#heavy-lift helicopter

[nocternalrandomness]

"Hustler One One"

[ghostwarriorrrr]

The U.S. Special Operations Command (SOCOM) - MH-47G Block II Chinook

[supplyside]

US Army CH-54 Tarhe

[sweets-library]

The quiet hours

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 4.2k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU.

content warnings: spanking, punishment, rules, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline

-

You're not allowed to watch the news when Shouta's not home. It might seem harsh, but after that one awful night—when you spiralled into panic attacks and wore yourself down to the bone over a fight that didn’t even involve him (“Underground pro moved to intensive care after brutal battle—”)—he laid down the rule: no news unless he's there to reassure you. And now, well, you’re breaking it.

Your fingers are raw, nails torn from anxious chewing as you follow the chaos unfolding on-screen. The fight rages on in an area Shouta patrols, and the pit in your stomach grows with every minute that passes. You search the screen, desperate for any sign of him—a dark figure amid the blur of heroes, villains, police, and civilians scrambling in the streets. The news helicopter captures the madness from above, and you try to convince yourself he’s fine. He’s always fine. But after an hour, when the villains are finally subdued, Shouta is nowhere to be found. Instead, you watch helplessly as bodies are loaded into ambulances, and worse, some are dragged away, lifeless.

It’s 3 a.m. now. Another rule broken. Shouta hates it when you stay up for him—he says it leaves you exhausted, strung out for no reason when you could wake up beside him, safe and sound. He’d be livid if he knew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s your boyfriend, your partner, and every day he risks his life out there. Of course, you worry. Who cares if you can barely keep your eyes open at work tomorrow? At least you'd know he made it home.

The coverage is still playing when you hear his key in the lock, and your heart leaps into your throat. You quickly fumble for the remote, switch off the TV, and dive under the blankets on the couch, pretending to be asleep. He’s not going to be thrilled that you didn’t make it to bed, but at least he won’t think you’ve completely ignored his rules.

You hold your breath, listening to the familiar sounds of his boots hitting the floor, the clink of his goggles landing on the table, and the soft swish of his capture weapon being hooked by the door. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he makes his way into the living room, pausing when he spots you curled up on the couch. There’s a heavy sigh—he’s fondly irritated, you can feel it—and for a moment, you brace yourself for a scolding.

Instead, his arms slip gently under you, lifting you without a word. You instinctively snuggle into him, heart pounding with relief. He’s home. He’s safe.

“Missed you, Sho…” you mumble, your voice thick with genuine exhaustion now that he’s here.

"Hm," he replies, the stern edge in his voice making your heart skip. "Were you waiting up for me?"

You don’t dare look at him. “No,” you lie, nuzzling into his shoulder as he lowers you onto the bed. “I was just watching a movie and fell asleep.”

You feel his eyes on you in the darkness, scrutinizing. "Makeup down your cheeks," he notes, swiping at the streaks with his thumb. "Must’ve been a real tearjerker, huh?"

"Yeah…a dog died," you murmur, barely able to suppress a yawn. His quiet chuckle sends a wave of relief through you—he bought it, or at least, he’s letting you think he did.

“My little crybaby,” he teases, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

"At least kiss me before you start being mean," you grumble, pulling him down for a sleepy, lingering kiss. He hums against your lips, then pulls back.

"Go to sleep. I’m gonna shower and come to bed."

You smile, snuggling deeper into the blankets, eyes heavy as you let the relief wash over you. Somehow, you actually got away with it. You listen as Shouta moves around the apartment—showering, heating up his dinner in the microwave, and finally settling onto the couch. The familiar sounds are comforting, grounding you in the safety of knowing he's home.

And then, you hear it. The soft click of the TV turning on.

Your heart skips a beat. The news. The coverage of the attack is still on. You cringe, suddenly wide awake, the comfort of a few minutes ago evaporating as panic flares up again. You strain to hear every detail, anxiety pooling in your chest as you imagine the look on his face when he realizes what you've been up to.

The clink of his plate hitting the coffee table snaps your attention back, followed by the low groan of the couch as he stands. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, pad toward the bedroom. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, willing yourself to look peaceful, and innocent—hoping against hope that you can delay the inevitable until morning.

But you’re not that lucky.

"Sit up." His voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

You hear him, but you stupidly ignore it, keeping your eyes shut in some desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. The air grows tense, and you hear the sharp click of his tongue, a sound that makes your heart stutter.

“Little girl, you do not want to make this worse than it already is,” he warns, his tone laced with quiet authority. The moment those words hit, your body moves before your brain can even catch up. You sit up, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, trying to steady your breath.

He steps closer, his presence looming as he positions himself in front of you. You don’t dare look up, but the weight of his stare presses down on you. Then, his fingers grip your chin, not harsh, but firm enough to force your eyes up. The moment you meet his gaze, your stomach drops.

He’s pissed. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, filled with disappointment and frustration.

"I'm going to give you one chance to tell me how you spent your night," he says, voice low and steady, "and so help me, if you lie again, you'll be getting bedtime spankings for a week."

The threat sends a chill down your spine. This isn't your boyfriend Shouta right now. The warmth and gentleness are suddenly punctuated by the stern, unyielding side of him that leaves no room for games.

"I—well," you stammer, your voice small. "I was watching TV... and I stayed up too late. I'm sorry." The apology slips out in a mumble, barely audible, as his hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you in place. He leans in, his presence overwhelming.

"Sorry, what?" His voice is firm, a quiet demand that makes your heart race.

"Sorry, Daddy..." you whisper, heat rushing to your face in embarrassment. It feels vulnerable to say it out loud, especially now.

"Hm." He lets go of your chin, crossing his arms over his chest. His forearms strain against the fabric of his sleeves, muscles flexing as he sizes you up. The air between you is heavy with his disappointment, but despite the weight of it, a small flutter stirs in your stomach. You hate how his sternness affects you like this.

"You were watching what on the TV?" he asks, his tone pointed, his gaze never leaving yours.

You sniff, nervously playing with your fingers, unable to stop the tremble in your hands. "I... I was watching the news," you finally admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I was just so worried, and it was so late, and they were in your area, and I just—"

"Enough."

The word snaps the air like a whip, and your mouth shuts instantly. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating as you stare up at him, waiting for the inevitable.

"So," he continues, his voice even and measured, "not only did you stay up far later than you're allowed, knowing full well you have work tomorrow, but you also worked yourself into a panic over the news. And then, you lied to me about it." He pauses, eyes narrowing as if daring you to challenge him. "Do I have that right?"

Your throat tightens, and your stomach feels like it's sinking. There's no way out of this, no excuse you can offer. He expects an answer, and there's only one.

"Yes... Daddy," you whisper, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking under the weight of it all.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before rubbing his tired eyes. The sound of his exhale fills the room, thick with disappointment. You can feel his exhaustion, his worry—this is not how he wanted to end his night, and it makes your chest ache.

“We talked about this,” he says, his voice firmer now, frustration seeping into each word. “We have this rule for a reason, so you don’t spend your nights like this—crying over something that’s not even happening!”

You sniffle, your chest tightening as guilt floods through you. “But... what if something did happen? And I had no idea, and you were hurt, and alone, and—”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts in, gentler now but still firm, “if something happens, you’re the first person they will call. You know this. The hospital will notify you if I’m hurt. And if it’s anything else, the commission will contact Mic, who will call you immediately. You know all of this—we talked about it when we made this rule. Together.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly tired and frustrated. The exhaustion in his eyes, the strain in his voice, all hit you at once. He’s been working so hard, pushing himself to keep you safe, to keep everyone safe, and here you are, breaking the very rules you agreed on. The weight of it presses down on your chest, and the guilt gnaws at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick with regret.“I just... I worry. So much.” The words come out in a whimper, hoping for some sympathy, but Shouta isn’t swayed by the tears.

“Baby,” he begins, his voice firm but not unkind, “you have to trust me. I don’t want you sitting here, crying yourself hoarse every night over something that hasn’t happened. It’s not fair to you. It’s not healthy, and I won’t allow it.” His gaze is piercing, locking with yours, filled with concern but unwavering in its resolve. You know he’s right, but the ache of your worry feels so real.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as he looks at you, clearly weighing his next move. Finally, he speaks again, and it’s not what you expect.

“I’ll call your work in the morning. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“What? No—Shouta, I’m fine!” you whine, trying to push back against his decision, but he taps your cheek again, this time with a little more firmness.

“Little girl, I don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me right now,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to go to work tomorrow. We’re working this out tonight. I don’t want to have this discussion again, so we’re dealing with it here and now.”

The finality of his words hits you hard, and you feel the sting of tears building again, pressing at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to deal with this—not now. Not like this. “Daddy, please, I’m sorry,” you plead, your voice fragile and trembling, but it doesn’t change his resolve.

Your apology falls on deaf ears as Shouta pulls the blankets from your legs with a swift motion, guiding you up with a firm but gentle grip. “Don’t argue with me,” he says quietly. “Come here. Now.”

You hesitate, but his firm tone leaves no room for defiance. He takes you by the arm, leading you to the end of the bed. He sits down, looking up at you with that same intense gaze, the weight of his authority wrapping around you. You stand in front of him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Shouta, I—” you start, but his sharp look cuts you off before the words can even fully leave your mouth. You’re in no position to argue. You know this, but it doesn’t stop the nervous tremor running through your body as you shuffle your feet, feeling his gaze settle heavily on you.

“How many rules did you break tonight?” he asks, his voice calm but firm, waiting for you to face the truth.

You bite your lip, glancing down as the weight of your actions settles in. “I... I stayed up late,” you begin in a shaky voice, “and I watched the news... and I lied.” Your voice cracks on the last confession, barely above a whisper. “So... three,” you finish, the admission hanging in the air like a confession you’ve been dreading.

Shouta’s hands move to gently rub the sides of your legs, grounding you in the moment. His touch is comforting, a reminder that even now, when things feel so overwhelming, he’s here for you. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whisper, your voice breaking as a tear slips down your cheek.

He’s watching you carefully, aware of how hard this is for you, but also knowing this moment is important. You flourish under this dynamic with him—he knows that. It’s his responsibility to guide you, to redirect you when you stumble, and this is one of those moments. A slip. A mistake. One that he’ll correct, and when he does, everything will fall back into place and you'll feel better for it.

Shouta gently wipes the tear from your cheek, his thumb soft against your skin. "I know you’re sorry," he says quietly, “but this is why we have these rules. To help you, not to hurt you. And you know I’m going to make sure you learn from this.”

You nod, knowing deep down he’s right.

“Thank you for being honest with me, sweetheart,” he says softly, patting your cheek lovingly. The warmth in his touch eases some of the tension coiling in your stomach. “I think that’s enough TV for the rest of the week. You can read your books instead.”

Your heart sinks at the thought of being cut off from your usual distractions, but you suppress the urge to stomp your feet and whine. You know he’s not done yet. “And tomorrow after breakfast, I want you to write 50 lines in your notebook, telling me you won’t lie to me again,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nod slowly, knowing this is part of the process. It feels unfair, but deep down, you understand that it’s for your own good.

“Now for tonight,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “I think we will finish this discussion over my lap. Come here.”

With a mix of reluctance and acceptance, you shuffle closer to him, positioning yourself over his lap. It feels both familiar and daunting as you bury your face in your arms, the warmth of his body wrapping around you. The world outside feels distant, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your breathing, trying to steady yourself for what’s to come.

“What’s your safeword?” he asks, his hand rubbing your back comfortingly, a grounding presence in this moment.

“Red,” you reply firmly, the single word a declaration of your readiness, a promise of trust.

“Good girl.” His approval wraps around you like a warm blanket, but before you can fully absorb it, his hand comes down hard. Even with the cushion of your pajama pants, the sting is sharp, and a whimper escapes your lips as you bury your face deeper into your arms.

The initial shock of pain sends warmth pooling in your cheeks, and you brace yourself, knowing he’s just getting started. He begins to layer swats on your backside, each strike firm and unyielding. With every hit, you feel a mix of emotions—pain mingled with an odd sense of release. His hands fall without mercy, and in the back of your mind, you know this is only the warmup, the prelude to what’s to come.

Your breath quickens, and you focus on the rhythm of his hand, feeling the sting dissipate into a strange warmth that blankets your apprehension. Each swat brings you closer to a clarity that only he can provide, a reminder of the balance between discipline and care.

“This won’t work if we can’t trust each other,” he says, his voice steady and authoritative, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his hand striking your backside. The hits keep coming, a sharp reminder that you need to pay attention. You don’t bother to respond; you know he wants you to listen right now.

“I need to be able to go to work without worrying that you’re at home crying yourself sick over something that was completely avoidable.” The sting resonates in your skin, but it’s the truth in his words that hits harder. Each swat underscores his concern, reinforcing the message he’s trying to drive home.

“If you’re feeling nervous, text me, or Hizashi, or Nemuri. I can’t always answer right away,” he continues, his tone firm yet laced with care. “But I’d rather you reach out to someone for help when your anxiety is getting the best of you than turn on the news and make things far worse for yourself.”

His emphasis on reaching out wraps around you like a lifeline, and you begin to realize the weight of your actions. It’s not just about following the rules; it’s about building a foundation of trust and communication. You focus on his words, letting them sink in as each strike reinforces the lesson. Whenever he redirects you, his discipline feels less like punishment and more like an act of love, a reminder that you’re never alone in this.

The swats stop for the moment, but you know the routine, and dont bother getting excited. He eases your pants down to sit at your knees, and resumes the flurry of spanks while you cry and drum your toes into the mattress. 

“And under no circumstances is it ever okay for you to lie to me,” he asserts, his voice unyielding, filled with the weight of authority. “Everybody makes mistakes, but if you can’t tell me the truth, then where does that leave us? If I find out you’re lying to me again, I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap and give you lines every day for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you choke out a sob, barely able to respond. “Yes, Daddy, m’sorry!”

“If I can’t trust that you’re making good choices, then there will have to be long-term consequences.” His tone softens slightly, but the seriousness remains. “Do you need me to set up a check-in schedule for you? Is that what it will take for you to behave?”

Your heart sinks, guilt washing over you as you realize he’s already stretched thin, so busy and tired, and here you are, adding to his burden. “No, no, I’ll behave! Please!” You cry, desperation tinging your voice.

“I’m happy to hear that, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he continues his steady rhythm. “But if that’s what you needed, then that’s just fine. We’ll talk about it another time.” His hand gently caresses your back, the warmth of his touch providing a comforting contrast to the stinging of your skin. “I love you, sweetheart. If you need more support from me, then you need to tell me.”

You can feel his gentleness in his words, even if he can’t see the tear-streaked cheeks you hide from him. A fresh wave of emotion crashes over you, and you can’t help but weep, overwhelmed by the mixture of relief and vulnerability. The pain lingers, but it’s softened by the assurance that he’s here, guiding you through the shadows of your anxiety. In this moment, you feel a flicker of hope—his love is a steady anchor, reminding you that you don’t have to navigate this storm alone.

“Love you, Daddy. I’m sorry; I can do it. I can be good,” you cry, your voice thick with remorse.

He lets out a weary sigh, the sound heavy with mixed emotions. “You’re always my good girl, baby. I love you so much. We’re almost done.” With that, he shifts the position of your legs, exposing your sit spots more fully for the next phase of your punishment.

As the final swats begin, you feel the sting intensify, but beneath it all, there’s a strange sense of clarity. His unwavering presence and the weight of his expectations create a safe space for you to confront your fears and anxieties. Each strike serves as a reminder of the lessons you need to learn, urging you to let go of the worry that spirals out of control when he’s not around.

Though the discomfort is real, it pales in comparison to the overwhelming love that underpins this dynamic. You focus on that love, knowing that it’s a guiding light leading you toward a healthier path.

"And you know very well that we’ve discussed this before—about how important it is for you to take care of yourself. You need sleep, especially on work nights, and I’m not going to stand by while you exhaust yourself for no reason." His voice is firmer now, just loud enough to cut through your sobs, but never harsh or angry. "I think tomorrow we’re going to have another talk about your bedtime routine. Clearly, I’ve been too lenient, and that stops now, little girl."

The words sink into you, a mix of dread and relief. Even as he speaks, the discipline continues, each strike a rhythmic reminder of his control and your need to listen. He never yells, never lashes out—just that calm, unyielding tone. It leaves no room for doubt: this is not up for debate. You don’t try to suppress your crying anymore, knowing the apartment is soundproof, and that in his arms, you are safe to let go of everything. The punishment is painful, yes, but the deeper ache comes from knowing you’ve disappointed him—and yourself.

And still, through the tears and the discomfort, you know that he’s right. You need the boundaries he sets, the safety they bring. You feel the weight of his words settle inside you, and even though you don’t want to face the conversation tomorrow, you know it’s for the best.

Your ass burns, the heat lingering even after the punishment has ended. You see now that it’s really for the best that you won’t be going to work tomorrow. His hands rub your back soothingly, the warmth of his touch a balm against the ache. Slowly, he shifts you onto his lap, wrapping you in his strong arms, the fabric of your pants slipping down one ankle as you bury your face into the comforting crook of his neck.

“I know, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he murmurs softly, his voice like a gentle caress against your ears. “You’re okay. You did so good.” Each word is a soothing balm, and you can’t help but melt into his embrace, soaking up the praise like a flower yearning for sunlight. “My good little girl, I love you, baby.”

In that moment, as you cling to him, the world outside fades away. All that matters is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the steady pulse of love radiating from him. You feel safe, cherished, and most importantly, understood. The earlier turmoil dissipates, replaced by a profound sense of peace, as you allow yourself to rest in his arms, knowing he’ll always be there to guide you back to safety.

Eventually, the storm of tears subsides, and a soothing calm washes over you, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You stifle a yawn, snuggling deeper into his arms, teetering on the brink of sleep. He continues to murmur sweet reassurances, his voice a soft lullaby that wraps around you like a warm blanket as he carries you back to your side of the bed.

For a moment, you feel a twinge of abandonment as he steps away, but he’s back almost instantly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he holds a makeup wipe in hand. The tender gesture brings a flutter of warmth to your chest as he wipes away the remnants of your earlier distress. You fight the urge to surrender to sleep, but his soothing presence makes it increasingly difficult. The room falls into a comfortable silence, filled only with the sound of your soft breaths and his gentle movements.

Once your face is free of makeup, you feel lighter, as if the weight of the evening has been washed away. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss on your lips, then your cheek, and finally your forehead, each kiss a reminder of his love and devotion. He crawls into bed beside you, pulling you close into his warm embrace. You instinctively wrap your limbs around him, finding comfort in his strength and warmth.

As you settle into the familiar rhythm of his breathing, you murmur out one last “Love you, Daddy…” The words linger in the air as sleep finally claims you, enveloping you in a dreamless, deep slumber, safe and secure in his arms.

-

guys i hate to say the daddy issues got to me. nobody look at me ok sometimes being an adult is really hard. i cross posted this on ao3 btw

[voylitscope]

Hey, does everyone remember when, in CA:TWS, after being shot three times, and while bleeding out, and while on a hellicarrier that was rapidly crashing into the Potomac, Steve climbed down that hellicarrier, so that he could lift a massive piece of the hellicarrier off of a trapped Bucky? (Bucky, who at that point did not recognise/remember Steve and was, you know, the one who shot Steve?) And remember how it looked like it was a real struggle for him to lift it, even though he's Steve, because, I assume, it was incredibly heavy, and also because he'd been shot three times, and also because the hellicarrier was actively crashing and exploding? And, obviously, what comes immediately after Steve pulling this piece of hellicarrier off Bucky is him saying things like "you know me," and "you've known me your whole life," and "I'm not gonna fight you," and worst of all, "then finish it, 'cause I'm with you 'till the end of the line." And dropping his shield into the Potomac. And all of that is heartbreaking and amazing and astoundingly romantic, no matter how many times you see it.

But. I was rewatching CA:TWS, and it struck me that the lifting Hellicarrier piece specifically, is such a moment. It's such a Steve sort of thing. It's one of the several things, strength/ability-wise, that Steve will do — for Bucky — throughout his films that he had to have NO IDEA if he could actually do before he attempted(like stopping that helicopter in CA:CW). But of course he does it, because Bucky is trapped under there, and Bucky looks terrified, and the hellicarrier is crashing, and Steve's gotta get Bucky outta there, and Steve has to help him, and Steve has to go him, and Steve has to — because it's Bucky. And — Steve is filled with so much determination and love and devotion. The love he has fueling that moment is so immense and intense.

And it is really, really getting to me on this thousandth rewatch of CA:TWS.

This really is the most romantic movie of all time.

[mikuluvu]

HER LAST CALL

Summary: You and the team were in a mission, almost a whole swarm of enemies we're chasing you and the team. But when you stepped on pressure-triggered landmine with no way to disarm it, you made a unthinkable choice to be left behind so they can escape.

CW: Character death, Soap ooc??, Themes of grief and loss.

Tf141 x fem!reader

A/n: 3/10 COD fic posted! This one is a angst, i rlly love this fic mwa mwa. It was 4 out 4 pages in my google docs LMAOO. This was kinda a little bit of Soap x reader?

The jungle was filled with chaos, gunfire tore through the trees, and shouts of the enemies closed in. Task Force 141 and you moved through the bushes, their breathing ragged but their focus was steady. The extraction helicopter was only three klicks away, the sound of its blade barely heard over the gunshots.

“Move, move! They’re on our six!” Ghost’s voice barked through the comms.

Soap glanced back, looking the silhouettes running towards them. “Christ, they’re swarmin’ like bloody ants! We need to pick up the pace!”

Price pushed forward at the front, his rifle raised as he led the team. “Eyes up! Stick together, and keep fuckin’ moving!”

You ran in the middle of the team, your lung burning. The mission had gone sideways hous ago, and now it was a race for survival. 

The enemies was close, too close. But then, as you pushed through a particularly thick path of brush, it happened.

Click.

Your boot froze mid-step. For a moment, you didn’t register what it was. But then the cold, horrifying reality hit you like a train. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down. There, placed beneath your foot, was the edge of a land mine.

“Shit,” you whispered. Your body went rigid, “No, no, no…”

Soap, who has been keeping close behind you, halt to a stop as he noticed your sudden halt. “Y/n! Fuckin’ move it! We’re dead if-” His words dies as he saw the look on your face. His eyes followed yours to the ground, and his expression instantly turned grim.

“Fuck,” he muttered, crouching down beside you. “Pressure-triggered?”

You nodded, you voice shaky but calm. “I-if I lift my foot, it’s game over.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Soap hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright, don’t panic. We can figure this out. There’s got to be a way-”

“Soap.” you cut him off through his rambling. “You know there’s no way out of this.”

The rest of the team realized both of you were gone, making them double back, forming a tight circle around you. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Ghost said,

“She stepped on a mine,” Soap said quickly, his jaw clenched. “One of those pressure-sensitive one. If she moves, it’ll blow.”

“God damn it,” Price muttered, dropping to one knee to see the situation. Gaz stood nearby, firing gunshots into the jungle to keep the enemies at bay,

“We’ve got to disarm it,” Soap said, his voice growing more frantic. “Or… or swap out somethin’ for the pressure.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Gaz cut in, “They’re right behind us!” he yelled, as he keeps on shooting.

Price’s hand hovered over the mine, but hesitated, “It’s too risky,” he admitted. “Even if we had time, there’s no guarantee we could disarm it without triggering it.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to speak through the lump in your throat. “Then… you have to leave me.”

Those words hung heavy in the air, like a gunshot. Everyone froze, their eyes snapping to you, because you suggested something unthinkable.

“Not happenin’,” Ghost said instantly.“Listen to me,” you said, your voice trembling. “They’re closing in. If you stay here, we’re all dead. I can buy you time to get to the helicopter.”

“No,” Soap snapped. “We don’t leave anyone behind, and we’re not starting now.”

“Soap…” You reached out, gripping his arm. “You have to, There’s no way to save me without costing everyone else their lives.”

Ghost took a step closer, “We’ve been through worse. We’ll find a way-”

“You fucking can’t!” you shouted, tears stinging your eyes. “There’s no way outt of this, and you know it!”

The team fell silent, the weight of your words sinking in. Price stood up slowly, “She's right,” he said quietly. “We’re out of time.”

Soap stood up and whipped around, glaring at him. “You’re just gonna leave her? Just like that?” 

“Do you think I want to do this?” Price snapped, his voice cracking. “Do you think any of us do? But if we stay, she dies and we die. We’ve got to make the hard call.”

Soap turned back to you, his eyes pleasing. “There’s gotta be another way,” he whispered. “Please.”

Your heart broke at the pain in his voice, but you steeled yourself. “There isn’t. Soap, you have to go.”

Gaz grabbed Soap’s shoulder, pulling him back. “She’s giving us a chance to get out of here. Don’t waste it.”

Ghost lingered, his dark eyes burning into yours. “You don’t deserve this,” he said quietly.

You smiled weakly, your tears finally spilling over. “Just promise me you’ll make it out,” you said. “All of you.”

“We will, love” Price said, his hand gripping your shoulder and looking at you with his now soft eyes.

Ghost hesitated a moment longer, then turned away, his hands gripping his gun tightly. Soap looked back at you one last time, “I’m sorry,” he choked out.

“Don’t be,” you said, your voice breaking. “Just go.”

And then they were gone. The sound of gunfire grew louder as they closed in. Your gripped your gun tightly, your heart pounding as you prepare yourself.

“This is where I make it count,” you whispered to yourself. 

The first wave burst through the trees, and you opened fire, cutting them down one by one. You fought with everything you had, holding your ground as long as possible. The sound of the helicopter’s rotors grew faintly louder in the distance, a reminder that they were almost safe.

You closed your eyes, and then the mine detonated, englufing the jungle in a blinding flash of light. 

.

.

.

.

The team was silent, their boots heavy as they walked through the compound. 

Laswell was already waiting for them, she noticed the missing member immediately.

“Where… is she?’ she asked, 

Price stopped in front of her, his hat pulled low over his face. He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, “She didn’t make it.”

Laswell’s breath hitched, “What happened?”

“She stopped on a pressure mine,” Gaz said softly, “There was no time to defuse it. She… she stayed behind so we could make it out.”

Soap, who has been silent until now, suddenly snapped. “It shouldn’t have happened!” he shouted. “She didn’t have to fuckin’ die! We could’ve done something! Anythin’, but we just fucking left her there-”

“Soap,” Price said, his voice low but firm.

“No!” Soap turned to Price, “you were the one who agreed to leave her”

He didn’t react, “She made the call, Johnny. She made it for us.”

“And we listened,” Soup muttered bitterly, sinking onto a nearby chair. “We bloody fuckin’ listened.”

A/n: Wooohooo! sorry for this... (Im rlly not) I hoped you all liked this <3 Feel free to request Tf141 x reader! or any of the characters!

Reblogs w/comments are appreciated! You can support me through buying me a coffee!

[naffeclipse]

A Gesture Returned

Reader x Orca!Eclipse

Commission Info

I had so much fun writing this request by the sweet @rinzydings who wanted a Y/N reuniting with Eclipse, and bearing a very important gift (and confession)! Their Y/N is so sweet and I loved combining their character with Eclipse's. There is so much sweetness and fluff! Which is must deserved after all they've both been through. I hope you enjoy! <3

———

The gray base is stark against the icy expanse of the north pole. A structure long since frozen into its foundation and left almost lost in the piercing wind and swirling snowflakes, you glance backward at it once before leaving it behind. 

It’s been a year since you first met the orca siren. You saw him in between that time in the mild temperatures of spring, where the negative degrees weren’t as bitter with its touch and the sun rose and fell in time with a full, proper day. Now you have returned once again in autumn, in the aftermath of a summer full of endless sunlight. 

Of course, you kept busy. Other destinations called out to you, and you felt yourself rushed to find the last of the places on your must-see list to ensure you would not go without. Pictures platter the inside of your computer of beautiful landscapes beside tropical seas and sprawling cliffs.

Slowly, your gloved hand falls into your inner pocket. Touching over the thickness of your coat, you remind yourself that your gift is still there. It’s waiting for the recipient. 

Michael and Vanessa know your intentions. After a whole year of adjusting to your relationship with Eclipse, they are easing into the thought of you growing close with a siren that was once out of the realm of nightmares for them. They no longer fear for you like they once did. Your dear Eclipse and your sweet friends share far more in common than they once believed.

Your decision sits heavy on your heart—not with dread or anxiety—but with eagerness. A want to fling it out into the world and cause it to rear into realization runs through you. You dearly hope you may relieve yourself of this tension very soon.  

Eclipse is out there, somewhere. He must have caught sight of the helicopter approaching. 

You’ve learned much about Eclipse’s life and culture that you’ve gathered in your short bursts of seeing him. Courting gifts and becoming mates are important. You understand now what exactly it means to belong to him, and for him to belong to you.

For so long, he has waited in the icy waters alone. His family was dragged up in nets and gutted with spears by a horrible, wicked man named William Afton. He grew up with no kindness, warmth, or guidance. You couldn’t fault him for the tragedy that befell him, but you did grow fearful after he stole you away the first time and changed you against your will. 

Now you’ve had time to understand him. You watched him let you go, and you returned to find him waiting with open arms. 

Your gloved fingers roam over the irregular and smooth shapes of the gift you come bearing. He gave you so much. There’s something you want to give him in return. 

Vanessa and Michael might not understand everything between you and Eclipse, but they support you. 

You choose Eclipse.

Leaving the base behind, you waddle—ever the bird in Eclipse’s eye—across the frozen layers of ice that make up the great Arctic. You do not wander for long before the sea spreads dark and blue beside you. The sharp contrast of pale snow and choppy, deep waters overwhelms your sharp eye for images to capture.

You have many pictures of the ocean. Each one uses the light and angle to capture a swell of waves, the same as you experience a great rise of emotion, searching for your mate.

Emerging from the depths with a striking arch of his lithe and powerful body, Eclipse lifts his head above the sea. His stunning dorsal fin strikes high into the air, burning red and orange before melting into the lovely pattern of black and white upon his body. Even at this distance, you see his mouth full of teeth spreading into a grin.

A soft sound carries over the waves. A song of welcome. You close your eyes briefly to truly catch the sound of Eclipse’s voice over the Arctic wind and splashing waves.

You hold up your hand and wave, at last breaking into a trot as best as you can. Avoiding a dreadful plunge on the slick ground, you trek to the edge of the water. Eclipse dives down. Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Eclipse!” You call as you drop to your knees beside the water. “Eclipse, I’m here!”

You lean over the slushy tide, mixing with shards of ice and blue-gray water, only to be greeted by a crescent mark face of black and white. Eclipse thrusts himself beside you, pushing onto the ice with an impressive flick of his tail. His impressive size easily dwarfs you. Minding the droplets flinging off of his sheeny body, he drapes himself along the ground before you in a dramatic presentation. 

“Birdie,” Eclipse rumbles deeply. A flare of deep joy overtakes his red and yellow eyes. His grin remains wide, and it is painful to wait for his hands to dry enough before he takes you by the arms and engulfs you in his presence. “You came back.”

“I said I would,” you answer softly. 

“You did.” He turns his face down, and with delicate effort, pushes your goggles carefully up your face. The bitter sting of the frigid air rushes your skin. To combat the dangerous cold, Eclipse captures you in a full-face nuzzle.

You softly sigh under the tender but deep fussing of his flat nose against you. He moves over you, going from cheek to cheek and even tucking himself under your chin for a moment, uncaring that your wool scarf gets in the way. His tongue slips out from between his lips to lick at your jawline. You resist a ticklish twitch, and instead, anchor him for a moment against you. Closing your eyes, you return the gesture and lay yourself entirely against his face. 

For one precious moment, Eclipse warms you.

Then he kisses you on the nose. You laugh once in quiet surprise. 

“Let me see you,” he whispers.

You hold still, your eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun shining over Eclipse as if he were waxed and polished. His body never ceases to amaze you.

Gently, he takes your hood and pushes it back. The cold quickly swirls over your head. As you learned before your first trip to the icy land, the head loses the most heat from the human body, and that is why it’s important to keep it covered.

Eclipse tenderly lifts his hand and runs his clawed fingers through your short hair. When you first met, he admired your dark strands with the blond streak you dyed into it, straight down the middle. He admired you in the way one would admire an exotic bird.

“Handsome,” he murmurs. “I missed your strange fur.”

“Hair,” you correct with a smile.

“Hair,” he echoes, before kissing the crown of your head. He reaffixes your hood over you before settling his arms over your legs and holding your gaze. “Tell me about your travels, birdie.”

You need not wait for another invitation. It’s not often you get the opportunity to ramble about your photography, but Eclipse always lends a listening ear. You’ve learned how genuine he is, as curious as you are, and just as insatiable for new, beautiful things. 

First, you tell him about Ocracoke Island. It is not the most exotic land you’ve traveled to, but it is nonetheless abundant with stunning seashells and a lively beach filled with yellow sands and green waters. Then you traveled to Shell Beach in the Australian winter. Awe Striking scenery fueled your photograph as the pale beach glistened to tiny, white shells beside an ever-endless blue sea. Then you traveled to Jeffreys Bay. The water is most gorgeous there, a pale blue-gray with rich seafoam flooding over an entire shoreline worth of shells. 

He doesn’t ask, but it’s clear that you favor tropical and seaside environments during the last six months of your travels. Eclipse has many questions when you talk of such places, such as the creatures there or what you enjoy most about visiting such environments. He draws his claws softly over your gloved hands as you continue to speak. 

Truly, he gives his full attention. Though his eyes may wander over your small fingertips or short stature, he is no less aware of what you spill from your lips.

As you finish telling him of carefully walking along Jeffreys Bay, you gently free your hand from his grasp. His eyes flare for a moment. His claws flex, watching hungrily as you reach into the inside of your coat and withdraw the most precious gift you are about to give.

“I have something for you,” you start softly, your fist curled over the offering, “It would mean so much to me if you accepted it.”

Eclipse tilts his head down, eyes crinkled in curiosity. The shine of his burning red frills catches on the sunlight. You swallow down your heart. Carefully unfurling your fingers, you present Eclipse with a courting gesture.

Laid upon your hand is a cord of strung seashells. Tiny, spiraling, and flat shells clink softly together to form a gradient of deep red, burnt orange, periwinkle, soft baby blue, and pure frost. Six months you spent finding the precise colors. The ones of Eclipse, and the ones that were on your tail when he had changed you into a siren. Those cool, soft colors never quite left your head.

Neither has Eclipse left your heart.

The gravity of the gesture is not lost on you as you study Eclipse’s wide eyes and gaped mouth. He reaches out as if handling thin ice, and strokes the shells with his clawed fingertips. The seashells are tiny but solid. A musical clink echoes at Eclipse’s brush of his hand, and he lifts his eyes.

“I accept,” he answers in a low, powerful voice.

Your entire being flutters, warm and reassured.

“May I?” you ask softly, lifting the cord and carefully taking the ends. “It’s meant to be worn… if you want to wear it.”

“Birdie, I desire nothing more than to display your gift on my body.” His declaration sends a sweeping heat into your cheeks. 

“Your hand,” you say, your eyes filling with misty tears.

He obeys, offering his arm. You level him out to expose his wrist. Slipping the bracelet of seashells around the sinew-packed bones, you deftly tie it and ensure the cord will not unravel anytime soon. 

“You gave me many gifts during our courtship,” you say deliberately. You lean back to admire it upon his wrist. “I wanted to return the gesture in kind.”

His hand clenched as if to contain emotion within his fist. He holds his hand and twists it this way and that, watching the seashells swing slightly against his shiny skin.

“This means much to me, birdie,” Eclipse lowers his gaze at last to you. His chest puffs up with pride. The glow in his gaze is as soft as candlelight. “I will treasure it.”

“I’m glad…” you say, holding back something behind your tongue that stings and causes your entire body to squirm.

In the moment your eyes dart away from him, heavy with words you can’t yet dislodge, a claw curls carefully under your chin. A spark fires in your chest. Gently but firmly, Eclipse lifts your head to look deep into your eyes. His constant grin thins into concern.

“What is troubling you?”

Your throat bobs softly. His eyes dart once to your gift before returning to you, and for a moment, a shine of fear returns to his gaze. The same as when you told him you had to leave the very first time.

You answer quickly but softly, “I’ve never stopped thinking of you, and I've never stopped caring for you, Eclipse.”

His expression softens like the sky in the morning after a wicked blizzard. His claw carefully draws along your bottom lip.

“My little siren,” he rumbles, but there’s a hint of melancholy in the endearment. “How precious you are.”

“I've come to a decision.” A fluttering erupts within you, and you slowly reach out to hold tight to his arm. “Eclipse, I want to stay with you.

You watch in both awe and whirling emotion as Eclipse is struck dumb. His jaw drops. His eyes flare wide open. His touch upon you slackens as if he were about to slip back into the water in his stupor, but instead, he looks at you as if seeing you again for the first time.

A fist squeezes your heart, and you forget to breathe. Is it too late? Does he still want to have you?

“I’m… I’m…” The apology fumbles on your tongue as you try to turn away, but Eclipse grabs you tighter, stopping you in your tracks.

Then you feel the tremors in his hand. Ripples of emotion take over his strong and sleek body, falling down his shoulders and into the very flukes of his tail. His eyes burn deeply.

“You will stay with me?” he asks, caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “Truly, birdie?”

“Yes,” your voice almost cracks. “I love you. I want to be with you as a siren.”

Saying the words frees something within you. The pulse pounding in your ears calms. Eclipse’s hand upon your chin softens into a tender touch. He leans very close. In a gentle brush of his sea-salt-tinged lips, he kisses you deeply. His fervor almost pushes you back, but his arms wrap around and hold you perfectly in place.

He breaks the kiss softly. 

“I love you, my mate.” He tilts your head softly as he nuzzles your cheek. “When you are ready, I will take you into the water.

Your heart sways within you. It is difficult to not recall how frigid and consuming the Arctic is, and the panic you felt underneath the water. But this is different.

He loves you truly. He let you go, and you step back willingly into his arms. 

“I will make it quick, birdie,” he whispers, “I am yours eternally.”

You smile before caressing his face, touching the corner of his mouth, and feeling the slipperiness of his black and white skin. 

“And I’m yours,” you smile.

With gentle reverence, Eclipse helps you undress. You urge him to hurry once the cold begins to attack your skin. Mentally, you must brace yourself once more for the cold of the water. Eclipse cradles you close against his body as you shiver violently in the sub-zero temperatures.

He bows over you, and with a conjuring of a song from deep within his chest, magic fills the air with the force of thunderous waves. It fills you as he presses his lips to your mouth, and together, you slip under the surface. 

Your courting gift of seashells sways around his wrist in the water.

The power of his magic takes you gently out of a world of footsteps and leg strides and into a body fit for cutting through storms and sailing through seas. The colors upon your fluke tips are the same as you remember. This time, you allow him to remove the last of your clothing. Completely bare, transformed, and magically thriving, you are reborn.

He embraces you. The length of his tail easily surpasses your own, and you are held safe as he kisses you within the frozen brine.

[revelboo]

skywarp and/or Blitzwing nsfw/link headcanons... Augh please I love your writings sm, you've always feed us w Starscream and Thundercracker content 😔😔😔💞💞💞

Very, very late. Went with TFA Blitz. 18+ mass displaced mech 🌶️ dubcon

Hello Helicopter

TFA Blitzwing x Reader

• Cackling as exhilaration spins him tight, he wants, needs, to celebrate. One less pesky Autobot. The peskiest of them. No more Optimus. Singing to himself as he darts about over the city looking for a reward, a toy. Something to break. And finds one of the tiny organics carrying a bag to put in a bin at the curb. You’ll do. Landing hard enough to knock the human down he grins. “Want to play?”

• Breath catching in your lungs, your mouth falls open as you stare up at the giant monster. When it bends to reach for you, that breaks through the shock. Choking on a scream, you scramble to your feet and run out into the street. Hearing it laughing as you sprint like your life depends on it, heart hammering. “Run, little mouse!” And then it’s right after you, heavy peds thudding on the asphalt. Can see lights coming on in the houses along the street from the noise. Someone will see and help you. They have to.

• Delighted with how easy you are to spook, he lunges and his servos connect with your hip, sending you tumbling to the ground. Crouching, he pins you flat under his servos. Frame shuddering as his personalities momentarily come into conflict over what to do. Squash you like a bug? Dissect you? Play with you? Yes, play. Picking you up, he goes airborne again and hears you scream, looking for a quiet place away from the city. He should get a reward for destroying the Autobot. Finding a field, he lands and bends to drop you. Watching you gasp and run from him as he mass displaces and chases after again.

• A hand seizes the back of your shirt and you yelp as your feet leave the ground. Finding yourself hitting the ground on your back as the monster looms over you, all sharp denta as he grins, a hand splayed on you to keep you still. “Caught you,” he sings, bending forward to drag his glossa against the side of your neck. Gasping, you twist your head away and try to shove him. And the hand lifts. Frantic, you roll onto your belly and scramble to get away. Only to have him seize your ankle and drag you back. Big frame caging yours as his wet glossa slides behind your ear. “Caught you,” he insists, those pointed denta too close to your face. Is he playing with you like a cat with a mouse?

• Lifting his hand, he waits for you to run again so he can knock you down. “What do you want?” You ask and the question surprises him. He wants to play. To destroy. To kill? You cringe back from him, eyes wide as his personalities argue and swap, trying to come to a consensus. You lunge to get out from under him and he pins you again, excitement flickering through him to mix with the confusion about what he wants. Doesn’t even realize he’s released his spike until his servos curl loosely around your little neck and he nearly releases.

• Heart racing as his face swaps over and over, the monster shifts against you and your terror shifts to a mortification when you feel his spike bump against you. Big and scary is apparently horny. Then again, if your option is to be eaten or fucked, you know exactly which one you prefer. He’s shuddering over you, denta bared almost like he’s in pain as his face keeps changing. That hand is still against your throat, but he’s just pinning you as he shakes faintly, not hurting you. Reaching up your own trembling hands, you touch his face and it stops blurring between the three. The face that’s staring down at you is calmer, more alert. Freezing as you cup his cheek. Then blurring again, denta bared.

• Weak, inferior organic. With soft, gentle hands. Warm under him. Not afraid anymore, no fun. Still needing to play. A reward. His toy. Lifting his head away from that touch, because it makes his processor more chaotic even as it calms him. Avoiding those frightened eyes, he tries to figure out your coverings, his big servos too clumsy for little things. Venting uncertainly as you help him, removing them yourself. “Run,” he demands, lifting his hands from you. Frame going taut as you roll onto your hands and knees. Swapping personalities again when he immediately pounces on you. “Mouse!”

• Big warm hands on your hips, dragging you back and flipping you. But something had shifted when you’d cupped his face, for a second his expression was almost frightened. But now he’s all sharp denta and crazy optics again as your hips are lifted and his head ducks. That long glossa sliding against your inner thigh and over you in a wet slide. Leaves and sticks tangling in your hair as you arch in his grip. Those awful denta are way too close to you, but it’s hard to be afraid when he drives his glossa inside you, stroking deep until you’re whimpering as he explores you.

• Those little noises string him tight, prey sounds that make him want to bite as he savors the taste of you. Glossa sliding over you and along your hip. Feeling you shiver at his touch, before he flips you onto your belly. Hands tugging your hips up as he shifts behind you, guiding himself to you. “My toy now,” he growls, hips driving forward. The wet heat of you wrapped around his spike sending him into chaos all over again. Personalities fighting as he ruts against you, and you keep making those lovely sounds of need that confuse his instincts even more.

• Gasping as he moves against you, that big spike stretching you as he thrusts frantically, slows for a handful of deep drives, then ruts against you hard and fast. Growling and talking to himself the entire time he claims you. Arguing with himself it sounds like as his servos flex against your hips. And despite yourself, it feels good. Body heating and responding as he bows over you, glossa sliding over the back of your shoulder and neck. Moving back against him, you chase your own high. Those denta grip your shoulder as he starts driving hard and fast again, tipping you over the edge, lingering fear and need tangling in you. Biting enough to sting as he ruts against you and his massive frame shudders, feeling him release inside you.

Next

[nocternalrandomness]

USMC Super Stallion in action

[ghostwarriorrrr]

Sikorsky MH-60M Black Hawk (S-70A) - USA - Army

[galaxy-stardust]

Time-out with the Task Force

Part 5

The fire crackled, filling the quiet gaps between words. Outside, the wind howled against the cabin walls, a reminder of the snowstorm still raging beyond the safety of their hideaway.

Price swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the flames dance. "Y’know, I remember a time when you didn’t say more than five words to any of us, Ghost."

Soap smirked. "Aye, and half of those were probably 'fuck off' or 'stay sharp'."

Ghost scoffed, shifting in his chair. “Still applies, mate.”

Gaz chuckled. "And yet, here you are, sittin’ all cozy in a cabin, staring at her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you."

Ghost didn’t take the bait, but his fingers tapped against his knee, a subtle tell.

Price leaned back. “Truth be told, I worried about you for a long time, Simon.” His voice carried the weight of years of battles, of losses, of seeing too many good soldiers break. “Didn’t think you’d ever let someone in.”

Ghost exhaled slowly, rubbing a thumb over the edge of his glove. “Didn’t think so either.”

Soap nudged him with his foot. “So what changed?”

Ghost was quiet for a moment, watching the fire. Then, in a voice low and steady - "She didn’t leave.”

No one spoke.

It wasn’t just words. It was a weight. A confession without being one.

Price nodded slowly. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Finding someone who stays.”

Soap hummed. “Aye… most don’t.”

Gaz glanced toward Ghost. “And you? You stayin’ too?”

Ghost’s fingers curled slightly against his knee. His gaze flicked to where you slept, bundled up, peaceful, unaware of the conversation unfolding around you.

“…Yeah.”

Soap grinned, lifting his glass. “Well, ain’t that somethin’.”

Gaz smirked. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Price just chuckled, taking another slow sip. “Enjoy it while you can, lads. The world doesn’t give us much of this.”

The fire crackled, and for once, Ghost let himself just be.

~~~~~~~~~

The fire burned low, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. The storm still rattled outside, but inside, it was warm - comfortably so. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy, wasn’t awkward. Just men who had spent years together, who didn’t need to fill every silence with words.

Soap stretched out in his chair, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. “Damn, I’m gettin’ too old for this shite. Back’s killin’ me.”

Gaz snorted. “You’re what, thirty?”

Soap scowled. “It’s an experienced thirty, thank you very much. And my body’s been through more than yours.”

Gaz leaned forward. “Mate, I’ve been shot. Twice.”

Soap held up a hand. “Ah, ah, but have you fallen off a moving helicopter and survived?”

Gaz blinked. “…You fell off a heli?”

Price sighed, rubbing his temples. “He jumped off the damn thing.”

Soap grinned. “Semantics, Cap’n. Thought it was goin’ down, figured I’d rather take my chances with the ground than an explosion.”

Ghost huffed, shaking his head. “Daft bastard.”

“Hey, worked, didn’t it?” Soap smirked. “Broke my leg, but I lived.”

Price chuckled. “You lot ever think about how much shite we’ve survived?”

Gaz exhaled. “Honestly? No. If I did, I think I’d have a crisis.”

Soap tapped his chin. “Best near-death moment? Go.”

Ghost lifted a brow. “Best?”

Soap shrugged. “Aye, y’know, the kind where you should’ve died, but somehow, you pulled some ridiculous shite and made it out.”

Gaz smirked. “Like the time you ran through a burning building with a hostage while also being shot at?”

Soap grinned. “Exactly!”

Price sighed. “Y’know, back in my day, we didn’t call that a ‘best’ moment. We called it a fuckin’ disaster.”

Ghost shifted in his chair. “Karachi. Had to crawl through a sewer pipe with a busted arm. Thought I’d bleed out before I made it to the exfil.”

Soap winced. “Oof. That’s grim, mate.”

Gaz snorted. “Still not as bad as Soap’s great ‘heli jump’.”

Soap threw a pillow at him. “Oi, legendary heli jump.”

Ghost smirked. “Legendarily stupid.”

Price chuckled, taking another sip of whiskey. “Hell, I remember back when I was still green - thought I could clear a minefield by walking real careful.”

Gaz stared. “Did it work?”

Price grinned. “Still here, aren’t I?”

Soap whistled. “That’s some next-level luck, Cap’n.”

Price shrugged. “Not luck. Just a very, very slow walk and a lot of prayers.”

Ghost shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “You’re all insane.”

Soap grinned. “Aye, and you love it.”

Ghost rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

The fire crackled, and for a moment, they just sat there, content in the quiet. Men who had been through hell together, laughing at the absurdity of survival.

A storm outside, warmth inside.

For now, that was enough.

Part 6

[castielsprostate]

having evil thoughts and thinking about eddie dying instead of venom. venom somehow getting ripped from eddie during woodchipper fight, flung underneath a helicopter door surrounded by fire where he can't escape from. somehow eddie makes it to the acid, mr soldier blows everything up and venom can't do anything but watch. helplessly they try to lift the door but it's too heavy and it's getting too hot and the fire is everywhere. and this time it's permanent. eddie is dead and venom can't fix him, can't get to him in time.

he manages to barely get away in a cockroach, skittering to new york, vengeance and revenge overtaking every single part of them as he takes in the statue of liberty. he leaves his host, thinking, we'll see each other soon eddie, as they let themselves die- and then he gets snatched up by a piece of webbing

[thechaoticcheese]

Cause I'm hacking up half a lung, have some head cannons on some COD folk and workouts-

Ghost

He loves lifting weights. Can't get enough of it. If he's working out, he's using every damn weight lifting machine available. He seems to dread cardio. Always having this look of tearing apart the treadmill or digging up the track, but he does it begrudgingly. He's silent about his distaste, knowing he has to keep fit for his position. Will silently complain and curse under his breath when no one is around.

Soap

Like Ghost, fucking loves the weights. You can often find the two spotting each other in the gym or workout room on base. However, Soap needs to be DRAGGED to participate in cardio. He doesn't care if he needs to stay in shape. He complains the entire time and everyone has started to just mute his voice out. He's gotten louder about complaining.

Gaz

He says that he doesn't have a preference, but he does enjoy running more. The only thing he enjoys more than running? Swimming. Though he won't tell you that, especially since some places don't have a pool. He'll go with the training, but he doesn't push himself as much on the weights as others and he's ok with that. As long as he can hang with his buds, he's happy.

Price

He fucking loves to run. He partly relieves stress whenever he runs, but if he can't, he smokes, bad combo I know and so does he, but he doesn't care. It hurts his lungs after a good run, but he could care less. Weights are definitely not his favorite, but he needs to keep up with his men, and Nikolai. You can sometimes hear him cursing under his breath and giving himself soft encouragement whenever he does set.

Price and Gaz love jogging together. Gaz never pokes fun at him until after the two are done, they usually just talk casually here and there.

Nikolai

Does not at all have a favorite. He loves working his body at any moment, but it's nothing ever heavy. It's the repetitive motions that give him enjoyment and often makes him remember working on some sort of stubborn piece of his helicopter. What's worse is that he's always just been kinda strong. He never really has to do anything to keep his body the way it is due to his job. Though he does really like working out with Price, even if it is just to see how red in the face his favorite Brit can get.

Laswell

Cardio. Nothing else. Or at least that's what she'd like to do. Since being entangled in 141, the guys have gotten her to start lifting, even just a little. They're not surprised that she does have muscle, but she hates weight lifting. She scowls the whole way through it, only for it to be worth it when her wife compliments how hard Laswell's been working on her form at home.

Graves

Fucking loves it. Cardio, weights, stretching. All. Of. It. He's that fit person in the group that is genuine in offering workout advice, but accidentally ends up pissing people off due to it. He's always at his A game with exercise and will always help people out.

Shepherd

No. Look at him. What exercise? He likes sitting in hot tubs after a 5 minute walk.

Alejandro

Loves to run as well. He is always striving to do better and swears one day he could beat Usain Bolt in a race. He cannot. He does have real good athleticism, but it just won't happen. He also likes weights. He just likes pushing his body, the slight pain from it afterwards always makes him excited for the next workout. Rudy often has to keep tabs on Ale to make sure he's not over doing it.

Rodolfo

Rudy is meh about exercise. He does it to stay fit and in Los Vaqueros. That and for Ale. Mainly because he finds the dude hot whenever he's pushing himself, baring his teeth as he tries to beat his previous record, but to also make sure he's not over doing it. Rudy lies and says he likes exercise, but only insists on doing it with Ale for the previous reasons.

Roach

Is dragged to it every time. No matter what. He does like it once he gets started, it's the getting started part that's hard. The idea of exercise sounds more taxing than it is, but always feels better afterwards.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: Lights Out {1}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: Reality just keeps crashing down around you with the repercussions of your pregnancy. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, angst WC: 2k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One || Two

“Max? Max, where are we going?” Max looked away as he walked by your side, his hand never leaving yours. “Max, no, no…”

The sounds of the ward forced pressure to crush down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. One room cracked open as a nurse left with white gloves stained red, and the wails of pain leaked into the hall. The heaviness in your head lifted enough to crane your neck to see the walls decorated with teddies with pink and blue bows and posters on breastfeeding. 

The cries of newborns came and went with the rooms that you passed and your brother looked at you with pity in his eyes. 

“I shouldn't be here,” you whispered as your gurney was pivoted into a private room and the orderly left. A tense silence filled the room while you waited for the doctors to come. “I shouldn't be here, Max.”

“You’re having a baby, zusje.”

Panic spiked and you looked down at your body in confusion and fear, your voice screeching, “Now?”

“No!” he rushed to answer before his tone softened and he took a seat beside you. “Not right now.  Look, we should wait until Charles and Lando get here.”

“No, no, I need to get out of here. This is a mistake.” You were quicker this time and tore the IV line from your hands before anyone could stop you. Getting out of the room was another problem, you felt like bambi on ice and could barely keep your weak legs straight as you stumbled to the exit. 

“Get back on the fucking bed,” Max growled as he blocked the door. “You may not believe it, but it’s not just you that you’re risking because you’re being stubborn.”

Your hand reached for the soft skin of your abdomen before you forced it to your side again in a fist. “Do they know? Is that why they aren’t here?” 

“What are you talking about? Can you just get in the bed!”

“No, Jos left after mum got pregnant. Daniil and Kelly broke up after having P,” your voice broke as you dropped your head and sweat dripped down your neck. “Babies change things, is that why they left me?”

“Oh, zusje, no.” Max closed the space and pulled you into his arms. “They haven’t left you, I told you they are on their way. Charles was by your side the whole time and they wanted to come in the helicopter but they couldn’t. Don’t you remember?”

You shook your head against his chest, unable to see that the door had opened behind him. 

“Those two love you, and they aren’t leaving you.” Max looked over his shoulder and stepped away so Lando and Charles could calm you down in a way only they had the power to do.

“You must be crazy to think we would ever leave you, baby.” He took your hand and paled at the sight of the blood seeping from where the IV was. 

“What have you done, amour?” Charles sighed and shook his head. “Get her back in the bed, she’s still too warm. I’ll go find a doctor.”

“Sorry, she freaked out at the news.”

“We should have been here with her,” he said wistfully as he watched Lando carefully lay you back on the cooling pad and wrap the chilled blankets around you. 

“You should have worn a fucking condom.” Knowing his temperament was unstable, Max nodded his head to the bed and excused himself. “You stay here, I’ll find the doctor.”

For the second time in less than 12 months you were staring at a contract that was null and void. It was hard not to resent the little bean growing inside of you at the turn of events but it wasn’t her fault that you had a moment of stupidity when you were drunk. No one publicly knew the full extent of your condition outside of the handful of people who had signed NDA’s. You still didn’t quite understand it. Obviously, you did, but some part of your brain still refused to accept it. 

You hadn’t been able to say anything after the doctors told you everything that had come to light while you were unconscious. You had just curled up on the temperature controlled bed and fallen into a state of disassociation. It had taken almost two days for your body to regulate its own temperature again and you were almost ready to be cleared to be discharged. 

You had undergone test after test to make sure the baby was healthy and a small knot in your stomach unclenched when they said everything came back as normal. You picked up the picture of the sonogram again, searching the image for a connection that would make it real. But all you saw were ten fingers, ten toes and a big head. Charles joked Lando was definitely the father. Max kicked a chair and walked out.

“Shouldn’t I feel…something?” you asked quietly, your voice hoarse from the lack of use. 

Lando shared a look with Charles before climbing onto the bed behind you and curling his body around the shape of yours. He kissed your shoulder and his fingers brushed your shirt up so he could rest his hand over your abdomen. 

“There’s not even a bump,” you whispered. 

“I know you’re scared, baby, but it’s going to be okay,” Lando promised. “Charles and I will be by your side the entire time.”

You tucked the picture back under your pillow and closed your eyes. The toll the race took on you was still draining your energy quickly between the many naps you had taken. “I want to go home.”

“I’ll go find Max,” Charles said, knowing no matter how angry he might be he wasn’t going to abandon you.

You didn’t open your eyes as you shook your head. “No, not Monaco. I want to go home.”

The warmth being you disappeared as Lando rose from the bed and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call your mum.”

“I’ll book the flights.”

“And I’ll go to sleep.”

Your replacement had been confirmed before you even reached Doha Airport. It felt like the universe was kicking you while you were already down but someone had to be ready to drive in Austin, and Fernando certainly had the experience. Plus, he couldn’t get pregnant and fuck up the team’s plans for the season. 

Lawrence had tried to fire Kristian for not including pregnancy tests with the rest of your regime, but since he was employed directly by you the most the bastard could do was ban him from the Aston Martin hospitality areas. Kristian had apologised and sent flowers to the hospital, feeling guilty for not realising what was going on and for pushing you so hard. At least now you knew why no amount of training was helping you lose weight, it was only going to get worse in the coming months. 

“They’re all looking at me,” you huffed as you buried your hands in the hoodie you stole off Lando. “They know.” You had only just stepped out of the car at the terminal and you could feel the eyes in you. 

“No they don’t. No one knows, mon amour, and no one will until you’re ready.”

“Fuck, reporters are here,” Lando growled, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and tucking you into his side protectively as the security detail surrounded all three of you. “You don’t have to stop or say anything, baby, just keep your head down.”

Questions were shouted through the wall of black suits that blocked you, their accusations and taunts trying to goad you into talking to them. You were accustomed to the barrage but your exhaustion and the somewhat turbulent emotional state had your teeth gritted.

“Mr Stroll, the senior, has stated Alonso’s return will be positive for the team and he is expecting a much stronger finish to the season with a man in the seat. What are your thoughts on that?”

“Mr Stroll has been wanting a man to drive for him all season, I am glad he’s finally found one. Maybe he can replace Lance next and have it as a two man team.”

“Ma chérie,” Charles warned quietly.

“As for my thoughts, well Fernando can have them and my prayers when he realises what a shit box the car has become. I wish him all the best.”

You hadn’t realised you had pulled out of Lando’s embrace and were heading towards the reporters who were swarming with all the wild enthusiasm of a shark smelling blood. Suddenly the space between the security guards was blocked and it was Charles who curled an arm around your waist, guiding you towards the special entrance to the departure lounge. 

“Take a breath,” he murmured in your ear.

The rush of blood made it almost impossible to hear him and you realised how worked up you had gotten over the question. They made you want to rip your hair out. All that repeated in your head was the final question that had been shouted while you were led away. Twice you had your contracts voided, two teams, which meant you were the common denominator. Were you the problem in the sport or women in general?

“Congratulations. You just ruined any chances of another female getting to the same level. I always said women are too messy for this sport, too emotional.” You hated that you could still hear Jos snickering in your head and Charles wiped your cheek, his fingers coming away wet.

“It’s not fair,” you choked as you buried your face in his chest. “All I wanted to do was race, ever since I was a kid, Charles. I don’t know who I am without it.” 

“I know it isn’t fair, amour, and I’m sorry,” he said softly as he wiped your tears away. “But this isn’t the end, you can still come back. You are a World Champion, that doesn’t change because you had a baby.”

You laughed before sobering up. “Oh wait, you’re serious…”

“Of course I am, and I know you. Stubborn, strong, stubborn,” he smirked. “You thrive on doing what people say you can’t do, on what you think you can’t do. It’s why I fell in love with you, the day you beat me for the Monaco Kart Cup.”

You did love to prove people wrong, so maybe there was a chance - however small - for a return in the future. Whether someone would be willing to take a risk giving you a seat again would be a problem for another day, or year.

“I’m surprised you noticed me,” you admitted as you started to relax again in the empty hall that bypassed the busier areas of the airport. “I didn’t think you could see anything through that Beiber hair you had going on.”

“I saw enough to know you held my heart, and my trophy.”

Lando draped his arm over Charles’ shoulders and pinched his cheek. “Who knew you were such a romantic?”

“Everyone,” you smirked at Lando, “because he’s french.”

You laughed as Charles gasped as wriggled out from between you, pacing ahead on his own. “You know I am Monegasque.”

“You are?” Lando played dumb, scratching his head at the regular joke. “When were you going to tell us?”

A frustrated groan echoed down the hall and you giggled along with Lando before catching up.

“Someone should probably explain that to Arthur, he still thinks he’s french.”

Click here for the next part.

[enriquemzn262]

The might of American logistics in one picture:

A KC-130 Hercules tactical tanker refuels a CH-53K King Stallion heavy lift helicopter carrying an F-35C Lighting II 5th generation VTOL stealth fighter jet.

[venomvalley]

𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡; (𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥)

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: "If you could do all of this over again, you would dare to love him even more."

words: 3.4k

warnings: 18+ only

notes: here's the final part it has arrived!!! i was mad hatter bonkers when i wrote this. at my peak. tbh i'll probably do more with this series but as of now, she is complete!!

» part one // part two // part three

You’ve become friends with your kitchen floor over the last three weeks.

Leon calls when he can. He updates you on his trip, any injuries to expect when he comes back, asks if you’ve eaten or slept or spent time away from the house.

He understands your worry, and tries his best to soothe it away. The last time he slept over, he left you a shirt that smelled of him. He calls at designated times throughout the week, and informs you beforehand if he’ll be busy.

It’s sweet, and it’s thoughtful, but still. You worry. Loving someone who stays gone three weeks out of the month, who comes back to you battered more often than not, who you miss so deeply that your chest threatens to cave—you never believed you could cope.

You also never believed that he would love you back. 

“When will you be home?” you ask, mid-sulk on the kitchen floor.

His voice echoes tinny through the speaker, concealed by static. 

“As soon as I can.”

Your head tips back against the side of the counter with a heavy thud. “You said that last week.” At this point, you’ve worn yourself down to cold resignation, and it shows itself in the flatness of your voice.

“I know, but listen. I’ll make it up to you.”

“And how do you plan on doing that if you never come home?”

A tired sigh filters through all the crackling. “I’ll be home soon. I swear.”

You know that you’re acting foolish. That this is what you signed up for when you decided to be with him. But still. You miss him, and you’re worried and sad and he’s never been away this long. Who wouldn’t sulk in a situation like this?

“You’re quiet. Talk to me.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how unfair I’m being. This is your job. You can’t help it.”

“You’re not being anything. And if you are, then so am I.”

“But don’t you get tired of it? I’m worse than a fucking helicopter parent.”

He laughs, and the sound starts to ease you from your sour mood. You just need to hear it in person again. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of talking to you.”

“That is a horrible line.”

“But is it working?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

“Just making sure I haven’t lost my touch.”

He excuses himself shortly after, cites a change of plans, then tells you he won’t be available for a few days.

You take the opportunity to stress clean, to visit with friends, to fall back into some kind of routine because if you don’t then you will go insane from the overflow of anxiety.

But he comes back to you. He always does. Always tender-hearted, a little more broken, but he comes back. 

On a Monday morning, no less. Half an hour before you start readying for work, still asleep on the couch. You recognize the sound of the lock turning, then of his footsteps.

He tries to stay quiet. Let you rest. But the sun already threatens to rise, and your brain-matter alarm jolts you awake anyway.

“Good morning,” you say, voice thick, skin still warm from sleep.

You lift your head from the pillow to see over the armrest, and find him removing his coat, turned toward you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. I tried not to wake you up.”

“I have to get ready soon anyway.”

He takes a seat on the coffee table, and the light from the television casts a muted, cool glow over his face. You prepared yourself for this, he had warned you, but you don’t think you could ever truly grow used to the bandages, the gauze, the injuries that will turn to scar.

But he’s alive. And he’s here. And being alive means healing, so you can’t stay too angry.

“Or, you could take the day off.”

“It’s not that simple, Leon.”

“I’m friends with the president. I could give him a call.”

You blurt out a laugh, but his expression remains stoic and severe. 

“Wait, you’re serious.” He nods. “What the fuck do you even do?” He shrugs, and you think to throttle him across the living room. “No, you can’t just say you know the president and expect me to not ask questions.”

“It’s not much of a story. I just work under him.”

You know he’s lying, and he knows that you know he’s lying. There is a very important story here that he doesn’t want to tell, and you're too nosey for your own good.

“Is this another thing you have to hide to keep me safe or whatever?”

He rolls his eyes and rises from the coffee table. Goes to pick up his luggage then turns to you, eyes fraught.

“Listen, I know it’s a shitty position to put you in, and I wish I could tell you, but I would rather you be mad at me than be dead.”

You sit up then, mirroring his own distress. “Leon, I’m not mad. I mean, I knew what I was getting into, and I know you wanna keep me safe, but I still feel scared. I’m doing the best I can.”

Whatever tension stifles the room suddenly deflates, right alongside the stiffness of his posture.

“No, I know,” he says, voice small, pitiful, sad. “I just—“ He shakes his head to discard the thought. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

The alarm clock on the end table begins to blare, a shrieking cry of overstimulation, and you think to throw it against the wall. Stomp it to pieces.

You don’t have time for this. Not now. Can’t leave things fractured.

He leaves to the bedroom as you lean over and silence the noise, and you listen to the squeal of the suitcase zipper, the sliding of drawers, the shuffling of footsteps.

Can’t leave things like this. 

You stand timid in the doorway of the bedroom, watch as he sorts through clothing on the bed, shoves piles into drawers, and a melancholy smoke tightens your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you say, words choking on the ashes of regret.

You never meant to hurt him, to press hard on some invisible bruise, but you should’ve known. He’s lost so many close to him, seen death on an unimaginable scale. You should’ve known.

He spares you an acknowledging glance, then resumes unraveling then re-folding clothes. “You know I love you, right?”

“Of course I do. I’ve questioned a lot of things, but never that. Never.”

He lowers onto the edge of the bed, and the mattress groans. The sheets wrinkle. His suitcase angles to one side. A smile stretches his lips, and the sun rises again.

“I knew for a while. That you… felt the way you did.” His eyes meet yours, and the muscle of your heart freezes for a long moment. Your face buzzes, stokes to flame. “I didn’t want to say anything because I knew I couldn’t be who you needed. The person you thought I was.”

“I didn’t think you were anything. You’ve always just been Leon.”

“But am I worth it to you?”

He’s been fighting his own worries, that much is clear, and what little information he gave you, about his struggle with loss and the bone-deep roots of trauma, you should’ve known.

If you could go back, re-do this all over again, loving him is the very last thing you would change.

“Always.”

He nods his head, mutters out an, “Okay,” and turns back to his wrinkled clothes.

“How about we make some breakfast after I shower?”

“Now that you mention it, I have missed your cooking.”

An air of sickly-sweet affection bathes the room, and you smile at him all tender, so wide your cheeks begin to ache.

“In that case, you should get in touch with the president. My boss is an asshole.”

“I know a guy who knows a guy who can make people disappear.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

After a long moment of you being struck still by shock, he gives a teasing, conspiratory smile, and the world begins to turn again. 

Like every other day he comes back home, you laze around until evening. A celebration in peace, safety, sanctuary.

“You know I’m probably gonna be fired, right?” you ask, sliding in next to him beneath the covers.

“Good riddance to your shitty job.”

He throws a heavy arm over your waist, pulls you close, tucks his face into the curve of your shoulder.

“What money would I have to pay rent?”

“Just move in with me.”

You huff. Leon and his simplicity, his easy-as-breathing solutions. 

But it is a good solution.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” You lift his head with a tender hand, and press a teasing kiss to his lips. A cheek. The tip of his nose. “It’ll be a little harder to keep secrets.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You love him. Still adore him on the worst days. Would rip the stars from the sky, craft another moon, black out the sun if he asked.

“Okay, then.”

His brows raise, and a hand tightens against your waist. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He smiles, then kisses you this time, cradles a hand around the nape of your neck and presses his weight against you. Your heart rate spikes in anticipation, a yearning that threatens to consume.

An unspoken promise, the way he holds you. How his hands dip warm beneath your shirt, ghost trails of gooseflesh over the curve of your belly.

“Can I?” he breathes against your neck, traces his lips along the thump of your pulse. 

You’ve already fallen apart and he’s barely touched you, and such starvation should be undoubtedly embarrassing, but it’s him and you love him and you’ll probably always feel this needy where he’s concerned.

“Yes. Whatever it is, yes.”

He leans back onto his knees and rids you of your shirt. Follows the raise of your hips with hurried fingers, and strips your legs to bareness.

It’s all frantic, the limbo between clothing and nakedness. You forget to undo one of his buttons, an arm gets stuck in his shirt, he elbows you in the side while trying to remove his pants. By the end of it all, when you’re both naked and cuddled up, you’ve laughed yourself almost to headache. Definitely breathless. More in love than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’s a simmering heat against you, all muscle and sinew, a final ray of sunshine in the shadow of this apartment. You’ve never wanted, or craved, or starved for anyone more.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, traces fingers down the curve of your spine. “I thought you said thinking was dangerous.”

His eyes, low-lidded and lazy, sparkle from window light of the evening sun. His last trip graced a spatter of freckles on his skin—the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, a lone speck just above his lip. You wish to kiss each of them, one at a time, endlessly.

“My thoughts have been better recently.”

You throw a leg over his hip, and a large palm follows the back of your thigh. Squeezes at the curve of your ass.

A noise starts in the back of his throat, halfway to whimper when you slot your lips against his and dip a hand between your bodies and curl cautious fingers around the head of his cock.

“This okay?” you ask, press a soothing kiss to his cheek.

He licks over his bottom lip, groans out a, “Hold on,” and rolls onto his back, pulling you with him. “That’s better, I think.”

The sight of him now—that same halo of blond hair, that same stare of tender devotion—almost a deja vu to months past, yet distinctly different in his naked vulnerability.

That’s what this is. Vulnerability. Terrifying in practice, yet sacred for all its beauty.

He presses a hand to your back, coaxing you closer, until you’re chest-to-chest and his heartbeat pitters through the cage of his ribs.

“Nervous?” you ask, gentle in tone, fearful of offense. 

“Admittedly.” An immediate response, one that almost surprises you. But you know him, and he knows you just as well. Can probably sense the anxiety rolling off you in waves. 

“Thank God. So am I.”

It’s no surprise that your sex life has suffered, whittled into the negatives, due to months of one-sided pining, and his hectic schedule grants no reprieve for blooming hormones. 

And it’s odd. Not a negative sort. Just… different and new. That fun, awkward phase where you learn how to give and receive pleasure all over again, from a fresh perspective. A new pair of hands.

You lean over to sift through the top drawer of the nightstand. Leon’s hands settle on your hips to keep you steady. He seems to believe the same as you: falling off the bed and breaking something would really ruin the mood.

“This is always a must,” you say, tossing a bottle of lubrication onto the sheets.

He picks it up. Clicks the cap open. Takes a whiff. “Strawberry.”

“Regular lube tastes like shit.”

“It’s also half-empty.”

You shrug. “I get lonely when you aren’t here.”

“We could’ve done this a long time ago.”

You move back to sit on his thighs, take the bottle from his hand, and squeeze out a quarter-sized portion into your hand. “Too bad our boat had holes in it.”

“I will never live that down, will I?”

“Nope.”

He exhales a shaky sigh as you spread a slick hand over his length. Drops his head back against the pillow when you twist your fist over the tip.

“Good?” you ask, a little breathless, desire twinging at the base of your spine.

All he can do is hum in response, and his pretty eyes close, and his hips twitch up to meet your hand.

You could sit here forever, you think. Watch him succumb to pleasure, forget language, offer himself over to you. A show of trust in its most potent form. Maybe another time, you’ll have him use you, just like this. Fuck himself on your fist.

He grits out a low moan, the sound lancing through your belly, and you look down. The sight of him, blush red and slicked-up, a thatch of trimmed hair at his groin, thick and curved and so pretty—fuck, you really should’ve done this a long time ago.

His cock twitches in your grip, and an unbearable emptiness leaves you desperate. Wanting. Needy.

Fuck it.

You brace a hand atop his chest to reach between your legs, but he stops you. Curls a hand over your back, presses you hard against his chest, and noses at the shell of your ear.

“Didn’t take you for the impatient type,” he says, and you feel like you might combust.

It’s all heat now, sweltering, an agitated energy that keeps you fidgeting in spite of his hold. 

“I’m usually not. Guess you bring it out of me.”

A thick, wet finger slides into you, and you mewl into the curve of his neck. A tight fit, an effect of unused muscles, and you pull your knees higher toward your chest to open yourself up, the inside of your thighs sticky against his torso.

“More,” you sigh, clench hard around him. 

“Already?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you, actually.”

“I’m fine.”

Another joins the first, stretches you wide, and you arch against him. Your face buzzes with static. Your breathing deepens. You fist a hand in the hair at the base of his skull and pull him into a bruising kiss. A lick of teeth. The wet curl of tongues. He tilts his hips, slicks his cock against your belly, slackens his jaw to sigh into your mouth.

You could die like this. Die happy and sated. You’re fit to consume each other and god, what a beautiful way to go.

This is love, you think. You’ve had partners into the past, felt strongly for them, cared deeply about their wellbeing. But nothing like this. Never like this.

He’s gentle when he pushes into you, much like the midday sun. The slight burn of heat, the caress he gives to your back, the kiss he plants on your shoulder. You cling to him, brace for the steady fill.

It hurts, like all other things in life. But he’s there, quick to soothe. And it’s always been that way, hasn’t it?

He’s soothed you with words, and actions, and the simple being of his presence. He’s kept you from loneliness, kept you sane, kept you safe. He’s always been there, like this.

It’s always been him.

And he bottoms out inside you. A welcome, satiating fullness that forces the breath from your lungs.

You wait for a few long moments, a selfish savoring, before you raise your hips then sink back down—and that split second of emptiness seeks to ruin you.

The arm over your back loosens to allow you movement, but he holds steadfast. Never breaks contact. Needs the closeness, the intimacy as much as you.

It’s a relieving thought. That he’s affected by this, too.

He attaches his lips to a spot on your shoulder, teases his teeth, threatens a bite when you quicken your hips and a heavy schlick echoes in the quiet room. The heat in your belly smolders, builds to flame, and you sigh out a needy whine.

A hands lowers between your legs, and his breathing shudders on each exhale, and you’re close. The tether’s pulled taut, ready to break.

He bites into your skin to muffle his moans, hugs you tight against him, and spills inside you. The rhythmic jerk of his cock sends you reeling, every muscle in your body tensing up, the hot clutch of your insides aiding his orgasm.

And then everything stills. Your bodies relax. Tensions disappear.

“Didn’t mean to bite you that hard,” he says, voice thick and gravelly.

“Think it’ll scar?”

“Didn’t break skin, so no.” He traces a finger around the indentations. “It would make a nice tattoo, though.”

“Would you pay for it?”

“Government salary, remember?”

After a few moments, he softens inside you, and you lift your hips to release him. A mess spills onto his stomach, and he flinches. Mirrors your wince.

“How about a shower?” you ask, already rolling off of him. 

“Please.”

When you’re freshly clean and back in bed, sleep settles over you. Multiplies tenfold when he curls himself around your body, all warm and comforting.

“Will you really move in with me?” he asks, traces his nose along the curve of your jaw.

“If you’ll have me.”

“I’m the one who asked.”

You sigh into his hair, soft strands tickling your nose. “Then I have some calls to make.”

“I’m owed a couple favors.”

“As I’ve found out.”

He laughs, situates himself beneath the sheets. “I think I’ll miss this place. A lot of memories here.”

You cradle him against you then. Curl a soft hand over the back of his neck. In fact, you think you might cry as a sweet kind of melancholy coats the cavern of your chest.

Your entire relationship took place in this apartment. He sat on every piece of furniture. His blood’s been stained into the floor. His presence overwhelms each room.

But it’s a logical thing, moving on. No matter how painful it feels, how comfortable you’ve been staying stagnant. And you prepared for it—moving on from him.

Now, he joins you.

A funny thing, that.

“Yeah. I will, too, I think.”

“Greener pastures, right?”

“Speaking of, you know anybody who’s hiring?”

“A few people, actually.”

“Give them my number tomorrow.”

He exhales a laugh, and then he falls into sleep, with a protective arm slung over you, cradled against your body.

“Sweet dreams, Leon,” you whisper, and you press a kiss to his hair.

If you could do all of this over again, you would dare to love him even more. And more, and more, and a fond part of you knows that you could offer all of yourself to him, every atom of your physical being, and still—

Still, you could never express your love enough.