#fuck but in italics

[livecrow]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

Dark!Ghost x fat fem reader drabble

CWs: dead dove, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink(?), animal play(?), threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism

(A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.)

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It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet, after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people  “jus’ need killin’”. 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither”. After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple, it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your lack of instincts was staggering, it was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you, it only endeared you to him. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”.

Simon's main concern was not damaging you too much, he was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory, but he’s not applying enough pressure to actually choke you. You’re just forced helplessly to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led, he would simply tighten his hold, and allow up a quick nap. He’d pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel work table the metal stings you even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but your nipples is where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle. You were a bit of silly thing, he thought. Maybe it’d be a minute till you’d actually catch on.

You're his little prize. Simon will coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what y’ need clothes for?” he scoffed. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want you to answer. A dog doesn’t answer “who's a good boy?” does he? 

He’s measuring you, jotting things down. You think distantly that the pencil looks puny in his fist. While he's at it, he's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store.

Only when you think there’s finally a reprieve, you’re being hogtied. You’re trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape its bite. Simon says it looks good on you, can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing pinch. You struggle of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of d-rings. It will be more comfortable for you and he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chaffing. 

As he admires your skin, he’ll remark offhandedly that he’ll have to ""'ave somethin' from you" too. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. Couldn’t find more supple could y’? He hasn’t decided what’ll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That’d be about the first time your consciousness flees from you.

Simon will lay it on thick, praise how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you can't blame him for any of this, really. He'll say something about kobe beef and taking good care of you. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying, it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you, it’s never fucking ending. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats, might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food, you don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful and to no one’s surprise it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye”. He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'".

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner, even if seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. Steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over on the floor, forced to eat off a dish without the use of your hands, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise. Still, if he’s in a mood he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess”. 

The food was prepared, but this time the kitchen knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your peripheral.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence.

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side.

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 

“They’ll say ’m ‘spoilin’ ‘er rotten’. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?”. He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whenever Simon’s put up enough with your smart mouth, he enjoys the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make when gagged are special little nonsense noises, almost like you're trying to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hand are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day”.

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.

[killerpancakeburger]

Breaking point (2/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Soap x GN!Reader

Ghost's version (1/2) Soap's part 2. Soap's part 3.

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Soap is tooth-rotting sweet.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃Soap is Prince Fucking Charming (very cliché romance tropes). Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

This bad good boy gave me a harder time than expected lol.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.

Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.

But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.

Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be Soap fucking Mactavish. Only the most gorgeous man on base - according to you, that is.

You weren't proud of it, but you had a crush on him since you arrived, six months ago. His piercing cerulean eyes, rugged good looks and outgoing personality wouldn’t let you know peace. The mere sight of him was enough to bring a goofy smile to your face, and every conversation between the two of you left you blushing and elated.

You initially thought that this silly, juvenile infatuation would fade away soon enough. Ok, he was beautiful, and he had eyes to damn yourself for, so what? Surely with enough time and exposure, he'd feel mundane. But things didn’t go that way at all.

On top of looking stunning, he just had to be friendly. He made you feel welcome when you arrived. He made efforts to include you in conversations, asking questions to get to know you. He relieved you of the burden of small talk, appeasing your social anxiety, by happily keeping the conversation going on his own, never taking offense when you had nothing to say. He chose to spend some of his free time with you, escorting you back from the archives or dropping by your office.

He was even flirty at times. Flirty. With you.

You could have still disregarded all this; tell yourself he was like this with everyone, that it was just his personality; imagining things would only end up with you hurt in the end.

But then, during a meeting, you witnessed his sincere concern for civilian lives. His righteous anger against unjust orders, when you had fully expected a soldier to obey mindlessly.

This had been your undoing; the moment you knew you were a goner. A severe fondness for him had sunk its claws deep inside your chest and had no intent to let go. It didn’t mean you had any intention to declare your feelings though; you never entertained the thought that he could return them, therefore there was no need for any confession.

For him to be the one to have caught you in this state, it was downright humiliating. Especially since his good heart would make him feel obligated to care.

He was still wearing his leather, fingerless gloves, and some dirt lingered on the contour of his face, like he tossed his weapons and his flak jacket to the side right out of the heli bringing him back to base, and rushed here.

“Hiya hen, brought you the- Shite, what happened?”

His booming voice and cheerful tone fade away as his eyes widen with concern. He briefly freezes at the door in shock before closing the distance to your desk with great strides. You lower your eyes in shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.”

“No offense, bonnie, but yer not very good at lying.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look at him. Staring at your own lap is only going to make you seem more suspicious.

You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Soap turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced.

He still remembers that one time when you showed up thirty minutes late to a meeting with the Task Force, panting, leaning on the threshold, the front of your clothes soaked in blood.

 “Sorry I’m late,” you started.

“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it,” Price interrupted before laying eyes on you. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

You explained how Private what's-his-name bled out in the break room after carelessly reopening his stitches and you had to stop the hemorrhage with your bare hands and a bunch of paper towels while shouting yourself hoarse for help. Yet when Price ordered you to take the rest of the day off, you insisted on going on as usual, forcing their captain to make it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

You and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

Clinging to what's familiar, you focus on the stack of papers under his arm.

“You have the latest reports? Give it here.”

You hold out your hand expectantly. Instead of giving them to you, he sets them down on the opposite side of your desk, out of your reach.

“Paperwork can wait.”

You blink in astonishment at him.

“No it cannot…?”

You roll your eyes at his behavior and get up to seize the reports, but he snatches them from you. You can feel your composure snap like a twig.

“Johnny, what the hell?!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You could remember exactly the first time you called him Johnny, only because it had been such an embarrassment. You couldn’t get used to his alias; sure you had been warned beforehand that some of them were… original, but somehow "Soap" was the one that stood out as the most ridiculous. You briefly entertained the idea of using his first name, except that for you “John” already referred to Captain Price. Only once you tried to call him Mr Mactavish, and as a result Gaz and him guffawed so hard they almost fell off their chairs. Even Ghost let out a cough that was most definitely a concealed laugh. You were running out of options until you heard the lieutenant call him Johnny; you instantly liked it. It just… fitted him. 

From that moment on you used the nickname, but only in your mind. You didn’t have any of the liberties Ghost had and you wouldn’t take them, out of respect, and shyness. Or at least this had been the plan until you fumbled and called him that to his face. The ensuing silence felt deafening as you were realizing what you’ve just done, and you apologized immediately, mortified. 

He just laughed it off; said you could keep calling him that. True, he had appeared more surprised than irritated, but you didn’t want to take the risk of him simply being polite. This too, had been your plan, until he ruined it merily. 

Somehow he must have noticed your efforts to not slip up again because he teased you about it. 

“Not Johnny today? Did ah dae something wrong?”

You went back to “Johnny” quickly - anything to put an end to the mischievous glint in his eye and the rascally smirk on his lips aimed at you. Being the target of his undivided attention sent a pang in your chest and knots in your stomach. Those sensations weren't exactly unpleasant, but it led to an ominous feeling that this was too good to be true, and that at any second this vision would shatter to reveal the cruel reality; so you'd just grant him a timid smile to confirm he did amuse you, but then proceed to look away.

It's the first time you’re pronouncing “Johnny” with anger; real, raw annoyance, as well as animosity, instead of the fond frustration you usually display when he messes around.

To your utter disbelief, he smiles in response to your outburst. 

“There we go, talk tae me. Even if it’s just tae scream at me.”

The remark pacifies you instantly; you lower your arms, defeated.

“I'm not gonna… I don't want to scream at you.”

You sigh and sit back, setting down your elbows on your desk to take your head between your hands, overburdened.

“The hell you want me to tell you? That my mom's on the brink of death out of nowhere? That when she's gone I'll be all alone in this world?”

You swear, aggravated, as tears sting your eyes again, and this time you ignore if you'll be capable of holding back the flood.

Nevertheless you can still hear Soap curse under his breath, Scottish accent growing thicker, before moving to get on your side of the desk, to reach you, dispensing soft-spoken, soothing words along the way. You pivot to face him, your burning eyes and the sensation of dried tears on your face making you painfully aware that you must look as pathetic as you feel.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him kneeling at your feet. His hands reach for your face, slowly enough to give you time to back away if you wanted to.

“A'm sorry, ah didnae mean tae mak' ye cry, a'm a bloody eejit. …Can I?”

His fingers stopped a breath away from your tear-stained cheeks. 

At that exact moment you can’t quite believe what he's about to do, yet you nod your head in agreement - not trusting your voice to not break - all the same, the gaping void in your chest aching for any kind of contact he'd be willing to provide.

His warm fingers cup your cheeks as the pad of his thumbs gently, almost reverently, wipe the underside of your eyes.

“There we go,” he cajoles, meticulously drying any wet spot on your skin.

“A'm ‘ere whether ye want tae talk or not, aye? A'm not going anywhere.”

You stare at him in silence, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding in front of you. Never in your wildest dreams you would have expected to have this man at your feet. He sets his hands down on your knees, squeezing them softly, and is looking right at you, encouraging smile and tender gaze, reassurance radiating from his expression. The position allows you to greedily take in every little detail: the white line of the scar on his chin, the breathtaking shades of blue in his eyes, the gap in his left eyebrow.

As you lose yourself into the work of art that are his features, he keeps conversing.

“We should take yer mind aff things. We could play board games in tha rec room. Or ye could let aff some steam wi’ tha punching bag in tha training room! Ah could teach ye how tae shoot on tha shooting range-”

You open your eyes wide as his suggestions turn progressively more violent.

“I have a bus to catch, and that's overlooking the fact that I haven't done anything in my last hour of work today…”

“If anyone gives you trouble, just say ah forced you.”

You chuckle at the idea.

“You'd never compel me to do anything.”

You can’t repress a loving smile. Johnny just feels that safe to you.

He smirks mischievously at that.

“Na, but they'll believe ah dragged ye intae mah evil schemes.”

He punctuates his statement by a roguish wink that wrests a laughter from you.

“You should take my bed,” he declares suddenly, serious again.

As the silence between you two stretches and your smile is replaced by a mix of shock, confusion, and worry, he realizes how this may sound. Flustered, he starts rambling to defuse the situation.

“Wait, no- steamin’ jesus - Ah didnae mean it like that! I’d take the couch in the rec room, ‘f course. Ye shouldn't go through tonight alone.” 

“Oh my god, Johnny, I could never take your bed from you. You must already sleep on the floor so often for missions…” 

“Exactly, hen. This is nothing for me. The couch is a hotel compared to that.”

You open your mouth to argue more, but then he makes an expression that can only be described as sad puppy eyes, even going as far as slightly tilting his head to the side to perfect the impression. You gulp in response, stricken straight through the heart, and knowing pertinently that you could already hardly refuse him anything, so if he begins to gaze at you like that… 

“Pretty please?” 

Oh no. Not that line.

He's now excessively batting his eyelashes at you, which, while not exactly alluring, is both comical and endearing. Hell, who are you even kidding? You’re so smitten with this blue-eyed creature, is there any act from him you wouldn’t find endearing?

“Are you… pouting?” 

“Depends. Is it working?”

You sigh, aware it's a losing battle, and look away, a futile attempt to hide the ridiculously potent effect he has on you, or to at least shield yourself from his influence, if only momentarily.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Maybe ah just wantae hear ye say aye tae me.”

Your cheeks catch fire at the suggestiveness of the words. As if the regular rasp of his voice, that felt like an exquisite caress along your spine, wasn’t already making it incredibly difficult to keep your face at a reasonnable temperature.

“You're gonna get me fired, Johnny.”

“Over my dead body,” he retorted with surprising determination, solemnly pressing a hand over his heart.

You scoff indulgently. Coming from anyone else, the hastily taken oath would be preposterous, but Soap has always proved himself trustworthy.

“Let's go. Your knees must be sore,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.

“Wanna make a joke aboot mah stamina when kneeling but ah will keep it fur next time,” he slips as he stands up, way too smugly for your own good, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything. As if you needed any more incitement into picturing him on his knees in a different context. 

You get up quickly after, but he does not get out of your way. You rise a quizzical eyebrow, his close proximity triggering alarm bells inside your head. If he remains near enough for you to feel his body heat, you’re going to get dizzy.

He simply grins.

“Want a hug?”

You blink at the unexpected question. Yes, implores your touchstarved mind. YES, cries out your sensitive, enamored heart. 

No way, rebuffs your cautious brain. It will only hurt more knowing what you  can’t have.

He opens his muscled arms, smile genuine, almost blinding, like a tacit invitation, and all your reluctance seems to evaporate with that simple gesture. Before you can linger any more on the harmful consequences this lack of restraint will eventually cause, you throw yourself into his embrace. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

Your hands close on the back of his shirt, near his shoulder blades, and, pressing your face into his shoulder to make the world disappear for a moment, you cling to him like he could rescue you from the sinking ship that was your sick mind. One of his arms close around your waist while his free hand rubs your back, leaving trails of fire in its wake, but bringing you much-appreciated comfort nonetheless.

“You're too nice to me. I feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”

He remains silent a drawn-out second, and you're terrified you just screwed everything up.

“Yer givin me too much credit, lass “ he finally says. “Ah don't go ‘round base comforting every person I find.”

His tone isn’t angry, per se, but it lacks its previous joviality.

Soap tilts his head back, biting his lips, thanking the universe that with your face laying against his chest, you can’t perceive his embarrassment.

He can’t tell you. Not yet. Not now.

He can’t tell you that he used to consider writing reports as the worst part of the job until you came along; until you awarded him a heartfelt, radiant smile when he gave you his; that he noticed how little you smiled outside of artificial ones you fabricate for work purposes; that when he manages to make you smile or laugh genuinely, it feels like a prize, that only he is privy to.

Months ago, he took the resolve to make you smile more; for a while now he started doing his reports more seriously, or even did the ones of Gaz and Ghost, just to have an excuse to see you, to behold the way your face lightens up when he brings you necessary paperwork before you even demand it.

And he certainly can’t tell you about that one time where he handed over his reports in advance, but you weren't there, so he left, heart heavy with disappointment, dragging his feet, until he heard your voice coming from the room he just left.

“What are those?” you questionned your coworker.

“Soap just dropped them.”

“But… I didn't even ask him to yet?”

Perplexity combines with glee in your voice.

“He's a good boy, isn’t he?” prompted your colleague.

You let out a fond, wistful sigh, before responding, half-joking.

“I know! Such a good boy for me.”

Getting to hear you beaming over his benevolent action was already a treat, but witnessing that compromising exchange? To be called a “good boy” by you short-circuited him. He swore - “Steamin jesus” -, ears burning, face on fire, covering it with one hand. He needed to leave badly. Seek refuge in his room, where he could be free to replay that tantalizing line on loop in his mind. “Such a good boy for me.”

Your heart beats a bit faster than usual as you obediently follow Soap through corridors you’ve never been in before. You trust him with all your heart, but that doesn't change the fact that what you’re doing is against the rules; and those rules aren't high school's, but the ones of a military base.

You flinch hard as a familiar voice screams in your direction.

“SERGEANT MACTAVISH!”

Oops, you think. That's Captain Price, your supervisor, and he sounds pissed. You never witnessed him calling Soap by his last name before, but that being said, you never saw him deal with a kidnapped assistant either.

You've been caught red-handed. 

Your mind begins to come up with plans to lessen the punishments that are without doubt about to descend upon you two, but Johnny grabbing your hand brings you back to reality. 

You lift your gaze to him. He doesn't seem worried at all, if anything… is that a spark of delight in his eye?

He only pronounces one word.

“Run.”

So you run, carried away half by adrenaline, and half by the sergeant dragging you. Thankfully Soap is aware that there's no way you can keep up with him and his training, so he comes to a halt a minute later.

Panting hard, you double over, hands clenching your knees for support, heart thumping in your chest, blood throbbing in your ears.

“Why… are we… running…!?” you manage to exhale. “It's only… gonna make… things worse…”

By your side, he's standing fresh as a daisy, barely ruffled by your flight. The sight would be infuriating if his eyes weren't glinting with amusement and he wasn’t offering you a dazzling smile.

“Because it's fun,” he affirms like it's evident.

Little by little, you catch your breath, throwing Johnny a look that's half in earnest, half in jest.

“More fun for you than for me.”

He doesn't get flustered by your moderate reprimand.

“Is it selfish o' me tae wantae spend more time wi' ye? Didnae want us tae git interrupted yet.”

The line feels like a punch to the chest, stealing the breath you just recovered and leaving you agape.

He takes your hand again with the natural of a well earned habit.

“C'm'on, ah have more than one trick up mah sleeve.”

You're unsure which of the views unfurling under your eyes is the most magnificent; the sunset in front of you that's painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, or the striking man by your side whose eyes could rival the most astounding sights.

Nibbling on the dinner Soap smuggled out of the cafeteria with too much ease for it to be his first time, you regularly sneak glances at him as he fills the silence with tales of his adventures - the parts that aren't top secret, at least. You two totally did not break onto the roof moments ago, no sir.

Goosebumps travel along your arms and any exposed skin as the night falls and the sun takes away the warmth with him. You furiously brush the outside of your arms for heat, and you're about to suggest finishing this inside, when a jacket lands on your shoulders.

It is still warm with his owner's bodyheat, deliciously so. You curl up and drag it closer, your face on fire. Realizing that Soap gave you his jacket without you even having to ask or complain about the cold… you’re conflicted between obsessing over this like a giggling schoolgirl, and feeling apologetic.

Once you more or less got your blushing under control, you turn to him, displaying a contrite expression.

“I don't want to take your jacket on top of your bed, Johnny.” you pout.

“A'm a bloody furnace. Wanna check?”

He asks, cheekily, even adding a wink for good measure. As if there was any more artifice needed to make you putty in his hands.

He presents you his bare arm for the taking, all golden skin, bulging muscles and a constellation of white scars.

You indulge him and lay a hand on his bicep, knowing he won't relent otherwise; that is definitly the only reason; it has absolutely nothing to do with your own desires.

Indeed, he's burning. As you envy and bask in the heat provided by his body, forgetting that your touch is lingering too long for someone who is just a coworker, he chooses that moment to flex shamelessly, showing off the impressive circumference of his muscle. You feel obligated to squeeze it in response, a way to finally meet him head-on instead of passively enduring his quips, and it feels like reinforced concrete under your fingers.

You fail to hold back your laughter at his facetious demeanor. 

“You're ridiculous.”

The comment holds no bite, a smile brimming with tenderness stretching your lips.

“I'll be the most ridiculous man on the planet if it makes you laugh.”

He's leaning back, hands propped on the ground behind him, head slightly tilted to gaze at you, and the earnestness on his face could almost make you believe his words.

Almost.

But instead a sharp pang pierces your chest, right between your lungs, at heart's level. The smile you return him in spite of yourself oscillates between content and heartbroken, before opting for the latter. 

Tomorrow you will ask him, maybe even plead; tomorrow you'll ask him to put an end to the flirting. You cannot bear it. 

But just tonight, you'll indulge it. You'll pretend to be normal, a well-adjusted human being, instead of a broken shell; you'll act like an adult for who flirting is a regular event and not the mental equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

You abruptly stand up, dusting yourself off, purposely ignoring the newfound lack of understanding on Soap's face and how his mouth opened for a question.

“It's getting late,” you state, not nearly as casually as you'd like. “I'm beat!”

You're running away and you know it; but you never claimed to be brave. Really, it is the best solution for everyone involved, or at least it's how it has always seemed to be your whole life.

He escorts you to his room - of course he does. Even if he already picked up his things earlier to crash on the couch, already showed the place to you.

As you awkwardly face him on the doorstep after saying your goodbyes and your thanks, unable to look away yet incapable of making eye contact, pain flares in your torso thinking of him, somehow intertwined with joy and gratefulness for his existence. Maybe your inner struggle shows on your face because next thing you know, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but as the deranged idea that he's about to kiss you manifests in a remote corner of your mind, your brain swiftly shuts off as his lips make contact with your forehead.

The touch is light yet your entire being seems gathered on that point of contact.

“G'night, bonnie,” he half-whispers, as if to make sure his words exist only for you.

He grants you one last smile, small but so sweet you feel your heart tightens.

“Good night, Johnny,” you manage to articulate before sheltering in his bedroom. The room smells like him.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you rest against it, tilting your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Morbid curiosity pushes you to glance in the adjacent bathroom's mirror, if only to see what you look after this evening. A flustered mess? A sorrowful wreck?

Catching your reflection's eye makes you grimace as you realize an incriminating detail.

You forgot to give Soap his jacket back.

[searchingfortheuniverse]

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal in Masters of the Air

[template]

[rottenaero]

AO3

Part 1

Part 3

Part 5

Part four of roommates idea

The officer clicked his pen again, signaling he took to long to answer. Steve faced him again, “Sorry I- Shit. Eddie he wasn't- he wouldn't do this shit. He's afraid of fucking dogs. Not even the real big ones either, he definitely wouldn't kill someone. He cries when he watches Bambi and gore freaks him out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I'm absolutely-fucking-positive! He looks all tough and shit but he's not, he's just scared. Fuck that sounds- so bad but- God why don't you believe me and Wayne?”

The officer sighs, ”Eddie sold drugs, did drugs, it's entirely possible he had to many and did something…Not entirely in his regular character.”

Steve bit his lip, “He wouldn’t.”

-

Steve sat in the family video, he's been distant since the shift started and Robin couldn’t understand why.

That was, until the TV showed the news of a Hawkins student dying. Did he somehow know?

Not much later, Max and Dustin came in yelling about phones, and were quick to start using them.

Steve didn’t even seem shocked when they talked about Eddie being accused. When they finally got a lead about a ‘Reefer Rick’, his eyes lit up.

“I know where he is.”

-

“Hello?”

Steve looked around the boathouse, “What a dump.”

His eyes landed on tarp covering a boat, “Eddie?"

“Eddie, are you here?"

Now, Steve wasn't an expert, but that tarp looked a lot like it just moved, and if it wasn’t Eddie then-

He grabbed an oar that was leaning against the wall, and began poking it.

“What are you doing?”

“It moved.”

“So take the tarp off!”

Steve gave Dustin an incredulous look.

“If you're so brave, why don’t you take the tarp off!”

It was silent for a moment, then-

“…Steve?”

The man in question let out a relieved sigh, and smiled. “Eds!”

Steve drops the oar, a resounding clatter banging off the walls as he flings the tarp off the boat.

And there he is, Eddie Munson in all his glory, sitting in a fetal position and clutching a broken bottle to his chest like a lifeline.

As soon as he seemed to see Steve, he quickly threw the bottle to the side and stands up to step out the boat.

“Steve, thank fuck.”

Eddie engulfs him in a hug, pressing his face into his neck.

Steve bites his lip, “Hey, hey its okay.”

Steve slid them down carefully, positioning his back against a column. It was a bit awkward, with them being similar height, but he made it work.

“She- I didn’t kill her! I don’t, she started fucking floating. Then her limbs snapped, god Stevie, please you gotta believe me.”

He looked over to the party, Robin’s eyebrows were pinched, Max was darting her eyes between the two, and Dustin looked like he was about to say something.

Finally, he gathered the courage. “ Eddie, we believe you. What you saw, it’s been happening for years. Well, not this particularly but the supernatural.”

Eddie peeked his head out, “ What do you mean?”

Dustin crouches down awkwardly, hands together. “Theres another world. Its kind of like this one, but its terrifying. There are things there. Its called the upside down. We’ve been fighting it since 1983 when Will went missing.“

Steve feels him tense. “ ‘We?’ ‘Fighting?’, How do you fight an invisible force?”

“Demogorgons, demodogs, government people, russians. We’ve had to face them for years. Steve and I were there in 1983, Max in 1984, and Robin just joined in last year with the Russians and the mall.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, and he turned his head slightly to face Steve. “ Is that why you were so beat up last year?”

Steve shrugged, “ Yeah. Pretty much.”

Eddie burrowed his head into his neck again. “ Jesus H. Christ.”

“Look, we’re here to help you Eds, that murder in the trailer? They were asking me questions, they think its you. Wouldn’t let up on the idea no matter how much I insisted it wasn’t.”

Eddie looked at Steve with a mix of fear and gratitude, “What do we do? Can’t exactly waltz up and tell them it’s supernatural.”

Steve hummed, “We need to figure out what happened to that Chrissy, and clear your name.”

Max stepped forward, “We’ll help you, Eddie. We’ve faced worse than this.”

Eddie nodded, “Okay. Shit, we’re really doing this..”

Robin glanced around, “Not to interrupt or anything, but maybe we should do the whole story? Like, you guys didn’t even mention the super power girl, and shes like major isn’t she?”

The long haired metalhead nodded, giving Steve a squeeze before letting go and standing.

He turned to face Robin a grimace on his face, “ Right, yeah, full story. Super power girl, sure.”

Steve patted his shoulder, when did he even get up, and after a second, bumped him with his hip.

“Buckle up, Eds. This is gonna take a while.”

Tag-list

@bxlthazar @i-have-three-feelings

[nge1]

FUCKING HELL. PLEASE HELP.

shit took a turn for the worst. my oldest brother dgaf (are we surprised!) & he is deciding to 'punish us/teach us a lesson' bc we're not 'godly enough' or cultish like him. he purposely waited to tell us till the last minute that he wants to let us suffer again. WE NEED $368USD BY THURSDAY (TOMORROW) BEFORE 12PM OR WE WILL BE EVICTED & HOMELESS. apparently me being scheduled for 4 fucking interviews on one day wasnt enough for him. now i cant go to the last two because of him. im so exhausted. my chronic pain flare ups are insane, i cant fucking do this anymore & as of today im $1000 more in debt from credit cards. goals below. jfc please save me.

$0/$368 WEEKLY RENT (11/28)

$0/$91 STORAGE UNIT (12/1)

$0/$50.30 PHONE BILL (12/3)

MY GFM 😿 MY P$YLINKS

dm if u want to d*nate by: zelle ppal chime wisely stripe....

dont tag as anything suspicious. pls reblog. anything helps.

m$ney goals will be updated in the comments of this post.

will be updating my gfm soon & adding lots of info to it.

[hockeynoses]

and call me in the morning (Ste/ddie snz fic)

Summary: A college AU where Steve is sick and in order to get excused from class, he has to get a doctor's note from the university clinic. Eddie is a med student who works at the clinic.

Rating: PG-13? Nothing much going on here other than admiring each other's looks. No character has the kink. 3.7k words.

Warnings: Mess. Coughing. Mention of contagion, but none actually happens.

Notes: Inspired by gemsden's post. I've always had a bit of a medical kink just lurking under the surface and, well, this happened. I'm happy it pulled me out of my writer's block! The title is from Coconut by Harry Nilsson.

.

After the nurse weighs him, shows him to the private room, takes his blood pressure, and leaves, Steve has nothing more to do than stare at the bland, cream-colored walls and try not to fall asleep on the exam table. He fights the urge to lay down on the crinkly, uncomfortable paper, praying that this won’t take long, and he can be back home in bed as soon as possible.

The stuffiness in his nose that has been bothering him for days once again reaches capacity, and he feels a tell-tale tickle which gives him just enough warning to fumble a tissue out of the small pack he has shoved in his pocket. “kknnnxXGT!” The fountain of snot that pours out is miraculously all contained in the one feeble tissue. He groans and a couple coughs escape him. This cold, or whatever the hell it is, is just starting to settle into his chest.

The trash can on the other side of the room is too far away for his aching body, so he sets the used tissue to the side of him on the exam table. The waxy cover always reminds him of the kind of paper used for takeout orders. He feels enough like a vegetable right now that someone could just wrap him up like a sandwich and put him out of his misery.

Fiddling with the packet of tissues, he sees he only has two left. There’s a full box sitting on the counter across the room, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by hoarding the entire box like some kind of snot monster. He should be able to control his nose for the next ten minutes or so.

After a few more minutes of waiting, there’s a knock on the door. It swings open to reveal a guy about his age, with long curly hair pulled back into a bun, and the biggest brown eyes Steve has ever seen. The dark ink on his forearms swirls all the way up his biceps until it disappears under his scrubs. Steve instantly feels his face warm, and he’s about ten times more embarrassed to be here. He thought he was going to be examined by some sweet middle-aged lady, not this bad-boy doctor that sends heat crawling up his neck.

---

Eddie enters the exam room and commends himself on his professional conduct when the first thing he notices is how awful the guy on the table looks, rather than how gorgeous he is. The third thought that runs through his head is how familiar he looks. This has to be the guy that stops by the coffee shop where Eddie studies.

He’s shaken from his thoughts when the guy curls forward with a powerful sneeze that rips through him, thankfully caught in a waiting tissue.

“Whoa,” Eddie says, stepping over to the counter and immediately donning a surgical mask. The guy looks truly miserable and Eddie’s not trying to fuck around with this.

“Hey,” the guy says weakly into his bundle of drenched tissues.

“Hi,” Eddie says, “It’s, uh…” He looks at the chart in his hands. “Steve, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve follows his resigned answer with a clearing blow that rips through the otherwise quiet room.

“So, you’re not feeling too hot, Steve?” Eddie pulls the swivel stool to the center of the room and takes a seat.

“Not really, bman.” Steve pulls the tissue from his face, gives a hearty but futile sniff, and sets the dirty thing on the table next to him. “I just dneed a doctor’s dnote for class. The professor is such a hardass.”

“Yeah, I totally get it,” Eddie says as he pointedly places the trash can next to Steve, who sheepishly tosses the soiled kleenex. “It still looks like you’ve caught a hell of a bug, though, so I gotta do the required examination.”

Steve smothers several wracking coughs into his elbow. When he emerges, he looks even more wiped out. “That’s fine.” It comes out as Thad’s find, and Eddie shouldn’t be charmed by how the congestion mangles his words, but he is. He gets the feeling that he’ll find anything this guy does to be charming.

“Alright, let me get your temperature first.” He grabs the infrared thermometer from the counter, then, noting the nearly empty packet of Kleenex Steve has on him, also grabs the box of tissues, and places it next to Steve on the exam table. “You look like you might need these.”

“Thaggs,” Steve manages, and now Eddie is close enough to see the flush that blooms high on his cheeks, under a constellation of beauty marks. Is he covered in them all over?  Eddie mentally chides himself for the thought, forcing himself to focus. He stands over Steve, aiming the temperature gun at his forehead.

“W-wait- I - iihh!” Steve’s eye flutter and he leans back as far as he can, twisting to the side. “hih-HIH’RUUSSHHH’IUE!” The sneeze is heaved into his cupped hands, no doubt contaminating them with contagious spray. “Ow.” His poor throat must be scraped raw. Eddie pulls two tissues from the box and hands them over. Steve takes them gratefully, burying his face into the soft, white folds and releasing a sickly, gurgling blow.

“Ogkay,” Steve says as he straightens up, his throat still thick with mucus. Eddie winces in sympathy, taking his temperature while Steve still has the clump of tissues pressed under his chapped nose.

“101. You definitely have a fever.” Eddie makes a note on his chart. “How long have you felt feverish?”

Steve swipes his nose clean, throws the Kleenex into the trash, and answers, “About a day or two…”

“Have you been drinking fluids?”

“Trying to.” Steve covers a wet little cough with his fist. “Bmostly Gatorade… or if my roobmate bmakes bme tea.”

I bet he’s a jock, Eddie thinks at the mention of Gatorade, and tries to ignore the mental image of a healthy Steve running around in short shorts.

“That’s good. How about your appetite?”

“Umb… m-mostly – heh-” he frantically pulls a tissue from the box as Eddie steps further back, eyebrows raised. “heh-KIISSHH’AH! Ugh. ‘Scuse bme. SNF. Bmostly soup.”

“That’ll work. It’s important to stay hydrated and keep up with your meals.” Eddie tries to focus on his damn job and not how adorable Steve looks with his red nose and his sleepy eyes. He wants to take him home and tuck him into bed.

“And the congestion? The sneezing? How long has that been bothering you?”

The mere mention of it has Steve’s nose staging a rebellion. The unrelenting itch causes his breath to start hitching as the tingling spreads. His lungs fill with a stuttered gasp before he’s rocked by a sneeze that sends him lurching forward into his soggy tissue. “Huh-AEXXTSHHH’uu!” Jesus, that sounded like half of it came from his chest. It takes him a moment to come back to himself. He pauses, clearing the mucus from his throat.

“Yikes… That sounded like it hurt. You good?” Eddie’s forehead creases with concern.

“Mmhmm,” Steve answers, although he doubts he’s very convincing, seeing as his response was more of a pathetic pained sound than actual words. He forges on anyway.

“Idt started about a day and a half ago a-and iihh – hih – it won’t – sto- hah – HA’ESSSHHH’uh! SNF. Ugh, God, idt won’t stob.” He grabs another kleenex to clean himself up. “I feel like saying I’b stuffed ubp is an understatemend.” He snuffles up the liquid threatening to spill out his nostrils, the sound of it somehow both syrupy and jam-packed at the same time.

“What about headaches? Body aches?”

“Y-yeah – I – h-hang ond - hah-K’GGSSHHoo! Heh-D’TSHH! Oh bmy god.” The poor, crumpled tissue that’s now completely sodden is thrown away, immediately replaced by a fresh one, brought up to halt the flow of snot that threatens to run onto his cupid’s bow. “Sorry for beigg disgusting. This cold is killing bme.”

“You’re fine,” Eddie says with a smile that’s mostly hidden by the mask. “It comes with the territory.”

Steve gives a weak smile and nods. Eddie’s candor helps open the floodgates and he continues, “Umb. So yeah, bmy head’s beedn hurting for a couple days. And bmy body hurts, but that’s probably the fever. It’s just –” He smothers a crackling cough into his wad of tissues. “It’s jusdt beedn shitty all around.”

“Sorry, man. I feel for you.” Eddie meets his eyes before scribbling some notes down on his chart. “Hopefully we can suggest something for that cough at least, and have you feeling better soon. Some Tylenol would help with that fever, too.”

“Thaggs.” Steve’s eyes track Eddie’s nimble hands as he writes. The fever must be loosening his tongue because he asks, “Hey, you look kind of fabmiliar. Do…do you - hih’AEESSH’iue! Do you go to the coffee shobp around the cordner?”

Eddie’s heart stumbles over itself and he looks up to meet Steve’s glassy eyes.

“I do! I thought I’d seen you before. I study there a lot because it’s so close, and I concentrate better with a little bit of chaos, you know?”

“For sure. I stob there before bmy night class sobetimes. They have really good lattes.”

“And those croissants, oh my god. Sometimes I think they’re the only thing getting me through med school.”

Steve laughs at that, which of course turns into a hoarse cough that he has to race to cover with his elbow. Eddie looks at him with undisguised concern; can feel himself falling fast. He’s going to need to call on every bit of professionalism he possesses to act normal when he has to get up close and personal with this guy.

---

“They let students work in the university clinic?” Steve asks. The fever is making his head swim, but he’s got to learn more about this guy. If he says anything stupid, he can blame it on the fact that he’s sick as a dog. When he would sneak glances at this guy – he reads his nametag – Eddie Munson – in the café, he’d practically salivate over his tatted forearms peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves. He usually had his hair back in a messy bun if he was studying – wild strands escaping here and there, chewing on the end of his pen, his foot jittering with barely-restrained energy.

“They sure do,” Eddie answers, snapping Steve out of his reverie. “Third- and fourth-year med students do clinical rotations as part of the MD program.” He pulls a tongue depressor from a glass jar on the nearby counter. “Doctor Byers should be in to check my work when we’re done. She’s chill though.” He walks back over to stand in front of Steve. “Now comes the fun part,” he says, wiggling the tongue depressor in his fingers.

“Do we have to?” Steve scrubs a finger under his raw nose.

“Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid,” Eddie says with a smile that crinkles his eyes.

“F-finde… Let bme j-just – heh - hih…ha'iggSHH’IUE!”

“Get all those sneezes out?”

“Y-yeah – hih - gshHT’Chuh! kx’GSSHT’iiew!”

“You ready?” Eddie asks when Steve stills, blinking above the barricade of tissues pressed desperately to his face.

“Uh huh.” Steve fights against the perpetual tingle in his sinuses by snorting as much of the mess back as he can.

“Just try not to sneeze on me,” Eddie jokes.

Steve flushes, mortified that that’s even a possibility. He’s been eyeing this guy for weeks - why couldn’t they have met under normal circumstances that weren’t designed specifically to humiliate him?

“I’ll try.” Steve tries to sound reassuring, but who’s he kidding – judging by the past couple days, the likelihood of him controlling his nose is slim to none.

“Okay, open your mouth.”

Steve does, relieved that he can blame his warm cheeks on the fever. Eddie is right in his face, and Steve doesn’t know where to look. Half his concentration is spent on not staring at his chocolate brown eyes, and the other half is trying to not cough all over him. He should’ve brought some fucking water with him, or stopped at the café for some hot tea.

All the thoughts fly from his head when Eddie crooks a couple fingers under his chin to tilt his head up for a better view. A sharp curl of desire sizzles at the base of his spine, his insides turning gooey at being handled in such a way, with such intense scrutiny – like he’s a particularly interesting bug under a microscope.

Eddie tsks. “Your throat’s pretty red, and a bit swollen. No surprise there.” He pulls back and tosses the tongue depressor. “How long has it been sore for?”

“A couple –” He’s cut off by a chesty, rattling cough muffled into his cupped hands. “Sorry,” he rasps. “A couple days ago. Idt was the first symptom I had, other than - Kngxxt’shoo! – other than beigg tired.” While he grabs a handful of tissues to clean himself up, Eddie pulls the stethoscope free from where it rests over his shoulders. Steve groans inwardly. He hates this part. It’s always so awkward having someone listen to every sound you make – inside and out – in a silent room. He gives a viscous blow into the Kleenex, hoping to clear out as much sludge as possible. How disgusting must Eddie think he is right now? Or is this truly just another day at the office for him?

“Ready?” Eddie gestures with the stethoscope. Steve takes off his jacket and fights a shiver. “I’m going to listen to your lungs for a second. Just breathe deep for me, okay?”

“Ogkay.” Steve gives one last small cough into his fist before taking a deep breath. His nose is so stuffed that he’s forced to breathe through his mouth. It’s silent in the room as Eddie shifts the disk on his back from his left lung to his right, his other hand a warm, steadying presence on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve continues to breathe in and out, but as Eddie is about to switch to his front, his breath catches and a deep, wet cough is forced from him. He twists away again, and Eddie gives him space. The cough sets off the irritation in his nose, and he’s helpless against the harsh, scraping sneeze – “hah’ITXXXCH’ah!” – that bursts into the waiting crook of his elbow, the mess of it leaving the fabric damp.

“Christ, I’b so sorry.” He catches his breath and cleans himself up. His voice is starting to go hoarse. “I really don’dt wanna get you sigk.”

“No worries, I think you have whatever has been going around for a while. I’m sure I’ve already been exposed.” He leans into Steve’s space again and sets the cool disk on Steve’s chest. “We definitely don’t want you going to class and spreading this around, though. We’ll get you that doctor’s note, no problem.”

“That’s a relief. Thaggs.”

“Happy to help. Another deep breath for me?”

Steve does as he’s asked, focusing on the feel of Eddie’s hands on him as a sense of calm sinks into his bones, the tension inside him unspooling. The room is quiet enough for him to hear Eddie’s breath echoing his own. If he wasn’t so goddamn stuffed up, he’s sure he’d be able to smell the salt of his skin. As much as Steve hates being poked and prodded when he’s sick, it turns out it’s not that bad when Eddie’s the one doing it.

“Sounds like it’s moving into your lungs,” Eddie says, and Steve only nods dazedly, surrendering to the exhaustion and the feeling of his mind floating somewhere above him. “Some over the counter cough medicine would help with that.”

“I can ask Robin to pick me up sombe,” Steve says, thinking out loud. Then he clarifies, “Robin’s my roobmate.”

“Well, that would be nice of her.” Eddie loops the stethoscope back around his neck and moves to stand in front of Steve. “I’m going to check if your lymph nodes are swollen.”

Steve sits up straight and tilts his head up. The cool touch of Eddie’s hands against the fever-hot skin of his neck is enough to make him shiver again. He’s going to melt into puddy if he’s not careful. His eyes threaten to flutter shut as Eddie gently prods at him, and Steve must really be out of it now, because he’s letting his eyes roam greedily all over the other man – his broad shoulders, dark eyelashes and lightly freckled skin. There are a couple loose curls that Steve wants to brush off his forehead, and his thumb itches to press into the little furrow of his brow that forms as Eddie concentrates fully on Steve. On getting Steve better.

The words spill out of him without his consent – “Robin is jusdt a roobmate.”

“Oh?” Eddie’s hands still, but he doesn’t remove them from the underside of Steve’s jaw. Steve blinks – realizes what he just said.

“I bmean – yeah. She’s – I was just clarifying. Only roobmates.”

Eddie pauses, his eyes searching for something in Steve’s gaze. “Good to know.” His tone is genuine and deliberately light.

Eddie continues his exam, gentle fingers exploring along Steve’s skin. Steve swallows against the dryness in his throat, sniffing in an attempt to keep his nose from running. Another desperate, ominous sniffle has his damn nose prickling again. Steve reacts in a flash – pressing his hand into Eddie’s solid chest to push him out of the way before inhaling sharply and curling into himself as a sneeze tears out of him and sprays over his lap. “Hiih-ZZSSHHESSH! G-god, sorr-eee – heh - huh’GGSSHH’IEW!” His hands are loosely steepled in front of his face, not enough to completely contain the spray, but enough to hopefully give him some semblance of privacy so Eddie doesn’t have to watch such a disgusting display of illness. Not like he hasn’t had a front-row seat this whole time. “Fugk.” He reaches for the tissues as gracefully as he can. “Sorry, this is disgusdtigg.”

“It’s okay, Steve. It’s not your fault - you’ve got one hell of a cold.”

“Still,” Steve insists, then marvels at the fact that against all odds, Eddie looks charmed.

“Alright tough guy, I think it’s safe to say we can write you that doctor’s note now.” Eddie winks. Steve doesn’t know whether to blush, grumble at him, or thank him profusely. He somehow finds a middle ground.

“Thagg you.” The words are a self-deprecating groan into his now ever-present fistful of tissues.

“We’ll email you a copy, but they can print it for you when you check out, if that helps.” Eddie smiles under his mask, and Steve wishes he could see it. There’s a knock at the door, and Eddie tells whoever it is to come in. It’s Dr. Byers. Joyce, Steve gleans from her nametag when she gets closer.

“Hey guys. How is everything going in here?” She steps into the room and Eddie hands her the chart.

“Good. It looks like he’s got that nasty cold that’s been going around. I told him we could get him an attendance note for class, and recommend some over-the-counter cold meds. And lots of fluids and rest, of course.” He sends a look Steve’s way, who returns it with a nod, their eyes catching and holding. Joyce studies the chart a moment longer.

“Everything looks good. Do you have any questions, Steve? Anything else that you have concerns about?”

“No, I don’t - hah-iiGhhShoo! ‘Scuse mbe. I don’t thigg so.”

“Alright, if there’s nothing else, I believe you’re free to go,” she says with a sweet smile. Steve is hit with an odd flash of happiness that Eddie has such a nice mentor to work with.

“If anything gets worse, come back and see us, for sure.” Eddie hastily adds, his hands clicking his pen with excess energy.

“I will. Thaggs again,” he says for good measure. As he stands up to leave, Eddie’s voice rings bright in the dull room.

“And hey – next time you see me at the café, stop and say hi, yeah?”

Steve’s heart gives a silly little lurch, warmth spreading through him. “Yeah, of course. I’ll – iihh - hih’KISSHH’uu! SNF. I’ll see you there.”

A fond laugh rumbles from Eddie’s chest. “Preferably when you’re feeling better. You’re like a walking biohazard right now.”

Steve groans and rolls his eyes. “Ugh, you don’dt have to rebind bme.”

“I know, I’m just giving you a hard time.” When Eddie turns back to Joyce, she’s looking between them with a question in her eyes. He huffs an awkward laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, take care Steve. I’ll see you around!” He hesitates a moment longer before giving them both a little wave and heading out the door to his next patient.

Joyce shares a look of friendly exasperation with Steve. “He’s quite the character, but he’s going to make a great doctor someday.”

“Seembs like it.” Steve looks to the door Eddie has already disappeared from. He’s a romantic at heart in spite of himself, and he already knows he’ll be imagining how Eddie is spending the rest of his day while he’s laid up in bed fighting this thing. He wants to believe that Eddie will be daydreaming of him too.

“Come on, I’ll show you where to check out.” Joyce leads the way out of the room.

Steve follows, already doing the mental math to figure out the timing of when he’ll be feeling better and when Eddie will be studying at the café. What should he wear? Which outfit would Eddie like best? Maybe he can try to find him on social media. After all, he’s going to have plenty of time to lay around with nothing else to do.

He has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do yet, but the thought of seeing Eddie again pleases him more than he knows what to do with. Once he finishes checking out and heads out the doors, he lets himself imagine the smile he’ll get from Eddie in a few days. Warm and easy, with just enough of an edge to send Steve’s pulse racing.

[lasagnaisoverrated]

I thought of this literally two seconds ago

What if both Orion and Megatronus where gonna confess after the senate meeting?

What if Orion was so positive that it was all going to work out and wanted to spend the rest of his life fixing cybertron along Megatronus side?

What if Megatronus was not so sure but he knew that whatever happened he and Orion would always be by each others side?

What if they where madly in love but just afraid?

What if they they wanted to confess?

What if they had confessed?

What if everything had worked out?

What if?

[cobblestoneore]

How to start a war: by Mumbo K. Jumbo (spoilers)

First, lay your copper out to oxidize. The less optimized the positioning the better.

Have your friend, let’s call him G., have G take this as a personal challenge and stack your copper even more sub-optimally on your base.

Counter by oxidizing the copper on top of his base the shape of the statue of lib

erty

Have G use this as an opportunity to procrastinate building the back of his base

Make sure G advertises this to his friends as he does this. This step is very important. 

Have G's friends stage an intervention for his "Back of Base Building Bane"

One of these friends must be the one furthermore named S. We'll get to why later. 

Have friends threaten G until he starts building. 

Here's where S comes into play. S is a known enabler, and so he will undoubtedly distract G. This is crucial.

Have G bring up a certain someone's (we'll call them D) tunnel bore, and S will latch onto it, asking to see it.

G will of course use this as a means of procrastination, and show S the bore.

Have G and S go to the bore. 

G and S will be so impressed by this machine that they will of course try to use it

They do not know how to use it and it will most definitely fail and blow up. 

Have G and S try and fix it. 

If that doesn't work, have G and S suck up to D. Of course, as this is a starting a war tutorial and not a stopping a declaration of war tutorial, this will without doubt fail either way. But at least it’ll make G and S think they are helping before their untimely demise.

Have D notice the bore is broken, preferably while G and S are present. 

Have D declare war on G and S

Meanwhile, you will be working on your own sus base none the wiser of the chaos you have unleashed.

Congratulations! You have successfully started a war!

[stellamancer]

between the moon’s divide (satoru gojo x reader)

notes: uh. a week ago i thought to myself ‘oh i want to write a kiss scene’ thinking it would take me a day or two but no it took a week of me agonizing over... everything lmao.

contains: gender neutral reader, gojo is taller than the reader (as usual), some kind of tension, and finally kissing!!

wc: 2.1k

It’s sometime past midnight when you run across Satoru Gojo standing in the school’s courtyard. 

Unable to sleep, you’d taken to the halls. It’d become a habit by now, wandering the corridors like a restless ghost until sleep could evade you no longer. You’d actually been heading back to your room when you’d seen him, statuesque as he bathed in moonlight. You’d been vaguely aware that Gojo was not much of a sleeper, but you’d never run into him on one of your nighttime strolls. 

You come to a stop, observing Gojo as he stares up at the moon. It’s very odd for him; to be still, to be silent. 

Naturally, it doesn’t last for long.

“Finally here for our romantic moonlight rendezvous?” he asks, his tone playful, his gaze still fixed on the moon above. 

You can’t help but feel mildly annoyed that he’s noticed you at this distance. “As if. I was just wondering if maybe you were thinking about returning to your home planet.”

Gojo hums as you step out onto the courtyard, approaching him. "And leave you here? You'd be lonely without me.” 

You wait until you and Gojo are standing side by side to respond, not sparing him a glance as you retort, “Actually, I think you’d be the lonely one.”

At first, you don’t think much of the words that come out of your mouth. It’s habit to take anything Gojo throws at you and hurl it right back at him. The words play back in your mind as you tilt your head up to gaze up at the moon. It dominates the midnight sky, larger and brighter than anything else in the expanse above. Something about it reminds you of Gojo, strong, brilliant, and—

Lonely.

“You think?” he asks, sounding almost amused, as if you’d said something funny. 

“Probably?” you answer. "Though, I don't know, maybe your home planet is full of more Satoru Gojos and you would all be one happy collective, feeding into each other's egos and all that."

The thought of more than one Satoru Gojo, much less a whole planet full of them is enough to make your head throb with pain. The world has enough problems with one alone.

"...and what if there's no one else there?" 

You blink, and turn your head just slightly toward Gojo. He's still looking up at the moon, his expression almost melancholic. Something in your chest aches at the sight and you look back at the moon as if that will ease the pain.

It makes sense for him to think like that, to think his home planet would be deserted— all your lives you've been told how he's unique, how he's special, how he's the one and only Satoru Gojo. The thought, the notion that there could be another like him is near incomprehensible.

(There was one, someone, who came close and he—)

"Then don't go."

The words are barely audible, escaping your mouth like a whisper in the breeze. You're not even sure if you actually said them because under normal circumstances you'd keep such words to yourself, bury them deep inside your heart like a well-kept secret because in Satoru Gojo's hands those three words are little more than ammunition.  

And as much as you loathe the thought of giving him something else he can weaponize against you, you think he needs it right now. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, his hands remain ever empty, ready and willing to take on more burden. If you're going to give him something to hold, it might as well be something he can find some measure of joy in. 

You expect Gojo to cut to the chase and start teasing you. Hesitation is a foreign concept to him, especially with the prospect of something new to play with, but he is uncharacteristically silent. Against your better judgment, you turn your head back toward him and find that he is no longer looking up at the moon.

He’s looking at you. 

Your breath stills in your chest. The bright gleam of Gojo’s eyes is a curse in of itself, rooting you to the core. You’ve never been good at dealing with Gojo like this. Stupid as that blindfold of his looks on him, it acts as a buffer, as a shield. You want to look away. You have to look away before the shocking hue of his gaze pulls you in, traps you, ensnares you with no hope of escape.

Gojo moves, shifting into a position that brings him down to your height, facing you fully as he unleashes the full power of his stupidly brilliant blue eyes on you. He leans just the slightest bit in your direction. Your heart rate climbs higher and higher as he inches closer. A voice in the back of your mind tries to remind you, to reassure you: this isn’t the first time that Satoru Gojo has pulled this kind of trick on you, and it won’t be the last. He’ll creep closer and closer toward you, taunting you, teasing you, but the space between you will forever remain infinite. 

But then he presses his forehead to yours and all bets are off. 

You need to get away from him. Now. You take a step back, to put some space in between you. It might be finite, but some space is better than none. But even though you’ve taken a step back you find that you are no further than Gojo than you were before, your foreheads still pressed together.

What in the world? You swear you took a step back.

Something in your peripheral shifts and your eyes flicker down for just a second, catching the corner of his mouth twitch. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Then it clicks. You’re so used to seeing him using his technique to push everything away, to make himself untouchable, that you often forget that it’s not the only thing he can do. HIs power doesn’t only repel.

It attracts too. 

Your heartbeat grows erratic at the realization that the once infinite space between you is now all but obsolete. Like this, you’re far too aware of him; aware of his hair, brushing softly against your face, aware of his breathing, echoing loud in your ears, aware of his lips—

“...what are you doing?” you finally manage to whisper after what feels like an eternity. 

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you nearly regret them. The question is begging for trouble, inviting it and the inevitable teasing from Gojo. But still you ask— you have to, you need to. It feels counterintuitive, but you need the distraction of his answer and the annoyance it’s sure to bring to cut through the thoughts, the feelings that are threatening to swallow you whole. 

You expect his response to come instantly like it always does, but… it doesn't. Something stutters in your chest at the change in routine. Is he being purposely silent? Or is he actually thinking about his words before they come out of his mouth for once? 

Finally, finally, he speaks, his voice low and teasing for sure, but there's something else there, diluting his tone, laced in his words. It's subtle, but whatever it is throws you completely off balance. "I thought you said 'don't go.'" 

Your mouth opens. You start to speak. But no words come out, instead they are lodged in your throat— honesty and reluctance mangled together in one huge lump. The thought occurs to you to just leave them there, unspoken. But, you wouldn't put it past Gojo to try and rip them free; with that in mind you pull at the words, unraveling them before releasing them into the night air. "…I did." 

It's official now: you've gone off script and you both know it. 

Gojo pulls back, just enough for you to see his face clearly. You think he's going to tease you for your admission, but instead, he studies you, his eyes probing, searching. You don’t know what for, but with no buffer, no infinity between you, it feels almost as if you are laid bare before the hypnotic glow of his eyes. 

Try as you might, you cannot even bring yourself to look away. You are charmed, captivated, enchanted by the spell of his eyes. Any hope for escape is gone and the only things that remain are you and the limitless blue.

Something shifts in Gojo’s expression and you wonder, distantly, if he’s found whatever it was he was looking for. 

He surges forward, pressing his forehead to yours once more, angling himself, positioning himself, and his mouth, his lips—

They’re barely there. Hovering as close as they possibly can without even touching. You can feel his breath, warm and intoxicating and it’s suddenly so hard to move, to think, to even breathe with the threat of Satoru Gojo imminent and about to swallow you whole.

He could, if he wanted and you both know it, and yet…

“Not even gonna try and deny it?” he asks, and you can practically feel his lips moving with each word he speaks. His tone is amused still, teasing still, but there's something more to it. It's like a secret, a plea even, interwoven into his words and actions, loud and unsubtle in a way that screams Satoru Gojo.

You don't know why he doesn't just say what he wants right now. Maybe he thinks it's more fun to try and be coy about it. Or maybe he thinks if he actually says it, you'll refuse like you always do, because you never think he really means it when he says it.

But right now, you think Gojo might.

You think he might really want to kiss you. 

This is your last chance, you think, your lips parting, your response heavy in your mouth. Whatever happens from here on out hinges entirely on what you say next. It’s not just about trying to deny what you said anymore; it's about denying whatever the hell is actually going on between you and Gojo. All this time, you've been turning a blind eye to things, adamant that there's nothing there— that Gojo is just a colleague and nothing more. And despite that, despite everything, he pushed and shoved his way into your heart like it's where he's belonged all along. Those three little words are undeniable proof that there's something between the two of you and it's awfully kind of him to let you try and deny it. 

But can you?

"...no." 

The realization settles in your chest, heavy yet liberating as you breathe the word into the air. You can’t— you won’t deny it, deny him.

Not any more.

Gojo’s entire body goes still, but then his hands are cupping your face, long fingers splayed across your cheeks. He’s holding you like a treasure, his touch reverent. Gojo presses his forehead to yours once more; his breath caresses you once more and you think that maybe, for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo knows hesitation, feels it running through his veins as the space between your lips and his grows more and more infinitesimally small. 

You like to pretend that you'd never given much thought to how your first kiss with Gojo would go, but you never would have thought that it would be like this— gentle and sweet. But despite that, it feels almost like your chest is going to burst as he fills your lungs, your veins, your entire being.

For just a moment, you think he’s about to pull away, and your body reacts of its own accord, reaching out for him, keeping him close. It’s at this moment that the kiss shifts into something more hungry, more desperate. Gojo’s lips part, his tongue swiping against your lips, begging you to do the same. 

You do not deny him. 

Eventually, eventually you pull away, dazed and out of breath, but Gojo doesn’t let you go too far, his arms wrapping around you. A silence settles around the two of you as you stand there, bathing in moonlight. 

Of course, it doesn’t last for long. 

“You’re really down bad for me, huh,” Gojo remarks, his voice infuriatingly smug.

You rip yourself from his grasp... or, at least, you try to. What you manage to do is free yourself enough so that you can look at his face. Naturally he’s beaming, all too pleased by everything that’s going on, his eyes shining brighter than any star in the sky. 

The words you normally say, the words you usually say, try to force their way out of your mouth, but you catch them before they do. You’ve decided, you remind yourself, you won’t deny him any more. 

“...guess I am,” you answer, as casually as possible, then you add, as a cheeky afterthought, “And what about you?”

The grin on Gojo’s face widens as he leans in and that’s how your second kiss begins.

[felassan]

Now in the BioWare Gear Store: Isabela Romance Bundle

Item description:

"GIVE IN TO THE SIREN'S CALL. What could Isabela possibly be doing out at sea? Drinking? Dueling? Getting into trouble? Actually, she might be daydreaming of sailing into the sunset with you. The Dragon Age Isabela Romance Bundle makes for a great gift for those who played Hawke and fell in love with the self-styled Queen of the Eastern Seas. It includes a piece of jewelry and a never-before-seen love letter—all housed in a gorgeous wooden box carved with a portrait of your beloved Rivaini pirate. Includes: A Letter from Isabela 3.15 x 4.55 in (8 x 11.6 cm) antiqued worn edged love letter Necklace inspired by Isabela's Rivaini Fertility Talisman"

[source]

Transcription of the letter:

"My dear Hawke, Do you know anyone with a flock of parrots? I'm trying to cheat on a bet with Varric and the stakes are exceedingly high. If you help me, I shall take you to that breathtaking beach you so crave. Free of ancient horrors, too. I think. I'd hate to take respite from all my adventures, but there are other ways to make the heart flutter. In fact I'm already imagining a few. Aren't you? Sailing there can be fatal, but Admiral Isabela will keep you safe. Are you interested? I would love to see you again. Yours, Isabela"

🥺🥺

"Admiral Isabela".. this letter was written in 9:41 Dragon or after.

(thanku to @iceta for helping me figure out a word in the letter for the transcript!)

---

You can get 20% off in the BioWare Gear Store until April 12th using my latest discount code BWAPRILFOOL. After that date check back here for a new code. alternatively, you can use my tracking link.

✧d(•̀ v•̀ )~~♪

[ladespeinada]

Is it? Is it fucking rich, Richard?

[pillsopa]

stopped in my tracks and almost fell to my knees when i remembered that the Only time the font changed in the entirety of trc was when adam sent blue the flowers with the little note….can’t get up…….

[glittergroovy]

[sforzesco]

the personal drama involved in a late republic trial is a delight

this is a very unserious comic talking around All Of That involving Lucullus and Clodius, but what also happened was I was almost done lettering the first chapter of Trikaranos when I realized the font I was using didn’t have a crossbar I, so this was one of. several. font tests I did over the past week trying to find a new one that I wanted to use lmao

Lucullus, A Life, Arthur Keaveney

bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost

[trainingdummyrabbit]

Goomorning did we have a fun + normal time in the Donq Zone?

[hairpinturnn]

maybe i should rewrite that tag mess because the original abandoned fic notes were kinda fire tbh even if extraordinarily pretentious

four separate snippets from there (sorry for the strays pecco, i won't mind being proven wrong and seeing some good racing)