#hen-solo

[pocketfullofsimshine]

new farm friend / meet doo / this little chick is apart of a duo / the other chick is named doodle / so now, we have doodle doo lol

[apparently-artless]

Winter Anime 2024 Watchlist

Mashle: Magic and Muscles Season 2

Kyuujitsu no Warumono-san

Tsuki ga Michibiku Isekai Douchuu Season 2

Boku no Kokoro no Yabai Yatsu Season 2

30-sai made Doutei dato Mahoutsukai ni Nareru Rashii (Cherry Magic!)

Classroom of the Elite Season 3

Solo Leveling

Dungeon Meshi

Ao no Exorcist: Shimane Illuminati-hen

Sasaki to Pii-chan

Recommended to me:

Yubisaki to Renren

Bucchigiri?!

UPDATE: I am currently accepting requests for these series. For more details, CHECK THIS POST. ;)

[pastelnightgale]

I save awful people everyday, it's my job-

Hen

[quiixs]

Ichigo Kurosaki vs Aguiaro Ebern

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 3; ghoap x reader) part 1, part 2

-

“What is this anyway—‘bring your girlfriend to work’ day?”

She’s snarky as ever, but with an agitated edge. Nerves prickling when Johnny holds her jacket out for her to slip her arms into. Even that makes her snap—something about not being a toddler that Johnny needs to help dress, but by then his head is in the clouds. In another place altogether. 

The prospect of getting to parade his new girl around leaves him giddy, fox-like grin hard to squash. He doesn’t suppress anything, finds it hard to push things down. When he does, it’s often unconscious. 

She doesn’t like the way he savours her anxiety like a fine wine, sniffs it from the top of her head and groans out his breath, cackling when she tries to stomp on his foot to make him go away. He dances away with her coat, light and nimble on his feet because he’s used to ducking and weaving for her affection. 

“The guys wanna meet ye,” he repeats for the umpteenth time. It’s surprising how many times he’s had to say it. 

“Why? Haven’t they ever met a girl before?” she gripes, swallowing now, her stomach probably cramping and poor bonnie lass, Johnny thinks. His poor, pretty girl is trying to put on a brave face when he knows she prefers being in the backroom of her little flower shop, snipping off stalks and tying pretty bows around pretty bouquets. He wishes he could keep her back there forever—put a lock on the door and come only to smother her in kisses and gorge himself on every inch of her—but there’s a whole wide world demanding his attention. 

“Aye, hen, never a lass as cute and sweet as ye,” he crows, ducking a hand that punches through the sleeve of her jacket in his direction. 

In the car, he drops the facade. Loses his teasing edge. It’s a violent removal, like jolting awake to the sound of someone sawing away at a catalytic converter. If his smile is saccharine, it’s really only a smokescreen concealing the apprehension bubbling away in his belly. 

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel on the drive back to base. Heart in his throat, choking his words and rendering him quiet for once in his life. He hears Ghost’s voice in his head, a low rumbling laugh, tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. These days, his voice acts as a lodestar, the thing steering Johnny home. 

Months ago, it was the only thing between him and annihilation, the ice cold maelstrom dragging him deeper into its maw. Guiding him through the valley of death. The wound in his arm still aches in the first light of day. His sleep is still wracked by dreams of running down alleys and ducking into houses, the rain pattering against the window panes ominous, a ticking clock, each step having to be precise, calculated, each movement quieter than quiet, fading into the shadows, a cool heart and mind bested by agony from the bulletwound in his shoulder.

And then—Ghost’s voice, low and soothing in his ear, shattering the pain. Ghost’s voice in his ear telling him where to go, how to survive. 

It’s hard to explain. Johnny’s tried. It’s like talking in circles when he opens his mouth and tries to get it out. I trust him with everything in me. He could do anything to me, anything. 

He is no less capable, no less competent. His rank demands respect, and he takes what’s due to him. Since Las Almas, he’s worked across a medley of other teams, even solo a time or two. It changes nothing. He still wakes in a sweat, chasing that voice. It takes him back into the real world. The days burn into the fringes of a memory that he is always living.

“Should I know anyone’s name before we get there?”

Her voice breaks through the noise in his head this time. It’s every bit as precious. 

“What d’ye mean, hen?” he asks, clucking his tongue. Sweats a bit when he realizes how far down the motorway they are now, how long it’s been since he checked out, lost in his thoughts. One hand rests loose on her leg, fingers spread wide and thumb gliding up and down her outer thigh, the other still holding the wheel. 

The pinched look has mostly fallen off from her face, but there’s still a tremble in her lower lip when she says, “Well, I don’t know any of your friends. I wouldn’t introduce you to my friends without telling you their names first.”

“No’ my friends, hen—we’re coworkers.”

She looks over at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m friends with my coworkers.”

Johnny shrugs. “It’s no’ the same with guys. Couldnae tell you fuck all about any of them except their names, to be honest.”

“Oh, don’t give me that—you’re not friends with a single one of them? No one?”

No hunger without resistance. His mouth goes bone dry. He’d be wise to learn that. 

He swallows. “Maybe a few.”

No transaction without accountability. Ghost saves his life and now Johnny has to pay that debt back tenfold. Sinking into the crease of Simon’s voice late at night, clutching it to his chest. Breathing it out. Maybe they are friends. 

He’s a bit show-offy at the base gates, dangling his ID card out the window pinched between two fingers. The civilian guard on duty just waves him on, scanning it only for the sake of the logs. His tires spin in the dirt when he guns it down the stretch of road leading into the base, windows still all the way down. Her hair whips around in the wind until she gathers it all up in her fist and shrieks at him to roll the windows up. 

Johnny enjoys showing off. That’s a core aspect of who he is, his charm. Braggadocious, confident in the way he looks, his physical prowess, his lot in life—so why would that change with his girl? He holds her close with an arm around her waist when he drags her through the rec centre, the building closest to where they parked. 

He gets lost in conversation for longer than expected. Pure gloating about the girl he’s managed to bag. Cooing in her ear when he feels her get a bit uneasy, still timid around the other guys despite having him at her side. He supposes that’s fair. She’s more comfortable around the women on base, a bit freer with her greeting and questions, but there’s still a pinch in her brow that never smooths all the way over.

It takes a while to find anyone that he knows. There are plenty of sergeants and corporals that he’s worked with before, familiar faces and names, but Johnny still glances around the room while they make light conversation with his girl, searching. Looking for something familiar, something that’ll reel him in, make him perk up like a dog catching a scent. 

They cross Gaz in a random hallway on the way to the comm centre, hardly recognizable at first with the darker stubble of his beard grown out. He must’ve just come back from wherever he’d been shipped off to the month previous, no time to shave or clean up. He even smells of old sweat when Johnny leans in for a hug. 

“Is this—?” Gaz glances over at her just once while the question dangles in the air. He looks back over at Johnny. 

They lock eyes. A silent exchange of meaning. 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, steering her in front of him with both hands on her shoulders, showing his girl off like a kid with a new toy. Eyes glinting like, don’t say a word. “Brought her in to meet everyone.”

A molasses slow smile spreads across Gaz’s face. It’s clear why men like him always get the girl. Johnny’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “Nice to meet you—thought John would hide you away forever.”

She glances up at him through her lashes. “You talked about me?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Not as much as you’d think. Took Ghost ages to get it out of him.”

Johnny flushes. “Did no’. Jus’ ‘cause I don’ blab about everything under the fuckin’ sun doesnae mean—”

“John says you’re a florist,” Gaz interrupts, turning the conversation back to her. Her lips split up into a mischievous little grin, delighted at the turnabout, probably delighted at seeing Johnny stumble over his words.

Something about her teasing grin gets his dick hard. More points to the rapidly disintegrating belief that he doesn’t have a humiliation kink. He leans forward, pressing it into her ass, delighted himself when she shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t pull away. 

“So, where’s everybody?” Johnny asks casually, trying not to make it too obvious who he’s referring to. The look Gaz gives him is unimpressed. He keeps running into that brick wall, his thoughts written out on his forehead, obvious to everyone around him. 

“Everyone?” Gaz repeats sceptically. 

“Aye.” His voice is tight, warning. “Everyone.”

“Ghost’s actually on his way here now, I think. We got called over to HQ—s’where I was headed, actually.”

“I dinnae say anything about Ghost, now did I—,” Johnny grumbles, but the words dissolve in his mouth when the man in question comes into the room. 

Sometimes, Johnny has the pleasure of seeing Ghost round a corner. The split second pleasure of being the observer, of dragging his eyes up and over, his chest bursting with a light like dawn cresting behind mountains and splitting the sky. In the field, he’s often deprived of that; becomes used to experiencing the phenomenon of Ghost melting out of the shadows, sometimes scaring the daylights out of him. 

It’s what happens now though. Glancing up on a whim only to see a man round the corner of the hallway leading out of the rec centre, shirt stretched out maddeningly over his arms and chest, muscles bulging like he just came from the gym, still pumped. The shirt’s a little threadbare, something old and worn, and Johnny’s seen it a million and a half times he figures; it leaves so little to the imagination that he’s joked about Ghost busting it at the seams from time to time, only to be met with a steady, aloof stare. 

There’s something to be said about how he’s drawn to people who refuse to scratch him behind the ears until he’s more than proven himself. He works tirelessly for Ghost’s approval, for his girl’s approval. Dogs with their bones, tigers with their stripes. 

He has a balaclava pulled over his face, just a simple black one this time, the underside of his eyes darkened by eyeblack hastily scrubbed off the night before, probably. His eyes scan the crowd, locking on Johnny and Gaz almost instantly. It’s the mark of a good soldier—he doesn’t flounder in the dark. Always finds his target, like a sixth sense for knowing when he’s being watched. 

Ghost course-corrects upon noticing them, crossing the room in a handful of seconds. The curt, “Johnny,” he gets is a bounty, a treasure. He grins back when Ghost glances down at the girl at his side. “That your bird?” 

“Told ye I’d bring her in—s’long as everyone’s on their best behaviour, of course.”

Gaz snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Ghost must cock an eyebrow because he can see the fabric of his mask shift. “Pretty.”

He can’t help the way he preens at that. Tucked away by his side again, Johnny can feel his girl squirm, but he pays it no mind. She’s shy—he’s known that from day one, from the first time she stumbled out from the back of the flower shop and scrunched her nose up at his attempts at flirting. 

Admiration is a smooth, buttery feeling. It keeps him aloft while another couple of servicemen take interest in their conversation and come over, Johnny’s girl at the centre of everyone’s attention. He’d be pricklier about it if he didn’t have a firm hand on her waist, keeping her pressed to his side. 

He soaks up the attention. Drinks it up when someone asks his girl a question and Johnny answers for her or pinches her cheek when she manages to pipe up before him. He knows he’ll get read the riot act when he takes her back home later, but he might be able to convince her to ride him while berating him for talking over her. Might beg her to slap him and spit in his mouth—say it’s the only way he’ll learn his lesson.

Dirty dog.

It strikes him that maybe he’s picked up some bad habits in recent months. He’s never been one to overthink, to worry and fret. Yet, he toils in it now, shovels coals into the furnace of it and gives it life. 

His shoulders go slack, the tension finally ebbing out of him. No longer dogged by the incessant fear that his girl is going to run away, bolt at the first loud noise, or that someone’s going to pluck her up out of his arms. She seems comfortable if anything. 

He’s been overthinking all of this, wrapped up in his head. He can breathe out, unclench. 

When Ghost shifts to stand closer to them, he glances over because that’s where his gaze always goes these days. Seeking Ghost out, finding him in a crowd; looking for his North Star wherever he is, wherever he goes. 

Only to watch in mute horror as, in plain sight, not trying to be discreet or hide it from anyone, Ghost gropes his girlfriend’s ass in front of everyone on base. Just reaches out a big hand and fondles her ass, digging his fingers into the cheek. She freezes, back ramrod straight as she stares ahead, eyes going a bit blank. 

He fails whatever test this is, mouth too dry for any words to come out. Humiliation burns him from the inside out. Another sergeant that he’s worked with before frowns, glancing over at Johnny. Neither of them say a word. 

Ghost tilts his head, staring down at his hand on her ass like he’s contemplating its plushness. Admiring it. With how Johnny stands on one side and Ghost the other, the two of them bracket her, like the soft centre of their trio; nowhere for her to go, a handler on either side. That’s wrong though. Ghost is not her handler—Johnny hardly is, more of a self-appointed one. 

Still he—

He lets it happen.

Contention dies a bloody death in his mouth, massacred. Mangled. He lets Ghost sink his fingers into his girlfriend’s backside and hum a little under his breath before finally pulling his hand away. The others look at him, waiting for Johnny’s reaction with bated breath. A reaction that never comes because it gets strangled in Johnny’s throat. 

“Nice meeting the bird,” Ghost finally says, voice a decibel lower, rough enough to scrape. “Gaz and I’ve got shit to do now. Be ready on the tarmac by oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, Johnny.” 

He grips Johnny by the shoulder before heading off, like he didn’t just grope Johnny’s girlfriend. Like he didn’t just reach down and grab a handful of her ass like it was his to feel up. And Johnny just nods. A placid, docile thing under Ghost’s hand, bobbing his head like a doll. 

Then Ghost leaves, Gaz trailing after him, looking back about a half dozen times to see if Johnny will suddenly follow them until he’s forced to job to catch up to Ghost, the man already yards away, longer legs carrying him fast out of the building. 

They don’t talk on the drive back to her apartment, the inside of the car tense and uncertain. Johnny walks her to the door when he lets her off, but it’s a formality, a chaste kiss at the door instead of the rough fuck that he’d envisioned to send her off. Despite the hard set of her jaw, she doesn’t lambast him like Johnny expected. The silence is worse though, haunting when she shuts the door in his face. 

The drive back to base after the drop off is agonizing in a whole new way. Still pent up, cock heavy in his pants, and fingers drumming over the steering wheel twice as fast now. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? What he wants to do is turn around at the closest gap between both sides of the motorway and speed all the way back, knock on her door until his knuckles blister and bleed, until she opens the door and lets him in, lets Johnny push her to the floor in the entryway and spread her legs, welcoming him in. 

Until she lets him fit his fingers into the marks left behind by Ghost’s hand. 

Cold fire rising up off his bones, and then something hot. And wet. 

The next day at breakfast in the mess, one of the guys says something like, “If Ghost was into my girl, that’s the last you’d see of me and her,” and his mind goes blank and he goes over the table.

[hedgehog-moss]

In winter the morning sun emerges in the woods like a badger from its den, and as soon as the first ray touches the ground of the pasture my donkey takes a very deep breath and prepares to bray his heart out.

Thankfully I managed to fill up the hay bag before the ray of sun deadline, and to catch his attention with the Hay Whistle just before he started. Impromptu for solo donkey: adjourned.

I have to start with hay or else Monsieur Pirlouit will bray for food the whole time I feed the other animals, and braying is the most unpleasant cry of the whole animal kingdom.

Don't look at me like that. It is, and you take advantage of it.

(I watched them eat for a bit, thinking about puns based on boy band names + the word donkey or llama and it took me a moment to realise I had this thought because everyone had the 90s frosted tips hairstyle)

After hay distribution, the hens are freed from their coop and follow me to the kitchen door where they are fed scraps from yesterday's dinner (to start with). On the way back from the coop we make a stop at the greenhouse to feed the fish.

Meanwhile the cats, who sleep in the hay in a nest that they dug, and get woken up when I go get hay (I take it from the other side of the bale so as not to threaten the cat nest's structural integrity), will have had time to stretch (10min) and will be waiting in front of my house. Cats & chickens greet each other from afar like rival gangs, lots of fluffed up feathers & tails in warnings that rarely amount to anything. The hens are fed first since they already had to watch the fish get fed before them. The cats are ok with it because a) unlike the hens they get to go in and enjoy couch & stove privileges, b) the dog is fed last, which preserves their cat pride.

Pandolf isn't vexed because as a dog he is intelligent enough to know I'm not in control of when he gets breakfast; the kettle is. I put the kettle on, get my breakfast food out, and then pour Pandolf's kibble in roughly the same amount of time it takes for the water to boil. As a result there is an indisputable link between the sound of the kettle and his breakfast finally being served. There's no doubt in his mind that I'm powerless to feed him until this mysterious entity has authorised it. If my house was on fire he would save the kettle as a priority.

I have this mental checklist of animals to feed that I recite to myself every morning, it's like a little song... "Lamas nourris, âne nourri, poules nourries, poissons nourris, chats nourris, chien nourri..." Then it's my turn :)

[deadghosy]

How Slytherin boys react to sister! Reader dating:

Warning: boyfriend house not specific, google translated Italian, protective brothers & stalking

Ft. Tom Riddle, Mattheo Riddle, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Lorenzo Berkshire.

The Riddle Brothers

“WHAT??” Mattheo yells as Draco had told him that you were dating Someone. The thing was that you haven’t told him first.

Why didn’t you tell him..cause now he’s frowning and venting to the oldest riddle that’s reading a book.

“TOM! Our baby sister is dating someone, but she hasn’t said a single thing…I swear what if the guys bad..”

“We could easily kill him. So why worry brother?” Tom says looking up. But it was clear that Tom was mad that you haven’t told him. You always tell him things, so to the point you haven’t told him made him a “little” angry.

Mattheo and Tom looked at each other and nodded as they left the Slytherin common room.

You were walking with your boyfriend when all of a sudden you felt eye burning in the back of your head. You turn around and there you see only mattheo because of course Tom is invisible.

“Mattheo…why didnt you turn invisible when clearly she’s glaring at you.”

“Tom, stfu.”

Draco Malfoy

Ima make your boyfriend here as potter cause it’s definitely gonna be funny.

Straight up gets so dramatic to his knees, screaming for someone to kill him as he sees you dating his enemy. How could you betray him?! Your big brother is devastated

After dinner, he drags you to the common room and becomes a mother hen as he lectures you about how “terrible” pottah is.

“He’s a terrible person! And a Gryffindor. End of presentation…got any questions.” Draco says with a raised up brow

“Yeah, only one. Can I go to sleep now…”

Theodore Nott

IM SORRY BUT HE’S GONNA PULL OUT THE ITALIAN

“Mi stai spezzando il cuore qui sorellina... non puoi uscire finché non sono morto...” (you’re breaking my heart here lil sis you can’t date til I’m dead)

“ALLORA COME CAZZO USCIREI? SONO SOLO UN’ORA IN RITARDO DOPO DI TE?” (Then how the fuck would I date I’m only a hour late after you)

I feel like he would do the hand gesture, 🤌 yeahhhh…..

During the months he would try to give you the birds and the bees talk when you obviously know what it is, and you’re running away from him.

Of course he won’t stalk you, he’s too much of a good brother to do that to you. So you are lucky

But one word that your boyfriend is hurting you verbally, physically, or emotionally. He’s hurting him 10 times bad.

Lorenzo Berkshire

“I wanna meet him.”

“WHY YOU LOOKIN AT ME LIKE THAT?!.”

His soft face turned serious when you told him you’re dating someone. Because you thought Lorenzo would react happy for you.

He’s literally acting like a father as he has the boyfriend in front of him, wand in hand as his smile was tight. “So, I heard your dating my sister. Why?”

Pulls out the “why do you wanna date my daughter/sister” card😭😭

If the boyfriend passes, he’s welcome. If not, find a better boyfriend.

[yeyinde]

in undertow | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

They won’t shut up about why he wears the mask. 

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before. 

Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say: 

"You're all wrong, boys; he's just keeping my seat warm." 

(a joke at your lieutenant's expense has unexpected consequences.)

part ii

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; face-sitting: oral - f!receiving; female!reader; male-solo: Ghost makes himself cum whilst drowning in pussy; some plot. kinda. but it’s mostly 7K+ of clownfoolery

notes: Ghost eats pussy like he’s starving. that’s it. that’s all, folks. 

(also, this is so thirsty. this man is making me feral. send help pls)

*bonnie-scottish term of endearment, kinda similar to hen or lass, and is not a name. MC is not named.

  It's not uncommon to tune into a channel on downtime, and hear your Lieutenant being mentioned in some manner or another. 

Ghost is infamous. Legendary. The men in your unit, and the ones you ally up with, are–in equal measure–his biggest fan, and his bitter rival. 

It's all one-sided, of course. If Ghost was any other man, you'd confidently say that he didn't even know who they were, but he isn't. And he does. Which, of course, makes the rivalry all that more bitter, blistering, when he refuses to acknowledge their challenges. 

He proves himself time and time again, and isn't even trying to. 

So, they flex their arms– see, bigger than yours –but he hardly notices, much to their chagrin. 

Sometimes, they'd turn to you–the unofficial arbitrator, a denomination that seemed unanimously decided on by the whole team; Ghost, bemusingly, included–and ask stupid questions:

Who's arms are bigger? Mine, come have a feel, lass. 

Ghost seemed decidedly tolerant of these moments, watching with those dangerous eyes as your hands flexed around the bulk of your teammates' bicep, cooing cloyingly at him. Ooh, working out, I see. Feels like the leg of a fawn!  

Now 'im, they'd say, your heart would warble in your chest.

A strange, off-rhythm pulse that almost hurt. He'd match your gaze when you looked over your shoulder, peering at the imposing man lurking in the midst of everyone else. Firm, steady. Unflinching. He'd hold it, always.

He does that, doesn't he? 

When Ghost looks at you, the air in your lungs dissipates; dissolves into ashes, then into smoke. 

(Sometimes, he stares at you, and it feels like a challenge. Like he's waiting for something.) 

Your smile folds, wan. Lieutenant–

Go on, then! He ain't bigger than me.

It turns several shades of apologetic when you slide up to him, palms spread flat, docile. Walking up to him feels like approaching a predator. Any sudden movements, and he'll have your neck between his jowls. He never would, you know this deep down. But still. 

You, uh, don't have to let me. 

His head would duck down–too tall to look at you without bringing a kink to his neck–and his eyes would waver in the light. Midnight black to charcoal. Smoke. Ash. The same taste in your lungs. 

S'alright. He'd prop his arm up for you, eyes dancing. Best get it done with before these geezers get into a fit.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't break contact. It's intense. Too much. 

You demure.

You're not submissive to anyone. Your teammates, the enemy, politicians–no one makes you break. No one makes your chin lower to your chest, your eyes drop. You can't–not, really. Not here. Not in this world where everyone is looking at you like you're too soft, too vulnerable, to be of any use. When even your teammates slip sometimes, try to carry you despite knowing how capable you are on your own. 

The hurdle you have to fling yourself over just to prove yourself to your teammates, your backers, is a skyscraper. 

They call you Nile –the moniker born from the startling resemblance to the aggressive, territorial crocodiles that live in the water–and you do your best to live up to the comparison. 

You don't shy away from anyone. 

Except him. 

Your eyes fix on your feet. Hands tremble as they slide over the hard muscle of his biceps–firm, unyielding: flesh-covered iron. Your stomach in knots. Chest too tight. 

Ghost's eyes are glued to your face. His muscles flex under your exploratory fingers. Ticking, bulging. His flesh jumps when you touch him. The heat of his skin sear your fingertips, so hot you think it might burn the prints off your hands. 

You both love and hate these moments. 

When hypoxia flashes through your head–dizzying, nauseating–you step back, clear your throat, and stammer out the winner. 

Ghost, always Ghost.

His eyes are shades lighter. Slate-grey, now. Amusement, you think. 

The men around you riot, demanding a rematch. 

(You blame it on testosterone.)

One such occurrence happens to be right now. The comm is clogged with feverish conspiracy theories as to why Ghost wears the mask ranging from the grounded (to conceal his identity–he's a big OP: can't go showing his ugly mug to everyone) to the absurd (he's probably hideously deformed; heard he took a hit to the face–considering what I heard is under there, I'd say he's doing us all a favour), and everything in-between. 

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before. 

Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say: 

"You're all wrong, boys," you purr, eyes fixed on the weapon you were tinkering with. "He's just keeping my seat warm." 

The line goes pin-drop silent. A poignant shush. It's so eerily, unnaturally quiet on the comm, that you look up, blinking. Was it frozen? 

You glance at the computer, checking the channel to see if you'd changed it by accident. It's on. And–

Open, it says. Open mic. Open broadcast. 

It never occurred to you to check the channel they were using. 

It's not a private one between groups; it's the main one. 

Why would these bellends use the main comm to talk about a man, their superior officer, on the channel he preferred, the one he was always tuned into? 

You pale. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You blame your stupid little mouth, and testosterone. Mostly, testosterone. 

Maybe, Ghost wasn't listening. Maybe, he –

"Jesus Christ," Soap groans after several agonising seconds. Soap, who was on recon with Ghost. Soap, who was with Ghost. Soap who –

The line falls dead once more. No one says anything. Not even a murmur of how well and truly fucked you are. Then, it crackles again. You jump, tensing. Please be some stupid rookie. Please be someone else. Please don't be–

"Fuckin' hell," comes the brassy timbre, the sandpaper tone scratching your ear. 

You shiver. You're fired. No, no–they can't fire you, you know too much. You're dead. You're–

"Rookie," he barks. You struggle to stifle a whimper. "Report to me when I get back." 

You weakly stammer out a yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir.

"And everyone else – get off the main channel." 

    Nervous would be an understatement. 

It's the crushing weight of utter humiliation, embarrassment, and shame all admixing into an imbroglio of dire consequences looming ahead. Your stomach is in knots. 

There are murmurs of sympathy from the others when they eventually make their way back into the pseudo-compound, but you notice none of it. Eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. Shoulders up to your ears. Cheeks stained the colour of the Russian oligarch you gunned down the night prior. 

Nile is nowhere to be found. You're no longer the wet-behind-the-ears Rookie, barely of legal age, as you clamber through the ranks in a spiteful, feverish effort to prove yourself. Now, a fully fleshed adult: moulded by your determination and grit to persevere.

You're the little girl pushed to the pavement. Skinned knees, blistered palms. Drenched in rain, and told you're not enough. 

"Fuck me," comes the slurred drawl of Soap. You flinch. 

"Yeah," you agree. 

No words need to be said. You're done. Over. You stroke the barrel of your rifle, and wonder if you'll be forced into an office job, running the numbers, working in a barren cubicle that sinks of fresh paper and ink. The only action comes from Martha's affair with Josh in Finance. 

"Y'know…," he adds, because apparently, some words need to be said. Your gaze flickers toward him. He leans against the metal pillar, arms folded. "Never seen the Lieutenant speechless before." 

You let out a whimper. Fucked, royally, of course–Soap only confirms what you already know. What you've known the moment you looked up, a stupid little smirk on your stupid little face, and saw the meagre amount of respect you clobbered together from your Lonewolf–actions have consequences and if it were you or the mission, don't even bother asking what his choice is Lieutenant being summarily flushed down into the depths. Obliterated because you couldn't keep your stupid little mouth shut. 

Because you heard ugly and deformed and immediately thought of smoke. Ashes. Gasoline. Gunpowder. Firm biceps that leapt at your touch–the only man to do so when you feigned annoyance and reluctantly felt them up–and the velvet steel of his bulk. Your hands didn't fit around the thick of him. It made your head dizzy. Made your heart ache. Heat throbbing between your legs in a way that most men never even accomplished with you spread out and willing. And–

Eyes darker than the ocean, framed by ashen lashes that fluttered when he glanced down at you, brushing over the coal smeared around his face. 

You thought of him–that stupid Cockney mouth and those stupid jokes–and how – how stupid he makes you, and you – 

Stupid.

Full stop. End. Done. Fin. 

Maybe, you can grovel for transfer. Please don't kick me out completely, I've done so much to simply prove myself – more than most of the men here because I've had to, and I don't want to lose it all because I'm–

"Stupid." You spit the word like a curse. 

Beside you, Soap huffs. 

"Ain't the only one, bonnie."

    Shame blisters your cheeks, and the burn of it makes you a coward. Weak. 

You spend the rest of the day idling away in your makeshift quarters (a closet, really) in the compound loaned by the government who requested your aid. Stiff-limbed, you lay back on the cot, and try to commit everything around you to memory. 

Noises from the men downstairs. Chatter and laughter. Loud and raucous. The heady scent of testosterone is thick in the air, mixing with the cloying tang of cigarette smoke, cigars, and the bitter taste of gun oil. Kerosene rich, and stifling. 

The bed is lumpy, but in the middle of nowhere luxury is hardly needed when you're making a massacre of men who want to start a war. It's far more than you'd gotten before. Alvarez jokes, saying at least it isn't the ground. You're inclined to agree. 

Your gear sits in the corner, tightly packed as it had been when you'd first arrived, and dropped it there. You never unpack your things. Experience gives you the foresight to know it's useless, dangerous. Your location can be slipped at a moment's notice. Gunfire ripping through the metal on a whim. 

Ghost never unpacks, either. Soap. Most of the men here don't.

But now you wish you had.

The pile of it feels like an omen as it sits, mocking you; ready to go when you're given the boot. 

You wrench your eyes away from it when the salty burn of tears you haven't shed since Porthmadog rear. It's fine. You clench your fists into tight balls by your side. It'll be okay. You'll get on–your experience and insight make you a desirable name to have; someone lusted after when they needed intel only you managed to wiggle out, and get. Another team will be easy to find once the politicians paying for them read about your exploits. 

On paper, anyway. 

Nile is a name that makes their fingers spasm. 

You, however, are a name that makes them hesitate. 

You'll have to start at the bottom again. Kissing the gravel with your palms once more; struggling to find your foothold along the chossy that wants you weak. Wants you broken, and docile. Obedient. 

Ghost never asked that of you. 

He looked at you, hands curled into half-moons by your side, eyes unwavering as you glared at the man backing the mission, and ground out your accomplishments like you were spitting in his face. 

"I don't know…" he started, hesitating; his eyes flickering down the length of your body. Too small compared to the men they'd seen before you. Too fragile. Giving. 

All at once, you were back in Porthmadog. Salt on your cheeks. In the air. Your throat. Gravel digging into your palms. Broken down into a crushed shell with nothing inside. It was the day you realised you were empty. Hollow. Nothing. Vacant. A vacuum. 

Worthless. 

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? Ghost speaks for the first time, and your eyes find his through the palpable cloud of rejection. So, what've you got to lose, soldier? 

Soldier. Not girl, not Dame, not Duchess, Princess. Soldier. 

You square your shoulders, eyes blazing. Everything, you vow. All the substance you pushed inside of the barren landscape of who you once were, filling it with purpose, and dignity. A reason to live. A reason to be. Everything. 

His head tipped back. The whites of his eyes were fuller under the flushed lamp on the desk. 

Inside, you could almost glimpse that same emptiness you found when they'd broken you into pieces, and nothing spilt out. 

"A'right." He nods. "Welcome to the team." 

The team. The patchwork family of people far too unhinged to fit into the rest of the world. Names and faces came and went. Many were lost to the effort, to the cause. Time to mourn took place outside of this microcosm when no one was around to see you break. 

You'll miss them. It rings out in the hollow gap between your rib and your heart, an aching sting that has your hands spasming around the sheets to stem the sudden hurt. Fuck, you'll really miss these goddamn idiots. 

And Ghost, too.

The prickly leader who says he'd sacrifice all of you if it meant finishing the mission, but still throws himself into the fire so none of you gets burnt. The man who bites at your heels, snaps at your attempts to get closer, but brushes his fingers along the seam of your arm, chin jerking toward the only closet in the compound where he'd dropped your cot. 

Up there, soldier.  

He's a bastard of the worst kind. Surly, mean, and gruff around the edges, but he's a good man despite what he says. He's a great leader–the best, undoubtedly, that you've ever had. That you will have. 

And you might be a little bit in too deep already. Washed out to sea in the middle of a hurricane, and left floundering as waves crashed over you in the form of a brutal, off-limits affection for a man who keeps everyone at a distance. 

Maybe, this is for the best. Leaving here now, when these feelings are simply tugging at you, and not yet dragging you under. It might be a better alternative than being discovered with your head under the waves, and your lungs filled with salt from the sea. 

It's better this way, then. 

    The call comes hours later. The compound is empty. Silent. Your comm rings, and it feels like a guillotine being hoisted into position. 

Right. 

You haul yourself out of the cot, and go meet your end. 

    You will yourself not to demure under the heavy slate of his eyes, but it's futile. You wilt, pathetically submissive to this behemoth of a man. Face downcast, shoulders hunched. 

"Let's not fuck about, alright?" the gritty timber of his voice makes your chest shudder. 

You nod. Sharp, and deep. Dutiful soldier. You brace yourself for it. He won't draw it out. He isn't the type. 

But you falter when his hands tug on the end of his mask. 

"Keepin' it warm, huh?" He asks, but you know by the tone alone that it's rhetorical. 

"Sir, I–" you falter, stammering into a terse silence. What excuse do you have? 

"Well," he asks, lifting his head. Eyes brand your body. The command is clear. "Aren't you comin' to take your seat, Rookie?"

You sputter. Shattering. The world as you know it flips on its axis. Upside down and wrong. 

It's a joke. It has to be. A cruel one. A bad dream that will leave you in aching shambles when you wake, stealing with it a piece of yourself that you'll never reclaim. Another etch in the exterior of who you are. A fracture. 

"S-sir–," you gasp, choking on the word when his hands lift, pulling up the bottom of his mask until a full, pink mouth is revealed to you. "What–"

"It's gettin' cold, now." 

Seeing him speak is blindsiding. You're so used to painted jowls moving, a mockery of bared, white teeth, and a warped jawbone. This is – this is too much. This is – 

Not good. 

Ghost doesn't seem bothered at all when he settles, leaning on the back of the desk, eyes burning through you. Bulging forearms cross over his massive chest. The ripple of ink flexing, breathing, with his impatience that thrums in the air like a heartbeat. 

"Best hurry up." His tongue–his fucking tongue; blood-red and wet –flicks out, gliding over chapped lips.

"Lieutenant–," his title is a strangled wince from the depths of your bewilderment, flavoured with uncertainty. "This is–is a joke, yeah?"

His head tilts. "Do I look like the joking type?"

And that's such a misleading question. So utterly stupid, you choke a little on a bark of hysterical laughter. 

"How am I supposed to answer that?"

"Or were you joking, soldier?" 

The breath sucked in between clenched teeth is audible. 

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps in response. "Then stop muckin' about and get over here if you want it."

If you want it. 

He addresses the power imbalance by placing the choice in your hands. By giving you the freedom to decide what to do with this. Take the step, or leave his office, and never speak of this moment again. 

If you stay– sit on his face –you're not entirely sure how you'll handle being around him afterwards. Will it be a–a thing? A one-off? 

And could it just be a one-time thing for you? Once you have him so intimately, can you forget it, move on? Go back to the pining. The slow descent into an inescapable chasm where you have feelings– blasphemous –for your Lieutenant. For Ghost.

But could you just walk away from this? 

You don't know. Neither question has a clear answer, and you're once again treading frothing waters. Left to sink or swim all on your own. 

Ghost says nothing while you mull it over, but there's a weight in his gaze that makes your stomach prickle with want. A heaviness inside the inky black of his stare that makes your thighs squeeze together, pussy aching with need. 

The choice is pretty obvious.

Your hands drop to your trousers, fingers peeling off the buttons. 

For once, your eyes never leave his. 

For the first time, Ghost is the one to look away. 

His tongue slides out again when you wiggle out of your pants, thumbs crooked in the band of your panties, until you're bared before him. Your trousers pooling at your ankles. Panties caught on your calves. 

His swallow is a gunshot. It clicks in his throat. 

"Christ, Princess." 

You step out of them, licking your lips. "No muckin' about." 

His eyes darken at your words. "Get the fuck over here, then." 

"Is that an order?" 

"Affirmative, soldier."

With your approach, he sinks to his knees on the floor, eyes only for you. His breath is haggard when he catches a glimpse of your cunt when you're less than an arm length away from him, eyes fixed on your mound. 

"M'gonna touch you, now." His head lifts, stare bores into you. 

The brass in his voice makes your belly tingle, makes heat bloom inside of you. It has you whimpering your consent, and the moment it leaves your throat, his hands–fever hot and rough–are on you. 

They settle, heavy and firm, on your hips, pulling your stomach into his face. The plastic of his mask digs into your skin when he presses his covered nose above your mound, breathing in deeply. 

His eyes flutter shut. Ashen lashes brush over the bulge of his mask where it sits, piled up, on the bridge of his nose. You want to reach out, and touch. Slip your fingers through his hair. Cup his jaw. You want to press your mouth against his, and taste the flavour of his tongue. You want, you want – 

His eyes snap open. Black holes. Unfathomably deep, and quivering around the edges. 

"C'mon, Princess," his voice sounds like it was wrenched through barbed wire, smokey and thick. "Kept it nice and warm for you." 

You can't stop the shiver that rockets down your spine at his tone, dark and primal. He looks at you, and you feel like a meal. A lavish banquet in face of a man starved. 

"Fuck, Ghost–" you moan, your hips jerking in his hold. 

"Simon," he rasps, tongue flicking over to taste the skin of your mound. You feel the knick of teeth, grazing and blunt, and it almost wrecks you. He hadn't even started, and your knees are practically knocking together; cunt dripping slick down your thighs. 

His hand glides down the curve of your flesh until he meets the seam of your legs. "Spread 'em, pet. I wanna see your pretty cunt." 

Fuck–

Your knees quiver, almost giving out under you at the base tone, drenched in the slick coil of want, hunger. He's there, hands firm and unyielding on your body, a low chuckle falling from his lips when he catches the shake in your legs. 

"Little fawn is just achin' for it, ain't you?" 

"Please, Simon –" he pulls your thighs apart, peering at the apex where your glistening sex is waiting for him. 

He buries his head in your belly, groaning at the sight of you–all pretty and pink for him, and so wet he can see where it leaks out, drenching your flesh. 

"Fuck, pet," he grinds the words out from between clenched teeth, inhaling deeply as if he can't get enough of your scent. "You're gonna make a mess outta me, aren't you?" 

You've never heard him sound so excited before. The tremble in his voice is enough to keel you over, sending you toppling down into an inescapable abyss where his eyes brand your flesh, and his mouth devours you whole. 

Your hands fall to his shoulders. The plea you utter is painted in the colour of desperation, and it makes his eyes flutter again, makes them spume with that white-hot desire, that dark promise of how much he's going to ruin you. 

He takes one last breath, nose pushed against the bottom of your mound, as close to your pussy as he can get, and he moves. 

One of the things you've never really understood was how a man so massive managed to move the way he did. Agile, lithe. Like his body was elastic. Liquid. 

He's on the floor, mask pulled up high until his nose and mouth are bared to you, and then he's beckoning you forward with a crook of his finger. His eyes burn like wildfires when you tremble down beside him–all of your honed, practised grace dissolving into nothing with just a flick of his too-red tongue wetting his lips for you. 

You fumble, pussy clenching with the thought of having his mouth on you–soon, so soon; and yet, not nearly quick enough–and settle before him, kneeling by his head. 

"C'mon," he snarls, the bite in his tone blistering. 

It has you whimpering, cunt spasming at the urgency, the impatience, in your once-cold leader. Distant, unshakable. You've never seen him so eager, nearly driven mad by the frustration of not already having your weeping slit on him, the taste of you on his tongue. 

You've never sat on someone's face before. When you tell him this, his eyes shudder, blunt teeth digging into his lower lip to keep the filthy groan from rolling out. 

You can't say shit like that, he grouses, his hands gripping your hip, pulling you closer. 

He helps you settle over him, thighs spread over his head, ass resting on his chest.

His eyes are glued to your cunt as it opens up for him. 

There is a war raging inside of you, one that taints the room with the scent of ichor. It fuels you, makes you bite your lip, coy and playful, and notch your knees further apart until you're bared, fully, to him. Fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt, hiking it up so he can see all of you. Teeth sink into the end of it, keeping it up as your hands drop–one to your covered nipple, the other to your soaked pussy. Two fingers glide over your mound, your clit sitting in the V. You spread them slowly, splitting your folds apart. 

Your cunt pulses with the vibrations of his chest as he groans again, low and deep, at the sight of you spread out before him. A breath away from his lips. 

It feels like a battle when his hand grips your flesh until it bubbles between his fingers. You'll be bruised when he's finished–a mosaic of black and blue and purple and yellow; a palette startlingly similar to his own–and it's the notion of his mark on your body, the proof of that his indomitable man, this untouchable entity, was between your thighs, gazing at you as if he wanted nothing more than the pink folds of your swollen slit on his tongue. 

You shiver. Pleasure stroking through your body as your knuckles graze your clit. 

You're not submissive to anyone–can't afford to be in this world–and you feel the swell of that intoxicating confidence return to you, the incipient spume of what made them liken you to an apex predator, one who hunted human men for sport pooling inside of you. 

Does he see it when his lids lift, eyes seeking yours instantly. Does he read in the list of your head? The flutter of your lashes. You drop your shirt. Your hand falls to the side of his face, the brush of his skin on your fingertips somehow more intimate than this. He's warm. Feverish. You burn, too. 

"Is my seat ready?" You purr, belly filling with victory when his eyes twitch, lowering back to your aching cunt. 

"Always," he grunts, a soft sound polluting the word with the noxious promise of more.  

You shudder, panting, now as you rock forward onto your knees, arched over his mouth. 

Ghost's hands settle on the outside of your spread thighs, fingers gripping your flesh. He tugs, harsh and demanding, and you quickly settle, body turning into malleable polymer in his burning hands. He manoeuvres you until your pussy is right where he wants it, eyes flickering up, catching your glossy gaze. He holds it, lashes fluttering as he inhales, deep and long, and then breathes it out through his mouth, warm breath ghosting over your exposed, slick cunt. 

"Well?" He drawls, the word nearly shredded and raw when it slips out of his throat. "You gonna take your seat, pet?"

You shudder again, shoulders tensing so tight, it aches. Pet. Pet. Pet. Fuck – 

"Yeah," it's a whisper, a gasp. Needy and quivering. 

Your hand moves from his face, fingers chilled without his warm skin against them, and you settle it on the desk beside you, muscles in your thighs straining as you slowly position your sopping wet cunt over your Lieutenant's waiting mouth. 

His lips brush the seam of your pussy, and the groan he lets out rumbles over your flesh. Liquid pleasure blooms. He hasn't even touched you yet, and you're already aching for release. Already inching toward that precipice. 

When you're close enough, he pulls; glueing you to his mouth. He wastes no time before diving in. 

His tongue laves over your drenched folds, dipping inside your swollen pussy to dance over your aching clit, your throbbing hole. You press your wrist to your mouth, biting down hard to stifle the moans that threaten to spill out–somehow more taboo than having your Lieutenant eating your pussy out like he's starved for it. 

Pain blooms on the fat of your ass cheek, your surprised gasp swallowing the sound of his hand smacking your flesh.

"I want to hear you," he growls into your cunt, wrecked and drunk off your taste. His words are slurred, accent thick and heavy. Almost incoherent. 

His eyes are pits. Little black holes. The pupil completely eclipsed his irises. Desire spumes. 

When you pull your hand away, settling it on the corner of the desk instead, he flashes his approval, and then buries his face back into you. His tongue is demanding as it licks over your folds, circling your throbbing clit. 

Liquid pleasure seeps from the tip of his tongue to the base of your spine, where it pools into a molten puddle of bliss. It's good. No, it's better than that. It's –

Your head drops back, hips rutting into his mouth, chasing that euphoria his tongue brings when it toys with your flesh, then slips down, pushing into your drenched, fluttering hole. He fucks you with just the tip, groaning when your hips cant into his face, smearing your wetness all over his chin, jaws. He'll be drenched in your slick by the time this is over. 

He's still your superior. Still your boss, technically, but fuck –

Your hand drops from the desk, sliding into the fabric of his mask until a fistful sits in your grasp. A tug makes his eyes snap open, darting up to meet yours. Is this okay? you want to ask, but the question is swallowed by the filthy groan he lets out into your cunt when you pull a little harder, accidentally snatching the hair beneath.

It's good, then. You pull a little more. His mouth drops, panting into you. 

You whine when he stops, hips bucking into his mouth. "Please, please, don't stop–"

"Fuck, Princess," he slurs. "That's it. Ride my face, c'mon."

You're a good soldier. So, so good. You could never deny a command from your superior officer. 

It's clumsy at first–hesitant. A slow roll of your hips, too afraid of smothering your Lieutenant, and having to fess up to being the one to murder him with your cunt keeps you from pushing your core into his face, taking your pleasure. You want to, though. Want to so bad your thighs quiver with the effort of holding back. 

The room is filled with the sticky slick sounds of your sopping centre dragging over his eager mouth. Breathless pants spill from your throat at the obscene pleasure that burrows into your core. 

And his groans. 

God, his noises are enough to make you whimper. Filthy growls into your aching pussy as he eats you up, as if he can't get enough of your taste. As if he's parched and your wetness is the first drink he'd had in years. 

It rumbles through the slick, softness of his tongue, and straight into your clit. The vibrations make your head numb, fuzzy, until you're stupid off the way he devours you whole. 

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes into you–voice reverent as his molten tongue slips inside again, as if he can't get enough of it. "Gimme this pretty lil'pussy. C'mon… yeah, that's it…"

His voice is muffled when your hips rock faster against him, but the praise in his tenor has you shamelessly bucking into his mouth, against his tongue. The sounds wrenched from your throat are wonton, and needy, a breathless plea for more. Fuck, so much more –

His tongue parts your folds, gliding through the drenched slick until he's pressing the tip into your aching hole, splitting you apart. It pushes into you–quick flicks, a pistoning motion; a facsimile of what you want his cock to do to you so badly. It has you keening. Has you riding his face, unbothered whether or not he suffocates between your thighs so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with that sinful fucking tongue that has you singing, has your eyes rolling back in your head, reaching so far you can see the cosmos. 

It's a deep, toe-curling pleasure. The dangerous kind–the one that teases, that makes dark promises against your core about how badly it'll mess you up, get you hooked on the taste of it, and then absolutely delivers. The kind of bliss that has your stomach clenching, roiling with molten heat that happens too fast, you barely have enough time to warn him before you're begging for it, whining for the thickness of his tongue inside of your throbbing cunt. 

His fingers bruise your thighs when they grip your flesh between his fingers, dragging your puffy, drenched pussy over his mouth to suckle on your aching clit until Nirvana flashes behind your eyelids. A whiteout so divine, you nearly slip into him when your knees give out. 

His responding grunt sends pleasure blistering through your core when you lose yourself in the rasp of his tongue sweeping over your weeping slit. 

Ghost's hand leaves your thigh as you tremble through the shockwaves sputtering out, leaking molten bliss through each synapse, each nerve, until you're moaning, shameless and desperate with the release that bludgeons through you.

The world dissolves into white noise. The buzz of it rings in your head as you break apart, ground, once more, down to atoms and molecules that burst with the undulating wave of molten euphoria that drags over you. 

The white static in your head fades in a gradual ebb and flow as the world slowly pieces itself back together again. 

His mouth hasn't stopped. 

He rides you through it all, tongue laving over you as you clench around nothing but the phantom thought of how good his cock would feel inside of your soft, fluttering walls. 

You pant, heaving for air, and grip the edge of the desk tight when his insistent licks become too much. 

"Simon," you whine, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow. 

His tongue drags through your folds, thrusting back into you. You clench around the thick muscle, whimpering as whips of pleasure spark through your core once more. 

It's too much, too intense; the pleasure is battered into you until you're forced to accept it, forced to take the bliss he flicks into you with a quivering gasp, and trembling thighs. 

He's not done with you. The taste wasn't enough. 

You lean back, almost desperate to get away from that greedy mouth that consumes you, but the slick sound from behind you makes you pause. 

Pleasure rolls through you again; a molten pulse of agonising want, pulling taut and snapping against you like a rubber band. 

He's touching himself. 

To the taste of you. To the feeling of your pussy drenching his face. 

Fuck. Fuck –

You peer over your shoulder, whimpering when you catch sight of his furious strokes over his hard, weeping cock. The tip is flushed blood-red, leaking spend all over the mushroomed head, and down the long, thick length of him. Your thighs snap together, knees pressed taut to his ears. 

He grunts into you but doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue fucks into you at the same pace as his almost brutal strokes. Thick prepend puddles around the base of him, soaking his trousers, his hands. His fist. 

"Fuck, Simon," you purr, too blissed, too far gone, to think properly. "You're so big." You grind down against him, eyes fixed on his hand. "I want you inside me. I want you fuck my pussy with your fat cock–"

He makes noises against you that sound like a wounded animal–low bellows into your swollen lips, groans of a starving man–and his relentless devouring of your cunt has your belly fluttering with the lashing of pleasure spooling in your core. It's everything–the hungry sounds he makes as he consumes your taste; the furious, almost desperate way he fists his throbbing cock in his hand, hips jerking into the tight seal of his palm as if he was imagining how the clutch of you would feel around him. 

He could have taken his pleasure in reciprocity. Had you on your knees, sucking him off until he came down your throat. He could have bent you over the desk, and fucked into you like he so clearly wants. 

He could've had you any way he wanted; he put you in any position he desired, and you would have gone willingly, eagerly. 

But he doesn't. 

His mouth glues to you like he can't get enough, like he doesn't want to stop, and he takes his pleasure from the taste of you alone. 

It's –

It's so agonisingly hot. 

The mask is rough between your fingers when you grip it tight, rolling your hips against his mouth–a tease of how you would ride him if he let you–and the sight of him, hips battering into his hand when you move, sinful groans whispered into your slit, sends you plunging into those depths once more. 

It takes you by surprise: the orgasm is ripped from you, stolen by the sight of his cock twitching, spitting out ropes of cum all over his hand, his stomach. 

You keen, toes curling as he squeezes every last drop out, panting into you as he rides himself through it, nose pressed taut to your raw clit, swollen and so sensitive it hurts. 

He grounds out your name, a wrecked whisper into your pulsing slit, and the sound of it has your head dropping, gaze cresting down to gaze at him. 

Simon's eyes are lidded. Heavy. All black. Endlessly so. They flicker up, as if he can feel your stare, and the glazing of pleasure in those slate-grey eyes makes you lose your footing once more, hurtling over the edge of a precipice too steep to climb out of.  

A chill grazes your spine. Fuck. You're fucked. You're absolutely, utterly, irrevocably fucked. 

    He's a mess, absolutely drenched. Slick with your wetness, and covered in his own cum. 

You hate how enticing he looks.

You sit on the ground, knees pressed together, watching him as he cleans up, wiping his hand on his shirt, and then dragging the hem up to his mouth. 

The muscles in his thick abdomen make you squeeze your thighs together, a low throb brimming up at the sight of his inked, bulky flesh. Fuck. He's good-looking. Maybe. You only saw a peak of his face. A glimpse of his chest. But God, it's enough. 

He could be a troglodyte under there, with just a handsome chin, and full pink lips, a long, curved nose, and you wouldn't care. 

You'd gladly sit on his ugly mug any day. 

He releases the bottom of his filthy shirt, and tugs the ends of his mask down. You wonder if he still smells you under there. If it whets his appetite as much as the thought of it does yours. 

There are things you want to say, questions you want to ask, but they slip, reluctant, and–for the first time since Porthmadog– fearfully into the recesses that broke open when you'd said those stupid words. When you came face to face with the hideousness of wanting a man who wasn't allowed to want you back. 

Simon– Ghost, now; Lieutenant–is an amalgamation of every bad decision. He's wrong and off-limits personified. 

It's not that he's a bad man. Far from it. If there were any good men left in this world, then he was undoubtedly one of them. 

But he's an illicit drink. Ambrosia. A forbidden elixir. 

He's a man you're not allowed to want—a man you're not allowed to touch, to covet, to need. 

It's all moot. Rendered out into ashes, dust. You can't have him. 

You turn away when he straightens out. Ghost has the uncanny ability to read you unlike anyone else. He'll see this moment of weakness when your defences are in shambles. 

"Y'alright?"

Your chest thunders at the rawness in his voice. "Y-yeah…"

"Good," he murmurs, hands falling to his sides, shoulders straight. 

You pull yourself together. Try to, anyway, but it's hard when he's staring at your sticky thighs when you shakily stand up, and wrench your pants on. 

"Hey," he calls, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. It makes you tense; the blistering sting of rejection is already there in the periphery. 

"Yeah?" 

He's quiet for a moment, and you risk a peek over your shoulder. It's –

Well. 

It's fleeting. There for a second, and then gone the next. Barely a flicker. Had you not spent a whole year in the desert with him dodging scorpions, and men with machine guns and a lust for blood, you might have missed it. 

But it was there. You saw it in passing. 

His resolve seals over the fissure. His eyes are blown black and distant. 

"We move out tomorrow." 

You respect the fact that he doesn't press, doesn't push. He doesn't ask if you're good, if you're okay. Doesn't try to hash things out when you have death looming over you in a few short hours. He compartmentalises. Draws a thick delineation in the sand, and picks a side. Instant. Effortless. 

Right. 

Your fist quivers. You shove it in the pocket of your trousers. 

When you look up, the gleaming gaze of a crocodile lurking in the murky waters stares back. 

"Roger that, Lieutenant." 

And you leave. It's simple. Effortless. 

(Another hole in the veneer. Nothing leaks out.) 

    A week later, and the world around you is at peace once more. Mission: successful. 

You keep your feelings a tightly guarded secret, and tuck them inside your ribs for safekeeping, unwilling to let them go quite yet. 

You're a dutiful soldier. A professional. You look him in the eye, and don't flinch. You face the men around you, and pretend you don't know what Ghost sounds like when he grunts your name in pleasure. He, in turn, acts as if his breath doesn't carry the taste of you. As if you don't linger behind his front teeth; piquant and damning. 

It's a dance. 

The choreography is new, but the rhythm is the same. You follow the beats, and let him lead you around the ballroom until the cracks inside have been plastered over. Something normal settles–or, rather: something as close to normal as you can get when you can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. 

Soap looks on with something a bit too keen in his eyes, but mercifully says nothing at all. He isn't the type to pry–least of all when it comes to Ghost. 

The others pick at it like a scab, watching it peel and bleed for their amusement. To them, nothing happened. You got reamed out, reprimanded, and that's all. A slip of the tongue; a joke gone too far. It's nothing new. Stuck in a foreign country with men trying to kill you at every corner, tempers fly. Fists, too. 

When the dust settles, all is forgotten. New again. 

They hear you call out to Ghost over the comm, and when he responds back–tone pinched and gruff like it always is–they know it's done. Dealt with. 

Sometimes, they mock you. 

Never in front of him, of course: not when the last man to do so, tapping his chin with a toothy grin, and a singsong, gotta seat for you right here, doll falling from his lips, was met with the brunt of his Lieutenant's anger. Scathing words that slash, deadly and sharp, pointed enough to vivisect a man clean through the gut. 

"I hope you have a brain in your skull to use instead of just that tiny pecker in your trousers, because if that's the only one you got, I think it's safe to say we're all fucked, aren't we?"

And with that, it's over. Done. 

The world goes back to shades of espionage and counterterrorism. Games of poker between putting a bullet in a man's head. A drink after cutting the throat of a shady politician. Drenched in blood. Dressed in metals. 

When the mission finishes, you find yourself staring at your bags already packed up in the corner, and wonder if you'll ever unpack them one day. 

(You wonder if he ever will, either.)

It's Soap who knocks on the door. "Wheels up in twenty." 

"Roger." 

Soap doesn't usually linger, but today he hesitates. 

You lift your chin and meet his pinched expression. 

"Alright, bonnie?"

The bags mock you. Filled to the brim with things that should be a necessity, but haven't been used in years. It's bursting. Chock full. Pushed to its mettle. And yet, decidedly empty at the same time. 

A picture of what you do, what you are. 

Your head lists to the side. "I think so." 

His nod, too, is sharp and deep. A soldier, a brother in arms. 

"Hey… you, uh… what did you mean by–um." You falter. It's your turn to hesitate. 

"What?" 

"Before, you know… with Ghost." 

The confusion slips deftly into understanding. And then a distinct grimace. "Why?" 

"Curious, is all."

There is a weight in his stare, too, but it's different from your Lieutenant's. Less intense. Invasive. Soap looks at you like you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears rookie nursing a crush on the one man who is firmly off-limits. And really, that's what you are, in a sense. 

In that single degree of separation, you think you find the substance you were looking for all along. You think it's been there the whole time. Mocking you like the bags in the corner. Untouched. Unnoticed. Waiting. 

You suck in a breath at the thought. 

It's not enough. Not yet. You need to know–

You do what you’re good at. You gather the intel.

Soap shakes his head. An imperceptible movement, almost missed. 

But you catch it. 

"Bonnie," he says, heavy. His shoulder sags against the door frame. Then he sighs. Shakes his head. "There are very few people out there that can distract him from a task. From a mission." 

Your heart is in your throat, featherlight. The wings of a small bird preening its plumage. 

Your breath shudders out of you. 

Mission, you think–

"Better know what you're gettin' into."

You smile, wide and bright. Bigger than any you'd carried with you in Porthmadog. "I think I do."  

    He always sits alone on the plane unless he needs to go over the game plan, or discuss positions with others. Head always turned. Eyes shuttered, fixed out the window. 

He never looks up. Never moves. 

You think about that thing you saw. The vague glimmer in his eyes. It's the bolstering confidence you need, the one that carries you. 

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? It propels you forward–a mantra, a gospel–and you use it, now, in this sleepy jet that reeks of men, gunpowder, and sweat. They're all riding high on the success of a victory–one with no casualties on your side: a rarity–and most of them are out cold, or blubbering over finally going home to their family. 

It's an earned break. Deserved. 

You don't know what to do with it. Where to go. Home hadn't felt like home since you sunk your palms into the pavement, and stained the gravel with your blood. Years on the move, living in the shadow, has reduced the idea to a whim, an evanescent thing. You don't quite mourn its loss, but you miss the compunction that used to sit low in your belly when you turned your back to the place, and shouldered your duffle bag. 

Now, it's just another city on the list of many. 

His head lifts when you approach. Your heart stammers, featherlight, and heavy as a paperweight. 

You find his eyes over the pews that separate you. 

Slate. Charcoal. Black holes.

You wonder if he'll tear you apart if you get too close. 

Your fingers ache to find out. 

"Rookie," he grouses, hoarse from the meagre sleep the night prior. It's a bland acknowledgement in itself, but his look alone belies the nonchalance in his greeting. There's a question there. 

You have one, too. 

The sun crests over the plane when it rises, drenching him in ochre. Your smile feels a little too full and a touch too wobbly, when it quirks on your lips. 

His shoulders ease. Eyes drop, lidded and heavy. Unguarded, disarmed, for the first time in years. 

You think if he could, he'd be smiling, too. 

"Is this seat taken?" 

[slut-for-henry-cavill]

Are my tumblr girlies breathing okay after seeing Hen in The ministry of ungentlemanly warfare trailer!?

Surely we weren't expecting that😭😂

Ps- Yes I too got light headed each time he stuck his tongue out. He's fucking wild in this and I'm here for it

Ps Ps- is it just me or that character seems like mix of Captain Syverson and Napolean Solo lol!?

CANT WAIT FOR TUMBLR TO GO WILD WITH THIS MAN'S FICS!!!!

@shellyshellshell @littlefreya @augustsprincess @mayloma

[tkingfisher]

This is Lucky, with his lady Clotho. Lucky is a bantam Birchen Cochin, and Clotho was having a molt but we don’t mention that because chickens are sensitive about it. As you can see, they are small spherical borbs.

Now, Lucky is a perfect gentleman. His ladies love him, he never offers violence to chicks, he is resigned to Kevin picking him up and woogie-ing his wattles, and he was gracious to the ancient Rhode Island Red rooster that lived out his golden years in the same enclosure. (We have two, but they share a fence.)

Also his crow sounds like a kazoo solo.

But Lucky is also a bantam, which means that all the rage that lies in the heart of a rooster has been compressed into diamond-like ferocity. Case in point: we once had a fox going over the fence to grab hens. One day, the fox grabbed Lucky. We learned this when we found Lucky outside of his enclosure, covered in blood—only some of it his—and so hyped up on adrenaline that he immediately tried to fight Ninja, the top rooster, who immediately realized that he had pressing business under a rosebush.

We have not seen the fox or lost a hen since.

I tell you that story to tell you this one. Kevin has a very large Black Cochin named Pot Pie. He’s about three times Lucky’s size, and he doesn’t so much crow as roar like a T-Rex. He is huge. And every night, for months, he would go to the fence and flare his neck feathers out at Lucky—through the fence—going “If you were over here, I’d sit on you, little man,” to which Lucky would reply “Oh yeah? Come over HERE and say that.”* But they never leave their respective enclosures, because neither of them can fly for crap. Lucky because he’s too short to get over the fence and Pot Pie because he’s too heavy to get off the ground.

(Occasionally this standoff would end in someone trying to jump-kick the other one and getting tangled in the fence. I once had to sit for five minutes with a flashlight clenched in my teeth, untangling Lucky’s foot. But he is, as in said, a perfect gentleman and sat patiently while I did.)

Today, Kevin was on a work call and looked out the window just in time to see Pot Pie tearing across the yard at extraordinary velocity, pursued by a tiny wrathful rooster. Lucky must have found a gap in the fence at last, because he came over and immediately set about putting the fear of God into his giant nemesis.

When Kevin came outside to give everyone treats, Lucky was strutting around, calling the hens—there’s a little chuckle roosters do that means “Look, ladies, I found a treat!”—and surrounded by an admiring crowd of both bantam and full-size ladies.

Kevin escorts Lucky back to his own enclosure, where his own hens greet him as a conquering hero. He then searches for Pot Pie, and finally hears a THUD as the T-Rex jumps down from hiding inside the coop, pokes his head out, and is like “Is it safe? Is Satan gone?”

He did not go to the fence to threaten Lucky tonight. Pot Pie, as Kevin said, Found Out.

Meanwhile Ninja, far and away the most intelligent chicken on the property, decided it was another good day to spend some quality time under the rosebush.

*loosely translated from Rooster, a complex and idiomatic language consisting mostly of insults.

[pocketfullofsimshine]

[apparently-artless]

ONGOING ANIME EDITS REQUEST: OPEN

And so I decided that I will be lowkey accepting requests for ongoing anime for this season! (o^ ^o)

For the list of series, you can check this POST. You can also check the series on my pinned post under ONGOING ANIME EDITS.

I will also be adding the series below:

Akuyaku Reijou Level 99

7th Time Loop

Himesama "Goumon" no Jikan desu

Requests will be limited to:

Icons (indicate circular/square)

Character gifset per episode

Specific scenes in a certain episode (with/without dialogue)

I will be accepting requests from mutuals, followers, and non-followers. As per usual, anon requests will not be accepted. (ง ื▿ ื)ว

[credits to Remi (@/kithsune) for the dividers]

[gatitties]

Can we get a part 5 of the yandere platonic jjk series? It is one of the best yandere series I’ve read and I really hope you continue it! :)

The blank pages - Web of love

"The blank pages" are untold events in the parts of web of love, as well as some headcanons or small random scenarios.

─Yandere!Jujutsu Kaisen x fem!reader (Platonic)

─Summary: A little more about your life living with sorcerers and curses

─Warnings: stalking, obsession, toxic behaviors, yandere stuff

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four

well, I don't know when I will write (if I do) another part as long as the others, it's one of the "minifanfics" that takes me the most time to write, but I can always write some headcanons or small scenarios like this :p

─ You are so fond of sorcerers that your nickname for the vast majority of them is scumbag <3, especially for Gojo, when you don't call him a poorly felled birch.

─ Once you asked Sukuna if he had gone to class with Jesus Christ, he didn't kill you on the spot because you were so tired that you seemed drugged and he felt sorry.

─ You will never admit that among all the crazy people Itadori is your favorite.

─ When Gojo wants to scold you for something, you simply apply the technique of turning up the volume to the maximum on your headphones while you nod.

─ Refusing to speak sometimes only made everyone learn your non-verbal language.

─ With each passing day you don't care if you are devoured by a curse just so you can rest in peace.

─ You once went on a solo mission (some mysterious way it happened), they almost wrapped you up like a mummy when they saw you arrive with some bruises and cuts.

─ Megumi comes to your side when he sees you nod off during the day so you can lean on his shoulder and sleep.

─ Many times you would like to punch everyone but they don't even deserve that much attention from you.

─ On a random day of the week you will be dragged by Nobara to have a sleepover, you don't complain much because you do nothing and get gossip.

─ One day you went to the Zenin clan house with Maki and you thought that you grew old during the time you spent there, for once you were glad that Maki didn't leave your side.

─ You are afraid of talking too much with Utahime because you think that if you do she will end up just as obsessed as the others, you don't want to break that feeling of talking to someone other than your family.

─ You discovered that the sorcerers entered your room at night but you decided not to confront them for the moment.

─ If Choso wasn't so overprotective and mother hen, you wouldn't mind if he treated you like a little sister.

─ He begins to silently threaten all the people who may be a potential partner for you (he threatened a cashier who told you that you looked pretty one day).

─ If you are with the villains you will say that you are part of the sorcerers' team and that you will fight against them until you die, if you are with the sorcerers, you will say the same but on the opposite side so as not to give them the benefit of knowing your thoughts.

─ Despite everyone, you have the right to go on the weekends you want to visit your family, although sometimes they will put obstacles in place so that you are delayed and miss the train.

─ Those days are your days of peace, you even decide to help at your parents' restaurant even though it is a stressful day, the pressure makes you put your feet back on the ground.

─ You submitted a letter of resignation to the studies because you thought you were qualified enough to return to your parents now that you know how to control your powers, Yaga tore the paper to pieces after you left.

─ You hope you trip and break your neck during some training, it's a shame that Panda and Toge will rush towards you even if you only stumble slightly.

─ Everyone prefers to blame someone else but you, even if you openly say that you are guilty of something, they will do mental exercise to prevent you from being guilty.

─ Sukuna is fighting to get you to join his side, whatever the reason, you will be a key piece in the outcome.

─ Of course, they don't want to get violent with you, the threats and beatings go to other people, for you they have manipulation.

─ Which you clearly detect, but you decide to play along for the moment, without knowing that you are getting more entangled in the web.

─ They probably know that you are acting but they don't care because they are getting the attention they want from you.

─ The situation is like a snake biting its tail, and you hope that when that snake dies from suffocation by its own body, you are not there.

[inawickedlittletown]

You've Got the Love to See Me Through - 7x06 coda

Read on Ao3

Summary: Tommy's pov of 7x06...or just let this man get some rest.

Words: 4,769

-

“Go home, Kinard. Get some sleep. Remember, you’re on standby tonight.” 

Sleep. Right. Tommy was definitely not going home to get sleep despite how much he might want to. He could have called Evan and made his excuses, but Evan had already texted him twice that week to make sure he was coming to Chimney’s Bachelor party, so Tommy really couldn’t miss it. Not even because his shift had wound up running something like four hours long or because he was on standby. It was part of the job, he’d had longer nights they just usually ended with him passed out on his bed, not driving to a karaoke lounge. Considering it was the night before the wedding, Tommy figured things weren’t going to get out of hand or go too long and he’d get to his bed eventually. 

He headed into the building and had to walk down a long hall until he finally made it to the room Evan had reserved. He saw Eddie first, giving him a high five. Then his eyes landed on Evan. He looked good and seeing Evan took away some of his exhaustion, especially when they hugged and he could smell his cologne. 

Tommy was glad, when he could sit down and get something that resembled rest. He would have preferred it if Evan sat down too, instead they all got to watch him as he paced and glared at anyone that dared to try to go near the sliders. He’d lost count of the number of times that Evan had already tried to call Chimney and kept himself entertained watching Eddie play bartender, when he wasn’t watching Evan. 

Time had ceased to have much meaning for Tommy some three hours back, so he had no idea how much had passed when Hen stood up, her wife following suit. And others started to follow their lead despite how much Evan tried to keep them. 

Of course, that’s when he got the call to go in. So much for getting any sleep.

He could see the disappointment on Evan’s face, and Tommy wished it was different. He wished he could stay behind and maybe convince Evan that they could still have fun, but he was on standby and he wouldn’t be called in without reason. 

“Be safe,” Evan said. 

Tommy held onto that. He felt a little odd, too, because though he’d known it would be different to date a fellow first responder, he still hadn’t really understood, because as disappointed as Evan was at his departure, he also got it. 

He caught up to Hen and Karen, making their way to the exit. 

“You’re leaving too?” Hen asked. 

“Got called in,” Tommy said. 

“Does that mean you’ll miss the wedding?” Karen asked. 

“I’ll try not to. So, Chim really didn’t want this party?” 

Even without looking at her, Tommy could tell that Hen was rolling her eyes. “Buck wore him down. Or, maybe Chimney got tired of saying no and never intended on coming.”

Karen made a noise of agreement. “He’s probably enjoying his hotel room. I don’t blame him.” 

Tommy said his goodbyes and got to his car. In an effort to keep himself awake, he drove to a starbucks on the way to Harbor and downed most of the drink before he arrived. 

Lucy was getting out of her car as he parked and she waited for him. 

“Hey. They called you in too?” She called out to him. 

“Sure did,” Tommy said, and tried to fight a yawn. 

He was in the air within fifteen minutes, flying out solo to drop retardant over the fire. When he landed, he had to wait for the chopper to be filled up again which meant his priority was getting to the coffee maker for more caffeine. He pulled his phone out and took it off airplane mode as he went and watched as several texts landed in his inbox.

Evan: No Chim. How’s work? Stay safe. 

Evan: Partying with people. Still no Chim. 😔

Evan: SHOTS!! 

Evan: Eddi says we gotts toooo song 👨🏻‍🎤🎤

Another text came through as he was fixing his coffee. 

Eddie: yo misssss all tge fun adinkamsc 

Tommy couldn’t help but snort. Oh, they were both going to regret their night. 

He had just enough time to drink his coffee before he was back out in the sky. When he got back to the station, he ran into Lucy. 

“We’re gonna fly out there and help from the ground,” she informed him. “The retardant is helping, but they need more bodies. There’s been a few injuries. This thing is huge.” 

Their captain confirmed as Tommy made it inside. 

He checked his phone on the way to the locker room. 

Evan: wHet lik boo y 

Evan: takhujns par tee to cim 🥳

Eddie: UBEr!1!!!1

Evan: No 🔑 🧑🏻‍🚒🧑🏻‍🚒

Tommy was far too tired and busy to actually decipher what Evan could mean. 

It was rare for him to have to use his turnout gear. He was a pilot, his skills were best used in the sky, but sometimes it was about going where they were needed. He carried the gear out rather than putting it on. Lucy joined him and Tommy flew them back out, this time dropping the water that had been loaded on. Lucy did the work of reporting what they saw from the air and it didn’t look great. The sky was tinted orange and gray and it could have looked beautiful if it wasn’t so destructive. They were directed to reload more water to drop and that was how it went for a while. 

Tommy had no idea what time it was when they were told to just bring down the chopper and join on the ground. It was night, but that was hard to tell with the orange and yellow flames and the clouds of smoke that flew into the air. They landed pretty far from the fire itself, and would have to walk past all the trucks and cars. They put on their gear, Tommy taking his flight suit off to replace it with the heavy pants and coat, and then they were on their way. 

“You look beat, Kinard,” Lucy said. 

“I already worked OT on my last shift. Now this.” 

“Ouch,” she said. 

“And I’m supposed to be going to a wedding tomorrow.” 

She winced. “That’s tomorrow? I don’t think you’re gonna make it.” 

He just laughed. He’d sort of given up on that prospect. The suit he’d left hanging off his closet door would just need to be put back in the back of his closet unless he got out of there in time to join everyone at the reception. Sometimes the job just wasn’t fair, but the closest to having the day off that Tommy had managed was staying on standby. It was also why he’d taken the shift he’d just got off of. 

“I know you were looking forward to it, Tommy,” Lucy said, patting his shoulder. 

Tommy shrugged. There would be other dates with Evan, but this had felt special. Not just how Evan had wanted to include him in something so important, but because it was Evan showing everyone who he really was. 

“One good thing is he’ll understand why you aren’t making it,” Lucy added. 

That just reminded Tommy of the disappointed look on Evan’s face when he left the karaoke lounge.

They got their orders from the battalion chief and Tommy found himself falling into the rhythm. Anytime he had to get down on the ground, it reminded Tommy why he loved the sky, not that he really minded the change in pace. He did gain his second wind as he worked which helped keep him going. 

Tommy didn’t get a chance to check his phone again until he was on a break. Grabbing a protein bar to snack on and drinking water for his very parched and dry throat. 

He had a voicemail from Eddie as well as a few missed calls and several texts. 

Evan: 🛏️ 🤵🏻‍♂️

Evan: 🚁

Eddie: 🍾🍾bavcnjklo’s!!

Evan: i mus u…com e bcksjm pldne

Eddie: yo boyfrienddd owens 👚

Tommy just smiled. He was going to have so much fun when he saw Evan again. He didn’t bother with the voicemail, because he had to save something to amuse himself with later and then returned to the job. 

As the night wore on, he was sent back to Harbor to fuel up, and fill up with retardant. It was apparently the type of fire that just kept fueling itself up. They were doing some work fighting it and keeping it from spreading, but he could tell it would still be hours before they were close to getting it put out. 

The next time he checked his phone there wasn’t anything new and he hoped that meant that Evan had gone to bed. At least one of them was getting some sleep. 

A few hours later found him clutching at the tiny paper cup of coffee he’d been handed by a stressed looking boy. It wasn’t gonna do much, but anything to stay attentive. He pulled his phone out and it was getting really close to wedding time. He might be lucky if he made it to the reception. 

Evan: Chim is missing 

Evan: Sorry for all the drunken texts.

Evan: Last night was insane. We thought Chim was sleeping…he wasn’t here all night. 

Evan: He wouldn’t leave Maddie at the altar. Something has to be wrong. 

Evan: Found Chim’s phone

Evan: No Chim 

Evan: Maddie is going to dispatch to look for him. Sending people home from wedding. Guess you won’t be missing it after all. Be safe out there. I’ll keep updating. 

Tommy suddenly wondered why none of them had actually bothered to check in on Chim the night before. How long had he been missing? 

“Hey, what’s up?” Lucy asked. 

“Looks like Chim is missing,” Tommy said.

A text came through just then. 

Evan: He got on a bus going downtown. 

“They find him?” 

“Not yet,” Tommy said. 

“Keep me updated, alright?” 

Due to his lack of rest, Tommy was kept working on the ground. The fire just didn’t seem to want to die down. He’d lost count of how many companies had been brought out. After his second wind, he did gain a third, and it kept him going. When he could, he checked his phone, looking for the good news that Chim had been found safe and sound. 

Evan: Pretty sure Chim has viral encephalitis

Evan: Out on the street looking for him. He helped triage a bunch of people. We think he doesn’t remember what year it is. 

Evan: He went to the Lees. They’re taking him to the hospital. 

Evan: Drs pretty confident he’ll be fine.

He felt relieved and yet he also knew that Evan was probably hung over, worried, and dealing with his sister’s emotions and worries as well. He wished, more than anything, to be there for him and give Evan a shoulder to lean on. 

On his next break, while he tried to stomach a granola bar, he got a good look at his phone again. The fire was more than 80% contained. A lot of the companies already making to depart. 

Evan: He’s awake and he wants to get married anyway. Have to do it before visiting hours are over. Ceremony starts in like an hour. 

He’d attached a location pin. 

“Hey, did they find him?” 

Tommy looked up. “Yeah. They’re having the wedding at the hospital.” 

Lucy made a face. “Seriously? I guess that’s fitting for them.” 

“Is Kinard texting his boyfriend again?” someone else asked. 

Tommy turned and found James, who wiggled his eyebrows. Lucy laughed. 

“Yes, actually. He’s sad he’s not gonna make it to the wedding.” 

“Oh, shit, that’s today?” 

“Yeah…but, you know, fire. And now it’s happening at the hospital, so…”

So he wasn’t going to make it there and Evan would probably make that pouty disappointed face and Tommy was the one that had put it there. Not on purpose, and maybe Evan would understand, but he would still be responsible for it. 

“So he’s gonna be moody all the way back to Harbor,” Lucy said. 

They were given the okay to go when they got back from their break and Tommy couldn’t have been happier. He still wouldn’t make it. He and Lucy were gonna have to catch ride back to Harbor and then even if he didn’t stop to get changed, he’d still have to drive to the hospital. 

Lucy solved the problem for him, getting him a lift on the ambulance taking a couple of firefighters with minor burn injuries. He didn’t care that he was a mess and that he still had all his gear on.  

Tommy: Heading over to hospital. Not sure I’ll make the ceremony, but I’m coming. 

Evan texted when they were around the corner from the hospital. 

Evan: They just got married. 

Evan: Tell me when you get here.

Tommy: Emergency entrance in a few minutes. 

Evan: I’m coming. 

“Go get your boy,” the firefighter with a nasty burn down his left arm said when the ambulance parked. 

The paramedic and the firefighter both made kissy noises at him. It was the result of a long night, they were all tired and loopy. Tommy didn’t even bother to respond. The driver just grinned at him when Tommy threw him a thank you. 

Tommy felt weary down to his bones. He was sore and a headache was brewing right behind his eyes. The time he’d been sitting for the drive had only tired him out more. He walked quickly, regardless, past the doors that slid open and then he saw him. Evan was in a soft looking blue hoodie. 

“Sorry I’m late. That fire was a beast,” Tommy began, ready to offer more explanations. 

Evan didn’t look upset. 

“So are you,” Evan said which Tommy didn’t even understand.  

The next thing Tommy knew was Evan’s hand on his shoulder, climbing to his neck and his lips pressing insistently on his. Tommy fell into it, he kissed back, unable to keep a moan from getting buried between their lips as he pulled Evan closer by the waist, losing himself entirely to Evan and not quite believing that this had been his welcome. The first kiss, the one that Tommy had replayed in his mind too many times to count, it had been soft and sweet and lovely, but this was…it was mind-melting. It was wet and messy and hot…so so hot. 

It was only when the doors opened behind them again, that they both realized where they were. The blush on Evan’s face was partially hidden by the soot that had got on him and Tommy cracked up into a laugh. 

“What?” Evan asked, smiling still. 

“You’re covered in soot.” 

Evan touched his face and brought his fingers down, rubbing them together. “I’m used to it,” he said and then, narrowed his eyes on Tommy. “Wait, why are you covered in soot?” 

“Wound up helping on the ground.”

He was glad that Evan didn’t question it or ask for an explanation like someone else might. Tommy was exhausted and he was feeling it more and more, but he let Evan lead him further into the hospital. 

“You’re not gonna clean up first?” he asked, conscious of what it would look like. 

Evan just shot him a grin. If anything, it made the soot even more obvious. “Nah. There’s cake. Come on.” 

Tommy was too tired to do anything to stop Evan. Then again it was his face even if it was Tommy’s soot. 

Chimney’s room was full of people. Too many for him to take in at once, so he focused on the newly weds. Chimney was propped up in the hospital bed with his new wife. Their very adorable daughter — Evan’s niece — at the foot of the bed. 

Evan cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, “look who almost made it.” 

“Congratulations you two,” Tommy said. “I’m sorry I missed the ceremony.” 

He could see it on Chimney’s face, the toll of the day and yet the happiness that managed to still shine through. He did look between him and Buck a few times. Tommy caught Eddie’s gaze too and saw that Eddie was fighting to hold in laughter probably at some attempt at being supportive. Evan was never going to live this down. 

“Looks like you were…busy,” Chim said. 

“Cake?” Evan asked. He was simply amazing. 

Tommy was by his own admonition, confident. He hadn’t always been, and there were still certainly things that made him unsure and nervous. When he first realized that Evan was completely new to liking men, he’d assumed that it would take time for Evan to come to terms with it and to come out and to be ready for acting on it. He’d wanted to fully remove himself from the equation so that Evan wasn’t pressured into more than he was ready for. Maybe Evan just processed things at a speed Tommy wasn’t used to, or he was actually far more prepared than Tommy had expected. 

Evan brought two plates with cake over and their fingers brushed as Tommy grabbed his. He saw Hen and Karen looking at them and Hen gave him a nod that looked more proud than anything else. Another couple was staring, they were older and if Tommy hadn’t been so tired, he would have noticed the resemblance and put it together at once. It took him until he saw them interacting with Evan’s niece. Her grandparents — Evan’s parents. 

He focused on eating cake, too tired for anything else. It was sweet and far tastier than anything he’d had to eat all day. Evan kept close to his side, only leaving for a few minutes to speak to Christopher before he was back, taking his empty plate and getting rid of it before returning, this time stepping even closer to him. 

Tommy was aware that he was covered in soot and ash and sweat and that he probably smelled like smoke and burning trees. As much as he wanted a shower, he wanted a bed more. 

“We can leave after pictures,” Evan whispered to him as Karen started taking pictures of Maddie and Chim. 

Tommy leaned his shoulder on the doorway watching the different combinations. It didn’t take very long and then he saw Evan hugging his sister and then Chim before heading his way. He didn’t go to his parents, but he saw him share a smile with Hen and Bobby gave his shoulder a squeeze. It was clear who Evan’s family was. 

“Thank you for coming, Tommy,” Maddie said, loud enough for him to hear it at the door. 

Tommy gave her a nod and he waved at the room as he walked out with Evan. Tommy didn’t know if he was the one to reach out or if it was Evan, but at some point, Evan’s hand found its way into his. 

“Did you drive here?” Evan asked. 

“Caught a ride on an ambulance.” 

“Okay. Good. So we won’t have to come back and get your car.”

Evan got him to his car and Tommy was surprised when Evan actually opened the passenger door for him and then closed it after Tommy got in before rounding the car and getting in. 

“Your place?” Evan asked.

“Please.” 

Evan chuckled. “I’m going to need your address.” 

Tommy just pulled out his phone and opened google maps and hit home before handing his phone over. He put his seatbelt on and then leaned against the door, trying to fight off the sleep that threatened to take him. 

“Rest,” he heard Evan say and then felt the touch of a hand in his hair and cheek. 

When the car started moving, he sighed and let his eyes close fully. The next thing Tommy knew, he felt hands cupping his chin and thumbs brushing his cheeks. 

“Tommy. Tommy. We’re here, Tommy.” 

He blinked awake and felt all of it hit him again. The headache that was starting earlier was full blown. He was sore and tired and his eyes literally stung, too dry and eyelids too heavy to keep open. It took everything in him to get out of the car and he stumbled once his feet hit the ground. 

“Seriously, how long have you gone without sleep?”

Tommy heard the question, but he didn’t process it. 

“That long,” Evan said and there was something unreadable on his face. “Keys?” Evan asked. 

Back at Harbor, he realized and groaned until he remembered the flower pot. After two instances of having to break into his own house and having to replace a lock in the one instance and a door in the other, Tommy had figured out he needed a hidden spare key. He had a fake rock in the flower pot. He pointed it out to Evan who dealt with taking it out without damaging the flowers and then opening the door. 

For some reason, he didn’t know why he’d expected Evan to just leave him there once he’d made it inside. He wasn’t exactly fit to be company, not when all he really needed was to crawl into bed, the ash and soot and sweat to be dealt with when he woke. 

Evan walked inside with him, though, and stopped him when he tried to walk further in. 

“First you’re getting all this gear off,” Evan said. 

Tommy grunted. He tried to fight his jacket off, but it didn’t want to budge. Evan’s hands were deft as they helped to pull the whole thing off, dropping it right in the entryway. Tommy fumbled with the pants, but Evan pulled each suspender off his shoulders, his hands soft and careful and then the pants were pooling at his feet. Evan knelt and helped with his shoes and then his pants. He was down to just his base layer and Tommy could have just crawled into bed just like that. Evan had other ideas. 

Tommy found himself in his bathroom. Evan seemed to have no problems undressing him and Tommy was too tired, even when he was down to just underwear. All of it was a bit of a blur, but later he would remember how nice it felt to have someone else wash his hair, or how he’d had more than cold tile to lean on while soap washed away everything. 

He remembered the feel of a towel on his skin and the light touch of a hand on his bare back and then how it felt to get into his bed, the sheets clean and nice and cool. He remembered a kiss on his forehead and a hand that he grabbed onto and a warm body that contrasted nicely to the cool sheets. 

Tommy woke up slowly, aware that he was in his bed, but that he wasn’t alone and that there was too much light coming from the windows where the shades hadn’t been drawn. His mind supplied very little in explanation for why he would have forgotten his shades and even less about why he wasn’t alone. His eyelids were too heavy to open, and he felt stiff and more than a little sore.

“Sleep,” Evan said. “It’s early, still.” 

Evan. Evan was in his bed. His back to Tommy’s front, and his hand on the arm Tommy had around him, fingers gently running over his forearm to his hand. 

He drifted, not fully asleep, but certainly not awake. Fell back asleep. 

A while later, he woke alone. He’d been on his side, but he dropped onto his back, blinking at the ceiling. It felt like a dream. A kiss at the entrance to a hospital and Chim getting married in a hospital room. Evan in his shower. 

Wait…Evan in his shower?

The hospital? 

He heard footsteps and as he started to sit up, Evan walked in. He brought a bottle of water and a plate with toast and eggs and potatoes. Tommy’s stomach growled. Evan chuckled and wait, was Evan wearing one of his shirts? 

“Hungry?” Evan asked. “You slept for almost ten hours.” 

He’d probably needed it. Didn’t keep him from being quite a bit groggy. Tommy watched Evan as he set the plate down on Tommy’s bedside table. He handed him the water, though, and Tommy hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. 

As he was drinking, one thing came to him. 

“Evan, did you kiss me in the middle of a hospital?” 

Evan’s face went pink. “It wasn’t the middle. More like by the entrance.” 

“Oh.”

“Eat up,” Evan said. “It’s gonna get cold.” 

Tommy took the plate when Evan handed it to him. His first bite of toast made him groan. When he wiped crumbs off his chin, he stopped. Chin. Soot. 

“Soot,” he said.

Evan just laughed. “There’s pictures, don’t worry. Just eat. And then I’ll explain and we can be lazy for the rest of the day. I wasn’t sure if you’d want coffee? I still don’t know how you take it.” 

Tommy chuckled. “No. No coffee.” 

“Okay. But I’ll get you more water, then. Fruit?” 

“Sure, Evan.” 

Tommy didn’t know what to expect. He ate his breakfast with gusto, was glad when Evan reappeared with what appeared to be a bowl of cut up fruit that Tommy wasn’t entirely sure had been in his kitchen and a few bottles of water. And yes, it was definitely Tommy’s shirt.

“Last night—”

“We were both very tired, and you were very sooty and I know from experience you don’t want to go to bed like that. I’m sorry if I overstepped, but I don’t know that you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your shower. How are you feeling today?” 

“I’m fine. Thank you, Evan. You didn’t overstep.” 

“Good. We’re both off today so unless you want to be alone…how about a movie?” 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever had other partners that cared about him — it was just that Evan did it differently. Like he was trying to find Tommy’s boundaries and electing to respect them despite how much he’d already done the night before and despite staying with Tommy and sleeping in his bed. 

“A movie sounds great,” Tommy said. 

It was much later, after they watched a few movies and Evan ordered them a pizza that he had the thought to check his phone. A lot had come back to him, including the litany of texts he’d received from a drunk Evan and Eddie. He found the voicemail he’d put off listening to and put it on speaker before hitting play while Evan was in the bathroom. 

Music came through first. Eddie’s voice yelling something and then Evan. 

“I like you so so so so much, Tommy. Soooo much.”

“Calling your boyfriend, Buck? Buck? Everyone, Buck has a boyfriend!” The sound of something breaking and then, Eddie again. “His name is Tommy! Say hi to Tommy!” 

A chorus of “hi, Tommy!” shouted by what could only be some kind of drunk crowd. 

“You’re…you’re like a guy…a guy’s guy. Strong. Want to kiss you again and hold your hand. Eddie…Eddie, did you know he has really nice hair? And a cleft chin?”

“Shhhh, Buck’s on phone with boyfriend,” Eddie’s voice came through. 

“Miss you,” Evan said. “Eddie, I’m gonna kiss him.” 

Eddie laughing. “Kiss him!” 

“Like kiss him kiss him with tongue and…and—”

More shouts and then the voicemail cut off. 

Tommy found Evan, face buried in his hands, standing in the doorway.  

“Hey, you did say you were going to kiss me,” Tommy said. “And for the record, I like you so so so so much too.” 

Evan rushed back to Tommy’s bed, crawling from the foot to where Tommy lay. Earlier they’d gotten up to make it up, but they’d been lounging atop the covers in a way that Tommy very rarely did. Evan was on his knees and he leaned over and reached for his face, thumb ending right over the cleft on Tommy’s chin and though he took a moment to stare down at Tommy, it didn’t take long before he was leaning down and they were kissing. Tommy pulled him closer, bringing him down so Buck’s weight rested half on Tommy. Evan hummed into it and when the kiss broke, Evan dropped his head to Tommy’s shoulder. 

“I really do,” Evan said, turning his face so he wasn’t speaking into Tommy’s shirt. 

“What?” 

“Like you.” 

[mcondance]

miguel w his preg wife. he'd take such good care of you 😋 even though you insist that you can do your usual activities on your own, it doesn't stop him. at all. he even gets up earlier than you to make you breakfast and help you waddle to the bathroom. he hates, hates, HATES being away from you to do vigilante work. when he's gone, lyla is your bff / babysitter. your treated lavishly, of course. miguel makes it a staple to come home every night, the secret mother hen that he is. he helps you shower and trim yourself up when needed, helps your mood swings without complaint. carries you into bed no matter how exhausted he is. he even is protesting you treating his wounds because he doesn't wanna stress you. massaging your bump with shea butter, massaging your sore body at night as he tells you about his day. miguel makes it to most appointments. he tries his best. unless he's literally being crushed by a building ( which he has ) he'll make it. he once stumbled in with a lazy outfit thrown over his suit. miguel went from little spoon to big spoon. from burrowing his head into your chest at night, he listens to your little one's heartbeat at night, his hand closing over your stomach. god, not to mention the cravings. miguel tries not to give you too many questioning looks, since he cant decide if you'll laugh at his faces or cry at them. he tries your weird concoctions. even if they make him want to vomit. miguel daydreams about baby names, alot.

one of the days he's working in his office, you're waddling in the spider society in your maternity clothes and ratty slippers. almost every spider is polite to you as you make your way throughout the dizzying halls. despite lyla's protests, you wanted to see miguel without him tearing himself away from important work. you soon opt to rolling around in a office chair after walking like 4 very long hallways. lyla even tries to stop you from rolling into the villain sections, which you had to admit was cute. you greet some villains that you had taken a liking to, like that prowler variant from earth-199999 and that female variant of doctor octavious. when you roll into his office, eating some weird combination from the cafeteria, he greets you with a cold, unfeeling voice. miguel's facing away from you, which explains why you don't want to get that mad. once he hears your voice, he even stops his platform quirk and jumps down to get to you quicker. worry flitting over his features, he inspects you quickly. "¡mi vida! que estás bien?" you wave him off, standing with a groan to wrap your arms around his frame ( that eclipses yours completely ). seeing your smile nearly melts away his worries as you press a chaste kiss to his cheek. " si, si. yo estoy bien, cariño. solo quiera ver tu cara, oír tu voz."

hi i just had alot of word vomit about him

ugh 💔💔 bae you ate 💔💔

[kenneth-black]

Husbands that cook together, stay together 🥹

PS. i LOVE Hen and Ravi 🩷 I just wanted some solo buddie stills 🥹🥹🥹