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charliemwrites · 7 months ago

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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.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #cross posted on ao3 #old fic #sergeant squeaks #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley

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greyeyedmonster-18 · 2 years ago

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DIALOGUE dr grey omg. ur ability to write so much about absolutely nothing in the most effortless manner possible is just—ridiculous. awe-inspiring. intimidating. it makes things so fun.

also!!! that regardless of what ship/dynamic u write, sirius is always. A Presence ykno? he’s not undermined & he can hold his own & he’s a bamf and the main character and just, u write him very well, esp in relation to others, i think

and of course, how can it be me if i don’t mention that the way u portray him & james will forever remain one of my favs? i think more people need to take ur lead and roll w soulmates j&s lol

this ask has been in my box for a bit, and i save things like this for rainy days (though today isn't rainy exactly, but--)

"your ability to write so much about absolutely nothing"-- miss padfootastic you're too kind. but i am going to agree with you, and think this might actually be like...my trademark if i leave any imprint on the fic world or OG fiction world. i used to think this was a con of my writing, when i first started, because i had only ever read fics that were PLOT heavy where something was always happening but....realized i would much rather write a world where nothing is happening ever.

and i will forever be flattered that i somehow manage to capture sirius and james and their relationship in a way that pleases you. like top tier compliment from you.

xoxo.

#asks #grey answers #i think this was from a fic wrter specialty ask game #eons ago

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sunnysidevans · 2 months ago

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Somewhere Between California and Texas - J.Seresin.

Summary: When your best friend and her fiance have co-bachelor parties and you thought you were going to be the only single one but one green eyed aviator saves the day - his specialty.

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

a/n: this was a request I received but I received two requests that were almost identical so in summary the request was in summary this. I hope whoever they are that requested this likes it because actually I think rom-com type fics are my thing because I LOVED writing this!

The airport was jammed packed for 7am on a Tuesday morning.

You stood against the windows, watching the planes landing and taking off.

You thought booking an early flight would get you out of the San Diego International Airport a lot quicker than something later in the day.

Sighing, you notice a seat opens at the end of the row, quick to rush towards it just for someone to beat you to it and sit down. You gasp, looking at the man who grins.

“Seriously?” you scuff, looking him up and down watching the smirk grow on his lips, twirling the toothpick between his teeth.

“Mine now sweetheart” he winks.

He watches the way you sulk back over to the window and sit down. Within a few minutes the overhead speaker picked up with a screech.

“Now boarding for flight 7552 to Austin now boarding, if you need assistance or are in a wheelchair this is for you, we also invite any military personnel to make their way to the gate”

You watch as the man stands up from his seat and makes his way to the gate. You should’ve known he was military.

Finally shoving your bag in the overhead bin, you sit down in your seat with a heavy sigh, “howdy” you look over at the voice, narrowing your eyes.

There he sat, across the aisle with a smirk.

“Hello” you reply sarcastically and pull the headphones back over your ears and sit back. You can feel his eyes watching you as you adjust in the seat. This was gonna be a long flight.

“Welcome to Austin!” the flight attendant grinned as you exited the plane, quick to grab your suitcase and make your way outside.

As you are coming down the escalator you are greeted with your best friend's grin and a huge sign on a pink poster board “(Y/N)”.

You laugh, rushing to her with a squeal, hugging her tightly. “Hi!” She laughs, linking your arms together and walking towards the door.

Your best friends, Jean and Johnny, were getting married in a few weeks and it was bachelorette weekend.

“Johnny is so excited you are here” she smiles as you chuckle, squeezing her hand. “I doubt that” you grin, packing your suitcase in the back of her car.

As you close the trunk your eyes connect with Military man once again who takes two fingers and salutes towards you with a wink.

Rolling your eyes, you climb into the passenger seat of Jean’s car. “I need food and some coffee” you groan and fall back into the seat. “How was the flight?” she questions as you shrug, “a normal one, though I got sat by this guy who practically pushed me out of the way for a seat” she scoffs, “that dick!”. You laugh, nodding along with her.

“Low and behold he is on the flight in the aisle across from me” she laughs as you shake your head. “I couldn’t believe the entitlement!” she nods in agreement.

Making your way into your best friend's home, you can hear Johnny yell from upstairs. “Jeanie?!” you grin as she nods, you raise the pitch of your voice, yelling back to him, “yes sweetie?!”.

He laughs as he makes his way down the steps, a grin on his face. “Hi (y/n)!” he rushes down the steps to come and give you a hug.

Johnny was a military man himself, stationed here now for the last six years but previously in San Diego where the three of you met.

“How’re you doin Johnny?” you smile, crouching to the floor to love on the dogs who ran up to you excitedly. “Great!” he grins, looking at you and then back at his fiance who smiles. “So what's the game plan?” you ask, sipping on your coffee as you look between the two of them. “I have a couple friends coming in still” Johnny notes, sipping his own cup. You nod, smiling as you turn to Jean.

“I still have Natalie and Anna coming but other than that just you guys” you nod eagerly with a smile growing. “I haven’t seen either of them in so long” they both nod, “they are also both bringing their spouses…” Johnny trails off. “Oh” you look down at the steaming cup of coffee and nod. “No problem!” you add, plastering the smile on your face.

Attending weddings alone has become a common thing for you. A combo bachelor party was gonna be no different.

“(y/n)..” Jean speaks first after the first few minutes of silence. “It's fine jeanie!” you shake your head, sipping on the last of the coffee and standing.

“I think i am gonna catch a nap” you mumble, walking towards the kitchen as the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it” Johnny stands and makes his way to the door, as it opens you can hear the cheers of him and you guess one of his friends.

“Jeanie! Jake’s here!” Johnny states from the breezeway. You stop short coming from the kitchen as the man takes his hat off and a grin grows on his face.

“Howdy” he nodded towards you, your eyes were wide.

Jean speaks first,“This is (y/n), my best friend!” she grins as you nod slowly.

Military man was standing in your best friend's house, which now has a name, Jake. “oh we’ve met” he notes with a growing smile, you nod with a sigh. “Hello” you mumble walking past him and up the stairs. Jake grins from his place as he watches you go up the steps.

The table was full on both sides. Night had fallen and everyone for both parties arrived. The restaurant was loud as you sat secluded in a corner of the table, beside Jake, who you have now learned was also the only single person for this weekend.

“So everyone” Johnny stands, beer in hand and a grin on his face. “I am so excited to have you all here!” he continues, “the weekend plans are of course tomorrow we head to a longhorns game, it's only honorary” he grins at the cheers from his friends.

“And we will see how we feel the next few days, tomorrow is a big day for the Longhorns!” He holds his beer out as everyone else follows. You sip the water and slouch in your chair. “So, you’re the only single friend of jeans huh?” Jake questions from beside you as you sigh, looking over at him.

“Unfortunately, they just call me ‘the single one’ in the friend group” he nods with a hum, “don’t worry I have the same” he chuckles. “Maybe i will find myself a nice cowboy or something” you grumble with a chuckle as he grins, “why look? I found you one” he smirks, sipping his beer as he turns to his left, continuing the conversation with Scott, another groomsman.

Jean grins from her end of the table, beside Johnny with a thumbs up. You shake your head with a sigh, smiling at the waitress who was beside you with your plate of food. You can’t help but feel Jake’s green eyes lingering as you turn to your food.

A sea of orange filled the stands of Texas Memorial Stadium. You grin as you follow behind the group as everyone who passed by had a kind smile. Jake followed beside you in his own orange jersey, brown cowboy hat perched on his head.

“Alright everyone, this is our box so we can order food and drinks everything we want here” Jean grins around the box at the group of her friends, you smile nodding and making your way to sit down on one of the couches. “So, how’re ya doin?” Jean sits beside you within a few minutes, smiling. “I’m fine” you look over at your best friend with raised brows trying to read the look on her face.

“Are you sure?” she questions, thanking Johnny as he sets a glass of wine in her hands. “Yes, I am sure” you look at her as she nods, sitting back against the cushions.

“I know this is awkward for you being ya know, the only single one” she mumbles while sipping her wine. You shrug, sitting back and watching out the windows at the team warming up.

“I’m fine Jean” you snap and stand from the couch and decide to go and look around the stadium.

You can hear the cheers of the crowds as the first whistle is heard and the game begins.

“You know it's almost disrespectful to only be wearing a plain orange shirt” you turn at the sound of the voice, smiling at Jake. He has a smirk on his lips, not condescending but almost, teasing.

“I didn’t come prepared” you smile, looking back through the merchandise table. “Pick one” he grins, watching as you look through the table of shirts and sweatshirts.

“What?” you look at him with a raised brow, shirt in hand. “Is that your pick?” he asks as you hold the orange shirt in your hand, a small longhorn logo on the front, the state of Texas on the back.

“I like this one yes” you trail off as he takes it from your hand and makes his way to the woman who grinned behind the register. “Is that all for you dear?” her southern drawl was heavy as he nodded, smiling.

“Jake!” rushing over to him you try slapping the card out of his hand as he shakes his head, handing it to the woman. “Nope, i will be purchasing your first piece of texas longhorn merchandise” he smirks, taking his card back and shoving it in his pocket.

“Would you like me to cut the tag off honey?” the older woman asks, looking at you. Nodding, you take the shirt from her once the tags are off. “Have a nice day you two” she waves as you both thank her, walking back towards the skyboxes.

“You gonna put it on?” Jake stops by the restrooms as you blush, “I will meet you upstairs”.

The room cheers as Jake, the resident Texan makes his way back in the skybox. Jean stands quickly rushing to him, ”did you see (y/n)?”.

Jake nods, reaching out to give her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Why, what's wrong?” he asks as she sighs, pushing her hair out of her face, a sign of stress for Jean.

“I sat with her, I can tell she’s a bit down in the dumps about being the only person single, other than you” Jake can’t help his eye roll but she continues, “I should know better than to press but she snapped at me and walked out” she sighs.

“She’s fine Jean” he squeezes her shoulder reassuringly as you make your way back in, t-shirt on. “There you are!” she rushes over to you, hugging you tightly. You stumble slightly, catching her and hugging her back with furrowed brows.

“I’m okay Jeanie” you mumble with a chuckle as she shakes her head. “I got worried, this is a big place, and i want you here, with me” she takes your hand, giving it a squeeze. “Jeanie, it’s okay, I'm fine, I just needed to step away” she nods, noticing the smile on your lips, different than before but there.

She makes her way beside Johnny as you stand beside Jake, both sharing knowing smiles.

“So, wait what does this mean now?” you ask, standing by the window as both teams are standing on the field. “The games in overtime” Jake mumbles beside you, hands on his hips as you look over at him.

“Right, but why are they just standing there?” he chuckles, looking over at you then back out the window. “They are doing the coin toss, like at the beginning of the game” he watches the realization on your face as you nod. Jean sits behind the two of you, watching the conversation between you.

“Seems to be getting along” Anna mumbles beside her, her own husband moving to stand beside Jake. “Thank god, the beginning seemed pretty tense” Jean mumbles as she watches you two.

Slipping through the door to go out into the open seats, standing on the balcony, Jake follows behind you.

The cheers were so loud, you couldn’t believe it as you looked around you. “This is Texas” Jake grins,looking over at you,sharing the same smile, this time Jake can’t help but notice that it reaches your eyes.

The end of the game was even better than the whole experience, walking beside the group you notice all the people exiting the stadium are cheering with grins on their faces. Many smile at you as they pass. Jake is beside you then, nudging you gently. “So, did you enjoy your first Longhorns game?” he asks as you chuckle, nodding.

“I actually did, I may not have known much of what was going on but I did my best” he grins, watching as the group walks ahead of you two. “I love how” you trail off, trying to think of the right words, “it seems so homey” he nods hands in his pockets. “Are you staying with the love birds?” Jake questions as everyone gets into the packed car, thankfully you all Ubered to the stadium.

You nod, sitting in the back of the ford expedition. The car ride is then silent, Jake notices the way you shivered slightly, he pulls the orange jacket off his shoulders, putting it over yours.

Looking up at him, you smile and pull your arms through it, leaning against him as you two were the only ones sober in the vehicle.

The green numbers on the nightstand are almost haunting as they continue to softly tick. You had been home now for hours but still couldn’t sleep. The soft buzz of your phone pulls you from your fifth time counting the ceiling tiles.

Unknown: please don’t question how I got your number and please don’t find this creepy at all but I can’t sleep and wondered if you were awake?

you smile but then the three bubbles show up again.

It's Jake, should’ve clarified

You giggle.

You: thank god for the clarification I was terrified someone was haunting me down

Biting your lip before responding again,

do you know good places to eat at this hour?

You watch the bubbles pop up and back down before a message comes through,

Be ready in 15

Standing on the front porch of your best friend's home, you watch the cars pass down the street. You did not expect this to be the way this trip was going, you did not expect the man who stole your seat in the airport to be pulling up in his Ram truck and honking to pull you out of your daydream.

Skipping down the steps you rush to the passenger side door, which the driver side door opens before your hand reaches the handle.

“Negative ma’am” he grins, opening the door for you, the running boards coming down for you to step in. “We never let a lady open their own doors” Jake adds as you smile, looking him up and down in his sweatpants and long sleeve.

“Have you ever been to Texas before?” Jake asks in the dead of night, the streets are quiet but also still buzzing from the Longhorns win. “Only a few times, I came down when Jean and Johnny first moved here” you look over at him as he nods eyes back forward on the road.

“I feel like you haven’t even seen the city!” he adds enthusiastically.

The city was still bright as you and Jake drove through the streets eventually making it down back roads. “Jake!” you gasp, pointing to the horses in the fields, it was now almost 5 am, the sun rising slowly.

He pulls to the side of the road to let you out excitedly, you rush to the fence with your hand out to let the brown horse sniff it.

Jake watches from behind you, a smile on his face. “That’s Finn” He adds, arms crossed over his chest as you turn to him, “what?” you ask as he nods.

“Finnegan, he’s my horse actually” Jake smiles as the horse huffs out against your hand and lets you continue to pet him. He nuzzles his snout into your palm as you smile wider.

“What do you mean he’s your horse?” you question over your shoulder as Jake moves beside you. “This is my family's land, our ranch is just around the corner” he grins as you smile, watching the way Finn reacts to Jake, nibbling on his jacket.

“Hey now” Jake laughs, gently moving his snout away from his sleeve. “Can we go horseback riding?” you question after a few minutes of silence, “wanna?” he asks as you nod eagerly like a little kid on christmas. Jake notices the way your eyes light up at the idea. “Alright, c’mon” he grins, leading you to the truck to get back in.

The barn was quiet in the early hours of the morning, Finn stood in his stall as Jake threw the saddle over his back. Standing in the doorway of the barn you watch as the sun is slowly peeking behind the clouds.

"You gonna help me over there?” Jake questions as you turn to face him, he stands in the stall beside Finns beside another horse, all black with a hint of brown on his snout.

“This is Percy” you smile, walking to him slowly. Percy approaches you slowly as you hold your hand out to him, he happily nuzzles into your hand. “Lets saddle em up” Jake grins, walking to the tack room and grabbing a saddle for you. Rushing behind him he pulls the saddle off the shelf. “I’ve never done this before” he grins, walking back to the stall where you left Percy. He huffs as you help Jake toss the saddle over his back, reaching to put the strap under his belly.

Jake took over then as you sat back on the bale of hay. You ignored the buzzing of your phone in your purse as Jake's voice pulled you from your thoughts, “You ready?” Jake asks as you turn to face him, Finn stood beside him, his reins in Jake’s hands as Percy stood on the other side of him.

You nod, walking to him, taking the reins of Percy, he begins following your lead. Jake watches as you make your way to him, hands on his hips, “you want some help up there?” he asks as you nod shyly.

Jake puts his leg out and hands out towards you, “step up on my knee and I will help you the rest of the way” you look between him and the horse before Percy huffs heavily.

“Hold onto the horn, it will help when you swing your leg over,” Jake encourages as you reach up and hold onto the horn, his hands on your waist as he hoists you up into the saddle. You giggle, adjusting in the seat and running your fingers through Percy’s mane.

The sun had fully risen by the time you and Jake made it out on the trail. You couldn’t believe it. “It's so gorgeous” you mumble beside him as he looks over at you, “yeah? A texas sunrise is perfect” he agrees as you both stop on the hillside. Percy and Finn both huffing at the standstill, “Jake?” he hums in response as you look over at him.

“Thank you for making this trip really memorable” he grins. “I need to make any Austin trip memorable” he replies, grinning as a peaceful silence falls between you both.

“I guess we should head back” you sigh as he nods.

“Race ya!” you grin, rushing by him on Percy, squealing loudly. “Hey! No fair you got a head start!” he laughs behind you, clicking his teeth to rush after you.

Sliding the shade up beside you, the sunny skies of California greets you.

Smiling shyly, you watch as the beaches slowly come into view, the world of California becoming more than just a little speck in the sky.

“Welcome to San Diego International, we hope you enjoy your stay” you smile shyly at the flight attendant, making your way through the terminal. A weekend away from San Diego was more than enough for you. Standing at baggage claim you sigh heavily. You knew the amount of work was waiting for you in the office tomorrow.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, pulling it out, you smile,

Jeanie: did you make it home okay?

smiling, you typed a quick reply.

You: yes jeanie i did, now please go and finalize all them wedding details!

You smile at the love reaction to the message. Making your way out the airport you can’t help the lingering feeling maybe Jake was there too, collecting his baggage.

You did travel together before but your flights home were different. You made your way to the long term parking, adjusting the Texas Longhorn t-shirt on your shoulders.

After being home for a couple of days, you make your way through the office doors, briefcase in hand and you can hear the cheers of your colleagues.

“She’s back!” your assistant, Andi cheers as you smile. “Hello hello” you laugh walking past her to make your way into your office, stopping at the vase on your desk.

“What’s that?” you question, setting the briefcase in the chair,approaching your desk. “I don’t know” Andi mumbles as she smiles, “they were delivered early this morning” she adds.

Reaching for the card you pluck it off, opening it.

Have a great first day back, don’t ask how I found out where you work or that it was your first day back ;), J

you smile, shutting the card. “I know where they are from” you mumble, smiling at the wildflowers in the vase. She nods, making her way out of the office and shutting the door gently.

Reaching for your phone, you smile and quickly type out the message.

You: Stalkerish much? The flowers are beautiful, thank you

you see the little ‘read’ before the ellipsis came and went.

“You are awfully smiley” Coyote notes as Jake looks up from his phone, setting it beside him on the chair in the common room. “Eh” he shrugs as Rooster and Bob sit down on the couch across from them. “No i noticed it, it's been going on for a couple days” Bob notes as he sighs.

“He met someone” Phoenix mumbles behind her oatmeal, sitting beside Rooster with a smirk. “You did?” Coyote snaps as Jake sighs, “I mean, I did” he nods as the group oos and ah’s. “Are we gonna meet her?!” Fanboy questions as Jake shrugs with a smirk.

“Who knows?” He stands and makes his way past the group, “now if you excuse me, I am gonna go start working on some flight plans” he walks out the room as the group cheers at the slight blush on his cheeks but a smirk on his face.

He had a plan.

The office was quiet. All the lights were off except for your office and Andi’s desk where she worked on her own filing of cases. The elevator doors open and she thinks nothing of it as the cleaners were on their way in for the evening.

“Excuse me” Andi looks up from her desk, eyes widening at the man in front of her. Stood in his flight suit, Jake grins, hands in his pockets as she takes her glasses off.

“Do you know where I could find (y/n) (y/l/n)?” he questions as she looks at him, blinking. “Uh, she stepped out quickly but her office is there, can I ask who you are?” she questions as he smiles. “My name's Jake, can I wait for her there?” he motions to the office doors as she nods.

He makes his way inside, smiling as he notices how homey your office was, looking through the photos. “Andi, please go home” he perks up at the sound of your voice with a grin, he stands, making his way to the middle of the room. “I have my own work” he hears Andi argue as you shake your head, “please go home, we can work more tomorrow” after a few minutes of debate, Andi sighs.

You push the door open, heels skidding on the carpet floor. Jake stands with a sheepish smile on his lips, hands in his pockets.

“Hi,” he grins, “jake?” you question. “Oh my god” you rush to him, arms around his neck as you hug him tightly. “What are you doing here?!” you pull away from him with wide eyes, “I felt one weekend in Austin was not enough and needed to see you again" he smiles at the blush on your cheeks.

The bass from the bar could be heard for miles as you sat beside Jake in his Jeep. He climbs out and makes his way to your side, hand held out to help you out of the vehicle.

“Welcome to the hard deck my dear” he grins, hand on the small of your back as the two of you make your way inside.

You and Jake had been seeing each other now exclusively for a few weeks and he was ready to introduce you to the Dagger Squad.

The bar was quiet still for the early hours of the night. “Hangman!” the voice yells, Jake's hand reaches for yours, “my friends are overbearing okay?” he warns as you nod slowly, “okay” you chuckle, lacing your fingers with his and follow behind him.

“Look who finally decided to join us!” Rooster shouts with a smile, eyes falling beside Jake to you. Standing beside Jake you slightly move behind him, looking around you as you feel multiple sets of eyes on you.

“Funny Rooster” Jake comments as he looks over at you, “guys, this is (y/n)” you look over then, smiling at the group as Jake introduces each aviator one by one.

Phoenix, you learn is Natasha stands and holds a hand out to you, “we appreciate your service” you giggle, shaking her hand. “Well, I appreciate yours” you giggle, sitting between her and Jake.

Within minutes the two of you hit it off.

You feel a gentle tap on your shoulder as the song on the jukebox changes, you look up at Jake who grins. The jukebox begins playing The Righteous Brothers, You’ve lost that lovin feeling.

You giggle, looking at him with furrowed brows, “you owe me a dance” he motions you over, “c’mon” he grins as you take his outstretched hand, standing and following him.

You giggle as he begins singing along to you, “you’ve lost that lovin feelin”. You giggle, arms around his neck as his hands fall to your waist, grin on his lips. “We really need to thank Jean and Johnny” he mumbles against your forehead as you lean into him, “why's that?” he grins as the two of you sway to the music.

“They brought me you, even though you were here in San Diego right under my nose” he whispers in your ear as you blush, leaning your forehead against his shoulder.

“Hey” he encourages you to look up at him, he smiles and reaches out cupping your cheek. “I mean it” he adds as you smile up at him.

“All it took was traveling 1,154 miles to Austin Texas” you smile as he chuckles, “between California or Texas, i choose to spend it with you” he grins, “even though you pushed me out of the way for a seat?” he rolls his eyes playfully, “okay beside that” you smile.

“You made texas so enjoyable and now you make my life here enjoyable” he grins, leaning down to connect your lips, pulling your face closer to him.

Standing on your tippy toes to meet him closer, his lips tasted of the michelob ultra and a hint of the mint gum he was chewing earlier.

Pulling away from him slowly you smile, forehead against his as he grins. “I’d find you again between here and texas all over again” he whispers as you smile, “you big softy” he grins connecting your lips again.

Maybe being the only single friend in the group wasn’t as horrible as you thought.

if you enjoyed this fic and would like to read anything else - you can find that here.

if you requested this fic, thank you! I hope I have done some justice to what you requested as I took FOREVER on it. I enjoy writing Jake so much - keep the requests coming I LOVE them!

#jake seresin #glen powell #top gun maverick #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fanfiction #top gun #jake seresin angst

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mikareo · 1 year ago

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“ ࣭⸰ ★ THE MOON SAYS HELLO. . . ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀呪術廻船; geto suguru x fem reader ⠀ ꒰ . . part one of three ꒱ . . . word count; 3.6k

⊹ ⠀⠀despite his insistence on never falling in love, suguru fails to stop himself from becoming smitten with his best friend’s beloved. you’ve become a flicker of hope in his darkness— though you’re someone who can never and will never be his to have and to hold.

series contains; if gojo didn’t kill geto n geto was given a chance to redeem himself, redemption arc!geto, human caretaker!reader, kind of e2l but also not really, love triangle, gojo x reader, fluff, major angst, heartbreak, wedding at the end, swearing probably, geto refers to humans as monkeys per usual author's note; rewritten fic, will be 3 parts in total (i'm half done pls be patient w me im a slow writer...)

YEAR ONE, DAY ONE

His face is sore. So sore. It’s red, swollen, and sore after he’s spent the last three hours screaming in frustration with his current predicament. This is absurd, Satoru should’ve just killed him when he had the chance. Geto’s lost count of how many times his palms have slapped his own face; over and over again with wishes that he can wake up from this hellish nightmare the higher ups call ‘rehabilitation’— though he can somewhat still recall the first slap that he’d given himself around the half-hour mark. He’s got a pretty good memory…that doesn’t stop him from hoping his veins aren’t too noticeable as they angrily protrude from his forehead in crimson currents.

He’d rather be dead than imprisoned like this…like an animal…like one of those damn useless monkeys.

The intensity of his wails continue to bounce off of the barren walls— barren aside from the dark mark he’d punched in earlier— and echo like a party of lost ghouls in the bottom of an empty well. Geto feels like a mad man.

He’s only just begun his isolation and he’s already growing mad with boredom.

A huff escapes his lips as he plops himself down onto the twin-sized bed that’s nestled in the corner of his so-called ‘suite’. With linen sheets and a dark maroon comforter, it’s almost a cozy living situation; in another life, Geto could imagine himself cuddling beneath the covers with his favorite book and a soft record playing in the background for some ambience. That world is far far away now. Even if he asked for a record player, he doubts the higher ups would grant him one. He’s their most valuable prisoner, and they’re sure to keep him as miserable as possible until he’s one-hundred-percent pure hearted once more. However, despite their reluctance to grant him the things he wants, these aren’t the worst living arrangements he’s ever encountered and he knows that Gojo did his best to give him the best commodities he could to…well…a highly dangerous criminal.

This is the only path to forgiveness, he reminds himself, constantly trying to be optimistic about the utter absurdity of it all.

Optimism hasn’t been his specialty in a long time; anyone with a working pair of eyes would be able to deduce that, and he despises it. He’s quite rusty with the characteristic and has looked on the darker side for a while now— but wishes that he could be as reckless as he once was as a teenager. He can vividly remember how loud his laughter was with Gojo and Shoko, laughing as they chased each other throughout the school yard and using each other's cursed energy to their advantage in games of tag— but that would be near impossible now. His two best friends can barely look him in the eyes after the treason he’s committed. Gojo views him as a ticking time bomb and Shoko’s healed too many people to count that he’s harmed.

If he stepped one foot out of this room, he believes he’d be smothered on sight.

The Jujutsu Society fears Geto Suguru..

…and Geto Suguru fears himself.

In all fairness, he deserves everything that’s come to him. What he did was awful; mass murdering humans…trying to murder even more humans…harming innocent students…starting a war during the holiday season…the whole gist. There are obviously bad actions from the past that continue to haunt Geto to this day and will continue haunting him so long as he breathes— but that’s all it is now…the past. He wants redemption. He needs redemption. If Gojo managed to reach clarity within Geto’s awful decisions, then maybe he can too.

Geto wants to get better, to be better…not only for Gojo…but for himself.

This is exactly why he and his best friend has devised a plan, one that will hopefully help lead Geto on a better path— a five-year path that will only be completed if he truly wants it to, and a half a decade seems like quite a bit of time to most; but for Geto, he doesn’t know if it will be enough.

For Satoru…do it for Satoru…

He wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to comfort his heart that beats with fear every second of every day. It’s been so long since he’s been hugged by another, and he doubts he’ll ever feel that love and comfort from someone in his life. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s been alone with his thoughts with no one else to turn to; and if he’s being honest, there’s nothing in the entire world that scares him more than his own mind.

“Geto Suguru?”

He doesn’t recognize that voice.

The soft sound comes from seemingly nowhere, startling Geto with a slight jump. Whomever it is sounds frail and weak, obviously intimidated by whom they’re going to be in the presence of in mere minutes; and Geto already finds nothing but annoyance at his new companion. Of course they’re going to have prior judgment. He bets you already hate him for the rumors and stories. He doesn’t really have a choice whether or not you come in, though. Gojo insisted on a caretaker— someone to talk to so he doesn’t go insane by himself— and Geto will do anything to make his best friend happy. So, he stands up and dusts his pants off, making sure to look more presentable, and stalks towards the entryway. His hand meets the knob, yanking it open, and ready to meet the stranger on the other side.

Standing before him is you, a woman around his age. You can’t possibly be older than twenty-six, but perhaps you’re a few years younger. In your hands are various sweets and snacks that Gojo knows Geto loves, balancing on a silver tray that shines more light in the room than he’d care for. The reflections dazzle straight into his eyes, blinding him briefly with a scowl on his face. Of course Gojo would know to send you in with his favorites. He’s so predictable. His best friend is less surprising than he thinks, causing Geto to roll his eyes to the top of his head; though he appreciates the kind gesture. It’s far past dinner, though. Gojo must’ve struggled to convince the others to allow him a proper meal.

“Don’t just stand there, monkey.” Geto commands whilst gesturing to the small dining table in the center of his confined space. “Come inside.”

The instant you stepped into his presence, it was horribly noticeable that you have no cursed energy. Zero. Not a lick of it…and he struggles to hide the disgust with his body language. He can’t help but be annoyed that a monkey such as yourself is going to be in his company for the next five years.

With his distaste for you clear as day, he pulls out a chair for himself and disregards the kind option of pulling out yours prior; expectantly looking towards you with the expectation that you’re going to serve him his meal like a servant.

“Well, monkey…” he trails off disinterested, “I’m waiting.”

You hustle towards him, quickly and efficiently placing the special grade sorcerer’s meal on the placemat before him and taking the empty seat opposite. There’s a small breath you’re holding in, Geto can see it in your throat— it’s suffocating you with fear for your life as your fingers lightly tap the dark wood in a nervous fit.

You’re completely pathetic. As if a monkey would ever have the courage to speak to him. This is ridiculous.

His hands slam against the table with a loud bang. “What are you doing?” he questions, heavily interrogating you as you cower in your seat like a meak mouse. “Does Satoru expect you to monitor my meals?”

He really is nothing but a prisoner, isn’t he?

“What damage could I possibly do with this slob that’s been served to me by the scum of the earth? Start a food fight in the halls? Overthrow the Jujutsu world with a biscuit?” (If that is the case, in your defense, the biscuits are quite hard. There must be a new kitchen hand in training who based them.) This is a horrible day.

As Geto impatiently awaits your answer, a deep breath escapes your lips— perhaps a way to soothe your heartbeat into something less than a record-breaking speed— and you attempt to focus your stress and fear into a fleeting moment of zen. Your large eyes shut for a total of three seconds; one, two, three…before opening again. This time, as his own eyes make contact with yours, they’re shining with slightly more confidence than before as you swallow hard and settle your gaze on Geto— the look in your eyes evolving from that of anxiety to empathy.

“Actually,” your lips rise into a thin smile, “Gojo Satoru didn’t send me here, the higher ups did.”

Your eyes search Geto’s for any signs of discomfort or inner rage that could be boiling beneath the surface of his poker face. It appears that he’s grown even stronger at hiding his true emotions towards humans; however, you can see through the veil. Yes, it’s thick and difficult to brush past, but there’s a slight opening in the center that you peek inside— and what you can see in his heart is a man who simply wants to finally do what’s right.

“The higher ups are aware that Gojo Satoru has a soft spot for you— hell, everyone who knows your name is aware that when it comes to you, he has no reason. He has no right of mind. I’m only here to monitor and report your progress in an honest manner. That’s it. That’s all. I promise I won’t intrude on your life more than necessary.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry, Geto Suguru…but you’re stuck with me.”

It’s as if his left and right sides are arguing between themselves. His good conscience says that he should give you a chance, perhaps you could be different than the monstrous humans that attempted to kill his beloved Mimiko and Nanako; while his bad conscience tells him to let out one of his cursed spirits to devour you where you stand. Listening to his right side would definitely get him his best case scenario…a chance to see his girls again…but the left side would be so much more enjoyable. Oh well. At least the higher ups sent someone somewhat his age and not an ancient and decaying corpse like themselves. That’s a disgusting thought. He’d rather be hugged by a hundred humans than be forced to befriend a higher up. A shiver runs through Geto’s spine as a newfound appreciation for you is birthed within him.

“Do you have a name?” Geto taunts as he begins to pick at his meal, slightly disgusted with the stale quality of some of the snacks but nevertheless thankful that he at least has something to subside his aching hunger. “Or should I just call you ‘monkey’ as I do with the rest of your kind?”

That sound?

You’re laughing?

Your giggles are surprisingly pleasant to Geto’s ears as they harmonize into a song that he can imagine himself listening to each morning. Why did you find that funny? He was quite literally insulting your entire existence. Geto is dumbfounded by the strange humor you seem to have, considering that he was being entirely serious with his question. Humans are so strange. He’s never really been able to understand how your peoples’ minds work, but perhaps he could begin to learn the basics. It’s not like he has anything better to do, and some entertainment would be nice.

He’ll keep you around…it wouldn’t hurt and you can be his companion kind of like a pet.

Pets are cute…

…your smile is cute too.

You smile once more, answering his question with a blush on your face. “Please,” your cheeks redden, “Call me by my name, Suguru.”

YEAR ONE, DAY NINETY-FOUR

“You’re late.” Geto crosses his arms over his chest, exhaling a large breath of air in a loud and annoyed huff as he attempts to seem seriously angered by his new friend’s awful timing.

It’s nearly twenty minutes past the time that you were supposed to be here; emphasis on supposed. He’s been waiting with his eyes staring at the clock, watching it tick and tick as the time passed by with no you knocking on his door. That’s twenty whole minutes of time in which he was forced to entertain himself rather than listen to your rambles and rants about whatever the latest scandal is in the outside world. You love that pop culture gossip stuff that social media and magazines rave about, and in a weird way, you somewhat remind him of his daughters— personality-wise…not attraction wise…that would be weird.

Over the past few months, Geto’s grown severely accustomed to the daily routine that you’ve developed, becoming so fond of you that he strangely pictures your smile and recalls your laughter when you aren’t even here. Friendship is a funny thing. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a friend like yourself; yes, Satoru will always be his closest confidant…but his relationship with you is different in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on. He’s never considered anyone else the highlight of his every day like he does you. Your company is the kind of presence that he overwhelmingly enjoys; with such a positive and warm nature exuding comfort to Geto’s loneliness, and your judgment-free outlook on life rivaling his pessimism in a perfect mixture of negativity and optimism. He wishes he’d met you sooner, perhaps when he was a child— and if he had, maybe he wouldn’t have turned out the way he did.

It’s too bad you would’ve only been an awful human to him back then…he would’ve called you his infamous nickname without batting an eye…a monkey…

…a mere monkey whom he never ever thought he’d develop unwanted feelings for.

For his entire life, Geto always told himself not to fall in love. That love isn’t real. It isn’t obtainable, not when there are people like Satoru in the world— people that you can’t help but love— and then people like him; people who you can’t help but hate. With that being said, he’s never necessarily been looking forward to any potential love matches in his future.

…no matter who he was involved with…

…until he met you.

“Sorry about that, Suguru!” you hustle through the doorway, your appearance a tangled mess with dusty dirt particles littered with gravel.

There’s a large scratch on your right cheek, not deep or in danger of infection in any way, but noticeable enough that he’s able to see it from a distance. Knowing you, it’s most likely accidentally self-inflicted in some sort of way; you being notorious for tripping or snagging your skin on the sharp end of a table. How do you always manage to be so uncoordinated? Geto can’t help but let out a short laugh, his eyes scrolling up and down your body and taking in your entire appearance, dirt and all. You even manage to make dirt look good. What the fuck? He hates this.

Your voice carries on as you approach him. “I was running on time, but then I saw this adorable shop downtown and I just had to make a stop.” The overexaggerated tone you hold is amusing as your hands wave through the air in a physical storytelling of your experience. The skin of your cheeks is flushed red from your sprint through the city, looking beautiful in resemblance to that of a blooming rose.

Geto can feel his own face heating up at the sight of you, choosing to shrug nonchalantly in an attempt to seem as if he doesn’t care at all about your dilemma…

…as if he doesn’t care about every second of your everyday…

…as if your overall excitement isn’t the only thing that truly keeps him going nowadays.

“You tell me these things as if what you do outside of this room matters to me.” He hopes his words mask his rising blush. (Spoiler alert: They don’t.)

Flawlessly, you brush off Geto’s phony disinterest without the slightest acknowledgement. It’s as if the phrase had never even left his lips, with no evidence and proof of insult. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence when the topic of what you do when you’re not with him comes up in conversation, as the prisoner typically tries to ignore his interest in your daily shenanigans— and you can’t deny that it hurts. Most of the time, it feels as if Geto never actually listens to anything you say, and you were able to quickly realize that in the early weeks of your arrangement when the pain began to torment your heart; ripping and shredding it to bits with every eye roll and mocking scoff. You don’t seem to matter in Geto’s point of view. He doesn’t care…at least that’s what you believe.

In contrast to Geto, you’re an emotional spirit— you crave love.Love is all you’ve ever wanted, needed, and desired. In your time with him, you’ve developed inklings of feelings as well. However, you’ve chosen to let your feelings grow and blossom out of the dirtied patch of grass they were planted in— ignoring the warnings every single person in your life has given you in advance. Despite that, Geto continues to stomp on your budding flowers. He takes a heavy watering can, filled to the brim with hose water, and drowns your garden in the tears that you shed in the privacy of your bedroom. Those tears that are a never ending waterfall due to the fact that you know it isn’t your job to fall in love with your client. Your duty to Jujutsu Society is to help Geto learn to love humans and sorcerers as one in the same and to gain the trust of his community once more— not to love you.

“Okay, before you judge me, at least give me a chance to explain myself.” Stumbling towards Geto, you accidentally trip over your own feet in embarrassment, and proceed to hold out a single flower not yet in bloom. “It’s freshly cut. I saw a bouquet in the window and it caught my eye, because it reminded me of you; but I knew you’d hate a flashy bunch of them so I just bought the one.”

It reminded you of him?

Taking the gift into his own hands, Geto studies it intensely. The rose is a dark shade of red, crimson, or scarlet depending on your vocabulary. The petals are a brighter color while the plushness near the stem turns dark, more sinister as it approaches the thorns lining the sides. Just by looking at the rose, he can understand why it made you think of him. It’s gorgeous, but practically untouchable figuratively and literally. There’s only one angle that he can hold the stem at that doesn’t prick his fingers. Ouch. And he just did the very thing he was being so careful of avoiding.

All his life, he’s never been the kind of person who longed for gifts or compliments, but when coming from the right person…perhaps he is.

Whilst he struggles to come up with a reply— a simple ‘thank you’ or ‘i appreciate this’— you mentally applaud yourself as you’ve finally found a way to make him speechless…

…but your praise for yourself is short-lived.

He can’t be weak. Not even for you.“I guess it’s not terrible.” Geto throws the flower to the ground and lightly kicks it away with his right foot. As one of the beautiful petals drifts away from the lonely flower, he turns away, not being able to endure the heartbroken look on your face and the offended rose on the floor. Why does he have to be like this? “I’m sure that garbage is all a monkey like you can afford anyways.” Why is he so cruel?

His eyes clench shut as he hears the door begin to close. You’re so gentle even when upset. He admires that about you— you’re the calm to his ever-raging storm, the sailor to his tsunami, and the lifeboat to his wreckage— you’re the most pure-hearted person he knows, and you don’t deserve this awful anger he holds within him.

Is he…crying?

As tears begin to drip down his cheeks, Geto collapses against the wall with his knees buckling beneath him and his weight crumbling down to a pile of patheticness. He’s just a shell of a man undeserving of someone like you. Soft sobs escape his lips and silent cries fill the hollow room, absent of your joy, crying out until he notices the faint outline of the young rose beside him. With the flick of his hand, he snatches the flower off the ground and lifts the thorny plant with careful hands— finally and truly understanding your meaning behind the gift. This is how you see him? He’s dreadful and hurtful to others on the outside, prickling kind people away with his thorns…but when encouraged and supported, he has the potential to become something beautiful.

Someone that could one day be compared to the beauty that is of a blooming rose.

With the budding rose in his grasp, Geto sits alone. He realizes that he’s only able to become that person with the help of you. You’re the only person that has even come close to seeing him for who he truly is; aside from Satoru you’re the only person who would think of giving such a gift to the number one enemy of the Jujutsu world. You’re the only person who he’s ever come to feel true and honest romantic love towards.

Geto has to become better. Not only for himself and Satoru…but now, for you.

⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀thank you for reading! reblogs are greatly appreciated! ⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀i promise i'll post the next 2 parts soon pls be patient :3

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moonlight-alexia · 7 months ago

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pair of pests: fight ˏˋ°•*⁀ kyra x catley!reader, short fic/blurb

kyra cooney-cross x reader | 0.6k | based off of this ask

‘That was so stupid and not like you at all,’ Steph hit your arm, it wasn’t hard but it was enough to get your full attention and you knew she wasn’t happy with your incident on the pitch.

You’d gotten into a fight during the match. The whole match had been frustrating, today the team just wasn’t gelling together and you were playing like this was the first time you’d all played together. Barely any of your passes were connecting and you couldn’t understand why. Mixed with the roughness of the match and fouls and free kicks never going your team's way, they were always against your team no matter what.

It felt unfair and the frustrations of the game had just gotten to you, to the point where you finally burst after, what you’d consider to be, another unfair call. Specifically an unfair call against you. Normally you would’ve let it go, but the other player muttered under her breath and you heard it wasn’t particularly nice words towards you.

Without thinking you’d pushed the other player, making her stumble before you banged your shoulder against her while just walking past back to your position. But it didn’t stop there and before you knew it you were having to be pulled back by Leah, ‘Just let it go, it’s not worth it,’ You rolled your eyes knowing that she’d be the first person to voice her frustrations or unfairness within the match.

Though it was too late by the time Leah had managed to make her way over to you and you’d already done enough to warrant a yellow card being shown your way. You’d barely received yellow cards, always wanting to try to be as clean as possible during matches. It was your first one while being at Arsenal and it most likely wasn’t going to be your last, especially with Katie having taken you under her wing, you and Kyra slowly turning into her mini menaces.

‘It’s called passion Steph, maybe try it some time,’ Steph raised her eyebrow at you, while you just smirked at her, knowing you could get under her skin and get away with it. Your response though was definitely a direct reflection from all the time you’d spent around Katie lately.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see Kyra stifling her laughs while watching the interaction between you and Steph. Part of the reason you kept talking back to your older sister.

‘That’s it, you’re not hanging out with Katie for like two weeks,’ Steph couldn’t really ban you but you still feigned annoyance at her words, grumbling and mocking exactly how Steph had said it, ‘I’ll have to start putting you with Leah, maybe you’ll stay in line then,’ Empty threats, your sisters specialty when it came to you.

‘Please, Leah seems like a good influence but secretly she’s really not,’ You exaggerated the last few words, saying them a little louder as well knowing that Leah was close by and wanting her to hear you.

‘Um, who was the one to pull you away from that mess? Pretty good influence like of me, I’d say,’ Leah slung her arm around your shoulders, her other hand ruffling your hair a little.

‘Yeah not after having some choice words with the refs,’ You laughed, pushing her away and rolling your eyes.

‘We gotta keep you on your toes. No peace with us around,’ You laughed with Kyra once she finally caught up with you, walking by your side.

Though you didn’t last long next to each other before Katie squeezed between the two of you, arms over both your shoulders, ‘Proud of ya, don’t listen to Steph,’ The three of you will forever continue to cause mayhem both on and off the pitch as long as you all stay at Arsenal.

#kyra cooney cross #kyra cooney cross x reader #kyra cooney cross imagine #steph catley x you #steph catley #katie mccabe #leah williamson #woso one shot #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso soccer #awfc x reader #awfc imagine #awfc #arsenal women #arsenal wfc

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writing-mlm · 9 days ago

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hi !! saw you write for criminal minds and would love to see something with spencer reid !! there aren’t enough male reader fics for him out there. personally i’m a sucker for reader being used as bait for an unsub with spencer getting jealous and taking care of reader afterwards if they get hurt. but no worries if you don’t want to write that specific scenario, i would just love to see any spencer content at all lol. i love your writing and hope you’re having a great day !!!

The stress of a married man

Summary: Spencer doesn’t like the fact that his husband is out there; his husband doesn’t like the fact that Spencer’s worrying. Pairing: Post-prison!Spencer Reid x Male!Reader wc: 2.4k Tags/warnings: reader used as bait, blood, attempted drugging, kidnapping a/n: while what im referring to won’t be a part 2, just now I wrote 2 separate fics for this request. i’ll try and push it out before next week and it’ll be around 20k words… and a marvel crossover…

Spencer didn’t want this. It’s stupid. It’s beyond stupid, it’s dangerous. He doesn’t care that there’s logic behind it— why should he? Not when you’re putting yourself in danger just to speed up a case, not when there are other solutions.

He twists the cap of the marker as he strains, trying to think of said solutions. None are coming to his head; none that are useful anyway. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek when his eyes dart over to you; sitting in a chair getting your appearance tweaked to fit the victim pool more. A fake mole under your eye, changing your eyebrows a little bit. You’re wearing clothes they’d found in a nearby Ross, stuff that he knows you’re itchy in because they haven’t been washed yet.

Your feet are pushed into shoes a size too small, he can tell because you’re sitting without putting pressure on them and they’re laced too loose. If you run with them they’ll go flying. Maybe that’s for the better, he quickly decides.

He doesn’t see the irony in his worry. The same Spencer who walked into a train and took off his bulletproof vest when the UnSub had a loaded gun? The same Spencer who made Hotch kick the snot out of him? Caught himself on fire and in the middle of an explosion? Stab himself and frame the other guy in prison— that Spencer Reid? Yes. Because he’s him and you’re you.

First name Spencer, middle name Risk himself for everyone else, last name Reid didn’t want you to hurt. He didn’t want you tossed in the back of some guy's van and hauled to wherever. He didn’t want you to experience the torture the other victims are going through firsthand. He just didn’t.

But you’re smiling with Tara, agreeing to let Luke slip a tracker into the thrifted bracelet you planned on keeping because it looked nice. You’re listening to Emily’s specific instructions carefully, you’re understanding the dangers that you’re about to face.

And dammit you’re still agreeing to go through with it.

“Be careful,” He’s almost pleading— no, he is pleading. He absolutely cannot keep himself composed like the others are. He can’t.

“I’ll be alive,” You tell him, messing with the clunky jacket that fits the same way a child wearing their dad's jacket fits. Lightly, you punch his shoulder. “Don’t go worrying about me; this is my specialty, Walter.” He nods, tucking his hair behind his ear because yes, it is. You had transferred from the Hostage Rescue Team after getting your degree.

He doesn’t even care that you’re using his middle name. He doesn’t catch it, in fact. He just caught that you said you’d be alive when he asked you to be careful.

“Just…” He closes his eyes, opening them when he pictures the worst. You’re staring at him from behind a paper cup of water, eyebrows raised because you’ve never seen him so worked up. So nervous before; it’s stressing you out.

“I’ll come back, man. Don’t sweat it, please. You’re making me nervous,” Shit, he blinks an apology and wrings his hands. He doesn’t want to throw you off your game any more than he already has and backs off.

You watch as he walks away, heading back to his drawing board. He messes with the marker cap again, this time chewing on it. It’s a set he’d gotten that day, only used by him, so he’s not worried about germs or anything of the sort. Meanwhile, you move over to JJ to go over the plan seeing as she’s going to be the bartender.

The plan is simple. You’re going to hang out at a local bar, the one flying the highest American flag and that has some stupidly adorable couple trivia night going on but you aren’t going to play. You’re going to sit at the bar, rolling your eyes when someone gets an answer wrong because it was so obvious even a moron could get it right. You’re going to nurse a stein of sparkling apple juice dyed to look like beer. And you’re going to get the attention of the man killing people.

Currently, you’re still on the eye-rolling part. The questions are hard, you have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about but you can hear Spencer through your earpiece saying the answers without catching himself.

A guy approaches you as you’re taking another sip of your drink. A white man, probably in his fifties to sixties, dressed as if he was a professor, and on the shorter side. So far, this is the guy. You smile as he takes the newly vacant seat next to you, his eyes immediately traveling to the jacket around your chair.

“Can you believe they don’t know the fifty-six element?” He huffs after no one has gotten the answer right and the announcer presses the loud buzzer.

“Barium,” Spencer immediately tells you.

“I know,” You scoff. “Who doesn’t know what barium is?” The man looks delighted by your answer and orders a beer. He doesn’t care what brand, just says beer and drums his fingers on the wood until JJ brings him one. He thanks her without any condensation, no sweetheart, or even a lingering look. He says a simple thank you, miss. And hands JJ a crisp ten-dollar bill.

“The youth these days,” He shakes his head as half of the trivia goers don’t get the answer to who made the laws of motion right. “They’re spending too much time learning nonessential things like provocative dancing and texting abbreviations.”

“You’re so right, sir,” You sigh. “I’m glad my grandparents raised me better.”

“Oh, please,” He laughs, holding his chest. “Call me Vince. I’m sorry for forgetting my manners.”

“It’s quite fine,” You smile. “I’m Kyle.”

“Well, Kyle,” He smiles back. This is the part where he’ll have you look away and he’ll slip something into your drink. You’ll look back and he’ll cheer for something. It’ll be strong based on the videos, you’ll be stumbling within three minutes. But even before that, he’ll talk you into leaving the bar so no one can notice. “Whaddya say about a game of pool?” He points to the pool table behind you.

You look, spotting Luke and Emily pretending to pay attention to a group of frat guys playing a game. Spencer tells you that he’s slipped the pill inside and you turn back to Vince.

“It seems crowded,” You shake your head.

“Well, cheers to two smart guys left in a modern age of idiots?” He holds up his beer and you laugh, nodding with your bottle. The drinks and you pretend to drink it. You feel it on your upper lip, it’s fizzy and you swallow your spit to make it seem real. He watches until you set it down and runs his fingers over your ear.

“How about some fresh air?” Pretending to be bashful, you get up and follow him out. He’s not aware that Luke and Emily follow, too.

Spencer watches from the van's cameras as you walk out of the bar. Vince has his hand on your waist and he’s talking about things so well it’s almost convincing. But he’s saying surface-level facts as if he’s only read the summary but not the full text. He doesn’t like how Vince speaks into your neck and how his eyes seem to gleam when you start to pretend to stumble.

You prepare yourself as you hear the red car. Because once you do, he charges you into the side and it’s enough to send someone who’d been drugged to the ground. So, you lay next to the car, pretending to fall in and out as he opens the trunk. You hear the duck tape being pulled and he steps back into your view.

“All you youth are still driven by lust,” He says, holding your face and then applies enough to cover your mouth. He puts you on your stomach and your arms strain as he ties your hands behind you. Honestly, you’re glad he’s counting you as a youth. You know the youth surely doesn’t because boy, you’ve stopped getting carded at bars years ago. Your ankles are the next things he tapes before you’re tossed into the trunk.

Your head hits a pipe and you groan as he slams the door closed. Rolling onto your side, you feel the car start and work on finding the knife in your pocket. The blade flicks up— it had been pinned to your pants just for this— and you work on cutting your way out. He hadn’t done a lot of layers, just three so you’re out of it quick enough.

His car stops, at a red light, because the car is still buzzing and he’s still listening to music that hasn’t been on the radio since there was a transatlantic accent. You take the time to rub your forehead before the car lurches forward. Working on the ankle tape, you hear the line between you and the others cut. You’ve officially entered the dead zone. They’ll track you using the bracelet from here on out.

—

It’s nearly an hour before the car stops. It’s been twenty since Spencer joined Luke in the SUV. Being trailed by local PD and two ambulances with their lights off, he messes with the FBI windbreaker jacket folded on his lap. It’s yours, it’s tailored to your arms and the collar is worn from where you continued to flip it up and down. You’ll probably want it, it’s chilly out and only getting colder.

He hopes you’re only cold because of the weather.

“It’s up ahead,” Luke warns before he parks the car. They can’t risk the UnSub hearing the cars so they’ll have to walk the rest of the way. He nods, fixing his gun as they climb out. The others are close behind and separate. JJ and Rossi go left, Emily and Tara go right, while he and Luke go straight.

The driveway, if you could call it that, to the barn, is nothing more than grass that’s been driven over so many times it doesn’t grow straight anymore. They’re sickly shades of green compared to the bright green elsewhere. He looks up, seeing the car you’d gotten tossed into, and adjusts his grip on his gun. His heart hammers, pleading that you’re okay.

A barn comes into view, the lights are on and Spencer shudders. There’s the smell of pigs nearby that makes his stomach twist before he changes his focus. The doors are ajar— some blood is on the handle. He doesn’t touch it, but it’s wet. He sees the light reflecting on it. Luke gives him a look, holds up three fingers and Spencer nods.

He gets to two before the door gets thrown open.

They jump back but it’s only you. You’re standing tall, one hand on the doorframe and the other gripping your pocket knife. His shoulders sag at the sight of you alive and able to stand before he looks at your face.

“You’re bleeding,” Spencer immediately has you in his grip, wiping the blood from your nose and lip with his shirt. It’s a lot, but considering it’s a nosebleed that’s to be expected.

“Got dropped on my face,” You explain through a wince. “The others are in the barn— they need medical. I patched their wounds as best I could with whatever was lying around,” Luke nods and radios for the ambulance to make their way up.

“And Vince?” Luke looks inside the barn and whistles. “Shouldn’t have been worried, then.” He knocks your shoulder with his fist and you wink.

“Yeah, he really wasn’t strong. He dropped me twice, once on my face and then on my back. I think my head hit a rock—“ Again, Spencer’s hands are on you as he checks the back of your head. Luke chuckles and you roll your eyes, messing with your wedding band tattoo. “I kicked the shit out of his face and then hogtied him.” You wait for a beat before looking over at Spencer. “No hogtie facts?”

“You have a shallow cut on your head, it’ll leave a small scar.” He says instead and opens up the jacket. “You should sit, we can deal with the others.” He drapes it over you and you smile, rubbing his matching tattoo.

“Okay,” He smiles and watches as you walk to sit on a log before heading inside with Luke. He looks at the man still tied up and then looks at the knife in his hand before walking closer. The man is wriggling and trying to speak, both of which he makes a point to ignore.

He saws at the tape before it lets go and quickly handcuffs Vince, ripping the tape off his mouth as hard and fast as he could manage with his shaking hands. Vince starts speaking but Spencer simply lugs him up from the ground in one fluid motion.

“Shut up.” He walks Vince out and tosses him over to the local PD before he finds you again. You’re helping the lady of the victims into the ambulance, setting the thick wool blanket over his shoulders.

“I told you to sit down,” He sighs and you spin around, hands up to show you weren’t doing anything. “Baby, you’re injured, please.” He grabs your hands and kisses your neck, hoping it’ll sway you.

“EMT said it's surface level and just a little bleed, nothing to fuss about.” He ignores the first part as he steals a kit from the ambulance, checking the inside to make sure he has what he needs.

“I’m fussing,” He beckons you over with two fingers and you huff, following him to the SUV where he sets you in the passenger seat. You watch, head on the seat as he carefully puts the items on the dashboard and cleans his hand with wipes.

“It’s cute that you’re worried,” You smile, eyes flickering between him putting on a pair of gloves and his face. “Maybe now you’ll stop being so reckless during cases.” Leaning over, you kiss his cheek but he moves back in for a kiss on the lips.

“I don’t know about that,” He smiles and gently holds your chin. “Let me know if it hurts too much, okay?” You roll your eyes but he doesn’t move so you sigh.

“Yes, doctor,”

#x male reader #x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #matthew gray gubler

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aventurineswife · 10 days ago

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Hi! I love your writing smm <3 Hope you have a great day

If you dont mind, can I request an Aventurine fic with a reader who isn't used to interacting with others (socially awkward, stumble upon their words often)? Thank you!

Between Trust and Treachery

Summary: At a grand and opulent gala brimming with power and pretense, you feel out of place, awkwardly navigating an environment you’d rather avoid. Your discomfort doesn’t go unnoticed by Aventurine, a dazzling yet sharp-tongued stranger that seem to pierce through your soul. Intrigued by your authenticity in a room full of masks, he offers you a quiet escape and a surprising proposition: to teach you how to navigate the games of power and deception. As the conversation unfolds, you find yourself caught between uncertainty and curiosity, unable to resist his magnetic pull.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Social Dynamics, Court Intrigue, Mysterious Stranger, Opposites Attract, Mentorship, Subtle Tension.

Warnings: Light Manipulation and Power Imbalance, Themes of Social Anxiety and Discomfort.

The grand ballroom was a whirlwind of polished marble, glittering chandeliers, and muted chatter. A testament to IPC’s opulence, it was a space that seemed designed to overwhelm anyone unfamiliar with its games of power and pretense. You, however, had no desire to play. Just the thought of navigating the crowd made you tug at the edges of your formal attire, regretting the decision to attend.

You didn’t belong here. Your tongue twisted over greetings; every attempt at polite conversation felt like a stumble through a verbal minefield. Yet, duty—or rather, someone’s suggestion that you “mingle for professional growth”—had dragged you into the lion’s den.

A hand lightly brushed your shoulder, a weightless touch that nonetheless froze you in place.

“Pardon me,” came a rich, lilting voice. You turned, only to meet magenta and cyan eyes flecked with secrets and mischief, framed by the slitted pupils of someone whose gaze seemed to read more than what you said. “But I couldn’t help noticing you seem rather... misplaced.”

He smiled, dazzling but sharp, and every nerve in your body screamed that this man, Aventurine—you reminded yourself—was someone far beyond your ability to handle.

“Oh, um... I, uh—” The words tangled before they could leave your throat. His grin widened.

“Perfect,” he purred, stepping closer, his attire glinting with gold accents as he moved. “No one plays a better hand than the one who doesn’t realize they’re in the game. Shall we talk?”

“I—what?” You blinked, unsure whether he was complimenting or insulting you.

“You don’t have to speak,” he said smoothly, tilting his head. A peacock feather ornament on his hat caught the light. “Your expression says plenty. A rookie among predators, floundering, but oh, so fascinating.” He tapped his chin with a theatrical air. “Though I admit, I might be projecting. You do look like someone trying not to flee.”

You laughed awkwardly, unsure how else to respond. “That obvious, huh?”

“Darling, obvious is my specialty.” His voice dipped lower, conspiratorial. “But don’t fret. I find it endearing.”

He motioned toward the side of the room, where velvet drapes shielded a quieter alcove. You hesitated.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he added, his smile softening ever so slightly. “I’m not asking for your trust. Just your company. Even I can tire of this charade.” He gestured at the bustling crowd, his tone betraying a faint but unmistakable disdain.

Against your better judgment, you followed him. The quiet corner felt like an oasis, though the man sharing it with you exuded enough intensity to make up for the silence.

“So,” Aventurine began, leaning against the wall, “what brought you to this gala of lies and alliances? Certainly not the socializing.”

“No, I...” You fidgeted with your sleeve. “I mean, someone suggested I should, um, network. But I’m not good at—”

“Ah, the old ‘step outside your comfort zone’ nonsense,” he interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. “As if comfort isn’t what makes us thrive.”

You blinked, startled by his bluntness. “I... guess so?”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze almost too focused. Then, as if sensing your discomfort, he broke into a softer smile. “You intrigue me. You’re honest in your awkwardness. Most people here wear masks, yet you...” He gestured vaguely toward you, his rings catching the light. “You stumble, falter, and still manage to be more authentic than anyone in this room.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult,” you muttered.

“Oh, it’s definitely a compliment.” Aventurine’s grin returned, razor-sharp. “You’re refreshing. A puzzle in a world of pretentious pawns. That’s a rarity.”

Heat crept up your face, and you looked away. “I’m not... anything special.”

“Ah!” He clapped his hands together lightly. “And yet, you underestimate yourself. A classic move.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do you know the secret to winning a game? Most people think it’s about control, but it’s not. It’s about making others underestimate you.”

“I uh... I don’t think I’m playing any games,” you replied weakly.

He chuckled, rich and low. “You are, whether you realize it or not. But don’t worry.” He straightened, adjusting his hat with a casual flair. “I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me?” You blinked up at him, confused.

“Of course. Consider it an investment in your potential. You’ll find I’m quite the tutor.” His eyes gleamed. “And who knows? You might even surprise me.”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but the sheer confidence in his tone left no room for argument. “Why... why would you...?”

“Because I enjoy a good gamble.” His enigmatic smile softened into something almost genuine. “And you, darling, are a gamble worth taking.”

For the first time that evening, you found yourself smiling back, even if just a little.

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #social dynamics #court intrigue #mysterious stranger #opposite attract #mentorship #subtle tension

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aticklishpercivalwriter · 4 months ago

Text

Understanding Feelings

Tickletober 2024 - Day 3: Cleaning

For Artists Who See Their Art on My Fics Link(s) to Art: Kinich (@ToffyNarufy); Kazuha (@Genshin_7)

Summary: Kinich is jealous he can’t spend as much time with Aether compared to a certain Adeptus. Kazuha talks to him about it.

A/N: This took way longer than I wanted it to. I wasn’t sure how to describe everyone’s feelings in the poly ship and make it flow, but I made it work out in the end…to my liking at least. It isn’t easy writing with so many characters and considering how they love one another but I hope it comes off clear and to your liking. If you have any suggestions on how to write poly ships and all that, let me know. Even though it is self-indulgent, I want to do it right. On another note, hopefully, I did these two justice since I haven’t seen much fan work of them. Kinda nervous when you write a ship that’s not established or recognized in the fandom. Nonetheless, hope you enjoy this one :)

Word Count: 1656 Also on AO3!

—

“Well, that’s not edible.”

Kazuha, Sethos, and Kinich stared at the smoking pan that held what was supposed to be the pumpkin pie but was now a scorched, black waste.

“And more like a pile of garbage.”

Sethos and Kazuha eyed Kinich with an amused look.

“You're starting to sound like Ajaw. Are you sure he hasn't taken over your body?”

“I'm myself, don’t worry.”

Sethos went to open the window to get rid of the residual smoke while Kinich threw the contents of the pan in the trash.

“I’ll get the ingredients and stuff to bake a new one,” Sethos says. “You both can clean the kitchen.”

Before either of them could say anything, Sethos was out of the house.

“He's just like Gaming, always ready to help out,” Kazuha chuckled.

He looked over in the dining room and saw Gaming and Heizou hanging up the decorations. Heizou sitting on his shoulders putting up the decorations.

Gahahaming! Dohohon't squeeze my thihighs lihihike thahahat! I’ll fahahahall!

I’ll stop once you finish, so just work faster~

“Kaz, we got cleaning to do,” Kinich called out to him.

“Oh, right.”

Kinich was already running the water at the sink and soaping the dishes and utensils that were already inside.

“Can you grab whatever is left on the counter and put them here?” Kinich called over his shoulder.

Kazuha hummed in response, gathering the stuff that needed to be washed and placing them beside Kinich.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Kazuha took whatever was dry from the drying rack and put them away before returning and wrapping his arms around Kinich’s waist and setting his chin on his shoulder, placing a kiss on his neck before humming a tune.

Kinich maintained his composure at the sudden affection and ticklish feeling that was starting to spread across his neck. Goosebumps rose on his neck and a smile he couldn't hold back appeared on his face. Unbeknownst to Kinich, Kazuha caught sight of it from the reflection on the window and grinned.

“What is that tune you're humming?” Kinich asks him, after a few moments of tranquility.

“Since fall is here and there are leaves around, it's my specialty to come up with something to accompany them and it's this.”

“Elegant as always, aren't you?”

“It all comes naturally to me.”

Another peaceful silence hangs over them before Kazuha breaks it with a question.

“How do you like it? Being with us I mean.”

“It's nice,” Kinich answers, turning off the water and thinking. “I never thought that loving Aether would bring me to meet you and everyone else. Though…”

An expression quickly flashes across his face, too fast for Kazuha to make out what it is.

“Though what?”

“Is Xiao usually by Aether's side all the time?”

Kazuha raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Now that you mention it, he usually is. Aether and Xiao have been through a lot together and he has softened up as Aether became the shining light in his heart. Xiao promised him that he should call out his name if he needs anything and he will appear right by his side no matter what.”

“Oh.”

Kinich felt a tug at his heart as he remembered what he told Aether before.

“For you, I'll do anything, Aether.”

He clasped his hands in his before leaning forward and letting their lips connect into a passionate kiss.

Kazuha eyed the troubled look in his eyes, now understanding. Jealousy. He's seen it many times and has felt it too when he wanted to be with Aether and seeing him with one of their lovers (he loves his other lovers, don't get him wrong), he can't help feeling jealous in wanting Aether all to himself for some private time. He knows how it feels.

But he couldn't help but tease him a bit, a smirk making its way on his face as he nibbled his ears making him let out a surprised yelp and out of his thoughts.

“Is the great, ‘Malipo’ Kinich jealous?” he teasingly whispers.

Kinich gasps before turning and trying to glare at him, willing the smile on his face away.

“I'm not jealous.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I'm- AHAHAHAHA!”

Kinich threw his head back in surprised laughter when Kazuha blew a raspberry on his neck.

“What was that? I couldn't hear you over your laughter~” Kazuha blew another one, stealing a kiss from his lips too.

“MmphehaHAHaHA! Ihihi tohohold youhuhu I'm nohohot jehehealous! LEhehet gohoho!”

“I don't believe you. It's okay to say you're jealous y'know.”

“I'm nohohot jealous of ahahany-! Wait! WahAHAIT! Kahahazuhuhu! Dohohon't gohoho thehehere!” he panicked, feeling Kazuha's fingers starting to crawl up to his upper sides and ribs.

“Hmm?” Kazuha hummed innocently as his hands continued to slowly travel upwards.

“K-Kahazuhaha! Plehehease! Dohohon't dohoho ihihit!”

Kazuha never heard Kinich be so frantic before as he desperately tried to tug at his wrists and shake him off.

“Do you want me to stop?” Kazuha asks, slowing down with concern laced in his voice.

Kinich just looks away in response as the last of his giggles fade.

“Kinich? Was it too much? I’m sorry. I-”

“No, it’s fine I…”

Kazuha looks at his face and beyond the red hue from laughing, he sees a subtle blush dusting his face and the tips of his ears.

“It’s just I’m too…t-ticklish…”

A silence settles upon them and the longer it stretches his blush intensifies.

“K-KazuHAHAHAHA?!”

Kinich squeals as he feels fingers dart upwards and pinch his upper ribs and massage his sides, crumbling between the sink and his boyfriend.

“Is the great, ‘Malipo’ Kinich jealous and extremely ticklish?”

“NAHAHAHAT THEHEHERE! KAHAHAHAZ!”

He hides his laughing face in his hands as he leans on the edge of the sink for support.

“Oh Kimchi~ You are adorable~”

“IHIHI’M NOHOHOT A PIEHEHECE OF FOHOHOOD! AHAHAHAHA! OHOHOR ADORABLEHEHEHE!”

“I think otherwise, Kinichi~”

Kazuha starts nibbling his neck and makes nom nom noises along with kneading his ribs and sides.

“Om-nom-nom, so tasty~”

Kinich loses it, shaking his head to try and throw him off

“GAHAHAHAHA! NOHOHOHO MOREHEHEHE KAHAHAZUHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!”

“Just say the words, Kin~”

“OKAY! OKAHAHAHAY! I’M JEALOUS OF XIAHAHAHAO! I SAHAHAID IHIHIT! PLEHEHEHASE! STAHAHAHAP! KAHAHAZ!”

Kinich slides down to the floor in exhaustion as Kazuha lets him, thinking it's over before gasping and letting out an undignified whine when he feels him straddling him. Kazuha took in his form, flushed face with tears of mirth threatening to fall. Giggles slipping out of him unrestrained as he weakly tries to push him off.

Archons, he's adorable looking like this.

He starts tickling him again, rubbing deep circles on his worst spot and Kinich howls in laughter and thrashes as much as he is allowed to.

“BWAHAHAHAHA! KAHAHAZUHUHU! IHIHIHIT’S TOHOHOHOO MUCH! NAHAHAHAHA!”

“Tell me you are adorable, and I'll finally stop.”

“NOHOHO WAHAHAY! I'M NOHOHOT SAHAHAYING THAHAT!”

“I’ll say it for you then,” he gets close to his ear, not slowing down the tickling. “You're so cute laughing like this, Kinichi~ Your beautiful laughter is music to my ears.”

Kinich is beyond flustered and swears he feels more ticklish as Kazuha continues to compliment him.

“WAHAHAHAIT! DOHOHON'T SAHAHAY THOHOHOSE THIHIHINGS!”

“Look at that blushing face. You like this huh? You're an adorable, ticklish one aren't you~”

“KAHAHAZHUHUHAHAHA! STAHAHAP IHIHIT! FIHIHINE! I'M ADORAHAHAHABLE! I'M ADORABLEHEHE! PLEHEHEASE! MEHEHERCY!”

Kazuha slowed down, nibbling his ears affectionately before kissing him and taking his breath away.

“Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

“Whahahatehever. You're cruel, you know thahat?”

Kazuha laughs, carrying him up and setting him on a chair by the counter, and grabbing two cups of water before sitting beside him.

“Back to what we were talking about before,” he says like he didn't tickle him to death a moment ago.

Kinich snorted, taking a sip from his cup.

“What?”

“You almost killed me with tickles, and you talk as if it was nothing. Ajaw would’ve been proud of you if you actually killed me through such means.”

“Oh, come on. You know I wouldn't kill you. Besides, you looked like you were enjoying yourself~”

Kinich blushed, hiding behind his cup.

“Can you stop teasing me?”

Kazuha chuckles.

“Okay. Okay. I'll stop. What I was about to say is that it's okay to be jealous.”

Kinich looks at him over his cup in surprise.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, setting down his cup.

“Believe it or not, I get jealous too. And the others too. We all want to be with Aether and spend alone time with him.”

“Oh. I never thought that you all would be jealous. I thought it was just me.”

“You’re not alone. We all want a piece of our small ball of sunshine, but we respect each other’s desires and who we want to be with. For example, if I’m not with Aether, I’m with Heizou, Scara, you, or one of the others. It’s really all about sharing each other with one another.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Don’t stress about it. Besides, Aether somehow always makes time for each one of us and we all love him for that.”

“…Thank you, Kaz.”

“Who’s ready to make pumpkin pie? Take two this time.”

Sethos strides in with all the ingredients and necessary cookware with a grin on his face as he sets them on the counter in front of them.

“Right on time, Seth,” Kazuha says, rising from his chair and then looking at Kinich he says, “We all love you, Kin. Especially Aether, don’t forget that.”

He then moves close to his ear, whispering, “And how can we not love your adorable blush and cute laugh~”

Kinich looks away as another blush starts taking over his face.

“S-Shut up.”

“What did you say to him, Kazuha? His face is like a tomato. It’s pretty cute.”

“Ugh,” Kinich groans, covering his face in his hands making them both laugh.

“Okay, that’s enough teasing for now. Let’s bake that pie now, shall we?”

“Yup!”

“Mhm.”

—

Thank you for reading! :) -Perz ~Risus Amoris~

#tickling #genshin impact #tickle fic #genshin impact tickling #genshin impact tickle #genshin tickle #genshin tickling #lee!kinich #ler!kazuha #kaedehara kazuha #kinich #tickletober #perz's tickletober2024 #tickletober2024 #tickletober 2024 #percival fics

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frannyzooey · 11 months ago

Note

your specialty imo is the filth for sure, but like the TENDERNESS of the filth specifically

yes!!! the TENDERNESS 🤌🏻🤌🏻 is the most important part!

😭😭😭😭

it’s gotta be TENDER, it’s gotta be DESPERATE, and it’s gotta be FILTH 😏

#ask game #what’s my fic specialty?

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weatheredlaw · 8 months ago

Text

I took an eight week art class and it recently finished. I found figure drawing incredibly fun and relaxing so I’ve been doing two minute practices at lunch at my new job.

I’m very new to everything still but I found a place that does figure drawing every Thursday I’m going to start going to and I’m looking forward to it. The main reason I’m making this post is I was talking and talking about taking a drawing class and then I finally did it and it was so cool. I’m someone who doesn’t see myself as an artist — I write, that is my specialty. But drawing just to do it, just to say I took a class, has been on my mind for a while. And now that I’ve done it, I’m starting to look at other things too — pottery, photography, sewing — whatever I can find for someone to teach me.

A couple months ago my mom asked me “well if you don’t watch TV then what do you do” and that really hit me. Lots of fic writing, lots of games. And those things are fine! They’re really fun and I love them. But it was so nice to take the class and learn something new. Every day I try to scribble something down, just to practice.

If you’ve been hesitating you should stop! Go for it if you can. Try a new thing. Do something out of your comfort zone. Anyway. I love you.

#sketch dump

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mylittleredgirl · 2 years ago

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i always sing the praises of having a beta reader if you want that sort of thing, but actually there are two separate fic-editor types:

alpha reader: just fucking uncritically loves your work. #1 fan. fully obsessed with the pairing you're writing to the exclusion of all good sense. might correct a comma or two but they are there to tell you that you are amazing and that you have never done anything wrong in your life and you should post that shit immediately. you ask them "does this part work?" and they say yes before the question is fully out of your mouth. the golden retriever of writing friends. every writer 100% needs one of these in their back pocket.

pros: THE best preemptive defense against the gaping chasm of self-doubt between "post work" and the first kudos.

cons: this is the reason why sometimes you see a fic that has eight beta readers thanked in the author's notes and the main character's name spelled wrong.

beta reader™️: these friends also fucking love your work, but the way they want to love it is to stick their fingers in your fic like a fruit bin at the grocery store and gently squeeze your characters (and commas) to see if they're ripe.

a good beta reader will copy edit your fic, notice if you've used the same sentence three times, and let you know if your sex scenes seem to contain the intended number of dicks per person.

a great one will highlight for you what's unique and wonderful about your writing, will help you problem-solve and plot through long fic, and will lovingly bug the shit out of you with how did she get here? and would he really say that? and is this what you meant? and when you say "oh shit no it isn't" their eyes light up and they go OKAY! let's figure this out!!!

more of a border collie kind of situation.

pros: the best way to polish your fic and grow as a fic writer. in my experience, it's also an incredible way to work through impostor syndrome. knowing someone you respect has been all up in your fic's junk and still says "it's great and you're great, now post it!" is a game-changer.

cons: if they show you what's not working, you're probably going to have to take time to fix it :/

caveats: not everyone who wants to give constructive feedback can deliver it in a way that works for everyone, so if the experience ends up making you feel bad, this is not a good match! it's also VERY helpful to tell your beta reader what level of editing you're looking for. if someone asks "can you give this a quick once-over before i post?" i know they want me to look for obvious mistakes and reassure them that it's post-worthy. if you ask me to "rip it apart" i'm going in there with a fine tooth comb.

(the primary motivation of both of these editor breeds is, of course, that they want you to write more and they want to read it before everyone else.)

bonus mode:

specialty reader: sensitivity readers and subject matter experts! if you are lucky enough to find and motivated enough to use one of these, their job is not to look at commas or to tell you that you're great, but to give advice on something specific in your fic.

edit: check the reblogs for a correction! turns out “alpha reader” is a pre-existing term in some circles for someone who helps you during the process, a lot like the great beta-reader i described above. taking suggestions for renaming my version of the alpha reader above. i’m thinking “hype man.”

#obviously this is your fic and your free time so none of this is required!#if you want to jack kerouak* it up in an ao3 draft and post without a second thought that is your god given right #fortunately or unfortunately for you i think i have a few posts in me on this subject so i’m going to tag it #beta readers #on fanfic #*jack kerouak actually spent years painstakingly editing on the road so it would look like he didn’t edit it at all #but never let facts get in the way of a good turn of phrase you know

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revasserium · 2 years ago

Note

neverending daydreams with kenma? 🫶

reqs are open :)

neverending daydreams

kenma; 3,709 words; almost freakishly fluffy, but also kinda trippy. basically my specialty and i love this fic a holy freaking hell of a lot. if u read pls PLS tell me what u think u__u and lemme know if u 'get' the ending!!!

he has never been, in all seriousness, what people would have called a dreamer. but having spent most of his waking hours either gaming or wishing he were gaming, kenma quietly considers the implications of being called as such. a dreamer. what a title — what a name.

what a burden.

“was it bad last night?”

“no, not as bad… but at least it was interesting.”

“oh yeah? tell me.”

“so there was a maze, right — and then you know the super hot manga character from the new series — yeah, he was there too, and we had to like figure out this maze but we couldn’t wear shoes —”

kenma lets his head lilt to one side, his eyes falling shut in the early afternoon sun filtering through the wide classroom windows. they’d been cracked open half an hour ago to let in some air, the spring blossoming into what kenma is already sure would be an absolutely sweltering tokyo summer. he’s already dreading it.

“— and then i woke up!”

“aww… lame! you didn’t even make out!”

your laughter spills across the room, warm as the sun now soaking into kenma’s skin and he shakes himself awake, blinking unfocused towards the gaggle of girls sitting three rows ahead of him, heads bent together, a multi-limbed conglomeration of painted nails and hair pins, phone baubles and perfume. he shudders slightly — making out — what a thought. how gross. he’d never understood the appeal, even as more and more of his classmates began to whisper about it, to joke and cackle about it next to the shoe-lockers, in the stalls of the boys bathrooms during lunch, on the benches near the playparks on the way home, loitering around convenience store corners, eyes lingering on bare skin and bracelets, on rolled up sleeves and blushing cheeks.

kenma crinkles his nose, thinking now, of noses. and where on earth they’d even go if you were to —

“oi kenma-kun, do you have notes from yesterday’s class? i lent mine to kiyo in 2-b and she says her dog ate it.”

kenma blinks, nonplussed as your face swims into view, his vision catching on the tiny gems glinting from your earlobes.

“huh? you… don’t really believe that, do you?” he asks before he can quite stop himself. the resulting silence makes an uncomfortable heat climb up the length of his neck till his cheeks are burning with it, and still, you stare at him.

“why shouldn’t i? her dog eats weird stuff all the time.”

kenma blinks again, owlish, and he’s unsure if your confusion is feigned and this entire thing is just some elaborate prank, one that’ll break you into laughter any second. he resists the urge to look around, to make sure that the rest of his classmates aren’t all watching him like they’re in on the joke, waiting for the cue to start laughing as well. he feels his shoulders shrugging up as he fights down a frown.

“yeah but… that’s like the oldest excuse in the book, isn’t it? my dog ate my homework?”

this time, its your turn to blink, cocking your head to one side as you regard him, not a hint of malice or trickery in sight. he feels almost ashamed of himself for thinking it of you. of course you wouldn’t.

and then, you laugh. and he starts again, not because this was what he’d been afraid of but because this is the exact kind of laughter he was not expecting, pure and unhurried and unabashedly happy.

“ah — i guess you’re right, but… well, if she wants to keep my notes, then that’s fine. i’ll just make another set. so…” you smile at him, bright as dawn and summer starlight, “can i borrow your notes from yesterday?”

kenma resists the urge to groan, because his mind is already racing into overdrive — why not just ask kiyo from 2-b to give you back your notes again? nay, to demand that she give it back? to threaten her dog with… with what yet, kenma isn’t sure, but he is sure that that would be simpler, would it not, than to ask him for his notes. even though, sure, yes — he has almost all the same classes as you and sure, yes — he does also take pretty good notes. and sure, yes — fine.

this might be the path of least resistance but… doesn’t it feel a bit like punching in the cheatcode? isn’t it stunting… character growth and exp gain for both you and kiyo in 2-b? what if this causes a glitch in the matrix and you’re stuck in the eternal loop of borrowing people’s notes only to have your own notes be taken and eaten by kiyo’s homework-devouring dog until no one in school has notes anymore and everyone fails? would everyone have to hard-reset and start the year over?

“uh… sure… i guess. if you promise to give it back.” he reaches into his bag to pull out his notebook, pressing his lips for a second before handing it over.

you make a noise that’s caught between a squeal and a squeak. it’s a happy sound, he’s sure.

“thank you, thank you, thank you! and yes, i promise i’ll give it back! and my dog doesn’t eat homework — only table scraps and puppy treats — and maybe the occasional piece of trash on the sidewalk, but definitely no homework!”

you press the notes to your chest and beam at him and kenma finally lets out a soul-shaking sigh. he wishes he were home; he wishes he were playing video games; he wishes that the day came with a fast-forward button so he didn’t have to deal with all these scenarios that don’t make a lick of human sense.

the next day, when you return his notes, it’s with a shy smile and that he isn’t entirely sure what to make of. you’d licked your lips and looked anywhere but at him before pressing the notebook back into his chest and scurrying off with a thankssomuchforyournotes! tossed over your shoulder before you’re disappearing into your multi-limbed girl-gaggle and they were all laughing and giggling as they absorb you back into their amorphous blob, casting furtive glances his way that make his shoulders want to shrink up to his ears, if only to hide his face behind.

he hunkers down over his notebook, adjusts his sports bag and hurries into homeroom.

it isn’t until japanese literature, when he’s flipping open said borrowed-and-now-returned notebook that he notices — there’s a drawing on next blank page. or, well, what used to be the next blank page but is now definitely no longer blank. and it’s a drawing of you.

kenma stares down at it, at the cartoonishly large head, the huge, anime-lashed eyes, at your chibi-rendered hands clasped together in an unmistakable gesture of thanks. and something inside him jumps. something warm and thumping and uncoordinated. it coughs, skips, skids inside his chest and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s his heart.

thanks again! let me treat you to lunch sometime?

he reads the line four times before he finally manages to process the words. lunch. sometime.

treat?

he frowns. but school lunches are always free.

his eyes slingshot towards you, drawn as if by a magnetic force, and he finds you immediately. your eyes meet and a zing sings through him, shaking him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. instead, you cock your head as if asking a question.

his heart thumps, and then thumps again. heat slowly unfurls in the base of his stomach, something like hunger, except it isn’t actually hunger. it’s a wanting, a thrumming wish — pressing and feverish and — he swallows hard, tearing his eyes away from you to look back down at the drawing, at the words.

treat. lunch. sometime.

sometime. but it can’t be during school. then when?

kenma freezes as realization washes through him, cold as a too-large bite of icecream.

oh. oh.

and then, he blushes hard enough for him to bury his face in his arms, refusing to pick his head up even when the literature teacher asks him expressly if he were feeling ill.

it’s saturday at noon, to be precise. and as kenma waits outside the neighborhood soba house, he wonders briefly if he’d accidentally stumbled upon a hidden side-quest that’s actually more difficult than the main storyline, because he’s almost certain that he’d never signed up for this.

cold-soba with you. alone. together.

no. he scuffs his feet against the floor, his fingers furling and unfurling in his pockets, so unaccustomed to not having a game console to fiddle with, no controllers to twiddle. he feels it like a phantom itch, like ghost-controllers as he opts for chewing on his lower lip instead.

stupid kuroo, taking away his switch. stupid, stupid, genius kuroo, letting it “slip” that kenma had a date on saturday, so that his mother had fussed all morning and had subjected him to a full-body pat down to confiscated the rest of his ill-hidden hand-held gaming consoles one by one with a scowl and a reprimand of no gaming when you’re on your first real date, kozume!

at least, he thinks, tugging his phone out of his pocket to flip through the preinstalled games there, there’s alway snake —

“kenma-kun! hi! sorry i’m late!”

your voice catches him like a punch in the stomach and he almost drops his phone, fumbling it for a second before catching it and shoving it into his pocket.

he looks up, a frown already forming on his forehead when he stops — he catches sight of you and that strange, twisting not-hunger-hunger gnaws at a growing space inside him. because oh — there you are. you’re standing in front of him, a little breathless, but dressed like… like a display from a pastry store window, or one of those ball-jointed dolls that have entire fan-followings online. you’re lashes and lace, earrings and nail-art, and all the normal things he’d come to associate with the strange, foreign concept of girl-geometry but you’re also nervous, and sweet, and looking up at him with those huge eyes, not unlike those in the chibi-doodle version of yourself that you’d left in his notebook.

and nervousness he understands. sweetness… he understands too. to a certain degree.

“no, you’re fine… i just got here too,” he says, and it’s a not-really-lie, because he did just get here… like fifteen minutes ago. but time’s just a human construct anyway, and there’s no point in getting caught up in the semantics.

he takes a breath at the same time you do, and you break into a fit of nervous laughter that makes him want to reach out and bottle the sound. or maybe just to record it on his phone for a rainy day. he tamps down the strange and doubtlessly creepy urge with a cough and motions vaguely towards the door.

“uh — you wanna…”

you nod, a bit too hard, before brushing by him into the soba shop and bowing to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

she seats the pair of you in a booth, tucked into the corner, and for this kenma is thankful. he feels himself relaxing into the secludedness of the position.

“hot?” he asks, watching as you fan yourself with your hand from across the table.

you freeze and blush again, and he looks down immediately, feeling rather guilty for putting you on the spot. but when he glances back at you, you’re smiling.

“yeah, a little. it’s gonna be so gross this summer.”

“yeah, i know. i hate it already.”

he would’ve winced if it hadn’t been cut off by the sound of your laughter. with this, at least, he is familiar. how many times had he let himself melt into that sound during all those classes you had together? how many times had he centered himself around it, made it the still point of his turning universe, grounded himself to it so he could count from one moment to the next. he hadn’t thought it anything strange before now — after all, isn’t that what the internet says you’re supposed to do when you’re feeling unmoored? to find a commonality and stake yourself to it. only…

is it strange that he’d chosen your laughter?

it’d been such a simple choice, so easy to make — it was everywhere, and when it wasn’t there, he could conjure up the sound perfectly.

sitting across from you now, he pauses, wondering what kuroo would say if he were ever to bring this up. probably call him a pervert and never let him live it down.

“me too. i think i hate a lot of things but…” you break off, your eyes meeting his for a split second before looking away.

kenma breathes, watches the way you worry your bottom lip.

the conversation is stilted, but after a while, the awkwardness wears off. like silver soaking off years of accumulated tarnish, the shine breaking through as the soba is served and the pair of you are left slurping at the chilled noodles.

by the time he offers to walk you home, kenma finds that he’s no longer searching for things to do with his fingers, the phantom itch of a ghost-console no longer needed to occupy the space between his hands. and when you say goodbye to him this time, it’s no longer a string of words strung together too fast, tossed like an endless hope over your shoulder, but held between the pair of your bodies like a promise.

“see you on monday!”

kenma smiles, “yeah… sure. see you then.”

he watches as you turn to walk away, and his feet warm with the premonition of motion, but something holds him still, holds him there as he watches you take two steps, three steps — and then, you turn back around. and you’re closing the space between you and him, quick as a flash, your lips grazing the skin of his cheek, and then just as quickly, you’re falling back onto your just-taken steps, your cheeks ablaze as you wave a hand at him and race off before he can do more than open his mouth, his jaw loosened by the action, the thought — the motion and e-motion of it all.

kenma stares at the place where your body had just been, taking up space, and then oh-so-abruptly… not.

you’d turned the corner, and now not even your shadow lingers, but he fancies that there’s still a break in the light, a tear in the air just in front of him where you had been, warmed by your just-there-ness. slowly, he raises a hand to swipe it through that space, before bringing it up to his cheek to brush it against the place where your lips had been.

and are now no longer.

and there too, he feels his own skin, warmed by the just-there-ness of your no-longer-there lips.

three days, it takes him. three days to build up the courage to ask you out again. on another date. and this time, he doesn’t tell kuroo, or his mother, but he doesn’t bring games with him either.

the frozen yogurt place isn’t too crowded on a wednesday night, early enough to still be dinner-time, too late for the afternoon-stragglers to be out and about. he arrives, as he had done, fifteen minutes before you, and he wastes no time in starting a game of snake on his phone.

by the time you get there, it’s getting hard to maneuver the pixel-snake’s body without it’s tail trailing across the entire screen.

“i thought you’d only be into the kind of games with like… a million levels or something.”

your voice jolts him out of his intense concentration, and this time, he does drop his phone. your reach out to catch it with a knowing grin, handing it back to him, but by then, the large GAME OVER is already flashing over the screen.

“oops… sorry,” you say, looking genuinely apologetic.

“don’t be. and you’re right, i do like games with a ton of levels but… things like this are fun once in a while too.”

he blushes as he motions at the space between the pair of you, his phone still clutched in his hand, so that it’s unclear if he’s talking about the game or… something else entirely.

“only once in a while?” you venture, the slightest hint of a tease in your voice. and it’s incredible, he thinks, the change a single week’s worth of familiarity can do for the both of you. because while your first “date” had been all awkward silences and rough, stumbling changes of topic, this one — already — has taken on a sheen of smoothness and liquidity that makes kenma’s skin prickle up with what he can only assume is excitement.

“well… maybe — i dunno…” he gulps as he holds open the door for you to walk into the yogurt store, “it’s only a pattern if something happens more than three times, right?”

and god, where had this come from? this daring, this strange, almost alternate-universe confidence — and is he really flirting?

you let out a pleased sort of hum that warms his entire body and he thinks that he’d rather like to hear that sound again too. to add to his collection of bottle-able sounds that come from your body — he bites off the thought there, because kuroo will really start to call him a pervert then.

“i’m free on saturday,” you say, turning towards him to offer him a yogurt cup.

he stares at it for a second before taking it, letting his fingertips linger where they brush against yours.

“okay then,” he says, allowing himself the shadow of a smile as you ask him what his favorite yogurt flavor is, and he asks you your favorite toppings. and it’s easy like this, isn’t it? how had he ever thought this difficult? had it ever been? the bell-like sonance of your voice, the tinkling texture of your laughter, the great, blossoming fire licking up, up from the base of his stomach all the way to the top of his chest.

why had he ever scorned this as strange? as unnatural?

how could he have ever thought this to be a mere sidequest when this — he’s sure of it now — is the entire point of the game to begin with? because don’t all roads lead to this? to this giddiness and certainty? to this… unshakable knowing that he, even in his youth, is held still by in it’s immensity that this could be something more?

something like… love?

but it’s too early for that yet, and he’s getting ahead of himself. skipping the levels and peering at the walkthroughs.

he forces himself to focus on the tang of the yogurt, the crunch of the oreo chunks. he anchors himself to the grace of your smile and the weight of your laughter.

and after, when the yogurt is done and the night is still young, he offers to walk you home again. and this time, he doesn’t wait for you to close the gap between your bodies — he leans down to do it himself. because somewhere between the space of then and now, he’s made the decision that he doesn’t want the shadow or the just-there-ness anymore. he wants the just and the there. separate and whole and oh.

so that’s where your noses go.

the kiss breaks between you and kenma leans in to unbreak it.

you make a small noise at the back of your throat and he has to keep himself from grinning.

there, again, another bottle-able sound.

he inches his hand up to cup your cheek and you lean into him, pressing both your palms to his chest. and for moments and moments and moments, the pair of you stay locked there, breaking and unbreaking the kiss again and again and again until finally, you press him away to take a breath.

you are breathless, and so is he.

and briefly, oh so briefly, kenma wonders as he looks at you, stares into your eyes as you look back at him, if this could be called dreaming.

“oi… oi kenma-kun?”

kenma blinks, frowning slightly as your face swims into view, his vision catching on the tiny gems glinting from your earlobes.

“h-huh?”

your face is inches from his, and the afternoon sun is warm against his skin. the classroom behind you is filled with the scent of a blossoming spring, trailing into what kenma already knows will be an absolutely sweltering tokyo summer.

your voice rings through him like knowing, and your smile, when he finally focuses on it with bleary eyes and a buzzing mind, looks something like the remnants a dream.

“do you have notes from yesterday’s class? i lent mine to kiyo in 2-b and she says her dog ate it.”

kenma chews on his lips as he weighs the answer on his tongue, and finally, he allows himself a tiny, secret smile as he digs around in his bag for the notebook, handing it to you as he says —

“you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

#kenma kozume #kozume kenma #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#kenma x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #kenma fluff #kenma kozume fluff #kenma kozume x you #kenma kozume x reader #kenma x you #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #kenma kozume imagines #haiCUTIES #floofy floof floof #/ vibRATES EXCITEDLY #pls pls pls pls pls tell me what you thought pls i am SO CURIOUS #and also let it NEVER BE SAID i do not feed the kenma stans yall #nearly 4k words PSH #there are so many THINGS in this fic that i am happy with -- not the least the circularity and the actual prose #bc i feel like this is one of those things that bears reading twice and im not just saying that bc i want ppl to read it multiple times #im saying it bc there are so many easter eggs and self-referential bits in the fic that i feel like u would enjoy on a second read through #im just sldkfjosid over the moon about this one and i know it's not super duper polished but i dont think it needs or want to be #ANYWAY HELLO kenma is a GREAT muse yall

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