#bit the bullet and posted this to tumblr

[pinkupuppie]

Who up habiting they creature?? 🗣️🗣️🔥🔥‼️‼️

THIS ONE GOES OUT TO @gigisriley SHOUTOUT TO GIGI FOR BEING AWESOME SAUCE

[adobe-outdesign]

Kung Fu Panda 4 Rewrite Thing

Been chewing on this movie for a while now and wanted to take a shot at improving it. Some parts are a bit rough but I think this gets the general idea across.

As a rule, I'm trying to keep most of the characters and elements/plot beats in place rather than spinning things off in a completely unrelated direction. I also am aware of the restrictions placed on this movie, such as an unwillingness to rehire high-profile VAs and runtime limitations. This is just meant to be a "what if" kind of thing. That said:

We open with a stylized sequence of Po telling the story of his and the Five's latest battle. As it ends it's revealed he's at the grand opening of Mr. Ping's brand new bigger, better noodle shop location, talking to the customers.

As one of them asks where the Five are now, Po explains that they got summoned to their own individual missions, but they'll be back soon.

(Yes I am still having them be MIA, as Po needs to be alone with Zhen for part of the movie. However, they'll only gone for the first part of this rewrite and for a very specific plot-related reason.)

(The thing with Po needing to give up his title of Dragon Warrior makes no sense for multiple reasons, so let's just drop that plot point entirely. I get that it's meant to tie into the "change" moral, but I'd rather have Po imparting this lesson onto Zhen instead of learning it himself, as otherwise it undermines the character growth he had in 3.

Also, Po isn't carrying the staff around with him constantly in this rewrite, as it looks a bit silly and isn't plot relevant here.)

A messenger shows up to report that the Jade Palace is under attack. Po decides to rush over just in case Shifu needs backup... which he does, because he's being kidnapped in a small one of those magic-proofed cages from the actual film.

(Shifu being kidnapped was tossed around in the writing room originally and I want to keep it in this rewrite because it A) gives Shifu something to do, and B) I want to allow Zhen to openly be working with the Chameleon in order to help flesh out her character and avoid the lackluster plot twist, meaning she'll need new leverage against Po later on.)

The figure behind the kidnapping appears to be Master Elephant, which confuses Po as he's been missing for several months. Right as he's about to land a finishing blow, the figure shape shifts into Master Chicken, throwing Po's attack and resulting in him getting a bad head injury. He does his best to pursue the attackers, but can't keep up. Dismayed, he returns to the Jade Palace...

...And finds Zhen trying to steal something, using the commotion outside as a distraction. Po fights, but he's still badly injured and can't give it his all, resulting in Zhen being able to slip away with her prize—a dust bunny from under the furniture. Po is baffled.

(Side note: I would probably redesign Zhen so she actually looks like she matches the other characters' style, but I digress.)

Feeling dismayed, he returns to the noodle shop, where both his dads work on treating his wounds and comforting him. As Po explains what happened, Mr. Ping mentions that customers have been circulating rumors about a shapeshifting sorceress in Juniper City. Po decides that that's where he needs to go, promises his dads he'll be safe, and leaves.

(I'm cutting Mr. Ping and Li's subplot, because as much as I love them they don't really add much to the plot. It also feels like it goes against Mr. Ping's characterization in KFP 1 and 2 in particular.)

This is where we can have the scene of the Chameleon vs. the crime bosses. This can mostly stay the same except one of the bosses attempts to attack her when she shape shifts, causing her to retaliate with a magic-based attack. She also needs to straight-up kill the guy to establish her and her sorcery as a legit threat.

Po arrives at the Happy Bunny tavern to look for a ride to Juniper City. As he talks to Fish and Chip, he notices Zhen nearby doing some black market trading with Granny Boar to obtain a white feather. Po confronts her and she tries to run out with the feather, causing the boar family to pursue in a big fight scene.

Po and Zhen manage to escape, Zhen stashing the feather. Po threatens to have her sent to jail, but Zhen confirms she's working for the Chameleon and can lead Po to her so he can rescue Shifu. Po dislikes this situation, but has no choice but to agree.

(Unlike in the actual film, I would make it so her lair is hidden in some fashion; magic that keeps it camouflaged would be appropriate for a chameleon, or it could be underground or hidden behind something. Regardless, it should be impossible to locate without Zhen's assistance.)

On the boat ride over to Juniper city, Zhen says that she has to "obtain" one more item from the local history museum or she'll be in big trouble with the Chameleon. Po doesn't like this detour, but once again has no choice in the matter.

Po asks why Zhen would want to work for someone so obviously evil, and this is the point where Zhen admits she was adopted by the Chameleon and we get her backstory.

(I would establish that the Chameleon has an actual name, but only Zhen uses it. It shows that Zhen is closer to her than most, not quite seeing her as a mother but not fearing her enough to use her preferred title. Also, the Chameleon's the only KFP villain without a proper name and that bothers me.)

The backstory can be the same, but the part about her living on the streets and meeting the Chameleon for the first time should be merged into a single flashback.

Zhen says that Po couldn't understand, but Po reveals that he's also adopted, and that he probably would commit some noodle-related crime if his dad asked him to. Still, Zhen insists that people don't change, and that includes her.

They arrive at Juniper city (Po is impressed at its size but he very much is not acting like he's never seen a city before). Zhen covers up her muzzle and tucks her tail under her clothes so she won't be recognized.

Zhen is ready to break into the museum, but Po says that he's got this and goes up to the guards to tell them that he has some official Dragon Warrior business to take care of and will need to borrow some ancient artifacts.

Unlike in the actual film, everyone ready acknowledges him as the Dragon Warrior. The guards are more than happy to loan him whatever he needs... until Zhen's tail pops out and the guards recognize her, prompting them to attack.

During the scuffle, Zhen uses a chi blast to knock back one of the guards, but almost gets taken out by the other guard coming up behind her. Po defends her but gets mildly injured as a result.

After the fight, Po asks about the chi move and Zhen states that the Chameleon taught her the basics.

Zhen confirms that the Chameleon is a master of chi, and that the sorcery she uses is a specific type of chi manipulation.

(The reason I'm connecting chi to her powers is that it makes them feel a bit less out of left field, and helps 4 feel like a logical progression from 3.)

Zhen admits that she's not very good at using chi, but Po points out that it took him years to use chi in battle. He also compliments her on her kung fu, and she confirms she's self-taught.

(In this rewrite, Zhen is good at fighting but not quite at the level she is in the actual movie. This is to address the issue of who taught her if the Chameleon doesn't know kung fu.)

He takes a moment to give her a few pointers, which causes her to ask why he took that blow for her earlier, figuring there's a catch. Po just says it's the right thing to do, but Zhen is skeptical, figuring he only did it because he still needs her to lead him to Shifu.

The reminder of Shifu prompts Po to move on, and they grab the item Zhen was after, a 500 year old set of blades, then run for it.

Po and Zhen arrive at the Chameleon's lair, and Zhen shows Po how to get inside and tells him where Shifu is being held. She says that she'll take the items to the Chameleon, which will distract her while Po breaks him out. Po thanks her, and the two separate. Zhen warns him of booby traps on the way out.

There are indeed booby traps, such as those saw contraptions from the actual movie and a bunch of guards. It takes Po a few minutes, but he eventually gets through them.

Po finds Shifu being held in a dark room. Shifu is glad to see him, but warns him to be careful as the Chameleon's likely not far away. Po explains Zhen's distraction and moves to free him... only for a cage to fall down and trap him as well.

"Shifu" is then revealed to be the Chameleon in disguise, who slips through the bars via shape shifting into a mantis and thanks Zhen for her help. Zhen apologizes to Po, who's naturally upset ("I mean, I know you were evil, but I didn't think you were THAT evil").

Zhen hands over the three items she collected, and it's confirmed what they are: a dust bunny that contains a clump of Tai Lung's fur, a feather from Lord Shen, and a pair of blades once wielded by Kai.

Po mistakenly interprets this as the Chameleon being a collector of kung fu memorabilia and tries to chat about the Jade Palace's collection, much to her bafflement.

The Chameleon explains that a trace of a person's chi remains long after their death, and demonstrates by doing The Tongue Thing on Kai's blade, stripping its chi, and immediately taking his form.

(As you may have picked up on, this rewrite removes the spirit world elements entirely. While they are really interesting, I think cutting them is the best option because:

1. There is so much plot involved with bringing Po's old enemies back that you could make that an entire movie in and of itself. It's hard to do it justice when you're cramming it in around the edges of this movie.

2. It makes the Chameleon too similar to Kai in terms of abilities.

3. Having her rely on stealing other's kung fu makes her come across as weak despite being a powerful sorceress.)

Po asks her if her goal is to take over China, but she says no; she just wants to end the practice of kung fu for good, and prove that sorcery is the superior option. To prove it, she has Shifu brought in.

While having your chi stripped does not remove one's kung fu abilities in this rewrite, it is still removing part of one's life energy and thus weakening them severely for a period of time—ergo, Shifu is still unable to fight at his best. Still, he manages to hold his own.

Instead of using kung fu, the Chameleon relies on the brute animalistic strength and inherent abilities of the forms she takes, switching whenever she's loosing to keep her opponents on her toes and even transforming into Shifu himself for a period. She also uses a few chi-based attacks.

Just when it looks like Shifu is about to win the fight, she uses her tongue to strip the chi from the fur clump, taking the form of Tai Lung. Shifu is so shocked and distraught that he fails to attack, allowing the Chameleon to land a serious blow.

She returns to her original form and states that when the blood moon has risen, she will battle and take down every master in the middle of Juniper city, where everyone can learn just how useless kung fu and the people who teach it are. She leaves Po in his cage panicking over Shifu, who's unresponsive.

Zhen follows the Chameleon outside, where we get the "does the blood moon always rise so slowly" gag. Noticing that Zhen looks troubled, she asks what's wrong, and Zhen talks about how Po encouraged her to do the right thing. Even though she's been told that kung fu masters are elitist, selfish people, she couldn't see any of that in Po.

(Side note: I want to establish in this rewrite that while the Chameleon will claim up and down that Zhen is only a pawn for her to use, she does care about her to some extent, even though probably loathes the fact she does. For example, when talking to Zhen here, she might pick some rubble out of her fur or something to show there's a teeny tiny bit of actual affection hidden there.

The reason for this is that all other KFP villains have had an emotional anchor—Shifu for Tai Lung, Shen's parents for Shen, and Oogway for Kai. The Chameleon being abusive but having some real love for Zhen and Zhen struggling with her gaslighting adds a lot more depth to both of them.)

The Chameleon finally reveals her backstory, which should be told in a hyper-stylized way à la the flashbacks in KFP 2 and 3. Just like Zhen, she grew up on the streets as an orphan, broke and starving. She admired kung fu greatly and wanted to learn it, but everyone turned her away for having no money to pay for lessons.

One day, she found a shiny jade amulet on the streets that someone lost, finally giving her a much-needed break. She is able to use that money to enroll in classes.

The problem was that while the money changed her financial status, it didn't change the way people saw her. Her master still considered her a lowly gutter rat and treated her as such, verbally insulting her and beating her down during training sessions. It's very much like how Shifu treated Po in KFP 1, except worse, especially because the Chameleon is a small and fragile animal.

Finally, during one training session she became too injured to move. Her master told her to quit and started to walk away, only for her to grab his leg with her tongue to trip him up. However, at the peak of her self-loathing, she instead discovered her chi stealing abilities and transformed into him. It's not shown, but it is implied she killed him.

As the flashback ends, the Chameleon shifts into Zhen and tells her that no matter how much you change, you can't change the way other people see you. Siding with Po, she says, will only get her hurt. Zhen nods and unexpectedly hugs the Chameleon, telling her she knows, and runs off.

Cutting back to Po, we see him frantically trying to break the bars of his cage. Zhen comes forward and drops down on her hands and knees, apologizing for everything. Po says that she came back, and that's what matters.

She reveals that the "hug" was actually just a way for her to get the key off of the Chameleon, and she uses it to unlock Po's cage. Po runs over to Shifu and he and Zhen heal him with chi, and we get a callback to the "I'M NOT DYING YOU IDIOT" scene from KFP 1.

However, while Shifu's not dying, he is very badly injured and can barely walk on his own. Po asks how they can take on the Chameleon and her army with just three of them, but Zhen holds up the key and suggests they get an army of their own.

Running downstairs, Zhen reveals where the other masters are being held. To Po's shock, the Furious Five are among those captured. Tigress confirms that the summons they received were traps laid by the Chameleon, and she already has their forms.

Also down there are the other crime bosses, as it feels like they just disappear in the actual film after their scenes.

Zhen only manages to unlock the Five's cages before before the Chameleon snatches the key back with her tongue, revealing that she knew Zhen was lying to her. Behind her, her army assembles.

Tigress confirms that that the Five will take on the army, and Po faces off with the Chameleon one-on-one. She strips the feather and uses Shen's form to fly up and take the upper ground, trying to kick a cage onto him. Zhen helps deflect it, and the Chameleon tells her to stay out of the way. Po and her continue to battle.

Despite Po's best attempts at blocking it, she does finally stick him with her tongue. He grabs it and throws her a distance in her fragile base form, injuring her but still giving her some of his chi in the process.

The Chameleon takes on Po's form next, and we get a fight similar to the one in the movie, though once again with her using less kung fu and more magic and physical attacks.

She mentions how she was rejected and tries to tell him that he should be on her side, because a bit fat panda like him must have been treated just as badly as she was. Po denies this, but Shifu admits it's pretty accurate. Po says he's not helping.

Po admits that she has a point, except she forgot one thing, and we get a callback to the "I'm THE big fat panda" moment from KFP 1.

The two attack at the same time. As the dust clears, it's revealed that neither are doing great—Po has gotten a lot of little injuries and the chi stealing has weakened him. The Chameleon is struggling to shapeshift at all, with the attempt causing her pain, and instead settles for trying to blast him. Zhen steps in and manages to redirect the attack back at her.

The Chameleon takes the blow and ends up back on the floor as a parallel to her flashback. Zhen reaffirms that she disagrees with her worldview—people can change, and she's going to prove it. If the Chameleon wants get to Po, she'll need to get through her first.

The Chameleon kind of laughs this off at first before realizing she's dead serious. She states that Zhen isn't even good at fighting, but Po disagrees, giving Zhen a confidence boost. The Chameleon struggles to her feet as if readying an attack, everyone braces themselves... and she surrenders, too injured to fight and unable to bring herself to hurt Zhen.

(There are a few reasons why I think her surrendering makes for an interesting defeat here:

1. There's no spirit realm portal to yeet her into in this version;

2. There's only so many times Po's enemies can be yeeted directly into the spirit realm before it gets old;

3. It adds character depth, and;

4. It ties back nicely in to the theme of change and that it's never too late to do the right thing.)

Zhen helps the Chameleon up, Tigress does the same for Po, and Monkey does the same for Shifu. The five reveal that despite being exhausted, they still managed to wipe the floor with the Chameleon's army, which Zhen thinks is incredible. Po introduces Zhen to them formally, and Shifu asks if they can save the introductions for after they get medical treatment.

Later on, Po (carrying the staff Oogway gave him) approaches Zhen, who's sitting under the peach tree by the Jade Palace. He asks her if she's doing okay after everything that's happened. She says she's alright, but is pretty scared of what's going to happen next, given that the Chameleon's in jail and she has nowhere to go.

Po reveals that him and Shifu have been talking, and he plans to open a new school as part of the Jade Palace that will offer free kung fu lessons to anyone who's interested in learning. Zhen asks if there are any spots open, and we end similar to the actual movie, with her training alongside the five.

the credits still end with the Jack Black cover of Baby One More Time because it slaps

[nebulousmedic]

Um uhh uhm

I posted very gamer stuff on Twitter. Yeah.

Definitely nothing suspicious going on here

It's also very straight, guys. Obviously.

[crescentfool]

What are your ryomina headcanons? I've loved these two since I played P3 FES, and I'm so excited to get back into the fandom^^

hi!! thank you so much for the ask, welcome back to the p3 fandom, it's always a delight to see new and old ryomina fans alike! 🥺💛💙

as for headcanons, here's a "few" i that i tend to come back to a lot! my interpretations of them are influenced from both the source material and other's fanworks, so i've linked to them as i saw fit! hcs in no particular order under the cut because oops this got long (900 word bullet point list, mentions of reload content up to 1/1)

minato's hair is dyed blue (hair originally brown, you can see it in his roots!) and he has a beauty mark on under his left eye. i like mirror imagery and there's definitely a few arts i've rb'd that portray them this way :) (e.g. this one by feliichu and this one by marasschino)

as far as i'm concerned the bathhouse scene from the manga where ryoji's hair down = similar shape to minato? that is canon to me. this art from xierru is a fun depiction of hair down ryoji :D

ryoji is homeless. everyone say thank you foxmulder_whereartthou for this awesome fic it's why i have the headcanon! but like seriously. we have no idea where ryoji lives and i could believe this.

minato dying at the end of the game is sad to an outsider's POV BUT!!! ryomina gets to be together in death for the rest of their lives (this illustration from mafuwara is a gorgeous representation of them as nyx avatar + the seal)!

speaking of the seal, they are like telepathically communicating to me in the great seal together. (mymp3 had a comic wip with this. give it a looksie :D)

ryoji likes cuddling with minato because he's warm :) (something something orpheus has fire affinity, minato is warm by extension and ryoji is cold because he's death)

ryoji's camera roll is filled with pictures of minato! ryoji... loves life, to me. and i feel that photography and journaling are perfect ways of expressing gratitude and capturing the moments in life that are most important to you :3

my other favorite activity for these two is stargazing- i feel like it's something they could appreciate either in life or death (looking at the stars from the great seal...)! they do a bit of this in the fic eurydice's vow by crescentmoontea (P5R spoilers, takes place in third sem it's a very fun fic concept).

between ryoji and minato i feel like ryoji was the one who fell in love first- and it doesn't really click in place for minato that he loves ryoji until december hits (appriser reveal + ryoji transforming into thanatos). its about the realization that ryoji was with him for his whole life and that he gets him like no one else does.

ryoji is like a sad and wet puppy who is so scared minato won't like him back. he is so scared of being rejected by minato to me like. this boy straight up deflates after he does his "i know i said i wanted us to be friends, but... i actually want to be something more." / "what about you?" on 12/1 ???

AND SPEAKING of wet puppy ryoji. ryoji is like. every animal in the world to me. he's a bird. he's a cat. etc. and also ryoji knows every language in the world ever and uses it to express his love for minato. see this fic from superheroics to see what i mean.

both of them are lactose intolerant. "this isn't lactose, it's milk!" i definitely think ryoji would make himself sick eating ice cream and milk he doesn't know what lactose is. (i made a silly poll about this once and the tags were very entertaining.)

i see minato as transmasc or nonbinary depending on the day (schrodinger's headcanons babey they're simultaneously true and not true at the same time!!). either way he's not cis to me and ryoji is like. His Gender. anyway go read this fic by nail_gun for t4t ryomina :D !

ryomina are WEIRD GUYS TO ME!!! they are so strange and they understand each other better than anyone else because of the circumstances of their relationship!!! if you asked them to do the "i wonder what i taste like" meme i think they'd start biting each other (affectionate) tbh but that's just me.

after ryoji gives minato the music box in 12/31 on reload, minato listens to the music box every night in january. this boy has insomnia and also chronic illness to me (things that housing death does to you). but i think he finds comfort in the melody and memories he made with ryoji.

in general, i think it's fun to imagine minato taking ryoji to places and show him things he's interested in! i feel that ryoji takes a lot of interest in minato's life, this isn't really a hc because in reload, minato DOES give ryoji a tour of the school (11/9) and possibly port island (11/12). but ITS CUTE OK! (tangentially related fanwork: this series of doodles from vinnigami: 1, 2, and 3)

not a hc but minato's kindness is like the backbone of their relationship and i think we would not have the ryomina we know and love today if minato wasn't such a kind soul. oh minato.... we can learn so much from you... like ryoji did!

anyway! that's all the hcs that i could think of, thank you for the ask! i had a lot of fun answering this, these two mean a lot to me 💛💙

i hope you don't mind the links to the fanart and fanfic as well, the fanwork people have made for ryomina have really made an imprint on me! if you want to see more of them, i definitely recommend looking through my tag for them because oh. i got a lot of them reblogged alright 😂 (<- SOOO NORMAL)

[sisididis]

Diet Pepsi ↳ Addison Rae

[rainsleeper]

I just watched bullet train hfbsvsgdjsbdvsbsb

[ontosgold]

you are my favorite artist on tumblr and i jump all around my room whenever i see a new post, everyday i thank whoever made us a part of the same fandom

if you ever have the time, please grace us with more glasses minato, as a four eyes myself, that was the greatest gift

WAAAAA WHERE DO U GUYS KEEP COMING FROM !!! /POS i can't believe I've only been back here for less than a week and yet I've had so many lovely ppl like you shower me with so many nice words :(( it means the world to me fr..... i feel like I'm running out of ways to say thank you, but thank you so much anon !!! u guys also make me jump around my room whenever i see u in tags or in my inbox hehe :> !!!!

and omg ofc, i love projecting parts of myself onto my favourite characters >>> and as a fellow four eyes myself, i think every character design can be improved tenfold with a pair of glasses ^_^

[torchickentacos]

[oculusxcaro]

How did you manage to escape the facility?

"Not easily, that's for sure." Khare muttered with a grimace, her face souring further at having to think back to those days when she'd been under lock and key, at the mercy of mad researchers pursuing even madder goals. Just the thought alone was enough to cause a spike of anxiety roiling through her body, sharp intake of breath reminding her she was away from all that, at least for now.

"I… planned it, for quite some time. It took a while too. Didn't have anything else to do considering they locked us up in our own tiny cells, storing us like old toys until they wanted updates on how we were doing." The days back then had blended into one another, the passage of time soon becoming meaningless without clocks, calenders or even windows to indicate whether it was day or night. Time was measured through other ways, whether it was feeding time, time to get hosed down for a quick 'shower' or when it was time to get yanked off for more testing, usually when the drugs in their porridge had taken their toll. It was with a bitter expression that Khare sucked in another slow breath. "It got easier once I stopped eating. I knew then that was how they kept us nice and quiet, easier to control. I pretended to be asleep whenever they came for me, but kept my eyes cracked so I could map out the place. How many guards posted and where, that sort of thing. Eventually they got complacent and that's when I started getting ideas." The guard assigned to her unit was particularly sloppy, a man called Dave, or Dipshit Dave as she'd taken to calling him more than once or twice when he tried getting friendly with her.

"After a while, I got a good idea of how big the place was. Spotted the exit on the way to the labs also, and learned the code to escape. Then, one day there was a bad batch of injections to be tested… killed the first guy who received them straight away and immediately mutated the next. Some sweet-looking Mennonite girl, she couldn't have been older than sixteen at the time." Khare sighed, the look of remorse and regret on her face having never been stronger. Angrily she wiped at the corner of her eyes, stinging with tears that refused to shed. "Not sure why they didn't stop then. They jabbed us all, one after the other and - it hurt. I think I did pass out for real then, my body going numb. Woke up in my cell later on and that's when I decided I couldn't stay another day. I had to get out." Or die trying. Death would have been preferable to staying in that hellish place, waiting for the inevitable or worse, becoming a twisted, writhing mass of flesh unrecognizable as any animal on earth. "Those bad batches were the key to my escape. Dipshit Dave came by later to check on those who'd been taken and survived. Most of us didn't so he was sent alone. Big mistake." Khare sneered, lips pulled back to reveal her teeth as the sweet, sweet memory of knocking his head into the wall came into full force. It was hardly justice for what had been done to her, the all the people who'd died or even that sweet girl who'd become something else, but it sure felt good striking back somehow, in her own pathetic way. "I grabbed his face when he bent over to check up on me. My fingertips popped, they were so full of electricity but it stunned Dipshit Dave long enough for me to knock his head in a few times. Grabbed his gun, grabbed his keycard and made a run for the exit there and then. The alarm didn't get raised until I'd just about reached the exit." Some of the guards tried using a stun gun on her but they didn't work. She'd shot back with Dave's gun but missed, wishing dearly she hadn't. Still, it made them back off long enough for her to throw open the doors, Khare running wildly into the courtyard where it was thankfully night. She frowned at the memory of barren grounds, of rocks and a high fence walling everything off, woefully unprepared to stop a mass breakout but then how often had escapes happened? Not often enough if she'd managed it. "By the time I got halfway over the fence, more guards arrived, this time carrying real guns. Got shot right in the hip causing me to fall over onto the other side before getting up and scrambling off into the bushes. Hurt like a bitch at the time but I think I was too full of adrenaline knowing it was now or never, because if they got their hands on me again, I knew for sure I wouldn't live to see morning." Or anything else again. Briefly Khare wondered if those guards ever got into trouble for her escaping. Maybe they'd explained it all away, claiming to have dumped her body with the others who'd died that night? Perhaps they considered it irrelevant, not thinking she could survive the vast trek throughout the wilderness down the mountains and through the forests back to civilization. The bears certainly tried their best to stop her though Khare had survived them too, swimming, crawling and jogging day and night until she'd came across traintracks, following them south until finding a logging railroad that would make her journey easier. "Now if you'll excuse me, I don't like talking about it, or what happened afterwards."

[chiropteracupola]

tell me if you think I'm breathing good...

[collaboration with @dxppercxdxver again]

[syrupfog]

sanji

[recordicons]

decided im going to read books this year so i started off with dune and i really like it so far

[just-let-me-see-accounts]

The following is mostly conjecture + draws from this post, which is now noncanon.

GOING INSANE OVER WALLY!!! He's so full of love he loves his friends so much which means that he is so WORRIED and TERRIFIED! Like, he is the first and only one so far to realise that their situation is not normal and that it's messed up. Nobody else knows.

And it just kind of happened one day. Something didn't make sense and then as the days went on less things made sense until he realised that something was seriously wrong.

And now it's up to him to find out what's wrong exactly, how much danger they're in, and what form that danger takes, exactly. Nobody else knows, it's just him, and he better find out the rules quick before anybody gets hurt.

Now he's stuck trying to figure out how to save everyone and keep them all safe. He's doing his best but clearly it's hard and long and he keeps hitting roadblocks, like how nobody answers the phone or lets him in.

Well, no actually. He has Home at least, there's that. I don't know what his relationship with Home is, they're obviously entangled with eachother, but I'm unsure if it's healthy. Are they giving a united front? Or are they only hurting eachother. Personally, I think they're in it together, since all of their interactions seem amiable so far.

But like, dude, Wally really seems he gets caught up in the "Oh god. They don't even know." dread spiral a lot. Like, he's grappling with the fact that their reality is wrong and they're all in danger and he's just supposed to? Go back? And hang out with everyone normally?

And yet, he can't tell anyone else about it, because he doesn't know what'll happen. What if they take it badly? What if the world they're trapped in retaliates? There's too many unknowns. He can't risk it.

Wonder if he knows any safe places to freak out about it. Home seems relatively safe, at least. But it's not like he can write this stuff down. What if someone finds it? He might write anyways. I bet he talks to Home a lot about their situation. Try to hash things out, make game plans.

What Wally's realised is obviously a huge weight on him, and it's affecting him day to day. He keeps spacing out when he hangs out with his friends. His usual quietness and non-expressive face are protecting him for now, but how long until someone notices that he's being off. One person is "all it takes".

Barnaby notices something in the last audio. He asks if everything is alright. We're nearing the end of the prologue. One person is all it takes. I worry about how Wally and Home will handle this. Will Wally be able to successfully deflect? Can they keep this going a little longer? Or will Barnaby come away knowing that something is wrong, and that Wally isn't telling him everything.

MAN IDK. As someone who's in a toxic/abusive home with siblings who are (or were, rather) oblivious to anything wrong, I relate to Wally heavily. Oh god, they don't even know. Not wanting to tell anyone because there are too many variables. Constantly worrying about how to make sure everyone stays safe and how to get everyone out of the situation. Spacing out a lot, because it's just too big. Even if you're not actively thinking about it, even if you're doing something fun and enjoying hanging out, for long stretches of time, even, it's something that lingers behind you. The context to everything.

It's just. I relate to him. A lot. And I truly hope he pulls off his plans flawlessly. But we know he won't. Things are going to get worse before they get better, if they get better at all.

I don't think Wally's a villain. I see him and I'm like "Oh, of course, he's just trying his best to get everyone to escape a bad situation".

He loves everyone!! He just wants everyone to be okay!! But it's hard and frustrating to figure out how to do that, and it can feel helpless sometimes. And doing all that while grappling with his very reality being a lie? Tough break!

Whether he makes bad decisions, whether intentionally or accidentally, in the name of this, however? That's a different story.

[galeforged]

Absence Makes Us Fonder (Forwin and Vi Paralogue)

Upon learning of his mentors’ whereabouts, Forwin prepares to leave the monastery with great haste. Vi initially dismisses the idea of joining him, but curiously changes her mind once she hears of his destination…

—Opening narration

Absence Makes Us Fonder is Forwin and Vi’s Paralogue Chapter in Fire Emblem: Three Houses. This chapter takes place in Albany territory in the Leicester Alliance, and is available on all routes during Part 2 after completing Chapter 15. Like A Cursed Relic and Black Market Scheme, this Paralogue Chapter is only available as downloadable content via the Expansion Pass bundle.

Available until: 8/30

Suggested level: 29

Units: Forwin, Vi

———

Rewards

Weapon: Sword of Fragarach. Sacred weapon (Crest of Macuil) that restores HP every turn. Effect increased with Crest. Effective against Flyers.

Battalions

Gerth Magic Militia: A group of mages that long served as a private army for the noble House Gerth. Associated with Forwin.

Gambit: Resonant Wind. Powerful wind magic that affects a wide area. Range 1-2. Effective against Flying foes.

Nilsson Sedation Corps: An independent group of chemists who once assisted the Eastern Church. Associated with Vi.

Gambit: Poison Wave. Inflicts poison status on all targets in the area. Range 1. Effective against Armoured foes.

—————————

Before Battle

———

Ashen Wolves Classroom

(Forwin enters)

Vi: You appear to be… unusually frantic, Forwin. Did something you eat not agree with your stomach? Should I begin preparing a remedy? Forwin: What? No, Vi, I’m fine. I-I appreciate the concern, but I can’t afford to stick around right now. Urgent personal business and all that. I am only here to grab my things and go.

Byleth:

Choice 1: What urgent business? (continue below)

Choice 2: Are you sure it’s not your stomach?

Forwin: Not you too, Professor. My health is in top form, that I can assure you!

Forwin: Right, so… A while ago, in exchange for a favour of his choice, I asked Yuri if he would keep an ear to the ground for my old mentors. With Fódlan in disarray, I started to doubt whether anything would actually ever turn up. Honestly, I considered giving up on the search altogether, but one of his associates just returned with some troubling news as to their whereabouts.

Byleth: Do you intend to follow up on that lead?

Forwin: Yes. You see, back when I left House Gerth, I was fortunate enough to be taken in by the Leverock Traveling Theatreworks! They were this group of performers led by Davina Leverock, a former Mittelfrank Opera Company songstress, and her wife Tristine, who worked as our coordinator. We toured around Fódlan, up into Faerghus and down through Leicester… but since the war began, it seems as though the Theatreworks disbanded entirely. Vi: I recall a troupe of that name visiting Nilsson a few times, over the years. My… my sisters and I enjoyed their shows together. Forwin: Ha, small world! Perhaps I saw you in the crowd once... though I don't remember you mentioning sisters before. Vi: No one asked.

Byleth: You're planning on going alone.

Forwin: If I have to, yes. I owe all that I am to Lady Davina and Lady Tristine, so I can’t stand idly by while they are in danger. They and the Theatreworks were the closest thing I had to a real family after I left home. Of course, that applies to the Ashen Wolves now too, but... those two are still family to me. Vi: Regrettably, I am currently too busy with an experiment to accompany you. I apologize, Forwin, but I wish you luck all the same in your endeavour. Forwin: It’s alright, Vi. No harm done. I already planned on going by myself anyway.

Byleth: 

Choice 1: Where are you going then?

Choice 2: So Davina and Tristine are… where?

Forwin: Well, word has it that they are currently being chased over treasure of sorts in their possession. Thankfully, though, they’re not far from here. From what I heard, they were last spotted in the Viscounty of Albany, in Leicester. Vi: (gasps quietly) Forwin: If they still had the troupe, I wouldn’t be so worried… though it sounds like it’s just those two by themselves. They’re fierce, sure, but if something actually happens to them… Vi: I will go with you. If the situation really is as dire as you make it sound, then I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to charge in by yourself. Forwin: Wait, did you just change your mind? What about your project? Vi: My sisters… They are in Albany. A lot of time has passed since I last saw them, as venturing by my lonesome outside of Abyss before proved unwise. Now, circumstances have changed. Strength in numbers will better assure success for both of our aims. You will reunite with your mentors, and I will finally visit my sisters. For that, my work can wait. Forwin: That’s perfect! I can’t thank you enough for this, Vi. Vi: Professor. You will join us too, won’t you?

Byleth:

Choice 1: There’s no time to lose. (Begin Paralogue battle)

Forwin: Fantastic! It will put my heart at ease to see them once more. Let’s sally forth!

Vi: Florine, Rusalind… At last, I will see you again. -x-

Choice 2: We can’t just rush in. (Return to previous screen)

Forwin: A-ah… and here I started to get excited.

Vi: Regrettable… However, we did just propose this to the Professor. Once you’re adequately prepared, then?

—————————

Battle

Victory Conditions: Rout the enemy. Defeat Conditions:

Casual Mode: Forwin, Vi, Davina, or Tristine fall in battle.

Classic Mode: Byleth, Edelgard/Dimitri/Claude, Forwin, Vi, Davina, or Tristine fall in battle.

———

Beginning of battle

Bandit Leader: After them! Those two couldn’t have gone far! So help me, if they get away with our big payday-! Vi: Marauders… and many of them. It appears we were already beaten to the punch.  Forwin: No, listen! It doesn’t sound like they found them yet. We're not too late! We can still turn this around! Davina: Great, more enemy reinforcements? …hold on, those ones aren't dressed like they’re with the thieves… Tristine: Love, it’s only a matter of time before those bandits search this stronghold. We have to move!

———

End of Player Phase 1

Davina: Well, well! I guess we’re not total goners. Look alive, Tristine! The cavalry is... Hey, wait a second. Are my eyes finally failing me or is that-?! Tristine: I can't believe it... Forwin!

———

Davina

Talking with Forwin

Davina: Long time no see, little bard. Here I thought you bit it when Garreg Mach fell years ago! Forwin: Let’s just say that reports of my death were greatly exaggerated. It’s so wonderful to see you again though, Lady Davina! Truly. Davina: Yeah, yeah, missed you too. Save the sappy stuff for later, we have to survive this first! Forwin: Right, you can count on me!

Talking with Byleth

Davina: So you’re the infamous Ashen Demon… Charmed to finally make your acquaintance. I can rely on that frightful power of yours to get us out of this mess, right?

———

Tristine

Talking with Forwin

Tristine: It really is you! You’re alive! Oh, Forwin, I thought you lost forever-! Forwin: Lady Tristine! Goddess, I’m SO relieved you’re… Wait, that sword! Is that what these thieves are after? Where did you get that?! Tristine: We… We have a lot to discuss, darling. After the battle is over, I promise you. Forwin: Tristine… A-are you-?

Talking with Vi

Tristine: My, my… Are you a friend of Forwin’s? Vi: Yes. I’m Vi, an apothecary. Pleased to finally meet you. My family enjoyed your shows. Tristine: And a fan, too! It comforts me to no end to see he found such dependable companions. Thank you, Vi, for looking after my son. Vi: Naturally. I am—Wait, did you just say “son”-?

———

Bandit Leader

Vs. Forwin

Forwin: Didn’t your parents teach you better manners? It’s poor form to insist on a woman’s company after she declines, you know. Bandit Leader: What the... A minstrel? Bahahaha!! Whatcha gonna do, play me a little tune?! Forwin: For threatening the lives of my mentors, I think it’s only fair that I get to send you off with a smile and a song. Off to your early grave, that is!

Vs. Vi

Vi: No… I will not allow that same tragedy to repeat itself here. Not here, of all places. NEVER again! Bandit Leader: Don’t you think you’re a little out of your depth here, girlie? A shrimp like you don’t stand a chance against me! Vi: Then let’s put your theory to the test, shall we? Your witless tongue against my poisons. Conclusion? Let's find out together!

Vs. Anyone

Bandit Leader: Playing the hero, eh? I don’t care who the hell you think you are. You are not getting in between me and my mark! Not today!

Defeated

Bandit Leader: Damn it…! Got so close… to finally striking it rich… That sword should’ve been mine…!

———

After all enemies are defeated

Vi: There… I believe that should dissuade others from attempting the same. We’re safe. Forwin: Tristine, I can think of only one other person who would have that sword. You know I have to ask. Just... who are you, to me? Really? Davina: Honey, I think it’s about time we tell him. We owe him and his friends that much for saving our skins. Tristine: (sighs) Very well. You have a right to know.

—————————

After Battle

———

Visconty of Albany | Daytime

Tristine: Davina and I… We were in love ever since I first saw her onstage in Enbarr. We shared this dream of starting a travelling theatre company together, after she retires… but my parents ordained that I would marry another, instead.

Byleth: You were a noblewoman, Tristine?

Tristine: Indeed. Though I am Crestless, any child I carried could potentially inherit my family’s Crest. Thus, my House and land folded into my husband’s. Isolde von Ulrich married Duke Gerth… then the burden of Saint Macuil’s Crest awakened in my only child. In… you, Wyndell. Forwin: So it really is you… Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We were together again, and for two whole years! Mother, you could’ve said something! Why-?! Davina: Calm down, kiddo. Let her finish. Tristine: Roland gave me an ultimatum: either I stay to bear him more children with Crests, or I leave alone with nothing. He already got what he wanted, and I couldn’t stand the thought of mothering more young for someone whom I feel no affection. Leaving you behind, my sweet boy… it tore my heart in twain. Davina: So, she returned to me with a settlement of gold, House Ulrich’s heirloom, and a new name. From there, we finally wedded, made good on our dream, and toured Fódlan together. Still, not one day passed where you weren’t on her mind. Tristine: I couldn’t believe my eyes when we found you in Remire, years later. Frail and frightened over every little thing! I knew then I made a mistake. I should have stolen away with you before. Isolde lost all right to call herself your mother... but as Tristine, I believed we could start over. Davina: Then we brought you in, gave you a fresh start with the Theatreworks… and you know the rest.

Byleth: Forwin, are you alright?

Forwin: Y-yes, it’s… just a lot to take in. Goddess, damn these tears- Tristine: If nothing else, I can finally pass along what was meant for you. The Sword of Fragarach, from House Ulrich, is your birthright. May it serve you better than it did me. Davina: You’re not our anxious, mousey stagehand anymore. You’ve really grown, little bard. We’re proud to see what you’ve become. Forwin: Thank you both… F-for everything you did for me. (sniffs) Thank you. Vi: I did not expect a family reunion for you today, Forwin. I’m… happy. Forwin: Oh wait, Vi! Didn’t you come for your sisters? Where are they? Let’s escort you right now! Vi: See that ridge? Just on its other side, there is forest. Their graves are there.

Byleth: Graves…?

Forwin: Oh no... Vi: We Februs were a family of healers who long worked for the Eastern Church. However, we fled after they committed a taboo for the benefit of medical sciences. We made for Abyss, but the Knights of Seiros intercepted us here… and slew them. Now, Rusalind and Florine are survived only by their youngest sister, Virgilia. Me. Forwin: That… explains a lot. Now I understand why you hate the Church so much… Vi, I-I’m sorry. I must’ve been insensitive just now. Vi: Don’t be. I kept it secret from you and the others all this time. Besides… thanks to your efforts, we three shall meet again. That’s all that matters to me. Forwin: Well, I meant what I said before: the Ashen Wolves are my family. Whatever you need, in thunder, lightning, or in rain, I’ll be there. Vi: Additionally, this would be impossible without your indispensable aid. Thank you, Professor. Davina: Say, you’re not in any rush to leave, right? We’d like to catch up with our boy before we part ways. Tristine: And to get to know his little friend! After she sees her family. Virgilia, was it? Vi: Y-yes, that… sounds delightful.

Byleth: 

Choice 1: We can stay for a little while.

Choice 2: Alright, but not for too long.

Davina: Cheers, "Professor!" You’re alright. Now, Forwin, tell me: how the hell DID you survive that Garreg Mach raid? Where’d you disappear to? Forwin: Wow. I, uh, don't think we'll have enough time for ALL of that...

[charliemwrites]

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)

Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternization (therefore power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Body Piercings, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

“Yessir.”

[kaile-hultner]

Help me dig upward: the Tumblr post

In which I talk a little bit about the hole I’ve been in for a hot minute—and what I want to do to dig out of it.

Hey y’all,

For the second time in a few years I’m starting a GoFundMe. This time, though, it’s not for the site, at least not explicitly. It is to help me get out from under the weight of debt that I’ve been carrying for more than a decade at this point, but which has finally gotten so bad that it’s affecting everything from my sleep patterns to my overall mental health and ability to do the thing that you likely already support me for: this website. 

If you’ve been wondering why the posting has decreased here, or reduced in quality, or why we started 2024 off publishing other writers and then just as suddenly stopped doing that again, this is why: I am out of money, I am in debt, and it feels like I’m living every day in pure, basic survival mode. 

This GFM, in which I’m asking for $10,000, is a moonshot, a Hail Mary. I don’t expect it to raise anything; it will be the last time I ask the Internet for money, whether it works or it doesn’t. If it works, obviously it’ll mean I’ll be able to post more and maybe my mental health will improve and I won’t feel like every moment is a countdown to a terrible ending, and I’ll be able to think of compelling angles to talk about video games again. If it doesn’t work, maybe I’ll figure something else out. Bankruptcy, probably. I don’t know. 

I hate doing this. I hate being in this position. I hate that I’ve already asked for money this year and people have been extremely generous and it just feels like all that generosity just went into a hole. I wish I had something to show for that generosity, or proactively for anything I gain from this campaign. So, if there is something you want me to cover or talk about or look at in exchange for your support on this campaign, just shoot me an email with proof of your donation, no matter how small. It’s kaile@noescapevg.com. I can’t promise I’ll write a bunch of magnum opuses at your request but I will do what I can just simply to show appreciation for your support. 

Anyway, this feels bad to me and I’m already starting to regret it, so I’m going to wrap this up by saying thank you in advance and I owe you my life. I wish that was figurative.

Edit: here is the text of the GFM I posted. 

Hi y’all,

My name is Kaile Hultner. I am an online cultural critic who has been running the video game criticism website No Escape since 2019. My work has been featured in other places like PC Gamer, Polygon and Bullet Points Monthly. And like a lot of people, I have been deeply in debt for years. 

Debt is a very strange phenomenon. As anthropologist David Graeber demonstrated in his book Debt: The First 5000 Years, it is a phenomenon that imparts a kind of moral valence on a person; whether or not that person can pay their debts is a sign of their trustworthiness or virtue as a member of polite society. Yet you can’t go without debt: at some point, at least in the United States, you have to pick up a form of debt – credit – to establish your credit score, without which you can’t rent an apartment, buy or lease a car, or, in some cases, even get a job. Being debt-free can harm this score, as can having a credit history that is “too young.” 

I’ve been in debt for a long time. I’ve been managing my debt for over a decade. Every year for the last six or seven years in particular it feels like I’m losing progressively more and more ground. Seven years ago I had a car; I could do things like deliver Uber Eats and DoorDash and make extra money whenever I ran out. It broke down in my driveway in 2022 and I couldn’t afford to take it to a mechanic to get it fixed. I sold it for $200. I haven’t been able to replace it. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever need a car for anything. Luckily my day job is WFH. 

Recently, I’ve been fighting with my old bank over charges it erroneously applied to my account in excess of $1000, causing it to go deep into the negatives. I’ve been slowly, slowly digging myself out of that hole thanks to some close friends and some very kind folks who follow me on the Internet. But it’s caused other debts to exacerbate. And tonight I realized that I am at the end of my rope. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t sit here and say that I’ve done everything right; certainly, more than one bad decision made out of desperation has put me here. I won’t make excuses for that. But I’m tired of being here, in this position. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night with heart palpitations because I got an alert from my bank that I’m in the negatives. I’m tired of getting emails and phone calls from debt collectors. I’m tired of living in basic survival mode with no discernible path forward. I’m tired of being tired, of not having the energy to be creative and do the work I’ve built an online presence around for five years. And paradoxically, I’m tired of asking people on the internet for money. 

So I’m going to ask people on the internet for money, one final time. 

I’ve set the goal at $10,000. This is far more than I’m honestly expecting to get, but if I get even a fraction of that I could finally obliterate my debts in a meaningful way. I do have specific milestones that I basically need to meet, otherwise this GFM doesn’t hit its maximum effectiveness, but otherwise the sky is the limit. If I reach the whole amount… I don’t really know what I’ll do. Cry, maybe. 

Milestones – bolded are high-priority

Milestone reached! $750 – gets my old bank account out of the negatives. Eliminates one vector of harassment, allows me to close that account and move on. 

Milestone Reached! $1800 – does the above and allows me to fully pay any late or past-due loan payments missed as a result of the bank issue.

Milestone Reached! $6000 – does the above and allows me to fully pay off all installment loans 

$8000 – does the above and allows me to pay off any remaining debts. 

$10,000 – does the above and allows me to start saving. 

$10,000+ – basically a moonshot, I have no idea what I’ll do with extra. 

I fully do not expect you to donate to this. There are people trying to escape genocides, much more abject poverty, crushing medical debt, and so much more that feel – at least to me – so much more worthy of your attention and money. But just know that if you dodonate something, you have my undying appreciation. I will quite literally owe you my life. 

I’m going to post this now before I get too emotional or lose my nerve entirely, but again: thank you. Even if all you do is read this. 

—Kaile