#i think i need to be muzzled and locked up<3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[sighsebstan]

but imagine youre like head over heels obsessed with logan ever since your bestie wade introduced you and the two of you get super close but logan takes a protective role and kinda sees you as a young person hes taken under his wing meanwhile wade has been in love with you for a long time and it gets harder and harder for him to hide how he feels while watching you and logan get closer and having to hear you gush about how amazing he is until one day he like uncharacteristically blows up at you like ‘hes like 175 years your senior! he sees you as a child why are you still fucking trying with him??? whats wrong with me? why cant you love me? is my bod just not chiseled enough? not enough bass in my voice from a century of chain smoking cigars?’ he tries using his witty sarcasm to mask his real insecurities and theories about why youve never reciprocated his affections and youre gagged because like since when did wade have actual genuine romantic feelings and also youre completely embarrassed because logans just in the other room when it all goes down so youre like ‘fuck you wade’ which wasnt the proper reaction but he hurt you and deep down you knew he was right that logan just didnt see you like that but now youre also confused about your feelings for wade because you never even thought of him as obtainable and now he just sprung this huge confession of feelings at you and you go across the hall back to your own apartment and you get a knock at the door no more than 10 minutes later and its logan and he knocks and goes ‘…hey kid can we talk’ and youre face is red and your body is tense and your eyes are welling with tears that you were previously too angry to conjure but you cant say no to him ever so you open the door

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: suggestive, non-explicit smut. kissing. smoking. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[toxycodone]

puppy/pet laios x owner reader hcs/quick thoughts!!! I need to take care of him and be his owner so fucking bad dude. stay strong king enjoy ur nap 👑💤

- 🐺🪚

puppy!Laios x owner!Reader

cw. petplay, dom/sub themes

sfw + nsfw

sfw

The goodest boy. Literally the best boy. Laios tries his goddamn hardest to please you it’s insane.

He listens so well. He just wants your love and praise and attention…he looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. His eyes are full of adoration while he shifts his hips to wag the fluffy tail hanging on his belt…gah

He loves when you give him head pats. Just call him a good boy and tell him he’s your sweet little puppy and he’s just. Immediately melting in your arms.

Wears a collar with a lock that only you have the key to….when you’re like trying to be lowkey in public he instead wears a stainless steel chain that has a lock on it (it just looks like a regular necklace, no involving strangers in kinks lol). But the key to that necklace is on your car keys/lanyard/etc

When you get home and unlock it and put his collar on instead he’s so excited. Legit rushing to put on his ears and tail.

Laios totally has an oral fixation so he likes to lick your hand on suck on your fingers. He’ll playfully nip them too while you’re watching TV or gaming or something. He’s a little mischievous hehe

He definitely has chew toys. They are worn from use.

He likes it when you pull him by his collar and call him doggy

nsfw

He’s bitey. He can’t help it, when he gets in the zone he always wants to gnaw on you or himself when he’s really going thru it

HE DESERVES A MUZZLE. Muzzle him and make him a panting whining mess. His oral fixation drives him nuts because all he wants to do is get out of it and lick you on nip you or something

He 100% gets off by humping your leg one day. Needy puppy boy Laios humping your boot while whining and begging for you to fuck him…yeah

Speaking of collars and leashes earlier…keep one on him during sex. When he cums too fast but you’re still wanting to go you just yank him by the leash/collar and keep driving him into you while he moans and cries about it being too much

But you tell him to shut up because puppies don’t speak so he just whines and whimpers until you’re done using him 💞

Laios 100% hordes your clothes. He loves things that smell like you. Used shirts, dirty underwear... those are his favorites. You'll come home to him rutting against one of the pillows while whimpering and moaning your name.

Barks for you. With no issue. You tell him to and he does it. I'm pretty sure he whines and whimpers when he gets excited too or when he thinks you look sexy.

Honestly just looking at him a certain way makes Laios hard. He's totally whipped by his owner.

Crate train him. He will seriously go that far and wait patiently until you decide to grace him with your attention again. Doesn't mean he won't jerk himself off in there while thinking of you, though...<3

[misserabella]

gonna need an abby version of your ‘sexting ellie williams’ fics bc god am i obsessed with that woman

a/n; you ask and you shall receive

sexting with gf! abby! ♡

pt2

cw; +18 content! minors dni!, sexting, drinking (reader is in a party and drunk), description of a video of reader touching herself, abby being as cocky as ever, top! abby, bottom! reader, fingering, praising, oral sex (r receiving), cum eating, making out, allusions of sex with strap…

3:24 AM

abs

abssssss

abbyyyyy

sht abayuyyy

abby groaned as her phone buzzed nonstop, reaching for it and squinting her eyes at the screen’s light. she took a peak at the hour. holy fuck. 3AM?

baby? what the hell? why are you up this late?

partyyyy

u’re at a party rn? bfr

yessss. owen’s

i’m gonna kill him. why did he let you drink this much?

i’m not deinkkk

you’re definitely drunk, doll. i’m gonna go get you, alright? stay put wherever u are and don’t move.

no no lsten, i have something impurtabt to telll u

what is it?

ik i’m drunk rn but in gunna marry you

you’re gonna marry me?

abby was laughing at your texts. yes, she was worried you had been drinking, but you were at owen’s and you were safe. and it was so fucking fun to watch you try and type correctly.

yes

i’m marryin u

even if you r meanb

me? when have i been mean to you baby?

rn

right now?

yeahh, ‘cause tou’re sooooj beautiful

all i fan think about are your lips rn

why r u not heyre?

okay. you’re really drunk, baby, why don’t you wait for me and we talk about this when i get there, hm?

no.

u r gonna take sooooiii long

you’ve pretty eyesX

they look so good when u go down on me

abby’s eyes widened, and her whole body seemed to burn. shit.

yeah? they look good princess?

mmmh

want u

and you’re so far away rn it’s nor fair

that was a fucking lie. abby was already on the road to get there. shit. she loved it when you went all needy on her. and when you were drunk? you had no filter. always screaming and moaning so loud she sometimes would have to muzzle you to not have the neighbors knocking on her door.

oh baby, why don’t you come here and sit on my face? my tongue will say sorry for me

your cheeks flushed, and your cunt throbbed. you loved it when she’d make you sit on her face, her tongue unrelenting on fucking you over and over again until you wouldn’t cum anymore. you needed her. and you needed her right now. the bathroom you had gone in felt suddenly too hot and your panties too sticky. you hissed when your fingers pushed in them, feeling just how wet you had become for her. you couldn’t help but plunge a finger inside your tight hole. of course, your fingers weren’t as near as largue and thick as abby’s, but you needed something until she’d get there and do it for you.

csn i tell u s secret?

ofc princess, what is it?

i’m fucking my pussy rn

jesus christ. abby almost hit the breaks. almost crashed when you send her a video of —now— two of your fingers fucking inside your tight and squelching walls. she could hear your little whimpers and pants.

couldnt wair abymore

i need you so bad abby pkease

shit. writing with only one hand and drunk wasn’t that easy. you were whimpering and moaning as you fingered yourself on the bathroom of owen’s party. you thanked god the music was loud enough to muffle your sounds, ‘cause you surely couldn’t swallow them back inside.

abby was exceeding the speed limit to get there, practically parking on top of owen’s lawn as she jumped out of the car, running towards the house.

where.

bathroom

she didn’t even say hi to owen as she passed right through him, her blood boiling as she ran upstairs and swung the door open. you hadn’t even locked it. fucking hell.

abby almost went down on her knees when she saw you sitting on the toilet’s lid with a hand buried in between your thighs and your phone on the other, your chat open and showing on the screen. your senses came back to you as you heard the lock turning, and you moaned when you saw her.

did i say almost? abby had never been quicker to kneel down, her strong arms pushing your legs on top of her shoulders to move your hand away and, after cleaning up your fingers with her tongue, hurriedly burying her face in your cunt. your back arched, and you let out a scream that made her groan, lapping at your juices. you were so fucking wet…

“fuck, abby!” you cried out when she plunged her own fingers deep inside your cunt, easily finding your g spot.

she cooed. “my princess was just feeling needy. weren’t you, baby? poor thing. so horny for me couldn’t wait until i could get here. sending me a video of touching your tight little cunt just to tease me, didn’t you?” you whimpered, bucking your hips against her touch, your back arching.

“please abby… your mouth.” you begged.

“you want my mouth baby? want me to eat this soaked pretty pussy of yours?” you nodded, pleading for it, and she followed, her tongue meeting your clit and making you moan. “so fucking loud…” she groaned, starting to devour you to get out of you more or those pleasured sounds. she was starving. and you were falling apart, melting under her tongue.

“abby!” you screamed when her tongue fucked inside of you, her arms tugging from you to get closer, her nose nudging your clit. the alcohol made you feel dizzy, and the pleasure only seemed to grow and grow. you could feel it shocking through your body, her grunts making your body gave into her. you needed her.

“fuck, you look so fucking beautiful. need you bouncing on my cock baby.” you whimpered, nodding.

“yes please, abby, please, need you to fuck me.” you were a babbling mess, her tongue teasing you and making you squirm. she adored making you tremble, seeing you get more and more desperate for her to make you cum.

“yeah? need me to fuck you sweet girl? need me to to fuck your brains out?” you nodded, moaning, your chest heaving harshly, your thighs shaking at the sides of her head, your back arched when her fingers, three this time, plunged inside of you, abusing your g spot and making you see stars. “i will princess. but first you’re gonna cum on my tongue, isn’t that right?” your hands found her hair, tugging when she sucked down on your sensitive and puffy clit. “yeah, of course you are. you are squeezing my fingers so tight, fuck… you always take them so well baby. such a fucking good girl for me. can’t wait to see you taking my cock.“ you could feel the warmth on your stomach grow and grow.

“abby, i’m gonna…! i’m cumming!” you cried out, and she only fingered you faster, harder. it was imposible to describe. this feeling. her.

“go ahead baby, let me clean you all up.” she smirked, and with a last thrust and lick at your clit you were falling apart, making her groan when you pushed her face harder against your gushing cunt. you whited out.

she helped you ride it as your moans broke, your hips stuttering and your creamy white and salt cum painted her fingers. she moaned against you, cleaning it with her tongue and humming at the taste. there was nothing she loved more than giving you head.

once you’d calmed down and your breathing had evened out, she pulled her fingers out to push them inside her mouth. you whined as you watched her, with lips swollen and chin soaked in your juices.

“let’s get out of here.” she said, and you nodded, not before kissing her so deeply you left her as drunk and dizzy as you felt.

yeah. she was definitely gonna marry you.

….

LORD. that was filthy asf. i’m sorry… or nah.🤭

hope you enjoyed. remember to support your writers! <3

abby anderson masterlist! <3

xxx

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 3 Part 3

Again the winner of last week's poll! There won't be a poll this week because I'm planning something a bit different. I hit 1000 followers this past week and have been wracking my brain about how to celebrate! Wasn't up for doing prompts or adding more projects to my list, though, so I didn't want to go that route.

But I did come up with something that I think everyone will really enjoy. Especially those of you who have been voting for Carry Your Heart (I see you in the tags!). So look out for that post.

In addition, I've just posted the first chapter of Arc 2 on AO3! Link below.

Story Summary: Jack and Maddie install a new ghost shield on the house which activates the moment Danny tries to step into his home. His secret is out and his parents are determined to excise the ghost from their son.

Luckily Danny isn't alone. The Young Justice, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz aren't going to leave him to suffer.

Arc 1: AO3

Arc 2: AO3 (incomplete); Tumblr - First, Final

Arc 3: First, Previous

Word Count: 1.4k

-----

Fire rushing through him jolted Danny awake. His back arched as he cried out. He screwed his eyes tight, not wanting to see what torture his parents were going to come at him with next when he realized what the sound of his cry meant: the muzzle was gone.

As were the restraints. And he was lying on something soft. Trying hard not to hope, he opened his eyes.

Sam and Jazz were leaning over him, concern clear on their faces. They were in some sort of ambulance or van.

“How are you feeling,” demanded Sam.

Danny took a moment to answer, his chest was pure agony. He didn’t even want to think what it would feel like to sit up. And even past that, everything was sore. Though the fire that had woken him up had dissipated, the tell-tale feel of ecto-dejecto. “Pretty much the worst I’ve ever felt,” he answered honestly.

Sam and Jazz both winced and his sister grabbed his hand. He squeezed her fingers weakly.

At the foot of his bed stood Tim in full Red Robin getup and Kon as Superboy.

He couldn’t hold back the smile as he met Tim’s gaze. “You came,” he said.

Tim didn’t smile back, but some tension eased out of his shoulders. “I always will,” he said. “Been telling you that since we were ten years old.”

“I know. I’ve always known. Thank you.”

Jazz squeezed his hand again and he looked at her. “Red Robin and Superboy are going to take you away from here. Robin will help you recover.”

Sam nodded. “Yep. And the rest of us are gonna focus on making sure Amity is safe for ghosts once and for all.”

Danny shook his head. “I should be there with you guys, fighting.”

“Nope!” interrupted Jazz. “Not even a little. You’re going to focus on getting better, got it, Danny? That’s all we want from you.”

“But the ghosts—”

Sam covered his mouth with her hand. “Stop it right there. Tucker is working with Impulse and Wonder Girl to get the portal locked up. No one will be coming through. No one—ghost or human—will be in any danger while you’re gone. I promise.”

Danny slumped into the bed. Even the slight change in position caused waves of pain to radiate from his chest even through the healing ice he could feel implanted in his body. He whimpered and closed his eyes until the throbbing receded just a bit. “I trust you. I do, it’s just…”

“You’re used to taking care of everyone,” finished Jazz for him. “We know. So let us take care of you for a change. We love you, Danny.”

“Love you, too, Jazz. Sam.”

“Be good for bird-brain there, got it?” ordered Sam.

Danny gave her a half-smile. “Are Tim and I ever good together?”

She laughed. “Well, don’t burn down Gotham, capiche?”

“Capiche.”

“We have to go now,” said Jazz.

Danny gripped her hand tighter. “Don’t leave me.”

Jazz winced, but leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We need to make sure the Guys in White aren’t going to get involved further. And you need to get someplace safe.”

Danny huffed a half laugh. “Gotham is safe?”

Jazz rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at a joke. “For you it is. Now, I’m leaving Red and Superboy with a case full of ectoplasm for you and our entire supply of ecto-dejecto. I just gave you your first injection. Please try and eat something and drink your ectoplasm regularly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Jazz.”

Jazz sniffed and it was only then that Danny realized it was wetter than usual and her eyes were watery. He tried not to feel bad for his jokes when she replied, “Yes, it is whatever I say. Glad you agree.”

Sam cackled, and now that he was paying attention, Danny could hear the hysterical edge to it. “You’d better text us multiple times a day, ghost boy. Don’t try and lie to us, either. Kon’ll tell me the truth about your condition. And as soon as we can arrange it, we’re coming out your way for a visit.”

“Course I will, Sam. Give Tuck my best?”

“Duh. He wishes he could’ve come with us, you know.”

Danny nodded. “But he’s better with the tech stuff and that is just as time sensitive.”

“Yeah. Now, get some sleep,” Sam ordered. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

Danny gave the rote answer after too many all-nighters taking care of ghost attacks before school, “I’m dead, I don’t need sleep.”

His sister squeezed his hand. “Ghosts who just went through what you did need their sleep. Love you, Danny. Get well and I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you, Jazz.”

She kissed his forehead one more time, followed by Sam. And with another two rounds of farewells and love yous, he was alone with Tim and Kon.

“Thanks for coming,” he said again.

“Obviously we weren’t going to leave you there,” said Kon. “Being a lab subject isn’t fun. Especially not that kinda lab experiment.”

Danny couldn’t quite hold back the flinch at that description. It was accurate, but blunt.

Tim walked over until he was sitting by Danny’s bed. “Just listen to Jazz and get some rest. We’re going to be taking the long route to Gotham by going south to start. If we stop for food in a few hours, think you could handle a smoothie?”

Danny shrugged and bit back a yawn. “Could try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Kon moved towards the front of the vehicle as well. “Looks like it’s time for us to skedaddle. I’ll keep the road from jostling you, ghost-boy.”

Danny gave a small smile and let his eyes close. As he did, he tried to mumble his thanks and he hoped it came across.

---

The next time he woke was more gentle. Someone was tapping on his shoulder and calling his name. But even so, as he was pulled closer to awareness, the pain made itself more and more known. He tried to cling to the darkness, but the tapping wasn’t stopping, nor was the person calling him.

He blinked open his eyes to see Tim’s concerned face. He wasn’t wearing the domino anymore, or his costume. Just a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Hey, Danny,” said Tim. “I’m going to need you to try and eat a bit right now. Kon got us those smoothies I mentioned. I’ve also got yogurt if that’ll be easier for you. But the smoothie will have more nutrients.”

Danny closed his eyes. He wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to eat. Why did Tim have to bring him back to consciousness for this? He hurt and just wanted to sink back into oblivion.

The tapping on his shoulder began again. “I know, Danny. But you have to eat something. And you should take some ectoplasm, too. So just stay awake for a few minutes.”

“Mm ‘wake,” said Danny without opening his eyes. He shifted his weight, hoping to push himself up to eat, only to scream in pain as his chest protested any movement.

“Shit! Don’t move,” said Tim too late. “I’ve got a spoon here. I’ll feed it to you, okay? So just stay exactly where you are.”

Danny gripped his sheets, unable to do anything else as wave after wave of pain over took him. Tim kept up a litany of reassurances and stroked his hair. Eventually, Danny was able to think past it again.

“Don’t think I can sit up,” said Danny.

“Of course not,” agreed Tim. He held a styrofoam cup between his knees and carefully took off the lid and straw. “Just let me. Take at least a few bites. Swallow as is, don’t try and chew. Just do what you can, okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Danny and Tim fed him the first bite.

Danny hated this. Hated it so much. Here he was being spoon fed like a baby all because his parents… He shut his eyes and took the next bite. He wasn’t going to finish that thought. Tim was here and that’s what mattered.

Danny wasn’t sure how much he ate, but it couldn’t have been much. His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and the pull of oblivion stronger.

“Wait, Danny. Stay awake just a little longer, okay?”

Danny groaned but forced his eyes open again.

Tim showed him a bottle of ectoplasm. “Just a few swallows of this, too. Okay?”

He didn’t want to. He’d rather just go to sleep again, but he opened his mouth obediently. By the time he finished his third spoonful, he couldn’t fight it anymore and slumped into the bed. The pain receded back into blackness for a time.

-----

Next

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Danny is going to be getting all the comfort throughout this. All of them will, tbh. Because no one is happy and they all need a hug or five.

Let me know what you think!

[verysium]

some hcs abt the bllk boys doing modeling shoots as pro-players? (like what they’d model for and the ways they captivate their audiences and stuff)? ty and love ur works btw 💞💞🫡

idk why but this ask made my brain freeze up and refuse to write anything for 3 days, so apologies if this is late anon:

sae would be so done. i mean....he walked out on a literal interview, so what makes you think he won't walk out on a photoshoot? he probably hates the very idea of plastering his face all over billboards and magazines. but his manager said that he was in desperate need of good publicity, especially after that stunt he pulled with the last commercial endorsement. if sae was forced to model though, he'd definitely be as stiff as a board. no facial expressions whatsoever and always sticks to one pose. oftentimes, this involves him facing the wall and only showing half his face. if the photographer wants a full frontal, he's going to have to deal with sae's "i don't want to be here and i'm being held hostage" face. even if sae does try smiling, it looks more like a grimace. the only redeeming quality here is that he is good-looking. if you look at the official art, he doesn't even have to try to get all of you drooling over him. that face card does not decline. like ever. so the shoots usually wrap up pretty quickly because out of the 100 images taken, at least half are going to be usable. he's photogenic from any angle.

kaiser would strike a pose for everything, even his own mugshot. i picture him as that one johnny depp advertisement for dior sauvage. blue lighting. a silk blouse with the top button open to show off a sliver of his sculpted chest. his hair is slicked back with gel, and his knuckles are decorated with silver rings. the tattoo just pulls everything together. if not a perfume commercial, then i think he'd model for adidas or some other german brand (maybe even a beer company if he's old enough). i don't think he has any trouble with the actual modeling part of process. he knows how to flaunt himself. the only issue is that kaiser is a lazy perfectionist. he would show up late to the shoots and then stays even later just looking through the shots and choosing which ones to include. puts a lot of time and effort into things like this. after all, his image and his brand are important to him.

shidou would be sponsored by an energy drink brand. like red bull or monster. if not that, then axe body spray lol. as for modeling, i feel like he wouldn't be able to sit still. probably pulls out crazy poses that piss the photographers off on purpose. it always cracks me up how one of his first appearances in the manga is him being muzzled and restrained in a straitjacket inside blue lock's time-out zone. he's so chaotic. you would have to hold him down and shove the camera into his face to actually get a good shot. i also picture him wearing lots of black leather, maybe even silver jewelry (eg. studs, piercings). and of course, you can't forget the hot pink accents.

isagi would model for family-friendly brands. if not that, then just japanese brands in general. i imagine him doing skincare commercials for shiseido or maybe even participating in a campaign for UNIQLO. as for modeling, he would be awkward at first but then gradually get the hang of it. always thanks the team afterwards and is very mindful of the photographer's suggestions. everyone says he is a pleasure to work with.

rin would model for luxury watch brands like TAG heuer or IWC. maybe when he grows older and further develops his career, he might even become an ambassador for louis vuitton or bulgari. overall, his advertisements are very elegant and professional. only endorses high quality products. never looks at the shots afterwards because he hates looking at his own face. gets somewhat embarrassed when his mama points out his billboards and makes clippings of his magazine covers. he absolutely flipped when a brand suggested that he do a collaboration with his brother. so when this collaboration actually did take place, it was like a repeat of the whole messi-ronaldo photoshoot. they didn't actually meet on set. they were just photoshopped together into the same frame.

barou models for calvin klein. lots of denim and shirtless photos. all of the staff got nosebleeds, and his fanbase went wild when the issue was finally released. there's this one image his fans worship religiously where he's posing in his boxers and there's a clear shot of his abs and happy trail. (he's so hot wtf) there's also another shot that wasn't used cus a million people would've been deceased. he's standing there with his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and wearing nothing underneath his denim jacket. his hair is also down, and his skin is all sun-kissed and golden.

reo models streetwear, and this is canon because he has the drip. honestly, his duality needs to be studied because he can go from high class gentleman to bad boy who wears chains and knuckle rings. he'd try all different sorts of styles, and he'd look good doing it. out of all the bllk boys, i feel like reo gets the most sponsorship deals because of his versatility. he does the styling, hair, makeup, posing, editing, etc. honestly, they need to hire him as a creative director already. nagi would tag along behind the scenes, but he'd end up scrolling on his phone the entire day.

[ohbo-ohno]

in reference to the last Serial Killer!Ghost Captive!Soap ask: first off, HOLY FUCKING CHRIST. Second: I’m already thinking about how a reader may factor in.

Maybe she’s there with her friends, partying it up in the woods by a bonfire, and everyone is too drunk to notice she wanders off after hearing some whimpering from the thicket. She stumbles on Soap, muzzled tight and filthy and frantic and cradling his twisted ankle, and knows something is seriously wrong.

Immediately she drops everything and starts trying to help. She asks him if he’s okay, what happened to him, don’t worry, she’ll get him out of that muzzle. She picks at it with her fingers and nearly gets it off before she hears and FEELS a gunshot whizz right past her head.

Ghost found them. And seeing this precious little thing trying to help his good boy, immediately putting herself in front of him to keep him safe if need be, makes him start to wonder if Johnny could use a friend. And he hoists his rifle again, misses on purpose to make her yelp, and watches her back into a tree while he checks on Johnny. His ankle is fine, just a bit sprained, he’ll be back on his feet in no time. But he’s whining and shaking his head, trying to plead with Ghost through the muzzle not to kill this kind stranger who almost cut him free. He doesn’t want to see her die!! And Ghost turns back to the Reader, trembling against the tree and trying to hide behind her arms, and he comes closer like the menacing brick shithouse he is and she nearly sobs and begs that she’ll do anything, god, just please don’t shoot her!!!!

Maybe Ghost goes and kills all her friends first, comes back to find her still curled up against that tree with Johnny next to her, and she screams when she sees him fucking drenched in blood. Or maybe he takes her home first, puts her and Johnny in a crate together and locks it to make sure they stay out of trouble, and then goes out for blood; maybe he comes back to them dragging the bodies of Reader’s friends and it’s all she can do to keep from passing out. Maybe she gets included in their little chase game later on…

~🦋

someday i'll write my actual serial killer au but it is NOT TODAY so let's indulge in some variances <3 (ask is referencing this post)

i don't usually puppify my reader inserts to the extent that i do soap but holy SHIT if this ask doesn't beg for a puppy reader

ghost hunting his hound down, finds his poor boy injured and what seems to be an equally feral girl standing above him, totally protective :/ even when soap tries to shover her away, she stays crouched in front of him, hardly even flinching at the gun in ghost's arms

and isn't that interesting? this little thing so eager to protect what's his? oh, ghost is hooked immediately. (what's better than one guard dog? two guard dogs!)

manages to finally scare her away from soap with a few well placed bullets, poor thing tries hard as she can not to go skittering away but instinct gets the best of her eventually. she's not quite brave enough to tackle ghost when he gets closer, but he sees her eying his gun. ghost is quick enough checking soap that she doesn't have a chance to try anything

he'd come with a leash for soap (always makes the man crawl back to the car after their little hunts, just to keep him in that puppy headspace so he doesn't start struggling) but doesn't have an extra. good news is, soap is so desperate to keep ghost from killing his new friend, he's perfectly willing to follow without the leash when ghost hooks his collar and leash on the new girl

she doesn't have a muzzle (ghost doesn't have an extra, and none of them would fit her anyway), so he ends up tugging this wriggling and shouting thing along while his pup stays right at his side, providing such a good example for their new pet. ghost is already planning his rewards

he tucks them both into johnny's crate after wrapping the pup's ankle. gives his new girl a bone to chew on (plugs her nose and stuffs the gag between her teeth, tightens it until she growls at him and then ruffles her hair, locks her hands into some paw gloves so she starts to understand what's happening) and covers the crate in a blanket. smiles when johnny looks up at him nervously and his girl tries to cover her fear with anger

takes about an hour to kill & get rid of all her little friends.

and oh how she howls when he comes back home without hosing himself down. she squirms and writhes, kicks johnny's ankle and goes still when he whimpers. ghost can't help but laugh when she taps her forehead to his, an apology. his pups already get along so well, he can't wait to see how she'll fare after a little training

it's about time he got soap a friend, anyways. pups are social creatures, and he knows johnny needs someone to play with when ghost's busy. the new pup showed up at just the right time <3

[zeroducks-2]

speaking of august vs thawne I felt like those two were being petty towards each other when barry forced the 3 of them to work together. I remember at some point august pointed out how he's better than thawne cause he's actually willing to change hence why he gets to be part of barry's life. personally I felt like that struck a nerve in thawne and that's probably one of the reason he killed him lol. "you thought you'd get to be with barry? guess again!" moment

The thing about Eobard (and this is something that drives me insane in a very good way) is that his actions look pretty much nonsensical when you look at them without context.

Why did he kill August at the end of The Flash Age, after everything had gone SO WELL?

Barry trusted him, Eobard did the right thing. They easily fell into the right rhythm, they helped each other no strings attached, and not only that - after saving Chris, Eobard went back to Barry and August to save them too.

He could have very well left them to die, and if you think about it, he can just walk into the Speed Force and pluck Barry out like he did in the Rebirth Mini. So it was really just a plain good action.

But then he goes and pulls August's neck like a chicken's? Why TF Eobard? Barry doesn't understand it, and since we don't get Eobard's POV, we don't see what's in his head when it happens. But if you know enough Flash lore, it's possible to piece together what went down.

First of all, and this is very important to consider, Eobard was walking away. It's August who physically stops him.

August grabs his arm, and Eobard immediately understands what this is about. August wants him to go back to prison. The fact that his response is about trust, and the defeated look on his face, make the feeling of betrayal pretty evident.

(also what in the FUCK you think you're doing August, this is a whole ass tiger not a kitten you can scruff oh my god. anyways)

Now, the reason why Eobard immediately assumes (correctly) that August wants him back behind bars, is because this exact same thing happened to him so many times, and it's basically a trauma so big he would rather take his own life over going to prison.

Back to his time of origin in the 25th century, he would stay locked up in the most inhumane conditions (total isolation, sensory deprivation, no human contact to the point where they fed him using radiations so that no one would approach and talk to him), and the only way he had to get out for a very limited amount of time, was when the good law abiding citizens needed a hero to fight some kind of superpowered foe.

Because in the 25th century superheroes are illegal, when something too dangerous comes up, the only way to fight it off is to use a criminal. And who better than Professor Zoom, the "sociopathic knock-off" of the now defunct hero the Flash, who'd do anything for a scrap of freedom and two minutes of leniency - especially because for all his life Eobard has desired being a hero and help people, so he'd never refuse such an offer.

Page from The Flash #147. The Flash in question is Wally in one of his timetraveling adventures.

So Eobard helped, everyone cheered, and then locked him back in prison.

We see this *in The Flash Age* as well. It's what happened when he had to fight Paradox the first time - he was pulled out of prison and he not only fought of Paradox, he also saved the survivors, rebuilt Central City and the Flash Museum with it.

Now of course August couldn't possibly know all of this, but what August knows is that Eobard, when he was locked up in Iron Heights, was in this condition:

So what he's doing is in fact demand that Eobard, in order to actually gain their trust and proceed on his "road to redemption", willingly goes back to that BDSM contraption thing in sensory deprivation and with a muzzle in his mouth.

After this man went back in time to specifically save August's ass from a world eroding from under his feet.

Eobard is openly terrified at the idea of going back to prison, by the way. Many times he very clearly tells Barry that he'll die before going back to the situation described above. Or to this:

Or this:

Or this:

And I could go on but you get the picture.

August basically put his whole foot into an open wound and twisted. The idea of going back to jail after his five minutes of leniency had to be so upsetting that I'm surprised Eobard JUST broke August's neck, and didn't like, gut him up while he was still alive.

It's understandable that people would think that he killed August out of jealousy, or that he somehow cringed at the good action that he did and had to sort of compensate with a bad one. But it's actually way more complicated. And the saddest part is that he assumed that Barry was on August's side, wanting to put him back to jail, because he's traumatized as fuck and will always assume the worst possible scenario.

[lydia-too-late]

TW: sexual assault menace, drug use

Prologue: 4:20am

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The locks have been changed. Key was mid-air and halfway home before Tula noticed shining stainless installed where once was only time-worn brass. Slumping against the door, forehead pressed next to the peephole, she bangs her head there, once, twice, three times. Twists the knob with accelerating panic. No answer. Nothing. Muffled television sounds seep through the neighbors’ walls.

A scream gathers in her throat, but her jaw stays hard. The frustration comes in motion, a single uninterrupted series: rocking onto her back foot for momentum, she kicks, slamming a boot sole next to the offending lock. The force rebounding backward. The door shudders, but the lock holds. 

Again. Nothing. It’s a deadbolt, stronger than the old one. Tula’s arms and legs go heavy, dragging under the burden of this furious animation. Dead weight. The hunger, the locked door: they taunt her. 

Again the scream surges up in frustration, more furious now, but never finds volume. A warm hand suddenly clamps over her mouth, a larger body on her back, arm encircling her chest. No thought — she’s just feral in the snare, all teeth. She bites — or tries to. Gets the side of a palm before it rips away, opening the wound more. “Fuck!” She’s shoved hard against the door. The scent of blood in the air, on her lips, which she licks as her hands are roughly lashed together behind her.

“Bitch bit me!” Hissed.

“I got a .38 on you.” The muzzle pokes her at the base of her skull. “We’re gonna walk out of here and you’re not going to make a noise, not one, you understand? Nod.” 

Two second pause. A hand grips her hair, knocks her forehead hard against the door. The pain is dull compared to the gnawing urgency in her belly. “Nod!”

Blood and cigarettes and grease. Truck-smell. She knows it. The voice. What’s a girl like you doing out here? She twists her wrists against their bindings. Nods.

They put her in the floorboard, down with the empty wrappers and plastic bottles and year-old cigarette butts. Facing the driver’s side window, with the younger one’s workboots tucked on the opposite side of her curled-up knees, legs half-over her. He doesn’t like this, having to be that close.

“She already bit me once, man.” 

“Just keep the gun on ‘er, Carl, she won’t do nothing stupid. Will ya?” 

The older one — the one from before, grabs her hair and shakes her head, chuckling. He seems to like doing that. She scowls, staring forward, gratifying neither with acknowledgment. The truck bounces over a pothole, jamming her arms — still tied behind her back — into her shoulder sockets. The gun on her wavers, then steadies. 

(The driver patted her down before shoving her in the truck. All he found on her was a the credit card, which he tucked in his own back pocket. “Emily.” Smirked. “Knew you were lying.”)

“She talk?”

“Yeah she can talk. How else would she give me a fake fucking name?”

“I dunno, man. She like an addict or something? She don’t look… right.”

“Why? What’s she doing?”

“Nothin’. She’s just… like, cold. You think she could be ODing or something?”

“Naw. If she is, it ain’t really our problem. We’ll just dump her.”

Tula looks up, past the dark barrel of the gun to the face of the younger one. Carl. He’s blinking down at her, worried: not for her, for himself. Scared. Surprisingly pretty eyes, long lashes. Hard mouth. Light-colored hair sorely in need of a trim, dirty fingernails. Laborer build. His cagey gaze flicks nervously out the window, but he knows better. His eyes have to be on her. He presses the muzzle of the gun to her temple, nudging her head to turn away. She obliges. Flash of perfect white teeth in the darkness.

The driver’s restless: fidgeting, squirming, a fount of geared-up chatter. “I went out of my way to help a lady, and she don’t even thank me. Drove all the way to Midtown, and you know how much gas is these days? Shit.”  A rough finger pokes her on the back of the neck. “Say something, bitch.”

Sour beer and smoke blood, no sleep blood, Sudafed and meth blood. Her tongue rubs the top of her mouth, anticipating, saliva pooling beneath. Carl’s hand is wrapped in a dirty handkerchief. 

“You know what’s happening, right?” Another poke.

“We’re driving out to the desert.”

“Not you, Carl, Jesus.”

The hunger throbs like a pulse. 

“Hey!” The driver knocks the side of her head into the dash with a thump. “Talkin’ to you. Yeah. You can’t just make a deal and not follow through. I provided a service to you, and you’re gonna provide a service to me. And my friend. ‘Cause of accrued interest, you know?”

“I don’t know man,” Carl cuts in,  “I don’t really want to —”

“Fine, whatever.” A monumental sigh. The truck swings to the left, rocks crunching beneath the tires. They’ve left the main road. “More pussy for me.”

The shocks on the truck are long gone. They bounce over the uneven terrain, rocks crunching beneath time-worn tires. She can’t see anything out the window except black sky. 

They stop. The driver shifts it into park, then cuts the ignition. Carl reaches for the door handle.

“Wait. Something I wanna do first.”

It’s quiet. Tula covertly glances up at Carl, scanning his face. Annoyance shifts to a mild grin as he watches his partner and nods. Behind her, crumpling. A lighter flicking. (She flinches.) The window reflects the illumination of the flame. He’s smoking something. Burning chemicals. The smell of neglect. Trailer park fires and rotting teeth and aluminum cans crushed into dirt. Deep breaths. It doesn’t take long.

“Let’s get her out.” The driver opens his door. “You can smoke while I —” The driver’s door shuts as Carl opens his. Beyond, the desert landscape is moonlit indigo and Dali-surreal, too perfect a backdrop for these misdeeds. The driver, having rounded the truckbed, covers the open door, his gun trained as he nods for Carl to scamper out of the vehicle, which he does, all alacrity and relief and stomach-twisting bugged-out jitters.

They each take a foot. Ankle in one hand, gun in the other. No fighting, just unfolding. They let her fall the distance from the floorboard to the ground amid a flutter of trash, pebbles biting into her upper back, her arms, her bound hands. There’s a moon tonight, big and bright, and she’s staring up at it. 

“Hi there,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

“What the fuck you say?” Odell doesn’t wait. “Carl, help me get her up.”

None too gently, she’s on her feet. Flyaway curls, limp with neglect, frame her bloodless face. Driver grunts, gathering his nerve, and grabs her upper arm, guiding her to the back of the truck and knocks the tailgate down. Carl ducks back into the cab.

“You gotta understand honey, no one takes advantage of me.” He presses himself against her back, his trailer-fire breath on her ear as his voice drops. “You drug me or something?” He shoves her down, bent over the lowered tailgate, pressing her cheek against the rusting metal. An impatient hand moves to tug the waistband of her shorts, fingers worming between it and her skin.

“Hope it was worth it. Fuck — you are cold. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Grimy fingers fumble to the front for the clasp of her shorts, and he growls a motherfucker. Sets the gun down, needing both hands.

A howl goes up: loud, close. He startles. Coyotes. Another howl. Another. Long cries shatter into raucous yapping. Nothing unusual for those who know the desert, but never normal-sounding either. Cries to set your nerves on edge. Tula lets her senses sink into the sound like a well-known chorus, untethering the hunger she’s neglected for too many hours. Good. Good. Odell pauses to scan the desert.

In that moment, she turns herself over, wrapping her legs around his hips, leveraging herself up into a sitting position and tearing into his neck with her long teeth. He squeals, his hand reaching halfway to the gun before analgesic warmth envelopes him and they both slump to the ground. Blood’s coming fast, and she’s gulping, barely tasting, just taking and taking. Bites again when it hints at slowing. And again. Carotid hit: she feels it tear on the tip of her left fang. It sprays, weaker than it should, but plentiful regardless. Rapturous gulping, licking, gnawing. The warm beats in her cheeks, her fingertips, her belly and ankles. She tears her wrists free, pawing at her prey.

“What the fuck??”

She looks up, the lower half of her face covered in horror-red, gore dripping from her chin. Odell’s neck is blood-bubbling and mangled meat, his body convulsing. Carl’s eyes are wide, his mouth open for the scream that follows, pitched and toned to match the desert cries. He runs.

[meowmeowriley]

Changes: A Poll-Fic

Ch. 5 Leave the Fingers, No Time to Lose

The fic on AO3

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4

(Cheeky link to Ch. 6 ->) Ch. 6

"FUCK that hurts!" Soap cursed and clutched his wrist. He couldn't see the severed fingers, and he had no time to search for them. It couldn't be helped, he had to abandon the lost digits. At least it had only been his pinky and ring fingers. If he survived this, big 'if', always a big 'if', he could potentially still serve with a prosthetic. The technology has come a long way, and it was only two fingers. Arguably the least important fingers for shooting, even.

Ahah, heh... mmmhmhm heh.. aheheh....

"Put some bloody pressure on that before you die of blood loss, Soap!" Ghost ordered, as if he would do anything else.

...Blood...

"The fuck you think ah'm doin'?" Soap fumbled with the zip on his medical pouch. At least it was on his left side. He knelt on the floor and used his legs as a workstation. Better than the floor. As he worked on dressing the wound, it dawned on him that Ghost knew he'd been injured. Knew enough to order him to dress the wound, but how? "How'd ye know I was injured?" He couldn't help but ask.

"What're you on about, Johnny? I'm looking right at you." He was, sure. But it was still pitch black. "'S not that dark. And I've been watchin' you since you got the locks off the door upstairs." He continued, as if watching him out of a creepy centipede eye wasn't concerning. He spoke as if he had just been watching Soap through his scope. Like he should be, not chained up like some rabid animal.

"Right," Soap stuffed his glove over the bandaging. Extra pressure couldn't hurt it. "Let's get you outta there."

He approached Ghost and pulled out his pick set. Looking the man over, he found there were seven more locks scattered about his binds.

He'd start by freeing Ghost, and then go back to the muzzle. If anyone came down, hopefully, it was after he'd released the other. After witnessing him choke an enemy to death with his legs, Soap felt confident that Ghost would be able to hold his own while they made their escape.

One by one the locks gave. Each time, just as before, he felt an incessant tickle building behind his eyes. He pushed his NVG's up to rub at them.

For a fleeting moment he not only saw the symbols that he couldn't quite focus on, but also that Ghost had streaks of yellow down his neck. Soap blinked rapidly a few times, trying to keep the yellow shit in focus. The streaks bled out from under his muzzle. They mixed with the blood caked around the collar and... whatever the hell was going on there. That couldn't be good for him.

Soap finally got the last lock off. He was completely blind, which made the sound of the chains sluicing exceedingly loud in the dark, nearly drowning out the seemingly ceaseless giggling.

He pulled down his NVG's again just in time to see Ghost rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. Each way he tilted his head, the... legs? Pincers? The fuck were they?... on the opposite side seemed to flex and stretch out as well, before tightly gripping the metal collar once more. Soap swallowed the rising bile back down. He supposed he'd need to get the collar off too. "Muzzle and collar now, yeah?"

He stepped forward again, attempting to reach behind Ghost's head for the straps and small padlocks holding both things in place, when Ghost's hand shot up, grasping his wrist tightly. "Don't open till Christmas, Johnny."

AHAHAHAAH AAAHAHAHAHA HAHAHA

...Blood... so much... the bodies...

A present for Johnny... Beautiful Johnny...

He was smiling. He said it in the way he always did when he teased Soap, but the force of his grip was that of a vice. Soap would not be removing those binds. "Ok- okay. Okay..." he tried to play it cool, but feared his shaking voice gave away his unease.

Ghost's thumb and middle finger had been replaced by what Soap was now sure were finger-sized centipede legs. It gave his thumb extra articulation. The legs seemed to have sprouted out from the skin, much as the ones on his throat had. His left hand seemed to be missing completely, his stump of a wrist swathed in nasty bandages. He'd have to wait a while yet before they could be replaced with clean ones. Somehow Soap felt like he wouldn't mind.

Ghost removed his hand from Soap's wrist and gave him a pat on the arm. "Come on Soap, I don't like how off you're acting. Let's get you outta here." Before he moved to the dead bodies and started looting them. Funny, coming from you.

Ghost naturally nicked the knives and a rifle. He stuffed mags into the pockets of his ruined trousers. At least they'd let him keep his clothes, dirty and tattered as they had become, it was still better than being nude.

"Come on then." Ghost led the way, rifle in hand.

Heh... aheheheh eheh..... hmhmhmhmheh...

The giggling followed them out.

"Swear this hallway was longer goin' down..." Soap remarked as they quickly found themselves back at the door to the twisting hallway. He was relieved to step off the stone onto the normal ass concrete of the basement.

Ghost shot him a worried look. "Must've gotten cold." At least he was still making awful jokes. A dick joke at that, Soap's lucky day.

Soap pushed his NVG's up for hopefully the last time. Now that they were back in an area Soap had reliably had reception for comms, he decided he ought to let everyone know the big guy was okay. Well... Up and about, at least... "All units, be advised, I've found Ghost."

He unplugged the headset from the radio so Ghost could hear the responses, but it seemed only Gaz had heard them, as he was the only one to reply. "Mint, how's he holdin' up?"

Ghost leaned in towards Soap's chest, their faces millimeters away from one another. He made eye contact with Soap, with his one good eye.

"I've been chained in a stone tomb for God knows how long, I'm hungry and tired, 'ow the fuck you think I'm doin'?" He paused, grinning at Soap "I've never been better." He spoke with a saccharine voice. The leg in the corner of his eye flexed before digging back into his flesh. A tiny dribble of blood slid down to the muzzle.

Gaz scoffed. "Good to have you back sir. Glad your sense of humor is intact."

Ghost moved back out of Soap's personal space. Soap ignored the bit of himself that had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Ghost, and smothered the bit that wanted to shove him away in disgust. The fuck is wrong with me, it's Ghost. Maybe Ghost was right to be worried about him.

Gaz continued, "I'm nearly done downloading all the research data. Good thing too, patrols seem to be increasing and I haven't heard from Price or Laswell in a while."

Soap clicked on his radio to speak, but Ghost spoke up first. "Let's go grab Gaz before we get outta here then. Well, I've already grabbed him once today, let's grab him again." He joined the giggling a bit as he walked towards the stairs back to the main floor.

"You already... the hand?! That's yours?!" Gaz practically squeaked.

"And the eye. Be a dear and let it out, yeah?"

Gaz went silent, evidently doing as Ghost asked.

The two climbed the stairs in silence, Soap reattached his headset. He didn't want anyone listening in that shouldn't.

HAH! Hahaha heh uuhhahahaha... mhmhm...

Gaz came back through, "Oh real mature, Ghost."

Soap relayed the message. "What'd you do?"

Ghost had a hand on the door handle. He giggled again but didn't elaborate. He held a finger to where his lips would be, and opened the door.

Ghost led them away from where Soap had entered, he seemed to know where he was going. He must, if his hand and other eye had already made this trek. Soap wondered where the eye had been trapped that the hand couldn't get to it.

They found Gaz quickly, they'd only had to dispatch one patrol. He'd been rather close. The room they found him in was filled with disarmed tripwires.

"Holy shit," Soap couldn't help but chuckle, he loved a good booby trap.

"Found a tripwire rigged to a shotgun. Disarmed it. Took the gun."

"Open hearts and minds with it, Johnny."

He knew Ghost did too.

"OOH!" Speaking of his ludicrous Lieutenant, the man had spotted the canisters that Gaz had mentioned earlier. He quickly ran to them and grabbed one. Before either Sergeant could move he had it up high, head tilted back. He was about to crush the glass with his hand, did he intend to drink it?!

(Cheeky link to Ch. 6 ->) Ch. 6

[alexanderlightweight]

I always miss writing wednesday so I hope I got it right this week!

Can we please see dragon Alec accidentally meeting cat Magnus friends whilst in animal form or visa versa. Thank you :)

yes! you did and this was quite fun and i hope you enjoy it ^_^

<3 lumine

the taste of his magic

—

Alec isn’t expecting her.

That’s the thing.

She enters Magnus’ garden without a single hesitation or concern and the wards let her. It’s only their easy acceptance of her that stays Alec’s jaws from swallowing her whole. Instead he stalks her through the garden, watching her as he follows from the shadows of the plants and the small magical stream that Magnus deepened just for him.

She moves quickly and with purpose and it’s clear she knows her way around — almost better than Magnus who frequently forgets part of the roof exist — and picks various plants. Alec lets her until she reaches the pond.

The koi there all startle and scatter as she kneels and Alec knows immediately her intention.

It won’t be tolerated.

Friend of Magnus or not.

With barely a swish of his tail, Alec is down the brook and coiling out of the pond, protectively growing as he surfaces until he is coiled twice around it. With a threat clear in his stance, he trills and slowly moves his head towards her, giving her time to move back.

“I’m a friend of Magnus,” she says as she steps back, which is obvious because if she weren’t the wards would have torn her to pieces and Alec would have eaten what was left. “I have permission to harvest the plants he grows here.”

Alec grows again, body doubling in size as he trills a steady disagreement.

She had Magnus’ permission, but she has it no longer and this is a private place now.

“Please, they are needed for healing, not for anything else.”

Alec blinks, wondering what on earth she hopes to accomplish by her pleas. By all means, Alec is sure that these people mean something to her, but they don’t to him. The magic grown here is his, a gift to him cultivated by the heart of his hoard and Alec will not give it up.

She’s smart, this friend and companion of Magnus and when she finds no sympathy in his gaze, she pens a fire message.

There are no attempts to bribe him or to further trip his sympathy and instead there is silence until Magnus steps through the door. He’s barefoot and bare of makeup or adornments and his hair is still wet and he dries it with an absent motion of his fingers as his glittering midnight nails run through his dripping locks.

“What’s all this?” He asks, voice as deliciously soothing as it ever is and Alec stretches out his neck — elongating his body and growing it so that he can see Magnus easier.

—

Catarina watches as the dragon once again nearly doubles in size and Magnus practically croons. It should feel more threatening — instead of less — but the dragon is no longer focused on her. Instead it’s practically preening, attention a molten focus on Magnus even as it twists to keep him in it’s vision.

“You failed to mention that the current rumors surrounding you were under-exaggerated, not over.” Catarina tells Magnus mildly and when he fails to look the least bit apologetic she rolls her eyes at him. “The local Institute and werewolf pack both have a deep chest infection spreading through them. I think it’s lung poisoning from a new demon ichor that’s causing it, but I need your garden to create a temporary healing potion for the moment.”

“My garden—” Magnus says blankly, staring at her and blinking slowly before looking up at the dragon who has draped itself over Magnus’ shoulder and is currently ignoring her for jaw scritches. Realization dawns like a wilted sun and Magnus winces even as he presses what is clearly a comforting kiss to a scaled muzzle.

“About that, perhaps Ragnor has similar plants you can use this time?”

“You said I could portal in and take anything I needed, whenever I wanted.” Catarina reminds him mildly, more amused than actually upset. Magnus has ever been over generous with her and Ragnor and to catch him like this is amusing rather than upsetting.

“Yes, well…” and here Magnus gives a deeply exaggerated sigh. “Alexander has a rather voracious appetite, my dearest Cat. Things change as they are won’t to do and the demand for my plants is rather steady simply within my own home.”

“Are you saying that you’d rather keep your dragon in snacks than help me save lives for no compensation?” Catarina asks him, keeping her amusement hidden with a blank tone.

“Yes?” Magnus asks in return, clearly puzzled by the fact that she even felt the need to ask.

“I approve.” Catarina allows and while she gives the plants a mournful look, ease of access means little when Magnus is regaining his happiness. His stoic altruism has weighed on her and Ragnor and to see him act so is a sweet relief.

“I would hope so, even you can’t argue with a dragon.” Magnus reminds her, something fond and warning in his tone and Cat nods, accepting the reminder. She is no match for a dragon, that is true enough but, seeing as this particular dragon seems to be good for Magnus, she finds herself fine with that reminder.

[phrogggslayer]

Chapter 3 of Casting Call! is here!

⬇️ Sneak peek and link below ⬇️

Cassie stuck her flashlight under her arm, switching it out for the mask.  She grimaced as she brought it to her face, the rubber-like material sticking the edges of the mask to her skin.  The near silent warehouse now hummed with energy. Cassie peered up at Roxy, eyeing the green holographic casing.  Her brows furrowed, a scowl tugged at her muzzle.  “Um, Roxy?”    The wolf’s ears perked, her expression softening as she turned towards Cassie.  For a moment, she wondered if the wolf could see her, now.  But her eyes in the virtual image shifted, as if searching, unsure where exactly Cassie stood.  “Are you ready?” Roxy asked gently.  “If you can’t walk, I can carry you.  I just.. need directions…” A smile spread across Cassie’s lips.  She’d missed Roxy so much…  “I can walk.”  She blinked, spotting Helpi in her vision, pointing her towards a door.  “Come on, I think I know where to go.”  They approached the door together, but when she pushed, it refused to move.  Helpi appeared above what looked like some kind of circuit board.  With a hum, Cassie stuck her Fazwrench into the socket. “What’s that sound?” Roxy asked, her ears twitching. “The Fazwrench.  I’m just opening a door,” Cassie said, twisting the wrench and dialing the switch until the lock was free.  “Got it!” Roxy’s tail wagged.  “Nice job, Rockstar.”  They slowly made their way down the hall, Cassie gripping Roxy’s paw tighter as her head throbbed.  A high pitched screech started to bother her ears, and it grew louder as they continued deeper inside.  What is that?!

[dracarialove]

📄 Posting my finished fics here, too 📄

*Check the 'shadow's heart' tag if you haven't read chapter 1

[Chapter 3: Confliction]

Pulling up to the home Silver and Blaze shared, their dark-furred guest parked his Viper behind the platinum-painted Camaro and made eye contact with the lavender cat sitting in the bay window.

She hopped down from the cushioned seat while he stepped out of his car, then greeted him at the door with a surprisingly wide smile on her white muzzle.

"This has been such a long time coming," she claimed as he walked in.

"A long time?" The edge of his lip curled into a small, perplexed smile. "We've only been together for two years."

"Yes, but I can see how happy Rouge is when she's with you." Blaze led him to the living room beyond the foyer, where they sat on a gray triple-wide couch. "I'm surprised you waited to snap her up as long as you have."

One black eyebrow lowered and his slightly amused smile remained as he tilted his head at her comment. "And what about you and Silver? You two have been dating much longer than us and just got engaged a couple months ago."

The princess stiffened a bit and Shadow caught a streak of pink touching her cheeks. "Well... w-we wanted to wait! With the renovations and all... anyway-" Her expression turned determined, gold eyes locking to his. "Today is about you, and how you're going to offer Rouge your heart for the foreseeable future."

The Ultimate Lifeform chuckled lightly. "I didn't know you had this romantic side to you, Blaze. I always thought Silver was the mushy one."

"Appreciation of true love isn't exclusive to one half of the relationship, my friend. But, speaking of..."

She turned towards the back of the sofa, facing the open archway that led to the rest of the house, and raised one hand beside her mouth. "Silver! Shadow is here!"

"Oh, coming!" echoed the excited tone of the futuristic hedgehog, moments before he rushed into their living room. He was smiling wider than Blaze, and his eyes immediately darted to their guest. "So, you're finally proposing?"

Shadow scratched awkwardly behind his ear. "Uh, yeah... finally."

Before he could say anything else, Silver plopped himself down on the open couch space between them and planted one hand on his friend's shoulder, giving it a compassionate squeeze. "Congratulations, man! How are you gonna do it?"

"Uhhh..." Shadow hesitated, feeling a little overwhelmed. Silver let go of him, which allowed him some relief, but the optimistic hedgehog had given him multiple things to address in an instant – it was a bit overbearing, even though he meant well.

Blaze diverted her fiancé's attention, patting his knee with a gloved palm. "I don't think we're there just yet. There needs to be a ring first."

"Also," Shadow added, "she has to say 'yes' before you can congratulate me."

Silver looked at him as if he'd said something unbelievable. "Of course she'll say yes. She said yes to Knux, and he-"

The young man cut his own sentence short when Blaze's fingers tightened on his knee, warning him not to continue the thought. He cleared his throat, embarrassment on his face. Shadow was reminded that he still had to talk to his girlfriend about the previous run-in with Knuckles.

Silver spoke again, "Well... point is, you're great; and I know Rouge loves you a lot."

His words lit a bit of a fire in the Ultimate Lifeform again, and a warm smile drew across Shadow's muzzle. "Thank you for the confidence. Now..." He retrieved his cell phone and began pulling up his earlier search results. "... to find a worthy ring."

***

"I think a gold band would be best; Rouge does like flashy jewelry."

"Oh, but what about this icy-white one? It's so pretty, imagine how that'll sparkle! And the shape is cool!"

"Well, Shadow will certainly want a gold band to fit his style, so it's a good idea for the bride's ring to match."

"But that's the wedding ring! The engagement ring is supposed to be cute and shimmery!"

"Silver, just because that's what you got for me doesn't mean it's what Rouge would like."

Shadow was scratching behind his ear again in discomfort, staring down at the phone and listening to his friends debate the choices. His eyes wandered over to Blaze's left hand, to the glimmering aquamarine stone sitting atop a polished platinum band. It was a good choice for her, but something like that wouldn't be quite right for Rouge.

"I agree with Blaze," he spoke, looking up at their faces and ending their tame squabble. "The more obviously it shines, the better."

Silver pouted a little and Blaze smiled softly while Shadow continued, "But, to Silver's credit, I do think a curvy design would be nice."

"Wow," Blaze chimed, "look at you, making your own vision. And the stone? If I know my best friend, she'd be predictably smitten with a high-carat diamond."

"Hmm..." pondered Shadow, looking back down and idly rubbing an index finger above his lip.

"Wouldn't the gold overshadow a diamond?" Silver asked, genuinely curious.

"Perhaps, but-"

"Not to cut you off, Blaze," interrupted Shadow, "but I do have an idea. Rouge has told me her favorite gems in the world are the Chaos Emeralds. Obviously, I wouldn't be able to use one, as difficult as they are to find... but what do you think of a regular emerald?"

Silver gasped, his smile wide. "With diamonds lining the band!"

"Ooh," the cat cooed. "I actually think that's a great idea! You could get it shaped like a Chaos Emerald, I'm sure she'd love that. Green goes very well with gold."

"And it'll bring out her eyes," Shadow added, more comfortable and smiling down at his phone while searching for emerald rings.

The white hedgehog put his right hand to his heart, his expression softening into a display of deep affection for his friend's rare optimistic mood. "This is so sweet." He looked at Blaze and his free hand grabbed hers. "It makes me want to propose to you all over again."

His fiancée blushed and tensed her shoulders towards her cheeks, trying to subdue her smile. "Silver! Please, not in front of a guest..."

But she didn't need to worry about Shadow noticing her embarrassment. He was engrossed in the thought of Rouge gasping and grinning at his choice for the symbol of his intent. The pieces finally fit together in his head – the perfect ring for a perfect woman.

Silver gave Blaze a quick kiss on the cheek while Shadow wasn't looking, then stood from the couch. "Think I'll make some fried rice – get a good lunch going. You want some, Shadow? Or something else?"

Red eyes flicked up at him briefly. "Sure, that's fine."

"Cool!" The futuristic hedgehog strolled back through the nearby archway, starting to whistle a tune once he left the room. The remaining two sat in silence for a moment. Then, just before the lack of conversation got awkward, Shadow's phone rang. It was the jewel hunter herself, prompting him to stand.

"I'll take this outside," he told Blaze, who nodded and also left the sofa to seek out her cooking beau while the dark hedgehog walked out the front door.

He answered with a lighter tone than his usual deep timbre. "Hey, love."

"Hi, baby!" Her mature voice sounded elated, but longing. He understood, as he was longing for her, too. "God, it's so good to hear your voice after listening to Tower bark orders all morning."

Shadow chuckled. "He's being insufferable again, is he?"

"Always. You know he badgered me again last night about you joining G.U.N? So annoying."

"Hm. Well, with you on their team, they shouldn't need my help." He leaned back against the side of the house, bending his free arm under the other to support it.

He heard Rouge sigh and closed his eyes to picture her. She said, "I know, I'm great."

Her confidence made him chuckle and she continued, "Although, I can say these missions would be a lot more fun with you around. But don't worry, I told Tower you had better things to do than take orders from the government."

"Like... take orders from you, boss?" Shadow countered, a smirk bending his voice into a teasing tone.

The ivory bat scoffed playfully; he could tell she was grinning. "Well, yes! You can't tell me you'd rather have an old, stern, unfunny man for a superior."

"You are right, I can't. It would be a lie to pretend that I don't enjoy working for a beautiful, charming, enchanting woman... even if she is a little materialistic."

"How dare you," she bantered, still speaking with a smile. "Just for that, you'd better have a stunning new accessory for me when I get back!"

Shadow laughed, tickled by the serendipity that Rouge was unaware of. She thought she was being funny, but the jewel-loving spy had no idea that she was actually going to get her wish. When his laugh subsided, he opened his eyes and looked up at the clear sky.

He said thoughtfully, "I miss you."

He half-expected a witty quip to keep the joke going – something like, "After only one day? You must be obsessed!" – but Rouge's tone softened and she replied, "I miss you, too."

"How's the mission going?"

"It's okay. A bit boring. So far, we're just doing surveillance. But, on the up-side, I've been learning some interesting things about sea life since we picked up some books from this old laboratory nearby. What I found most fascinating was this section about one particular species; did you know there's such a thing as an immortal jellyfish?"

The Ultimate Lifeform's brows raised at the mention of immortality, and his smile slackened. "No, I didn't. That's curious."

"I almost found it unbelievable at first! But it's true, the little guys can reverse their life cycle if they want – or, something like that, I haven't gotten to finish reading it, yet."

"Wow... that must've been surprising to see." Shadow masked the unease that crept into his heart at the thought of a creature that could live forever. It was too similar to his own biology, and – uncomfortably – made him think about his long lifespan too much for his liking.

"Yeah," Rouge spoke, calm because she didn't know the introspection she'd just sparked, "I'm not usually into science, but that kind of stuff is cool. Plus, anything's better than listening to Topaz complain about the way I work."

"Ha, yeah... I bet." He took a breath as his lean turned into a slump. In his head, he was thinking, 'You might not consider it cool if you knew you were living with an immortal... and what that truly means.'

"Sooo," her voice dragged, "how are things on your end?"

"Well... up and down, I suppose." Shadow pushed off the wall and stepped forward to sit down on the concrete stoop. "The casino is doing well, although it was very crowded last night."

"Aw, sorry I couldn't be there, hun. Bane helped you hold things down though, right?"

"Yeah, we got through it..." One hand slinked across the back of his neck and he rubbed it in discomfort. He remembered his encounter with Knuckles again, and knew he couldn't put off telling her about it. "But we had an... unpleasant visitor last night."

"Oh no, who?"

Shadow sighed. "Knuckles."

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, long enough for the dark hedgehog to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. Then his lover asked with a hint of disgust, "Why? What did he want?"

Shadow's answer escaped a growing sneer, "He was demanding to speak with you. Babbling about apologizing... after two fucking years."

His eyes rolled, black brows furrowing at the memory. Rouge's tone sounded softer when she spoke again. "Shadow... don't concern yourself with him. Especially if it's going to ruin your mood."

Fingers pinched the midsection of his closed eyes and he shook away the frustration. Then the bat added, "When I get back, we'll do something nice. A date night – how's that sound?"

Shadow nodded even though she couldn't see it. "I'd like that. Hopefully your mission doesn't run long."

"I'm crossing my fingers as we speak. Talk to you later?"

"Whenever you have time. You know I'll always answer."

"I won't make you wait if I can help it." The smile in her voice returned when she mimicked a kiss through the phone. "Love you!"

"Love you, too."

They hung up and Shadow felt troubled that he couldn't form a smile like Rouge could. There were two big problems hanging over him now; conflicts he wouldn't be able to shake through sheer force of will.

But, irritating as it was that his girlfriend's ex wanted back in her life, the other issue was even more daunting: the Ultimate Lifeform's immortality, which would pale her lifespan as the years went on, and – dreadfully possibly – her desire to stay with him, as well.

[maracujatangerine]

73.1 Forum Discourse

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

Previous

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Posted by u/GreenBookworm 3 days ago:

Hi!

So, I haven’t really posted here before, but I’m at my wit’s end and I really hope that some of you can help me.

I have a male pet that I got from some less-than-ideal circumstances. He’s been with me for over a year now and he is really making progress. I think he is trusting me more and more and it seems like he is getting over some of his previous experiences.

Still, he wakes up from terrible nightmares very often. I’m not sure how to comfort him and how to make him feel safe. What do you think, how can I fix this situation?

TL;DR: My pet has terrible nightmares, what can I do?

Futureiteration77 – 3 days ago: How many times per day are your beating him?

ManiacalTiger – 3 days ago: I have a similar problem. My pet is always crying at night and keeping up the rest of the house. What do you recommend?

Futureiteration77 – 3 days ago: At least twice per day or they have too much pent up energy. As an pet owner it is your responsibility to help them manage and release this.

ManiacalTiger – 2 days ago: I have been doing at least three times and still have issues.

Blue_prominence – 3 days ago: What kinds of nightmares? Can u get him to give u more specific details? B specific.

GreenBookWorm - 2 days ago: Idk, really. He doesn’t like to talk about it. It is usually about the training, I think. Sometimes he talks about white rooms that are neverending - that is usually the exact phrase that he uses. Sometimes, it seems to be about his former masters. (He’s had several.) He screams and cries, sometimes he just seems… empty. Do your pets act the same?

Imaginativesloth – 2 days ago: Get him retrained.

Densecircus281 – 2 days ago: ^^ Good suggestion. That’s what I did.

Fancycyclone1565 – 2 days ago: Try NyQuil and Dramamine, both available OTC. Sometimes we also give ours an edible to help them sleep soundly all night.

Throwaway7966123 – 2 days ago: You could ask him if a nightlight would help.

AbsentSnark – 2 days ago: That’s ridiculous!!!!!! He won’t know that, it will only make the problem worse!! This is terrible advice. People shouldn’t come on here without having a basic understanding of how helpless and brainless pets are. It is shocking how much misinformation and bad advice is out there.

GreenBookWorm - 2 days ago: That is a good idea! I haven’t thought about that, thanks! Does your pet have a nightlight? Does he or she have nightmares, too?

Temporarydaybreak987 – 2 days ago: It may be difficult to face the time apart but retraining by professionals is the best option for both pet and owners.

Sunset_Lover – 2 days ago: I suggest finding a separate, soundproof room where you can lock him up at night. Even if he starts crying, it won’t wake you up. Edit: If you don’t have spare room you could use a muzzle

DeepSeaSquid – 2 days ago: if your Pet is a cuddly type, you can let him sleep near you? Mine is really needy and since I let him in my room his night crying has reduced almost completely. But again, it depends on your Pet’s type.

RueTheNymph – 2 days ago: I swear, those people. If you treat him softly like that he will never stop being clingy. Give him few beatings or whatever form of punishment he responds to the best and he will learn not to waste your time

DeepSeaSquid – 1 day ago: Thank you very much for your useless advice. Have you considered that my Pet is clingy because I want him that way? And if beatings simply worked then there would not be a need to make this post, hmm?

RueTheNymph - 1 day ago: You shouldn’t be allowed to be an Owner

DeepSeaSquid - 1 day ago: Lol, forgive me for wanting to have a lapdog

roses-and-embers - 1 day ago: @DeepSeaSquid nothing wrong with wanting to cuddle, but are you sure your Pet is not crying on purpose to manipulate you into letting him into your room?

DeepSeaSquid - 1 day ago: That’s a valid suspicion, but I am sure he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s having nightmares even if I’m not at home and someone else is watching him, besides he’s too well-behaved to dare to try and manipulate me.

*

This post is a collaboration with brilliant @distinctlywhumpthing and @octopus-reactivated. ✨❤️✨

It is a crossover AU with Leo from Distinctlywhumptning’s Unintentional. We also have a cameo from Octopus-reactivated’s Decima from Title me Miss. For Lydia and Coriander, this is canon.

*

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[myths-of-fantasy]

CSOCW Day 3 - Relationships

PLAYER - SISTERLY

“Oh come on, Wolf, we’ve been friends for years!”

Kitu chuckled, twisting the silver ring on her finger around. It was a beautiful ring, a simple silver band with a collection of elegant, sweeping and swirling lines engraved into the surface, the names of her team woven on the inside. She wondered, briefly what Player’s parents had thought when they bought it for her as a birthday gift.

“I know,” it agreed, her lips twitching with amusement, sitting back. A birthday they had never considered they would have. “Which is why I’m insisting that you go to bed. I’m pulling rank on you, pup.”

“You can’t just pull rank when you want me to go to sleep.”

“Yes, I can – I can even play the ultimate card.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh wouldn’t I?” Kitu said with a sly grin on her face, deliberately typing loudly on her phone as she spoke aloud. “’Hey Carmen, Player has been up for 19 hours now because of our last caper and now he won’t sleep-’”

“Alright, alright! No need to pull the Red Card!”

“I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too, Player. Sleep well.”

“... I will. Enjoy the stars, Wolf.”

| | | |

PAPER STAR - HOSTILE

“STOP IT! SOMEONE STOP IT- MAELSTROM-”

For once, the powerful electric shock that exploded through its body, radiating down its nerves trying to tear through its mind, wasn’t enough to even begin to discourage its aggression. The taste of iron flooded its mouth as it sank its teeth deeper into the pale flesh beneath it, the shadows of its fingers shaping into claws, gripping tightly as it released a vicious snarl. The body beneath it thrashed furiously, their legs kicking violently against its stomach, attempting to knock the Beast from her.

It was finally a massive, meaty hand that gripped the back of its neck that stopped it. The Beast was lifted bodily from its target, still howling and slashing with rage, glaring mutinously through vengeful amber eyes.

“Well, at least we know it’s got fury,” Brunt chortled, forcing The Beast to its knees and effortlessly wrestling it back into the cage muzzle it had been wearing when they first showed it off.

The Beast released a frustrated snort from its nose, eyes locking on the bloodied form of one of the latest recruits – Tammy or something. The Wolf didn’t care. It had finally gotten the bitch back for all the harassing origami cranes being thrown at her cheeks and the prodding when she was still too tightly bound to defend itself.

“Let that be a warning to all of you about thinking your actions through,” Professor Maelstrom addressed the class.“If you're going to harass a mad dog, make sure its chain is too short to reach you."

| | | |

ZACK AND IVY - MOTHERLY

"Dude, these are so cool!"

"You didn't have to spend all that money on us, Kitu."

The tall woman rolled her eyes, but a fond smile played at her lips all the same. Zack slipped the racing themed hoodie over his head, diving heart-first into the gifts Kitu had returned with, while his sister watched her out of the corner of her eye, clutching the mechanic's kit in her palms.

"It's fine Ivy. It's more for me than you anyway," she said dismissively. "If I see you fiddling with electric wires without a mask again, I'll have a heart attack."

Ivy's caution turning into a teasing grin, "The gloves were from you too?"

"Those were from Carmen actually, and you better be wearing them."

| | | |

TAMARA FRAISER - MELANCHOLY

"I'm sorry, I just... I don't know what to say," the Chief, Tamara, sighs. She's clutching her coffee, a look of visible discomfort on her face that felt wrong after so long seeing her unflappable. Kitu almost reaches out to comfort her, to put her hand on hers, but she stops herself.

This is a stranger. She hardly knows her.

But that's what hurts the most. The knowledge that in another world, she wouldn't have been. This wouldn't be an uncomfortable getting-to-know-you coffee meeting, each of them trying to find the words to express how the last decade had felt.

"... I'm sorry."

Kitu glances up to see the same feeling of resigned longing in the eyes of the Chief.

"I am so sorry that I never got to be your mom," Tamara whispered.

Kitu offers an equally sad smile.

"And I'm sorry that I never got to be your daughter."

| | | |

CARMEN SANDIEGO - LOVING/DEPENDENT

"Why would you do that?" Ivy half-screeched, half-sobbed, while Kitu swallowed down her reflex to scream as the wound decorating her stomach twisted violently, stinging intently.

"Check Carmen first," she said, instead of answering the question.

"I'm fine, Kitu, I didn't get stabbed in the stomach!" Carmen hissed at her.

"Good," Kitu said matter-of-factly. "I think the knife was poisoned, by the way. This stings more than it should."

"Why?!" Carmen demanded. "I would've been fine!"

"But there was a chance you wouldn't have been. And that's not a world I will stay in long."

Carmen's jaw clicked shut, and it's the tensest wound treatment Kitu has had in a while.

| | | |

SHADOWSAN - COMPLICATED

Entering the living room, Kitu stiffened reflexively, baring its teeth and growling at the sight of the samurai meditating peacefully. As quickly as it started, the growling shut off - he was on their side now, an ally, not an enemy by Carmen's words. Intellectually, it hadn't been his fault - technically, he had given her a choice all those years ago. A choice that she didn't regret, couldn't afford to regret.

Emotionally, she was still that little girl who lost three families and was watching one of their killers carry off the last of it she had, desperate to keep an impulsively made promise to a dying man.

Shadowsan averts his gaze from her as Kitu takes a seat beside him.

Shadowsan uprooted himself - didn't kill Dexter, didn't allow Carmen to be raised into a killer, treated her more gently than the rest of the Faculty. He kept Black Sheep safe enough to become Carmen and then when staying behind was no longer an option, he discarded all he built to follow her.

Carmen was as much his world as she was Kitu's.

And that at least was easy to understand.

---

@carmensandiego-ocweek

[ohbo-ohno]

You ever think about Soaps mohawk getting too untidy (because it can't get too long, the longer it is the better Simon can grab it and throw Johnny around with) and Simon taking him to the hair dresser? Only it's not a hair dresser but a dog beauty lounge? And the owners are not specialized on humans and they weren't expecting a human. But no one says no to Ghost so they proceed and Johnny gets a complete wash and everything. He looks really pretty after but he was so humiliated by it that he goes into the crate voluntarily to curl up and cry once they are back on base. Doesn't help that people keep commenting on how much better it looks and are asking about the address for the hair dresser.

Also, just speaking for myself here, I adore seeing people become an insane rambling mess about the things they are insane about. Doesn't even need a red string or context. So if you ever put your thoughts on Clicker training Soap online, there would be at least one avid reader just begging for those crumbs.

you just GET ME oh my god. im always torn between two soap's - soap who is so freaky and kinky that he would let ghost do literally anything to him and enjoy it, and soap is only does what ghost tells him because he's got a massive crush but he's absolutely humiliated and upset during all of it. the first feels more accurate to his character, the second is more fun to write lmao

wrote a quick drabble for this but i changed it so the groomers knew there was a person coming instead of a dog <3 it's extra humiliation if they treat johnny the same way ghost does

cw: noncon puppy play, referenced public humiliation (btw if you want more stuff in this little universe - one, two, three)

“You still poutin’?”

Johnny squeezes his eyes shut, just barely resists the urge to snap his teeth and growl. He knows that would only feed into Ghost’s goddamn delusion that he’s a fucking dog.

Jesus. His scalp still stings from the rough treatment of the barber- the groomer. The bastard had locked a muzzle over his face while Ghost held him down, and as much as he’d tried he hadn’t been able to speak through the damn thing. Speak or bite. 

He would’ve fought but… well, Ghost gave him that look before he left. That “if you don’t obey me, there’ll be hell to pay” look. And Ghost has only gotten meaner in the months they’ve been together now - the walks, the fucking house training… Soap doesn’t even want to think of what he might try next.

So Ghost had given him a look, grabbed him by the chin and said “Be good, pup. You’ll get a treat if you can behave, alright? Don’t embarrass me.” and Johnny hadn’t been brave enough to ignore him.

Fuck. Even now, it doesn’t quite feel real. His breath hitches as he remembers the strict gloves Ghost had given him to wear, how they don’t let him do anything with his fingers because they’re held so tight. He still wears them now, and the forced paw shape of his hand keeps his head fuzzy.

He wants to whine. He almost wants to cry. Mostly he wants to bite Ghost until the bastard bleeds.

“C’mon,” Ghost grunts, taking one hand from the wheel and patting Johnny roughly on the head. He combs his fingers through the freshly cut mohawk, almost fixing it so it’s neater. “You look real good, pup. Needed to get your bitch strap straightened up for a while now.”

“Don’t-” Johnny takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and blinks down at his hands - his hands, not his paws - where they rest in his lap. “Don’t call it that.”

He thinks for a minute that Simon’s going to say something worse, lock his hand in Johnny’s hair and tug until he whines, shove him down to his cock, do something. But his hand stays soft, stroking down and tightly gripping the back of his neck. Not suffocating, not mean, almost… secure. Comforting. A weight that says relax, I’m here. 

“Alright, puppy. Been a tough day for you, huh? We can pretend you’re a person, think of it as a treat for bein’ good at the groomers.”

Johnny whines, curling into himself at his own sound. His hands are sweaty in the gloves, and he wants to dig his nails into his thighs, hope that the little pinpricks of pain wake him up enough to tear Ghost a new asshole. 

But he can’t do that. His fingers are stuck folded in half, totally useless. So he takes a deep breath, and tries not to fully float away.

Eventually the car slows to a stop, and Ghost tugs the key out of the ignition. They sit in silence for a moment, and Soap can feel Ghost staring at the side of his head, but he refuses to look. He doesn’t want to look at Ghost right now, doesn’t want to see his expression.

“Alright,” Simon says quietly, giving Johnny’s nape a tight squeeze before letting you go. “I think you need a nap, pup. Let’s get you inside.”

Ghost gets out, Soap doesn’t. He stays in his seat, staring at his hands, until the door opens next to him and Simon reaches over his body to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“C’mon now, out.”

Johnny doesn’t move. He feels Ghost’s massive hand wrap around his elbow, tug him toward the door, but he leans his weight the other direction.

He doesn’t want to get out of the car. He knows, logically, that no one on base will be able to tell what happened, where Simon took him. But he’ll know, and that’s enough shame to make him never want to leave the car.

Ghost sighs, annoyed, from beside him. “You rather I get your leash?”

Johnny flinches, and he lets himself be tugged by the elbow at the next pull on his arm. His eyes never lift past Ghost’s chest as he keeps his head ducked, heat coloring his cheeks when the door closes behind him.

“Johnny,” Ghost says quietly, hand nudging his head up. “Head up, pup. You look real pretty, don’t you want to show off?”

Johnny flinches, but he lifts his head like Ghost urges. He’s scared of what he’ll see in Simon’s eyes - that gleam he gets when Johnny’s particularly humiliated is always hard to swallow - but all he sees is… is pride.

God, it’s getting hard to breathe. Every breath feels punched out of him, every breath in like glass in his lungs. 

“There you are.” Ghost chucks him under the chin, jerking his head up a little further. “Pretty thing. Certainly got my money’s worth.”

Johnny’s only comfort is that his eyes are dry - well, that and the warmth of Ghost’s hand. No matter how angry he is at the bastard, he can’t help but always want more of his touch.

“Inside now. Come.”

The sharp tone, the one word command, goes right over Johnny’s head. He follows Ghost - on his right, one step behind, like he’d been taught (trained) - and keeps his eyes forward, not looking at anyone else on base.

The halls are busy, like they always are during the day, but Soap doesn’t let himself be distracted. He keeps his eyes forward, and only focuses on Ghost.

He tells himself no one else knows, that no one else could possibly know.

“Hey, Soap!” Gaz calls out, leaning out of a meeting room and waving at him. “Looking sharp, mate!”

Johnny’s heart feels like it’s about the beat out of his chest. He wants to scream. He wants to puke.

He looks up at Ghost where the other man has turned around, raising an eyebrow at where he’s stopped in the middle of the hallway.

Johnny opens his mouth to speak, but only manages a quiet whine. Thankfully it’s too loud for anyone else in the hallway to hear (hopefully), but his cheeks still flush red at the animal sound.

Ghost only smirks and turns around to keep walking.

“Heel, Johnny. Don’t wander, you can sniff all you want later.”

Johnny takes a deep breath, and he follows Ghost.

It only takes a few more minutes for them to make it to Ghost’s room, and Johnny feels near collapse.

He’s… frustrated with himself. He’s got no idea why he’s so affected by what happened, why it feels so impossible to get past. Ghost has done worse to him, made him do worse. 

But something about the way the groomer had looked at him… a complete stranger, looking at him and treating him the same way Ghost does. He knows that if Ghost had left, he would’ve sunk into a panic attack. He knows it’s Simon’s own twisted version of mercy, not leaving him alone.

The relief he feels when the door closes behind him nearly sends him to his knees. Ghost’s heavy hand on his shoulder does.

He doesn’t even have it in him to be upset at Ghost’s presumption. He feels better on his knees these days, anyway.

“To your crate, puppy, go on.”

He listens, crawling to the quilt-covered crate in the corner of the room. Neither of them speak as Ghost opens the door, the only sound a soft hum when Johnny crawls in.

“Gimme your paw, pup. Don’t want you sleeping in those gloves.”

Johnny whines, but listens, and gives Ghost his paw to take the gloves off. He instantly feels better, and makes a soft sound that he hopes is thankful as he stretches his fingers out, laying them flat against the blankets.

“There ya go,” Ghost hums, closing the door and laying the quilt over all but the front of the crate. “I’ll wake you up in a few hours, alright pup? Don’t want you to miss your walk.”

Johnny shudders as Ghost walks away, and closes his eyes tight. He tries to wipe all memories of the day away, focusing instead on the better times with Ghost.

Eventually he drifts off to thoughts of laying together while watching a football game, shared meals in loud pubs, quiet nights in after hard missions. He thinks of Ghost, strong and solid and unfaltering, and he sinks into sleep.