two fucking days. Intel finally came through—cartel offshoot, using an abandoned comms station outside Al Mazrah as a makeshift torture den. By the time they stormed it, Ghost was already inside, carving his way through the bastards like a man possessed.

He turned a corner. Stopped cold.

There you were—slumped against a support beam, wrists zip-tied, blood dried along your temple. Eyes wide, dazed—but alive.

Alive.

And strapped to your chest was a bomb.

His heart kicked into overdrive. He didn’t even breathe.

“Love?” His voice was low, strained. “It’s me.”

Your head lifted slowly. “Simon…”

And God, that voice—hoarse, broken—but real.

He rushed to you, dropped to his knees. “Stay still, yeah? Don’t move.”

You nodded weakly. “They said... three minutes. When they left. Dunno how long it’s been.”

He didn’t waste time asking stupid questions. He was already examining the vest, fingers nimble despite the tremor in them. Wires. Timer. 01:54 and counting.

Bloody hell.

“Alright,” he muttered, pulling a small toolkit from his belt. “This ain’t gonna be fun, but I’ve got you.”

“You sure?” you whispered.

He paused. Met your eyes.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Your breathing hitched. You tried to stay calm, but the fear was thick in the air, mingling with dust and sweat and blood.

“I don’t wanna die like this,” you choked out.

“You won’t,” he said, sharp, certain. “You’re not dyin’. Not today. Not ever if I can bloody help it.”

He worked fast, eyes scanning the circuit, isolating wires, tracing them back. It was an old rig, Russian-made. Bastards were getting creative. But Ghost had defused worse.

The timer blinked: 01:12.

“Talk to me,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “Keep your mind off it.”

You tried. “Been a year now, yeah?”

“Year and three weeks,” he replied, snipping one wire. Timer kept ticking.

“Thought maybe we’d make it to two.”

“We will. You promised me pizza and a film night back home.”

You gave a weak smile. “With those stupid action flicks you pretend not to like?”

“Oi, I’m partial to a bit of Fast & Furious. No judgin’.”

Timer: 00:42.

He was almost there. Just two more connections.

“You ever think about leavin’?” you asked, barely audible.

He froze for a fraction of a second. Then: “All the time. With you.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Somewhere quiet. Maybe a little place with a garden. You like those. Maybe a dog.”

You blinked hard. “You want a dog?”

“I want you. Whatever comes with that, I’ll take.”

00:25.

His hands moved faster. The sweat on his brow mixed with soot. He could hear boots above—Soap and Price clearing rooms. But it was just him and you in this moment.

You were trembling. “Simon… I’m scared.”

His hand found yours. Gripped tight. “Me too. But I need you to be brave for just a bit longer.”

00:15.

He found the trigger wire. Two options—cut the wrong one, and you’re gone. He stared at it. Everything in him screamed to act fast, but instinct told him to go steady.

You were watching him, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” you said, voice shaking. “Don’t let them take me away from you.”

His jaw clenched. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

00:08.

He cut the wire.

The timer stopped.

Silence.

Just for a second, the world paused.

Then Ghost exhaled—shaky, half-choked—and pulled the vest off you, tossing it aside like it’d burned him. He was on his knees again, tugging at your zip ties with trembling fingers.

You collapsed into his arms as soon as they snapped.

“Got you,” he muttered into your hair, holding you like you might vanish. “You’re alright now. I’ve got you.”

You sobbed once—quiet, raw—and buried your face into his chest.

He held you through it. His mask was soaked from sweat and soot, but he didn’t care. Didn’t even notice.

Footsteps pounded behind him. Soap appeared in the doorway, rifle raised.

“Ghost—bloody hell, you found her.”

“She’s safe,” Ghost said, not turning. “I’ve got her.”

Soap nodded, gave you both a look of quiet relief, then turned to cover the hallway.

When you finally pulled back, your fingers brushed the edge of Ghost’s mask. You tapped it gently.

“Can I see you?”

He hesitated.

Then, without a word, he pulled it up—just enough to show his face. Just for you.

Bruised, tired, dirt-smudged—but yours.

You touched his jaw, thumb brushing that old scar.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He kissed you. No hesitation. No fear.

Just need.

When he pulled back, he said it too—quiet, rough, like it cost him.

“I love you more than this bloody world deserves.”

Outside, the evac was arriving. Price’s voice crackled in the comms, orders snapping out.

But in that abandoned building, amid broken walls and ghosts of violence, all that mattered was that you were breathing, together.

Alive.

[konoha-forbidden-scrolls]

Let's have some headcanons about the Akatsuki and their bath/shower routine! Hidan's hair alone probably takes a while.

Ah, the daily lives of the Akatsuki. I've stuck to the main Akatsuki from the original series. I had waaay too much fun writing these~

Characters: Nagato, Konan, Itachi Uchiha, Kisame Hoshigaki, Deidara, Sasori, Kakuzu, Hidan, Obito "Tobi" Uchiha, Zetsu (Combined)

Contents: splish splash, bitch, blood (Hidan), wound care

Nagato

Due to the black receiver rods planted in his back and his emaciated form, Nagato's mobility is very limited. I don't think he cares much about the appearance of his true body, since no one but Konan ever sees it.

That being said, it's important for him to stay clean to prevent infections or irritations that might risk his already fragile health.

Whether scar tissue has formed around the receiver rods or if they remain open wounds is unknown, but keeping that area clean and dry would be a high priority.

While his main body is immobile, he can use the Six Paths bodies to care for himself, so he doesn't need to rely on others if he doesn't want to. (Konan would certainly help him if he needed or wanted her to.)

It's probably going to be sponge baths, or potentially a special hot spring pool where he can sit with his legs in the water and let the heat and steam give him some relief.

Konan

The Angel of Amegakure is no hop-in-the-shower scrub down kind of girl. Just look at her. That is a woman that is toned, exfoliated, and moisturised.

She's spending an hour luxuriating in a bubble bath, her head tilted back, candles flickering around her while rain patters atmospherically against the window. The steam carries the scents of the essential oils she sprinkled in the water—jasmine and sandalwood, rose and ylang ylang, depending on her mood.

Her toiletries are top tier. What's the point in being the de facto leader of Amegakure if you can't get your hands on the good stuff? Seriously, her toiletries make Deidara's mouth water.

She likes those little artisanal soaps, especially the ones carved to look like flowers.

Itachi Uchiha

Itachi will take whatever he can get, but his personal preference would be a Japanese-style bath, similar to the ones he would have taken when he lived at home with his family

The kind of set-up where he washes his body in a shower or with the old bucket and ladle, before soaking in a hot bath or hot spring. Basically like an onsen.

I don't think he'd like showers as much—water getting in his eyes and obscuring his vision—especially if he's already having problems with his eyesight.

He wouldn't go for strong-scented toiletries, both as a personal preference and because a good shinobi obfuscates all of an enemy's senses, including smell.

Still, if he can have them, he likes light herbal or tea scents.

Kisame Hoshigaki

Good news! Your shark man can tolerate fresh water as well as saltwater, so he can go take a bath or shower when he starts to get that hot tuna smell after a few days on the road. (He claims it comes from Samehada. It does not.)

Thankfully, by choice Kisame's pretty clean so the worst you'll usually get is a slight briny odour after he's been sweating.

His skin drinks up moisturiser like it's going out of style, so he goes through big tubs of the stuff.

Another dude who doesn't like heavily-scented products. He says it's so he doesn't pollute the waterways, but it's actually because perfumed toiletries irritate his gills.

Deidara

Check out Mr. Herbal Essences over here. Deidara is a shower guy, but don't let that fool you into thinking he's low maintenance. His long-ass hair takes ages to wash. Deidara takes his sweet time massaging shampoo into his scalp. Sometimes he washes it twice.

Then comes the conditioner—Detonator Barbie uses practically an entire bottle of it every time he has to do his hair, making sure every strand is liberally coated.

Followed by a hair mask.

Then he spends ages detangling it with a comb, spritzing it with anti-frizz solution, drying and straightening it.

He always clogs the plughole but claims it's not him.

Yes, he has to brush the teeth on his other mouths and floss the clay out from between his molars.

Sasori

Given that Sasori doesn't actually possess a flesh and blood body anymore, he doesn't need an actual bat, but he does do regular maintenance on his chakra puppets.

Think rag and wood polish, rather than soap and water.

He sands down any rough edges, touches up his paint, and launders his clothes if they've gotten dusty from the road.

Yeah, it's basically that scene from Toy Story 2 when Woody gets fixed up.

Kakuzu

Old man Kakuzu likes baths, and he likes them even more at the various Akatsuki compounds where he's not the one footing the bill for the water or the heating.

Continuing the miserly theme, he won't spend more than a couple ryou on his toiletries. He has the most basic-ass shower gel—the cheap kind that smells like a menthol bitch-slap—and a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner.

He looks at what Deidara and Konan spend on their personal care products with disdain.

Although he won't buy luxuries for it, Kakuzu gets pissy if his bathtime routine is interrupted, namely by Hidan getting in there early to spite him or leaving a bloody, hair-gelled mess all over the place.

Since his strings are keeping him young, he doesn't waste money on skincare.

Hidan

Hidan's got no problem being covered in blood and gore, but after a while it starts to get sticky and inconvenient, so he has to wash it off. Some of his Jashinist rituals also call for him to be purified beforehand.

He might not seem like the bath or onsen type but he is from Yugakure, aka the Village Hidden in Hot Water. Boy is from Bathland.

He's not polite from Itachi, so he'll throw himself in all dirty and covered in blood and viscera, and fuck anyone else who has to get in the water after him.

His hair does take a long time. He takes a whole handful of product and spends ages slicking and combing it back to make sure it's perfect.

Gotta look good for Jashin.

Obito "Tobi" Uchiha

He's possibly the most normal when it comes to bathing. Obito has a preference for showers over baths, because they're quick and efficient and he needs the extra time to run all his little schemes.

He absolutely "borrows" toiletries from Deidara, so he smells pretty and his hair is in great condition.

Deidara starts sniffing suspiciously whenever he's around "Tobi".

"Why the fuck do you smell like my cedarwood body wash, you masked asshole!?"

Zetsu (Combined)

I feel like he just mists himself, like a plant in a greenhouse. He just stands there and lets himself be spritzed.

Zetsu doesn't sweatzu.

[sentientgolfball]

Mushy May: Gossip Session

I had SO much fun with this one you guys have no idea

Pairing: Rain/Aurora/Cumulus

WC: 1k

They have a little ritual. One that involves stolen substances and breaking into the bathing pools in the middle of the night. They do it once a month as a way to spend some real quality time together. They all may live in the same den, but it is difficult to just be when their respective parties are constantly dragging them off for sex every other night. 

So here they are, scanning the room to make sure no other ghouls decide to take a midnight dip before locking the door shut behind them. Steam rises from the massive pool carved into the stone floor. The moonlight pours through the smoky glass ceiling and walls. She is nearly full. Rain can feel Her energy thrumming through his veins. As Cumulus and Aurora look through the shelf of handmade soaps, he strips and dives into the water. 

The pool is deep with some ledges carved near the walls. Rain goes all the way to the bottom, bubbles trailing after him as the air leaves his lungs and his gills flutter open. As much as he would love to lay on the bottom and stay there all night, he knows those two are waiting for him. A few powerful kicks and swipes of his tail has him breaching the surface in no time. He settles onto one of the ledges, eyes slipping shut as he tilts his head back with a sigh. 

“Hey, no cumming in the water.” Aurora comes to sit next to him, letting her legs dangle in the pool. 

“I’m not.” Rain keeps his eyes closed. 

“Oh yeah there’s probably nothing left in you after yesterday. Come on, rainy baby, just one more.” She laughs and does her best impression of Mountain. 

He cracks open one eye and stares at her through a half lidded gaze. He raises a brow. 

“And what’s that look for?” 

“Do you really have room to talk?” 

“Oh please, I’m always quiet. I’m not like you princess, I don’t need the whole den to hear me.” 

Rain pitches his voice up, doing a mock impression of her, “Oh please Dewy please. Breed me so everyone knows I’m yours.” 

She blushes so deeply so quickly Rain is surprised she is not legitimately glowing. Aurora scowls and kicks water at him. All Rain does is laugh while she tells him to shut his mouth. A grin spreads across his face and the moment her kicking stops, he wraps his tail around her ankle and drags her swiftly into the water. She yelps right before her head goes under. 

She sputters and coughs when she resurfaces, glaring at Rain. A million different ways to murder him and hide the body flash through her head, but before she can pick one Cumulus finally joins them. 

“If you two are done trying to kill each other, I have the craziest story to tell you.” She mirrors Aurora’s previous position, sitting on the edge with her legs in the water. There is a joint between her fingers, already lit and smoldering at the end. 

Rain nods, urging her to continue as he motions for her to pass the joint to him. She hands it over and settles with her arms propped up behind her. 

“Okay so,” she begins, “I was working on my tapestry right? And it was a nice day ya know? So I had the windows and door open so I could get a nice breeze going and I was the only one there in the loom room so might as well, right? And everything was going great, but you’ll never guess who I heard just outside.” 

Smoke pours from Rain’s mouth and the gills on his neck as he pulls the joint away from his lips. He coughs and passes it off to Aurora. “Who?” He sputters. 

“Cowbell and Mist.” 

“No fucking way.” Aurora’s eyes go wide. 

“What was she doing with that freak?” Rain cocks his head. 

“I’m getting there. So anyways, I heard their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying, so naturally I had to get closer. I hide myself behind the door and oh my fucking stars they were flirting.” 

“Okay now I know you’re making this up.” Aurora hands the joint back to Rain who passes it back to Cumulus. 

“I am not. They were flirting. At least I think it counts as flirting? I don’t know, I could smell his horny all the way from my hiding spot.” 

“What were they saying?” Rain nods. 

“I think she was threatening him? But like sexy threatening. She was all like what have I told you about spying? And he was practically whimpering trying to apologize and then she was like there are easier ways to get attention. But then she called him puppy. Fucking puppy.” 

“You act like every ghoul in the Ministry isn’t aware of his kinks.” Aurora settles against Rain, resting her head on his shoulder with her attention still on Cumulus. 

“That’s not the point. The point is Mist was the one calling him that. When have either of you known her to indulge in any genre of pet stuff.” 

“I watched her put a belt around Sunny’s neck once, does that count?” Aurora asks. 

Rain and Cumulus both respond with a resounding no. Aurora frowns as Cumulus continues her little retelling. 

“Anyway. The woman barely tolerates using regular nicknames, so what could have possibly possessed her to fuck around with Cowbell.” 

Rain shrugs, “Maybe she was feeling murderous and knew Bell would be way too excited to take what she had.” 

“Oh please, she has Alpha for that. But that’s not even the best part. I heard them fucking.” 

“You already told us that.” Aurora rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah but it was Cowbell fucking Mist.” 

This causes both Rain and Aurora to sit straight, water rippling at the sudden movement. Rain opens his mouth first, “Actually go to Hell Lus. Mist. Stone top Mist who won’t even let Sunny put it in, let Bell.” 

“I’m telling you I fucking heard it!” 

“Hey Mist could’ve been the one fucking him.” 

“What did she pull the strap out of her ass?” 

“She’s got a tentacle,” Aurora points out, “she could’ve easily given it to him.” 

“If I’m lying about this then Lucifer can strike me down where I stand.” 

Rain and Aurora stare at her, almost like they are waiting for the ground to crack open and swallow Cumulus whole. When she does not spontaneously fall back into the Pits, she grins at them smugly. 

“That proves absolutely nothing.” Aurora points a finger at her. They end up arguing this back and forth for who knows how long. Well, long for their shared joint to disappear and be replaced by a bottle of mulberry wine. Also stolen of course. 

“I’ll buy you that lingerie set you want if you ask her.” Rain ends up turning to Aurora when the debate begins to run in circles. 

“Deal.” 

[amorgansgal]

So in talking about Halsin being excited to hold his first baby, I thought it would be fun to write a little hc piece about all the gang holding your baby for the first time. This is more them just being a friend of yours, rather than being the partner.

Baldur's Gate 3 - The Gang Meeting Your Baby For the First Time

Karlach - There’s a whole exaggerated tiptoe thing as she walks into the room, though she’s not very quiet as she’s practically vibrating with excitement and carrying gifts, just so many gifts, gifts for you, gifts for your partner, gifts for the baby, gifts for the healers. ‘Oh… my… gods!’ she’ll whisper on seeing the baby. ‘They’re so cute! They’re so small and cute!’ She’ll grab anyone nearby so they’re forced to look at the baby. ‘Look at them! LOOK AT HOW SMALL AND CUTE THEY ARE! I just want to squish their tiny, little face.’ Oh absolutely wants to hold the baby. If you want a break at any time Auntie K will be there!

Gale - Has to have a healer help him through the door because he’s carrying a load of books. He’ll greet you first and see how you’re doing before having a look at the baby. ‘Oh, they’re lovely, congratulations to you both.’ Morena Dekarios has already sent a small mountain of meals to your house, so you won’t have to cook or go hungry and she’s made a little baby grow. Gale has brought what he considers ‘essential reading’ for the baby and gives a small lecture as to his choices. ‘This concerns conjuration magic, very essential to know, even if they don’t become a wizard or cleric or bard…’ Will definitely want to hold the baby, though he’s a bit awkward while doing so.

Astarion - He waltzes in, though is very quiet. He brings a large bouquet of flowers, some very good wine and the fanciest collection of soaps and bath paraphernalia. If someone points out he should’ve brought something for the baby too, he’ll say, ‘Why? It’s not as if they care or can lodge a complaint!’ He’ll inspect the baby with pursed lips, then give a little shrug and say, ‘Well, I'll hand it to you, darling, that’s a surprisingly cute baby. You know how usually babies are ugly, wrinkled potato looking things and you have to lie and pretend they don’t look like that. That one is actually quite endearing, so well done on making a rather pretty baby.’ Does not want to hold the baby.

Halsin - Absolutely beaming when he walks through the door. He’s carved a whole little wooden menagerie for the baby and also brought some healing potions and herbal teas to bring back your strength. Definitely has heart shaped eyes whilst looking at your baby and really wants to hold them, but doesn’t want to overstep your boundaries. He’ll instead gently murmur to them, stroke their little cheek and their belly. ‘Silvanus’ blessings upon you, little one.’ He’ll smile at you. ‘They are perfect, congratulations.’ The baby loves being held by him, they are out like a light as soon as he’s holding them against his chest, slightly rocking them and mumbling a lullaby.

Lae’zel - Her attention is mostly on you, after all you just went through the toughest battle known to your kind and given the baby is healthy, alive and sleeping, really all praise and attention should be on the mother. If your partner was there she’d probably chastise them for not fetching you everything you needed right this second. If Xan is with her then she’ll introduce them to the baby. ‘This is a baby, we are expected to tell the parents that they are cute, even if such a thing is a lie.’ She’d probably bring a little training sword and shield. ‘Once they are able to stand and walk and hold a sword, inform me, and I will begin their training. You and your child are lucky, it is an honour to receive the training the Githyanki do.’ Doesn’t want to hold the baby, but if Xan is interested then she may relent.

Wyll - Perfect guest, he does not stay too long, but gives attention to everyone and brings food, a well chosen toy and a lovely woven shawl for you. He doesn’t want to overload you with gifts and says if there’s anything he can do to help around your house, be it cleaning, mending or gardening, he will be there. With your say so he holds the baby and smiles as they grip tightly onto his little finger. ‘They are a fine little boy/girl.’ He actually speaks to the baby ‘When you are bigger I shall tell you all that we and your mother did. Defending Baldur’s Gate, fighting Ansur the dragon, defeating the Dead Three and the Netherbrain. I am sure you will not believe it, but it is so.’ He’s very comfortable holding the baby.

Shadowheart - She is so nervous and probably would prefer to wait for you to be back home, rather than coming to see you in a hospital. She doesn’t want to overcrowd you. She may even be a little apprehensive in asking how you are and while she asks if the birth was alright, she’s not sure if she wants to know the answer. But she does bring a beautiful baby’s mobile with a crescent shaped moon and stars carved out of crystal, so the light can glimmer on them and cast rainbows about the room. She surprisingly relaxes when she does get to hold the baby. ‘Oh, you’re quite lovely, aren’t you?’

[the-moon-files]

Linked Universe / GN!Reader - Random Headcanons abt the Chain :)

Part 1 (ur here!) / Part 2 / Part 3

Sun: Gender Neutral! Reader (you/they/them), Guide Reader

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: First, Sky, Four, Legend

Comets & Meteors: Content: None Known & Triggers: None Known.

U have a lot of Nicknames: Guide, Hero's Guide, Prince, Princey, Star, (more to be added?).

☆

First (Manga!Link):

Has "too good" of posture lol

It makes his back stiff and by the time he's in his bedroll he's confused about why it feels better, silly silly man

Just in general tenses his muscles too often, so whenever u offer to massage him, he nearly crumbles on the spot

(the others know exactly how amazing ur massages are, and are fully staring at him in jealousy lol)

Gets little rips and tears in his clothing all the time somehow??

Even tho he wont have a scratch acc on him after hours of battle???

mans could be flying around Skyloft with only clouds touching him and come back pouting telling you he ripped his scarf again :'(

Likes to be slightly in front of you most of the time, especially in new places/other Links' Hyrules

It just makes him feel better knowing he's both protecting you, and that you're watching his back

(Most Links feel at their best/most confident when your voice can be heard just over their shoulder, not that they don't love seeing ur face now too)

Sky (Skyward Sword Link):

Is slowly making everyone he knows a collection of wooden figurines

He usually carves when he's bored or stressed

so needless to say this mission of the Shadow (slow going, stressful at times like Twi getting hurt)

Has made him give u an army of little wooden figures (everyone else gets a small collection bc ur the first he gives one to)

Did i say give? Excuse me, i meant:

sneaks them as a little surprise into your belongings or clothing or other personal effects

This started bc after a week or two of him giving you wooden things you tried to reroute him to other ppl,

so Sky just made it his mission to see how many he can sneak instead onto you on any given day lmao

(Also he may or may not have daydreamed abt being able to carve u things and actually physically give them to you on his adventure before, so he's taking advantage of being able to now)

Has luscious hair at all times, little to no effort, Wars is so pissed abt it lol

Mf responded when asked what products he used (by poor Wars too) with, "wym?? With water??? And soap????"

Never ties his boot laces

You will all be gearing up for battle and go to stalk and stealth kill monsters and right before u get up on them u always have to look over at Sky's shoes and whisper at him to tie them

Is the most likely to plant face first into the ground or trip and fall on his ass from shoes untying

He just didnt need to with being in the clouds on his Loftwing all the time back on Skyloft and so he never rlly adapted to that even on the surface lol

He's also just miserable at doing a decent knot so you've taken to teaching him repeatedly how to tie them-

why didnt the knight academy help with this at all actually??

(Wind makes fun of him be hes a sailor and knows like 10+ knots)

Four (Four Swords/Minish Cap Link):

Loses his tools constantly

Well not really "lose" so much as "slightly misplace"

It drives him crazy, the Minish used to help him with it back in his Hyrule so he got out of the habit of putting things back where they belong

You've gotten to the point where you'll glance over wherever he's working so the next time he comes up to u complaining abt a lost hammer or smth u immediately just "should be over by the fire"

And ur right, 99.9% of the time its so funny

Bc Four's all like "wtf ive moved around so much since then i took all the other tools with me- MF. U WERE RIGHT."

Is rlly good at like color matching, comes in handy for new outfits

Also has aches and pains like in his hands and arms mostly

Bc of all the forge work, and absolutely treasures any massages u offer him

Likes to wear matching jewelry with you! Like earrings or piercings or necklaces etc

Also has good taste in jewelry and what looks good on everyone + you

Legend (Link to the Past, Link's Awakening etc):

Unfortunately the type of person to just shove things in his bag willy nilly

Its the horder tendencies, he just has a lot of stuffs so he gave up trying to organize it

Actually really good at styling hair, Legend would absolutely lie abt it if u asked but he can spend as much time on his hair as Warrior

Likes to experiment with new clothes, like skirts or bright colors, esp if they match some of his clothes already

U ran by some makeup one time in another Hyrule and he knew how to use it rlly well??

Lies abt random skills he has, or like thinks skills he already has can translate well,

like he's rode a horse before wym he can't drive Wild's motorcycle??

Or fly a Loftwing???

Well now its a challenge

Tbh most competitive over stupid things randomly out of all the Links besides Wild, Wind, Wars, and occasionally Hyrule + Sky + Time

Got challenged to try and go shield surfing with u once and thought that horse-riding skill would transfer and it did in fact Not.

Actually kinda scared the other Links watching u two spin out and crash ngl, what with doing an accidental backflip? Midair??

but u both were okay somehow???

Also weirdly lucky, u stg he's got some sort of ring or blessing for that

☆

IT ACCIDENTALLY POSTED I FUCKING HATE TUMBLR ITS DONE THIS TO ME MULTIPLE TIMES NOW 😭😭

All the Links WOULD HAVE been here if it werent for fucking tumblr

Ill post more parts soon if anyone is interested

Peace out,

🌙

[dewberrydusk]

almond biscuits with kaveh pleek >< ty :3

HAI HAI LEXI!! ty for requesting hehe

➷ Order: Almond Biscuit ; { Hard edges and quiet softness. — Being gentle in a world that asks you to be sharp. Loving someone who makes you brittle. }

➷ For: Kaveh x gn!reader

➷ Extra Notes: I had fun writing this!! I focused more on the first part of the prompt, mostly bc that fits the image of alekav in my head more so this is more hurt/comfort-esque haha

The day had worn you thin.

There was something about the sharpness of the world outside that always seemed to gnaw at you. Voices speaking too fast, too loud. Deadlines stacked like precarious towers. People asking, demanding, expecting. Every interaction—another corner to sharpen yourself against, until you were nothing but brittle glass trying not to crack under the pressure.

By the time you returned home, the sky outside had bruised into twilight, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Your shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a dozen invisible things, and when you stepped inside and shut the door behind you, it wasn’t just to the apartment—it was to everything else. You leaned against it for a moment longer, letting the silence settle around you like dust.

You didn’t expect Kaveh to be in the living room—half-curled on the couch with a blanket over his legs, a book face-down on his chest. The light of a single lamp pooled around him, warm and golden and forgiving. He looked up when he heard the click of the lock, eyes soft with something unspoken.

“You’re home late,” he said, but his tone wasn’t accusatory. It was careful, like he was afraid too much pressure might cause you to splinter.

You nodded wordlessly, kicking your shoes off and padding over. You didn’t speak, couldn’t, not yet. The words were caught somewhere in your throat, tangled in fatigue and the echo of the world’s expectations.

Kaveh sat up without hesitation, opening his arms as if it was instinct—and maybe it was. You folded into him without protest, letting yourself sink into the space carved out just for you. He smelled like worn paper and lavender soap and the faintest trace of sawdust from the studio. Familiar. Grounding.

He didn’t say anything. He just held you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed across your back. His touch wasn’t pressing, wasn’t trying to coax anything out of you. It just… was.

“I couldn’t keep up today,” you mumbled into the curve of his neck. “It felt like I had to be someone else. Like I had to cut off pieces of myself just to fit in.”

His breath caught, chest stilling beneath you for half a second. And then it resumed, steady and calm, like an anchor in a storm.

“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself here,” he said quietly. “Let the rest of the world strip you down if it wants. I’ll help put you back together again.”

You closed your eyes, throat tightening. You didn’t realize how much you’d needed to hear that—how much you craved something soft in a world that kept asking you to be hard. To be clever. Efficient. Strong. Never fragile, never slow, never tender, never yourself.

But Kaveh didn’t ask you to be any of those things.

You knew his life hadn’t been kind. The way he spoke about his youth was laced with barbs, even when he tried to make it sound like a joke. The way he worked—driven, frantic at times—came from a place of necessity, not choice. The world had carved him into something beautiful, yes, but also something that carried too many scars beneath the surface.

And yet, he chose gentleness.

Every time he tucked a blanket around you when you fell asleep at your desk. Every time he pressed a kiss to your shoulder before leaving for a long day. Every note he left on the fridge—messy and half-illegible—reminding you to eat. Every time he held your hand a little tighter when your voice went small.

He had learned to be soft in the face of a world that wasn’t.

And it was that softness that cradled you now.

His hand began to move, stroking slow lines along your spine, up and down, like waves against the shore. He whispered something—it might’ve been your name, or something close to it—but the sound was so gentle it didn’t need to be understood to be felt.

Time slowed. The harsh light of the day dimmed into something quieter, something warmer.

“You’re not weak for feeling things deeply,” he said after a long stretch of silence. “You’re not wrong for needing rest. Or love.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His hair was mussed from the couch, and his eyes were the same crimson you’d seen the sky take at dawn. You wondered, not for the first time, how someone could hold so much pain and still choose to be kind.

Kaveh reached up, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheekbone.

“I love that you’re gentle,” he said. “I love that you don’t want to hurt to be heard.”

Your lip trembled, and he caught it with a kiss before it could form into a sob.

He kissed you like you were something he had all the time in the world to understand. Like nothing about you needed fixing or reshaping. Like love didn’t have to be a hard-edged thing.

And maybe it didn’t. Maybe love could be this: a shared silence, a blanket between two bodies, the quiet murmur of breath. The feel of skin against skin, not seeking, not wanting—just staying.

You stayed like that until the sun had long since slipped beneath the city skyline, and the world beyond the apartment faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the heartbeat beneath your ear and the gentle weight of Kaveh’s arms around you.

You didn’t have to be sharp here. You didn’t have to be strong. You only had to be.

And that was enough.

@dewberrydusk 2025 | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

[urautismdiagnosis-wistie]

what do you think the Octonauts like to do in their spare time?

thanks for the ask!

Sorry this took forever to answer i haven't been well recently but I'm doing better

I've talked about this on some different octonauts octo headcanons posts but ill make a nice neat list! These are a mix of Canon and headcanon <3

Barnacles:

he enjoys attempting to play the accordian, traditional inuit soap stone carving (not something he does often, most of his room carvings are from his childhood), using charcoal and oil pastels to paint scenery as a way to wind himself down(sometimes he'll do people but they don't look very good), sport competitions and exercising, and writing small short screenplays about the characters hes made for his carvings <3 the screenplays are usually very soft and light hearted or deeply sad.

Kwazii:

ok our undiagnosed adhd boy let's go: anything competitive or exciting! I'm talking chess (with inkling), ping pong, any type of sports competition, board games, card games-

He also has a hyperfixation on historic miniature model ships- and some modern too. Bro also LOVES to cook with the vegimals! (Even if his cooking skills are... debatable) hell often teach them (the kid friendly) version of the shanties he grew up with. Funnily enough he doesn't really share his shanties with the rest of the crew,not really...

He does enjoy girls night, esp with jewelry and claw care 💕 dashis been showing him movies and teaching him stuff about pop culture and land culture in general

Also he loves comics <3 and book kwazii enjoys long baths so I gave him a whole long self care routine.

Peso:

making stickers 🥰 playing his xylophone <3 reading all the gossip in his family group chat and trading it with dashi <3 watching inaccurate medical drama shows and making fun of them with dashi <3 knitting !!!💕 he likes to make little stuffed animals and scarves <3 also hats sometimes

He likes reading chiikawa (kwazii recommended the comic to him) and talking to his mom about their favorite romance dramas together

This last one isn't really a hobby but he does enjoy listening to pinto yap about whatever video game he's hyperfixated on lol

Dashi:

Ok speed run, yoga, photography, making tiny dumb video games with tweak (they once made one where its just the gup b and it was basically like flappy bird lol), ROOM DECOR AND PINTEREST BOARDS OH MY GOODNESS (my friend is like that lol I love it when she sends me her stuff), SURFING, BASKETBALL SHES SO COMPETITIVE IN EVERY SPORT, listening to horror podcasts and cursed pov asmr at night <3, talking with shellington about tiny random creature species!!! Also stimming <3

Tweak

: LEGOS(miniatures of the gups) 🗣 CLASSIC VIDEO GAMES( stuff like the og metroid and space invaders) 🗣 NOT SLEEPING (gurl ur room is a depression cave PLEASE get a bed frame PLEASE (dashi probably)) 🗣 GUPS GUPS GUPS she lives and breathes em baby if she's not working on a gup she's developing an idea- 🗣 she really likes cute baby animal videos 🗣 reading alternative fashion magazines 🗣 MONSTER TRUCK LEGO 🗣 dying hair with dashi occasionally (this entire post is so dashi filled loll) 🗣 LISTENING TO MUSIC 🗣🗣🗣

Shellington:

He breathes his hyperfixation about creature species. He and tweak and literally EVERYONE is SO autistic and/or nuerodivergent in some way. Anyways so I'm talking drawing sea creatures (hes a pretty good artist ngl, barnacles could take notes), researching them, comparing them, studying their biological abilities and the chemical components and possibilities of it- literally his entire job is just him having an autistic blast like good for him

But most of his free time is very much spent with the vegimals XD whether its playing with them, trying to teach them things, or just talking with them.

He also loves drawing hyper realistic animal drawings saying very very stupid silly puns. The vegimals internally react to them like dad jokes but they pretend they're very funny cuz hes SO. PROUD.

Inkling:

He enjoys doing very deep dives into topics, deep cleaning, chatting with min on video call, conducting psychological social and behavioral experiments on the octonauts, competing with kwazii and the other octonauts to challenge them (he slays),

Journaling, and even his actual job of organizing their discoveries and getting them ready for scientific peer review as well as handling all paper work sides of thibgs

He really enjoys spending time with thr other octonauts, they are ALL his children(in a "my fascinating lil creatures!! I must teach them and challenge them so that they can grow!) to him and he adores them all immensely. He likes to make photo albums with dashi.

He also enjoys not having bones because apparently when mammals and avians get old their bones hurt all the time??? So he's pretty happy about that ngl

the vegimals all have different interests: whether its having certain genres of media they gravitate too, different aspects of gardening they enjoy,or joining different octonauts in their own tasks! But they'll always love making their own songs and working together <3 also experimenting in recipes lol. A few will often join the other octonauts doing their own hobbies or try to do the hobbies they see the others doing. They are kids after all lol

This could mean tominnow joining peso and dashi while they watch their dramas, barrot being very excitable while playing video games with tweak, tunip learning how to play chess with the professor, grouber being a little princess and enjoying self care, coddish trying to learn how to sword fight with kwazii pretending to be a silly monster, or halibeet curled sleepilu next to inkling as he reads and explains what he's learning- and so on and on and on.

:3

[kristlewrites]

“Video Game Lover”

CW: Shower sex, established relationship, smut, unprotected sex, aftercare, fluff, nicknames (baby,mama,princess), breeding kink.

PAIRING: Eren X Blk!FemReader

WC: 1.4k

🗯️🫧: omgg, tysm for all the support on my latest zoro fic, it means a lot🩷😖sooo we’re finally here with erennn!!! I honestly had fun writing a lil needy/soft eren, lmk what you guys think :p???

MINORS DNI

(start)

“Fuck off!” Eren shouts, the familiar routine unfolding every Friday night. You on Eren's bed scrolling en

endlessly through tik tok bored out of your poor mind while Eren is hooting and hollering over the mic playing god knows what with his friends. “Yeah, eat shit!” Eren yells jumping a lil.

Impatient, you crawl towards the edge of the bed, tapping Eren's shoulder. “Yeah baby?” He asks in a tender voice almost making you feel guilty for being mad at him. He looks you in the eye, he doesn't even need you to ask the question he already knows what you're going to ask “I'll be off right after this round i promise” he adds then gives a lil peck on your cheek. Foolishly you believe him and return back to your spot, getting comfy under the covers

“WHAT THE FUCK” you jolt awake from the roar the eren caused, eyes barely open as you check the time on your phone. 11 pm ‘one more round my ass’. You look up to see he is now on a completely different game!?!? Like you cannot be serious. Taking in the situation you decide it's best if you go to bed. You remove the blanket flinching a bit from the cold of the room, and head into the shower, slamming the door just to be a lil petty.

He invited you over, and he can't even get off the game for a minute for you?? You sigh while removing your clothes. Grabbing your shower cap from the shower, you make sure to grab all your carrot soap as well as your vanilla body wash. Of course you couldn't forget your music, logging into spotify you play ‘All I want is you’ by Miguel (litcherally my fave song rn so srs.) . Turning the knobs making sure the water is at perfect the temperature you step in. 

Lathering your body, in your own world. Eren walks in, halting in his track as he sees your figure behind the foggy screen. No matter how many times he's seen it,it never fails to stun him. He is completely mesmerized by the way the water rinses off the soap from your titties. In a complete trance with how your curves look behind the glass, he loves every inch of you and would never want to hurt you. Reflecting on how he treated you earlier when he was in the game, he obviously regrets his actions…I mean the game was never that serious. 

Finding his resolve, Eren knocks on the glass trying to get your attention. You continue singing completely ignoring his knocks, until you see Eren take off his clothes. ‘What is he doing..?’ you think to yourself irritated. You could never understand this nigga. The door slides open to reveal Eren dick and balls out “Can I come in?” he asks absolutely cheesin, smile ear to ear n all.

“N-no, what the fuck nigga get out” you voiced, this man is crazy.

“Oh c’mon baby, are u mad at me?” Eren pouted, ignoring your rejection he climbed into the shower. You roll your eyes and resume scrubbing your arms “Please tell me what's wrongg” he was practically whining at this point. Still facing forward you continue rinsing your body until you feel his rough hands on your hips dragging you back a little. Your ass grazing his tip. You hiccup quietly at his swift motion.

“What are you doing..” you ask looking everywhere but him. Silence. Growing irritated, you turn around looking dead at him. His long hair washed down, the trails of water flowing down his perfectly carved chest each droplet tracing down the path of his abs.your eyes following one little droplet as it paces down his body all the way to his-

“My eyes are up here mama” He says, you quickly dart your eyes back up to him

 “Why are you here?” You ask with your arms crossed covering your nipples. 

“I wanted to say i'm sorryyyyy” he sulks, with his frown quivering.

“For what?”

“For ignoring you and playing the game.” he answers, with his head down and hands behind his back. Almost like a little kid getting into trouble. “Do you forgive me?” He looks back up at you with his big green eyes staring right into your brown ones.

“Hmmm…,” you ponder. You were having way too much fun teasing him like this. “Nah”

“Please baby let me make it up to you” Eren said practically begging on his knees with his hands rubbing together.

“And how are you gonna do that?” 

His tongue shot straight into your pussy, wiggling around a little bit. “What is wrong with you?!?!” Reflexively you slap him on the forehead. He slowly stands up, giggling to himself. As soon as he reaches eye level with you he grabs your chin, brings it in closer then leans in for a kiss. Instinctively you tilt towards him returning the kiss. He reaches for your ass, lifting you up. Both arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, completely melting into the kiss. Tongues colliding with each other, swishing around. Eren pulls back and looks into your eyes with pure adoration. He is without a doubt enamored with you, he feels so horrible for what he did to you. 

“Do you forgive me?" he asks again. 

You giggle at his question, looking down at him, nose to nose. “Of course I do baby, jus dont pull that shit again.”

You can see him gleaming, wearing that contagious grin reaching for another kiss.

“Let me make it up to you, yeah?” You nod, he lets you down gently. Performing a smooth arch, with your ass facing towards him water evenly dripping down your back.  “Let me know if it hurts,” Eren says.

His penis enters slowly into your entrance. Eren nearly melts at the way your pussy just wraps him so well, your smooth velvety walls caressing his dick. It’s like you were made just for him.

“mmm” you felt every inch of him in you, moving quicker and quicker. 

“ya feel so good baby, so good.”Eren marvels at the way your ass jiggles with every thrust. He grabs your hips, slamming your ass aggressively against his balls. So loud it sounded like damn gunshots (🪦🪦😭) “Let me fill you up princess, I wanna see you full” Eren whispers into your ear

“M-mhm” you mumble, can’t even barely form thoughts let alone words. You were dazed out of your mind, the way Erens whole demeanor changes when y’all have sex is wild but you love it. “Oh baby right there!” You squeal as erens hits your g-spot. Toes curling, legs shaking, nails gripping onto whatever surface it could grasp onto, you could feel it and so did Eren.

“Cum on me y/n” Almost instantly it comes pouring down, flooding his dick. “Yeaaa, that’s right.” Eren says in a whisper, astonished. Reaching for your arms he carefully picks you, twisting you facing him with your back against the tile. Like the beast he is he continues, fucking you into oblivion. Your head resting on his shoulder, bobbing at every thrust. Your cum still lingering in your pussy making easy access for eren.

“p-puh ” you manage out, nearly numb out yo mind.

“Baby use your words or I won’t be able to understand what you want” Eren grunts, still going abusing your poor little cunt. “I’m gonna make you all nice and full”

“Eren, f-feels so g-good” you cry out 

“Yea?”

“Mhm..”you nod against his shoulder. You can feel his dick twitchin and in you 

“Hold on mama, stay with me” as he says that you feel his warm liquid cum flowing into you, sending you off into orbit causing you to release too. Panting, you rest your head on his shoulder. “You did a good job, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Eren spent the rest of the shower tidying both of you guys up, cleaning out whatever could be left and turning off the shower. Still carrying you he lays you on his bed lending you his shirt and boxers to sleep in.

“Do you want wingstop?” Eren asks, holding his phone on the door dash app. You nod, lying on his chest listening to his heartbeat.

Once the food was delivered you guys spent the rest of the night watching scary movies (the movie not the genre😭).

(love u guyss, enjoy!!)

[laughroditee]

TF141 and their favorite ASMR types (with links!)

I personally love ASMR but am very selective due to misophonia (no mouth sounds please 💀). I thought it would be fun to headcanon what our silly little guys might watch/consume.

🏷️ | Price

Captain Price, Our Father Who Art on the Battlefield, really loves ✨personal attention ASMR✨ where he can feel like he can let loose and have someone else worry about shit for a while.

Helping You Sleep (Tingting ASMR)

Edwardian Era Beard Trim & Shave (Moonlight Cottage ASMR)

At the barber (Whispering Gentleman ASMR)

And also Cat Spa (Bear Soongnyoong) because you know he’s a softie when it comes to animals

🧢 | Gaz

Gaz is Our Most Beautifulest Boy™️ and can appreciate the finer things in life as well as the not-so-finer things… things that would make me wither and die

Cute Cooking ASMR (Cooking Tree)

Makeup ASMR (Starling Makeup)

Typing ASMR (ricecloud)

And MOUTH SOUNDS KYLE HOW COULD YOU!? It’s because he went through resistance to interrogation training and passed, I’m telling you, he can do anything. (Nanou ASMR)

💀 | Ghost

Ghost likes to keep his head clear, so the kinds of ASMR he’d engage with would have ✨no talking✨. I’m thinking:

Soap carving (one track mind) (Vito ASMR)

Wood soup (Wood Soup Girl ASMR)

Zen gardens (Made in France ASMR)

Kodo Incense ASMR (Healing Serenity)

🧼 | Soap

Why do I do this to poor Johnny every time? Making it look like he cannot be trusted and has to order off the kids menu lol.

Kittens eating steak ASMR because he’s unhinged (I can’t read the channel name because it’s not in English 😭)

Ear cleaning (ASMR Boyoung)

Intense triggers (ASMR Bakery)

Slime (Ana Aster)

And then as a little bonus that literally no one asked for, I’ll throw in my OC, Jesse:

🤡 | Jester

Maya Winky, full stop.

Ghost falling down the stairs ASMR (byrdhowse on TikTok)

[dearingdoe]

So.. that thing with Ghost?, sayin he's as Clingy as a Slime rancher slime.. Yeah you just gave me a beautiful idea. Sooo Slime Rancher!141, But intead of it being 'Taskforce' its 'Tar force' and they basically do a large clean up of Tars all over their area/ranch. Price being the oldest Rancher of 141 and Ghost the newest. Aaa I just love the idea of them having their own little unique Slimes, lowkey seein Gaz have a whole array of slimes that he finds endearing!

OH MY GODFDDDDDD

@cutenote @shoukiko thought you two may like this

Price

☆ Okay so this guy being the oldest rancher (not by much, but still with so much experience)?? Love that idea

☆ He would definitely have favorite slimes, those being pink slimes because of their simplicity (and they don't cause too much of a ruckus) and phosphor slimes. They help light the way when he's out late at night

☆ He would adore going on late night walks with you, hunting for some more slimes or clearing up tar. I have the hc that he enjoys wood carving and has definitely carved a small wood figurine of your favorite slime

Ghost

☆ Him being the newest yet somehow managed to be on of the best in such a short time? The slimes love him but the chickens hate him :( he doesn't know why

☆ His favorite slime is the tabby cat slime, he likes how micheveous they are and how much they move around (and he just likes cats but that's not the point) He has Gaz feed the chickens because they refuse to be fed by him 😢

☆ He would enjoy doing activities with you during the daytime and resting with you at night. He loves taking care of the slimes with you and always makes sure your energy is up and you aren't hurt

Gaz

☆ Everyone loves him. Every single slime, every single chicken, everyone. Literally captures slimes in seconds because they already trust him after about 5 minutes,,, Chickens adore him, they eat more whenever he's the one feeding them

☆ Very protective over the chickens, hates whenever he comes back and sees them gone :( He has names for them and everything. His favorite slimes are the water slimes 🩷 Loves taking care of them in their little ponds

☆ Taking care of the chickens and water slimes with you? Favorite thing for him to do. He'll joke around and throw water at you, leading the water slimes to shoot water back at him (he never learns his lesson)

Soap

☆ Has so much fun chasing down chickens and saving them. Has even more fun chasing down slimes. He likes the huge ones and the ones that cause more ruckus and are harder to catch because of the huge sense of pride it gives him

☆ Favorite slimes are the lava slime and Gold slime, mainly because of how the lava slime heats him up in winter and how hard it is to catch the gold slime. Has names for them and treats them like his kids

☆ He likes going on walks with you and doing work while you two hold hands and talk or resting somewhere and eating while you recharge your energy