#as a bare minimum
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as a zookeeper I have to do public talks fairly often and where I live it is a legal requirement for zoos to educate the public on conservation issues (which is done in part by public talks).
I just love starting off a talk talking about how cute the animals are and where they live and how they hunt and whatever else. All the fun facts about their behaviour and the enrichment we provide and things like that. and just when they're invested and having a good time i hit them with the ol' "this is why the exotic pet trade is evil" and just watch their faces change as i talk about why they should be mindful of the videos they watch on the internet. absolute gold. even better when i can TELL they're having The Realisation
#i could go on for HOURS about how social media is one of the main driving forces of the exotic pet trade#i was talking about asian short clawed otters yesterday and telling people about how all those otters they see in 'otter cafes' online#do not have access to the resources they need like constant access to water (to swim) and a proper diet and specialised vet care#and these teenagers were like o.o oh okay...#and then they were like what about capybara cafes#and i was like well. capybaras are adorable but they also need a lot of space AND constant access to swimming water#so unless the cafes also have a big paddock and water for the capybaras...#and they were like “oh... probably not!”#and like YES EXACTLY NOW YOU SEE IT#now you realise that animal spaces need to be made with the natural behaviours and needs of the animals taken into consideration#as a bare minimum#this is not to mention that constant interaction with humans is also not healthy and goes against conservation values#ANYWAY#enough rambling#fuck those online animal 'rescues' that show off their wild animals like pets#and FUCK animal cafes
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donated 50 reais to a palestinian GFM today
it amounted to 8 dollars
several days' worth of expenses for me became a single digit donation for them. barely enough for a blanket. just like that
it really sucks to know that my money is inherently less helpful no matter how much it'd pay for me, and there's nothing i can do
#and I can't even donate to an international organization that accepts reais because aid isn't fucking getting in anyway#we can already do so little. giving money so people can evacuate (which is what the oppressors want!!) is so much less than the bare minimum#it's so much less than they deserve#fuck man
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Doc is fighting the good fight on Twitter (calling out people who hate his rainbow beacon) and idk I thought this was very sweet
#this is just. nice to see#yeah yeah bare minimum but also many don’t actually call this out directly#also aw. he loves them.#docm77#catrina speaks#hermitcraft#ask to tag
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PLEASE talk about Congo, Haiti, and Sudan, with the same fervor you give Palestine. PLEASE care about black struggle and suffering.
#congo#haiti#sudan#free congo#free haiti#free sudan#hit up these tags on my page for info and resources!#talking about it is the BARE minimum. please educate yourselves and donate to causes when able
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already there. i'm doing my part 🫡
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Yes!!!
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i will never understand how people have the heart to hate Jason even after they found out that his Ambrosia tastes like fucking sawdust. Ambrosia being tasty is like one single happy thing a demigod can have despite their tragic lives, because it reminds them of the home they once had, but lost. And Jason doesn't even have that, he doesn't even have a home to lose in the first place.
#He didn't even get the bare minimum of anything#what the fuck I'm bawling#json grace haters who make false claims about his character trying to villianize him go fuck yourselves I'm serious#genuinely y'all make so mad so DNI on my lage#hating a character is fine but outright making false claims about his actions to manipulate others into jumping on the hate train aswell??#how could you despise him with this knowledge. “because he tried replacing perc-” shut the fuck up if that's the reason#It was technically jason who was so quickly replaced in camp Jupiter after his sheer 11 years of hardwork#but oh no it's completely fine that no one in cj sent a search party after him and only jason gets the blame for landing in chb#I will never forget the part of the fandom who tried to convince me that Jason was a bad character who deserved to die.#pjo#pjo fandom#percy jackson#pjo hoo#pjo series#jason grace#pjo hoo toa#annabeth chase#piper mclean#leo valdez
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Production houses: but if the writers stay on strike we can't guarantee the future safety of your favorite shows 🥺🥺😭😭
Viewers who 1, have already lost their favorite shows because they were cancelled in spite of good ratings and good reviews or 2, have stopped watching new content entirely until the entire series has aired and concluded as a result of so many good shows getting cancelled on cliffhangers and thus leaving said viewers unable to gain closure with those characters and with a hollow viewing experience, so they've begun a, watching older shows they know came to a planned conclusion or b, revisiting their old favorites and enjoying the nostalgia or c, reading new books or fanfic instead: YOU ALREADY CAN'T GUARANTEE THE FUTURE OF OUR SHOWS SO GET FUCKING WRECKED AND PAY WRITERS WHAT THEY DESERVE!
#wga strike#support the strikes#writer's strike#writers guild of america#writers guild strike#edit; well this blew up a little#i just wanted to add that all our favorite shows are absolutely nothing without their writers#the bare freaking minimum is that those writers get paid a liveable wage#they are so underappreciated even though tptb would have nothing without them#a living wage is the bare freaking minimum pay them what they're worth for the work they do
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THE NHL????
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"celebraties aren't activists" so close. actually speaking against an ongoing genocide doesn't make you an activist it makes you a human with basic sense of empathy and awareness
#you'd think speaking against the mass murder of innocent civilians and children is bare minimum & really not that hard specially for#privileged people with connections power security and money but you'd be surprised#palestine#free palestine#free gaza
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there is no platonic anything with this
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Forever thinking about how Nora said Neil is cute and Kevin is handsome through careful grooming... It feels like there's a subtle implication there that Kevin has to put more effort into his appearance to look more attractive than Neil and this cagey mess over here is just Naturally Cute.
#rotating this in my brain it's fun#aftg#neil josten#kevin day#you know kevin has a whole routine and neil just does the bare minimum and calls it a day#and it works!#mine#hits
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It’s crazy when people are like “so disabled people should get assistance from the government for doing nothing?” my guy, disabled people are barely getting their needs met even with government assistance, you wanna take that from them too?
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Jason Todd in Love…
As Red Hood, he’s talkative, sarcastic, aggressive, and cocky. When he’s with you, he’s tender and gentle. He’s eerily quiet and strangely calm. Every whim is followed without protest, and he hangs on every word.
Jason’s always looking for ways to touch you and will constantly pull you into his lap where he’ll give you soft kisses on your shoulder and neck. He just likes to watch you exist: he watches quietly when you’re getting ready, attempting to cook, etc. He loves how you’ll trail your nails up his arm and across the top of his back as you pass him on the sofa.
He loves you because you ground him: You’re real, you’re here and you’ve never left. His world slows down with you and, when he’s getting in his head and slipping away, you snap him out of it. You stand up to him. You talk your shit and force him back to you. “Don’t do that. You’re trying to talk yourself out of this.” You grab his face, forcing him to look at you. “You want me, yes or no?”
“Yes.” He’ll answer softly. “Always.”
“Then you have me.” You push him away from you. “Don’t try and find a way to ruin it. I will kick your ass. Got me?” You stare at him, arms folded and waiting for an answer.
He’ll give a smile before answering. “Yeah, I got you.” He looks at you honey eyed and apologetic.
“Good.” You move into his arms and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Now, go sit in the kitchen. I made us breakfast.”
#my post#jason todd#red hood#jason todd x reader#jason todd fluff#jason todd imagine#jason todd headcanon#idk how I stumbled into this interest but it’s been my hyper fixation for the last couple of days#I actually don’t know anything about dc comics except for like bare minimum surface level stuff#so this may or may not be on brand but I decided to do it anyway
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weird hearing "were you a Theatre Kid" "were you a Sports Kid" "were you a Choir Kid" "were you a Dance Kid" bc no? i mean i did all of that and more but resented ever minute of it? actively avoided sticking with anything? i was a "In This Family After School Activities Are Mandatory Kid"
#oh and i was really really bad at all of it btw#which was a good thing actually otherwise i would have gotten bored even *more* quickly#christ if i was good at a Activity i probably would have had to stick with it#that would have been EXHAUSTING#i survived soooo many Activities by standing in the background doing the bare minimum so I could focus on the Hyperrealistic Daydreams#baseball was my favorite. if u wear a glove u can literally just stand in the back of a field & stare at grass & no one bothers you#i mean usually no one bothers you but there is one specific situation where everyone starts yelling your name real loud and pointing
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jigsaws
— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader
angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc
There's a reason no one likes working with him.
Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.
It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.
Still, it feels as though you're being punished.
The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.
Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.
The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.
There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.
So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.
You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.
Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–
Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.
You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.
It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.
A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.
"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"
"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."
Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.
Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.
(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)
"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."
Great load of good that does.
But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.
The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.
(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.
Not even to yourself.)
"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.
Dr. Riley huffs.
Or, not.
"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.
And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.
Shame at having failed him.
(How obnoxiously redundant.)
"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.
"Yes."
It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.
After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.
But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–
In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.
There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.
Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.
Could you have done anything different?
Is there a reason why he hates you?
Are you cut out for this?
Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?
Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?
Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?
No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.
The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–
A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.
"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.
You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.
"We missed you at lunch."
"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse than you could've prepared me for."
He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.
(Only some.)
"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."
"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."
The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"
"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."
But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.
You blanch. "Don't–"
"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."
Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."
"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."
"Thanks."
And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.
"Sit."
Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.
Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.
Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.
You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.
"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."
Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.
(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)
"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."
All the while, he remains steady before you.
A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."
You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.
"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.
"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"
You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.
"No."
"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.
You wonder if it could be read as desire.
"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.
His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.
"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."
A nod is not enough.
"Yes, Dr. Riley."
He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.
"Yes, sir."
But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.
(Nothing about it feels healthy.)
"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–
You bite down anyway.
(But oh, does it feel good.)
[masterlist]
#this is heading into crazy kink fic territory sorry#also bare minimum research. its fanfic so if something is off. close your eyes and think with what's between your legs#simon ghost riley x reader#simon 'ghost' riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ‘ghost’ riley#ghost#simon riley#fanfiction#x reader#x you#call of duty#cod#modern warfare#mw#fic ༄ jigsaws
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