#material handling companies
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Looking for top-notch material handling companies? Conesco specializes in innovative solutions for efficient logistics and warehousing. Discover how our expertise in material handling can streamline your operations.
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me, trying to think of a short story to try and help teach my undergrads how to have better reading comprehension:
Fuck it............................angela carter
#i've been trying to keep the complexity/sensitive material on the down low but i need a text i know well and like....they can handle it#i just don't have the energy to look for something else#i'm thinking it's going to be the company of wolves#personal
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Material Handling Equipment Manufacturer in Ahmedabad Gujarat India
Weber Construction Machinery is a trusted material handling equipment manufacturer in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India. We provide a builder hoist, concrete bucket, mini crane, and slab trolley with a rail that boosts efficiency, safety, and productivity in various industries.
#material handling#material handling equipment#material handling equipment manufacturer in ahmedabad#material handling equipment supplier#material handling equipment company#material handling system#builder hoist#concrete bucket#mini crane#slab trolley with rail
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Indolift, established in 2010 by M/S. PDS Trading & Warehousing Co Pvt Ltd, specializes in material handling equipment, notably Chain Pulley Blocks. They collaborate with Hangzhou Jentan Machinery Co Ltd, a leading Chinese manufacturer, to offer high-quality products at competitive prices. Their product range includes Chain Pulley Blocks, Ratchet Lever Hoists, Webbing Slings, D-Shackles, Plate Lifting Clamps, Steel Wire Ropes, Forged Clamps, Pallet Trucks, and Alloy Steel Chains. Indolift is committed to delivering efficient solutions and maintaining high-quality standards.
#forged clamps#alloy steel chain#d shackles#wire rope company in india#webbing slings#chainpulley#construction materials#infrastructure#material handling equipment#equipment#rigging#steel#wire rope#industry#Youtube
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I am stepping ever closer to joining the education committee.
Like, I made it known I was interested. Got asked to write an article for the local's newspaper. Took part in the sub committee's class to help prove there's interest in the classes. Found out a couple people resigned from the committee [one has a pending retirement, the other didn't give a reason].
There's openings, I like being an info-dumping nuisance, quite a few people in the union genuinely like me [???], and if it's a bunch of petty bullshit it's not like I can't just say 'fuck y'all' and leave.
#so much for not wanting to be more active in the union lmao#but this is how working for [company] has been#didn't want to drive fork trucks - got stuck in material handling for my first year and a half#didn't want a full size truck - ended up driving 3/4 tons as part of quality
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Call me a conspiracy theorist but I find it suspicious that the automatic sinks in the bathroom always have hot water on day where we have tours and large groups of customers but is cold on normal days.
#my multimillion dollar company being cheap#let us have hot water#we handle edible materials for goodness sake#conspiracy theories#suspicious#my hands are cold :(
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SFS Equipments collection consists of both man-down and man-up trucks from the Used Very Narrow Aisles (VNA) Truck Series. The machine aisles are supported by wire or rail and can span up to 1460 millimeters. These secondhand narrow aisle trucks are excellent in terms of performance, driver safety, and ergonomics. This range of VNA forklifts for warehouses can function in frigid conditions in logistic fleets and warehouses thanks to fingertip control for precise and speedy load handling.
#sfs equipments#toyota material handling equipment for rental#used material handling equipment#Used Very Narrow Aisle Truck#Used Very Narrow Aisle Truck company Available Near your Location
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My father's secretary
Danny Fenton did not expect to be secretary material but after 7 years of being a hero and having Jazz as his elder sister, he was damn good at it. He needed a job, he knew that, and Wayne Enterprises was willing to hire a 21 year old taking online college classes for aerospace engineering.
And he was fucking thankful for that cause Mr. Wayne was pretty neat and bought him good food and coffee whenever he looked out of it. Half his family were already in Gotham with only his parents in Amity. They were finally reformed and now their research finally advocated for the rights of ghosts and spread awareness on their culture. Good for them.
Jazz and Dante were in Arkham working as a psychologist and guard. Elle was still in school, enrolled into Gotham Academy once Vlad insisted on paying her tuition. To be fair, he was paying for Danny's tuition too.
But back to his secretary duties. His boss was Bruce Wayne, yes, but he did often work with the man's son and the current CEO. Tim was nice and had the same caffeine addiction as him. (Jazz highly discouraged this friendship in case they both made a monstrosity of coffee and energy drinks.)
But Mr. Wayne was the best. He was rather clumsy and a bit airheaded but he was the best fucking boss he could ever ask for. The man's paternal instincts were on point and Danny was almost intimidated when the man started handing him extra cash whenever Danny came to the office looking more tired than usual. When that failed, Mr. Wayne resorted to giving him more material things.
Now, he doesn't want to take advantage of this ridiculously kind man with a lack of self preservation (God, was this what Jazz felt about him?). But Mr. Wayne had given him this amazing coffee maker and then proceeded to give Danny the best toaster ever. And Danny has always been known to resolutely be against Billionaires adopting him. But Mr. Wayne?
Danny had honed his back talking skills to perfection to talk down arrogant elites that kept demanding for his boss. He mastered his customer service voice and that condescending look he saw the receptionists give people like they were tantruming toddlers. Danny was ready to fight for that man (Vlad was choking somewhere as the Fentons worriedly look at him).
Jason has heard about Danny Fenton a couple of times. Tim, Dick, and Bruce had mentioned him a lot. Bruce's new secretary that looked like he'd woken up from a coma and was comparable to a grumpy cat on his best days. He's seen the guy a couple times, noticed how he was almost as tall as Jason. Honestly, he kinda looked like a twig (but then that was because of Danny's suit that he made sure didn't completely fit him).
Seriously. Danny was willing to fucking fight anyone and everyone for Bruce Wayne.
The guy was strange. Very strange. Especially when the pits seemed to either become frantic or calm whenever he was around. It depended on the situation really, but mostly the pits grew calmer around Fenton. Like a cat that finally saw its favorite person. It was so weird.
He was drawn to Fenton, sometimes finding himself walking towards the man before he snaps out of it.
It's on this day where Danny was by Bruce's side, a stylus and tablet in hand. He was furiously tapping away at his phone, cursing under his breath about bothersome and stuck up cialiteses.
"Jason!" Bruce happily greets, "Don't mind Danny for a bit. He's telling of some investors for trying to meddle with the company. Tim is too sleep deprived to handle it."
"Where is Tim?"
"Danny threatened to throw the company's coffee maker out the window if he doesn't take a nap." Bruce chuckles, glancing fondly at his fiesty secretary. "Danny?"
"Give me a minute, Mr. Wayne. Some people are trying to squeeze into your schedule when I specifically told them that they can't." Danny says, clearly irritated but looks at Bruce with an apologetic gaze. "No—Mr. Luthor, neither Mr. Drake nor Mr. Wayne are available on that day—"
And it dissolved into Danny telling of what Jason assumes was Lex Luthor to stop his attempts. In other words, corporate for Fuck off.
"He's good, isn't he?" Jason humms as he follows Bruce down the hall, glancing at the tired employees that looked utterly exhausted and horrifically motivated. "Looks like adoption bait."
"Unfortunately, Danny is a very much against Billionaires adopting him. His godfather is one and has attempted multiple times." Bruce sighs, feigning a sorrowful look as he sends Danny a small pout. "What did you do when he tried the fifth time again?"
"I blew up his car, Mr. Wayne." Danny nonchalantly says, "But that only made him want to adopt me more."
Jason blinks, baffled before he's laughing at the utter absurdity of the situation.
"That sounds similar to—"
Gunshots tore through the air as people immediately screamed. At the entrance of the building was the Joker in all his insanity, guns blazing. Jason froze, sucking in a deep breath as he took one step back. They weren't in costume, they weren't the Red Hood and Batman in that moment.
"Nightwing, Robin, and Spoiler are on their way." Oracle says through the comms but that doesn't comfort him in the slightest.
It's chaos in moments and people are ducking their heads to avoid the bullets. Jason and Bruce look right at each other, taking cover as bullets ruin the walls and furniture. But Bruce is dragged from his spot, pulled towards the Joker who laughs maniacally as he pressed a gun against Bruce's head.
"Mr. Wayne!" Many people yell as they all stared in horror as the Joker threatens Gotham's beloved prince.
Jason immediately remembers an explosion and a crowbar.
(Reminder, Danny Fenton was very much ready to go to war for Bruce Wayne).
A tablet and a stylus was suddenly shoved into his arms. Jason blinks, turning to Danny who tugs at his tie and rummages through the counter for something. The Joker sees this, clearly irritated.
"You! Eyes on me!" The Joker practically demands, hysterical that not everyone was paying attention.
Danny apparently doesn't give a damn before looking the Joker straight in the eye.
"Eyes in me." Danny repeats.
A second later something was thrown and a cutter was cutting through the Joker's eye.
Jason gaped at the seemingly harmless secretary, unable to comprehend that this man had just thrown a fucking cutter into the Joker's eye.
Bruce is set free.
Everyone is frozen in place.
Everyone watched as Bruce Wayne's tired and overworked secretary beats the shit out of the Joker, saying something about how he wasn't going to lose a good boss.
No one particularly knows what to do once Danny pulls out the cutter with the Jokers blood and... Fucking shit, was that his eyeball?!
Dick and Damian arrived at some point, also too shocked to do anything. When Danny was done and satisfied, with the Joker still alive, groaning and whimpering from the pain that Danny inflicted.
As if he hadn't almost killed the Joker, Danny turns to them with a tired smile.
"Mr. Wayne, I implore you not to die. I can't lose the best boss that I've had." He plainly says and takes the tablet and stylus back from Jason.
Jason thinks he might just marry this feral man.
Yeah.
Yeah, he was definitely going to marry Danny Fenton.
Part 2 | Masterpost
#danny phantom#batfam#dc x dp#dpxdc#dead on main#jason todd#jason x danny#danny fenton#Danny us tired and overworked by Bruce pays him very well#Danny is willing to go to war for his boss because like hell he'd let himself lose a good job#Everyone in WE thinks Danny is tired kinda fiesty but fairly harmless#They are wrong#he will bite and stab#jason thinks he might just end up swooning for his dad's crazy secretary#Ny Father's secretary
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Fem!reader x 141
Honestly might be able to to something with the gross stuff I saw at the hardware store I used to work at (except make it hot and 141)
Imagine you're a cashier, the only one with early morning availability so you're there at 5:45am for the 6am start. It's always the worst kinds of contractors there: rude, tired, dirty, leering gazes and sexist comments
You're pretty sick of it, but you get paid a bit more than minimum wage and you're done by 11am so, you take it with a cheery smile and fast service
The 141 contracting company starts spending at your store. So much, in fact, that your manager personally takes you aside to mention just how much they do - nearly a million a year - and how no matter what, your job is to be nice and please them
Well, you can do that. You've dealt with crazy, awful old contractors screaming in your face about lumber prices at 6:30am more than once, heard them talking about your tit's or your ass right in front of you - you can handle it
Until the masked one comes in first and hes huge, dark hoodie and cargo pants hanging low on his hips. He hands you 3k in bills only there are bloodstains on them and he watches you closely the whole time you count them out
It's... not a first, but the look he gives you makes you shiver. Pale eyelashes, tall, intimidating
The second is nicer. Too nice, in fact. He charms you before you're even fully awake, and your shift goes by quickly thinking about that winning smile and the way he'd touched your fingers while he handed you a stack of bills... not to mention those soft brown eyes
The third is... intense, for 8am. He rolls on the balls of his feet, stares at you harder than the masked one. He offers to buy you a hot chocolate at the coffee shop next door and grins like you made a joke when you decline
Their boss is fucking dreamy. Even you have to admit it, trying not to look up at his mustached, frankly porno-esque face. He's huge, as tall as the others but thick, with a little pudge around his belly. He trudges in with thick workboots and a stained t shirt, pays for 24k worth of material with a lazy smile on his face like it's nothing
You might ask head cash to move you to the garden center after all...
#141 x reader#simon riley x reader#kyle garrick x reader#johnny mactavish x reader#john price x reader#based on a true story only i wanted to kms when i worked at that store#genuinely contractors are the worst most disgusting kinds of men#so this is healing <3#imagining a nice contractor#lmao#i used to work 6 - 11 am#also this is so lazy#pls forgive me for how lZy it is#lazy*#idk#hehe#drgnfly writes#im trying to use my brain its so hard#anyway john takes u out on a date makes them all jealous#or maybe gaz charms ur pants off#U PICK
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Pneumatic conveyor | Pneumatic conveyor manufacturer | Pneumatic conveying system | pneumatic material handling | bulk material handling
youtube
Enquiry : [email protected]
Contact : 95851 31112
Website: https://altomech.com/pneumatic-conveying-system.php
#pneumatic conveyor#pneumatic conveyor manufacturer#bulk material handling#pneumatic conveying system#pneumatic conveyor system#pneumatic conveying system manufacturers#pneumatic conveying companies#pneumatic powder transfer system#vacuum pneumatic conveying system#pneumatic conveyor systems#pneumatic conveyors#pneumatic grain conveying systems#manufacturer#altomech#Youtube
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Storage Solution Providers in India - Bhupati Engineering
Bhupati Engineering is committed to providing high-quality products and services to its customers at competitive prices. The company's products and services are used by a wide range of industries in India, including agriculture, food processing, chemicals, and storage solution providers. Bhupati Engineering is dedicated to providing sustainable solutions that meet the needs of its customers and the environment.
#Storage Solution Providers#Agricultural Storage Tanks#Material Handling Equipment Manufacturers & Suppliers#Grain Storage Silo Manufacturers#Industrial Material Handling Equipment#Conveyor Manufacturing Companies#Conveyor Belt Manufacturers In India#Vertical Bucket Elevator Manufacturers#Liquid Storage Tank Manufacturers#Storage Solutions Companies In India#Flat Bottom Silos#Grain Storage System Equipment#Turnkey Project Solutions#Water Storage Solutions#Flat Bottom Silos Manufacturers#Hopper Bottom Silos Manufacturers#Zincalume Water Storage Tank Manufacturers#Underground Water Tank Manufacturers#Underground Tank Exporters#Agricultural Water Tank Manufacturers & Suppliers#Irrigation Water Tank Manufacturers#Overhead Water Tank Manufacturers & Exporters#Storage Tank Manufacturers & Suppliers#Water Storage Tanks Manufacturers#Exporters#Drinking Water Storage Tank Exporters#Rain Water Storage Tank Manufacturers#Rain Water Harvesting Tanks Exporters#Zincalume Water Tank Manufacturers#Zincalume Water Storage Tanks Exporters
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indecision
ellie wants you back, even though she ended the relationship.
wc: 2.1k (angst + smudge of fluff)
─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───
“just get it over with, please.” she exhales jaggedly, smell of rubbing alcohol poisoning your nose as you apply pressure onto her wound. she’d been shot with an arrow, one you’d had to snap to pull out of her, but it’s nothing she hasn’t handled before.
she didn’t squirm, or whine when you bandaged her up. she sat still and took it, clenching onto the old and tattered leather seat.
you’d dated ellie for a shaky and indulgent two years before. your relationship at first was it - it was her looking at you when she’d done something clumsy or funny in hopes to see you laugh, it was holding each other tightly after you’d gotten separated, it was her lips kissing at your skin fruitfully. you remember it so clear.
“mm. baby.. baby..” you hear her voice, low and groggy. you’ve woken her up, shuffling around endlessly for half an hour trying to sleep. “baby.. shh. relax.. relax with me, you’re fine.” her hand settles on your hip, and she’d bring you in closer, tatted arm ravelling around your stomach. she was so gentle, so guiding, so protecting. “shh.. i’m here. i’m here, my love..”
ellie felt bad for ending it, it was necessary. there were times where she’d refuse to communicate, you would lose your temper, and start yelling at each other. you’ve grown hard around the edges over the years, your skin is scarred and tormented. it’s not your fault.
“oh shut the fuck up, ellie!” you spat at her. truth is, your arguments brewed for a few weeks. it started with glares, sly comments and ignoring eachother until it erupted. “you always do this, speaking to me like you’re so much better just becau-“
“speaking to you like what? just because i don’t sit on my ass here all day whilst everyone else does the work?”
the best thing to do was to break up, for both of your sakes. you were fine with it at first, you knew it was for the fucking best. you were starting to despise eachother’s company; you knew you’d get over it. because just like the scars and torment weren’t your fault, ellie was often blinded by hatred and impulse, it’s how the world shaped her.
“you know what.. i think.. we should just.. stop.” ellie scoffs.
“stop what?”
“us. it’s not fucking working. i can’t stand you.”
but what you couldn’t get over was overhearing her speak with dina, flirty and sultry tones bouncing back and forth between them a week later. they’d slept together, not long after that breakup.
and here you are, a few months later, knelt in front of her to relieve her physical pain.
“thanks..” a quiet whisper left her as you shoved the materials back into your bag. you’re still on high alert, ellie says that you always are, it’s like walking on eggshells being in a room with you.
she watches as you keep your eyes on the windows, peering through the blinds, your pupils narrow like the scope of a sniper. she tries to lighten the mood, tries to relax you a little. “a year ago, you would’ve passed out.” she jokes, a breathy laugh leaving her. but you don’t laugh.
i think that’s also what ate away at ellie during the end of the relationship. you used to have fun, and live, and look forward to the next day. but you’re a different mind in the same shell she used to love, and part of her believes she’s accountable for not being there for you.
you hear her whisper, as you sink into the chair opposite her, your head leant back towards the ceiling. “you okay..?” her voice is cautious, but she knows what’s up, she’s not stupid.
“fine.” you state bluntly.
it’s silent. she feels hopeless. you’re so cold now. but on the bright side, at least she no longer has to listen to your words of kindness easing her through the pain, or drink the poison of your fucking maturity.
“i’m sorry. for it.” you hear her. she’s darting her eyes around your body, the long scar under your jawline, the scratches on your wrist from trying to slice nettles out of the way. you try not to smile at her apology, because it’s pathetic. “it’s whatever.” you respond, your voice uninterested.
you feel sour thinking about it now, actually. you could’ve left her to those hunters, left her to infected, left her to bleed out and clean her wounds herself. “did you enjoy it?” you impulsively ask her, a saltiness to your tone that she was anticipating.
her stomach still drops though, and she can sense the eggshells cracking around her. “what?” she mutters, her eyes narrowing at you as you look at her. you used to look at her with delicacy, adoration, desire. but now your eyes are empty, glossed over; ellie could only describe it as you looking through people rather than actually looking at them.
“you know. sleeping with her that quickly, was she good? worth?”
it’s silent, and you’re both staring at eachother with challenging eyes of contempt. she gets it, understands your anger, yet she also can’t seem to wrap her head around your entitlement. “what are you sa-“
“scale of 1 to 10.”
“what the fuck are you saying?” ellie’s voice goes up a pitch. she wish she could stand up and grab your throat, try and knock some sense into you. but not only is the pain in her shin holding her back, it’s also the fact you’d hold up an ambiguous fight. “are you serious?” she leans forward in disbelief.
but when you don’t respond, your gaze unfaltering, she sighs.
“i don’t know.. like.. an eight, i guess..”
it was a rhetorical question, asshole.
you’re sure she answered it out of spite, and you feel internal rage. but you don’t let it show, you just nod with pursed lips. “i’m happy for you.” you state coldly. you wish you had the heart to just leave her here, take shimmer up north back to jackson, but you don’t.
it’s silent for a few minutes. she’s often glancing back at you, already regretting her answer. although it was a truthful answer, she should have kept her mouth shut. but the damage has already been done, she sees it honing on your face as you look elsewhere.
“i’m..” she starts, sighing. “i’m sorry.. that was fucked, it’s all fucked.” she shakes her head. you’d been forgiving and graceful enough to snap an arrow and pull it out her leg, bandage it up for her. and yet she sits here as if she uses that same arrow to pierce at your heartstrings, play you like an instrument, even if you act as if it’s not affecting you under your stoic mask.
“can you come here…
please..?”
you look at her, and her eyes are brimmed with vulnerability. you stay in your seat for quite some time, until you muster up the patience to approach her.
she feels you dip into the space beside her. she wants to reach out, touch your skin, marshmallow you up how she used to. but she knows she can’t, she has no right. “you don’t have to forgive me.. i just..” she whispers. “i wanna say i fucked it all up, for us. i know i did..”
you digest her words, your eyes darting around the ceiling in contemplation.
“i just don’t..” she pauses, her eyes ponder down to her thighs, and then down to her bandage that you had wrapped. she’s trying to word her next sentence without it sounding so morbid, but she cant. “i don’t wanna lose you one day, knowing you hated me.” she murmurs, waiting for an inkling of emotion on your face - anything, she’ll take anything - but it doesn’t come.
she’s dreamt about it. having you in her arms, choking on your own blood, using your last efforts just to spit out a malicious i hate you.
“i thought the.. whatever with dina would’ve got rid of you.” ellie squeezes her nose bridge, trying to explain in a way that doesn’t sound so bullshit. she doesn’t want to say that she had sex with her, even though that’s what it was. “i fucked her over too.. she didn’t do anything wrong, but she was.. just there.”
wow, you really are a scummy piece of shit, els.
she knows what you’re thinking when she looks over at you, your eyes nailing into her. “i know..” she whispers, and you notice her hand slowly raising, hesitant to graze your own. you flinch when she does this, and she notices your hand inching away from hers. “i know it sounds bad. because it is, it’s my fault.”
she looks down at your hand, her eyes desperate, pupils dilated when they look at you. “please let me..” her voice is tender, affectionate with you. you’re invested in it slightly, letting her nails run along your palm, her touch a wintry feather tickling your skin.
“i just.. i’ll do anything. anything to make it up to you, no matter how long it takes.” she whispers, and you feel her touch leaving your hand. you feel like ice when it does, only to feel piping hot again when she cups your cheek. it’s intimate, but it’s genuine: it’s regret and sorrow, self-hatred and adoration. “i just want you to know, that i know i’m a fucking asshole, i still am..”
“you make me sick.” your voice is piercing and cold towards her. but she understands your rage, and she takes it, absorbing it with accountability. “i needed you. and you fucking left me.”
ellie’s gaze is weak. she’s thinking of your pain, of your scar-covered back and tormented bruises. the ones she couldn’t be there to kiss and treat. when you had came back from torrington after a few weeks’ travel, and she had heard from maria that you were ‘all kinds of fucked up’ and ‘in need of stitches’ under the jaw, she’d dissociated for hours in her room.
she could’ve been there, could’ve helped stop the bleeding, could’ve killed the bastards who had done it to you. prevented it in the first place. you were always there for every tear that dropped from her pretty eyes, every injury, every nightmare. and yet you did it all alone.
“i know.. i know.” she whispers, and you close your eyes when you feel her forehead press against yours. it’s not romantic, it’s just impulse. she wants to just feel close with you again, absorb your warmth, feel the safe haven she neglected and left to rot. “i’ll do anything. you have no idea. anything, i’m begging you.”
you can feel her breath, she’s so close to you, so hurt. she knows she has so many - too many - amendments to make for you.
“i almost died yesterday.”
her whisper is faint, and her eyes are focused on everything, yet nothing at the same time. glossed over in daydream, inanimate and empty. “we were.. i don’t know, going down the southeast, by those cabins..” she tries to recall, memories blurred with the overwhelming poison of your ill feelings towards her. “this guy.. i was just on the floor suddenly, and he’s coming down at me with an axe.
and if it wasn’t for jesse, i would’ve..” she continued, pausing before her eyes glint. “but in my last fucking moments, all i could see was your face. and i just.. i didn’t feel fear, i just.. felt so much regret. and, love. worried about what would happen to you after.”
her words were reluctant at first, but came streamlining out of her mouth when she’s reminded of each emotion that came with having her back against the mud, life flashing between her eyes, the split-second images of your pretty face next to the fireplace. the way you called her name, ellie, so vanilla. so clean. so smooth.
“i felt like.. i just should’ve told you everything, talked it out. i don’t want you to feel bad for me. i’m just.. i am begging you..” she repeats, a faint and delicate whisper against your lips. “if you want me to disappear, i’ll go. i’ll never bother you, you’ll never see me again in that fucking town..”
something about that proposal doesn’t sit right with your heart, or your head. you can’t tell. a part of you wants to slap the shit out of her, and another part wants to kiss at those lips - not out of love, but out of hateful lust.
“it was never about you. it was about.. me. my failure to be a decent fucking person, to be the person you.. needed. it was my own weakness.”
you sluggishly and reluctantly pull away from her, and watch as her gaze softens into disappointment. “i should.. go check on shimmer.” you whisper, rising to your feet, emotionally warped. “you just.. sit here and rest..”
she has to accept consequences of her own actions.
as you start walking backwards and turn away from her, you can just hear all the emotions inside screeching in your head. it’s loud, blinding, deafening; you know ellie experiences it too, the same voices that just get too much. maybe that’s what dina was to her, white noise to dilute them.
she wants to chase you back, grab your wrist and talk it out. but the throbbing tremors from her wounded leg force her to slump back down into the chair with a defeated sigh. she lets you go, just this time, not willingly.
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Squeeze Me, I Squeak!
While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)
Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)
Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternization (therefore power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Body Piercings, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy
It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.
You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.
Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.
Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.
Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.
Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.
Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.
His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.
Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.
The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.
“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.
The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.
On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.
“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.
“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.
And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.
But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.
“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.
“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.
“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”
“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.
You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.
“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.
“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.
The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.
You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.
And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.
He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.
It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.
Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.
You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.
On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.
His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.
You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.
But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.
“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”
His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.
He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.
Then you turn to the bleeding.
“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.
You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.
The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.
As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.
You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.
Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.
“All good, sir?” you ask.
“Affirmative.”
“The burn now.”
You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.
“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”
“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.
You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”
There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.
“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”
“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”
When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.
“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”
You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”
“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”
You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.
More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.
He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.
When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.
“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.
“Need one more thing from you.”
You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.
And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.
Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.
“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.
He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.
“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”
Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.
“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”
Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.
“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”
“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”
You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.
Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.
“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.
“Want me to stop?” he asks.
… No.
“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.
Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.
“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.
The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.
“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”
“’M scarier than your auntie.”
You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.
“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.
Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.
“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.
“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.
That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.
“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”
He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.
“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.
“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”
Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)
He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.
When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.
“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.
He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.
Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.
His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.
You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.
“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.
“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”
“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”
“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.
Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?
You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.
“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”
He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.
You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.
Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.
After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.
“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.
“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”
“Yessir.”
You can feel Soap squinting.
“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.
“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.
With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”
“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”
You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.
It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.
It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.
By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.
Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.
“Solid, Sergeant?”
“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.
“As you were, then.”
And that was that.
Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.
Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.
Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.
You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.
When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.
“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”
“I know.”
But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.
And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.
“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.
He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.
You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.
Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.
It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip.
It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.
He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.
At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.
“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.
“Hm?”
“Cat making biscuits.”
There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.
“’S nice,” you whisper.
He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.
You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.
“Mine or yours?” you mumble.
“Mine.”
You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.
“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.
It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.
“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”
“Did not.”
“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”
You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”
“You’re a freak.”
“Stones in glass houses, sir.”
You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.
There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.
“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”
“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.
“You’re fucking disgusting.”
He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.
“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”
“Gonna squish it?” you ask.
“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.
You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.
“How copy, sergeant?”
“Solid, sir.”
“Fifteen.”
“Yessir.”
You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.
Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.
You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.
Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.
Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.
Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.
Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.
There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.
When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.
“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.
Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.
“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.
“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.
News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.
You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?
“Hey, LT?”
“Mm.”
You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.
“You ever seen Halloween?”
“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”
“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”
He goes still behind you. “What.”
“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”
You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.
“Squeaks…”
“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”
His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”
“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”
“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”
“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”
“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”
You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.
“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”
“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”
And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.
You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.
He’s biting you.
“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”
He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.
Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.
“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.
You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”
“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.
“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”
He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.
You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.
You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.
You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.
In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.
Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.
If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.
You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.
That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.
You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.
Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…
You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.
You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.
There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.
“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.
“I’ll make you sorry!”
You believe him.
You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.
You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.
“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”
“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.
You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.
“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.
When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.
“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”
The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.
“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”
You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.
“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”
Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.
“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.
“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”
“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.
“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.
“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.
You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.
You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.
“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.
You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.
“Taking this one to bed, sir.”
“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.
“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.
You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.
The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.
“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.
“Seen it before.”
“Gaz is going to be cross.”
“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”
“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”
You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.
Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.
“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.
It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.
“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.
“Lack of imagination on your part.”
He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.
“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”
“Yessir…” you groan.
Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.
Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.
You might be after this though.
One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.
Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.
But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.
Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.
Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.
And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.
You consider taking it out but… well.
You kinda missed having it.
And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.
You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.
By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.
They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.
“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.
He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.
“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”
Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.
“Do the thing,” he gruffs.
You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.
“That captain is—”
“That’s an order, sergeant.”
You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.
“That’s the stuff,” he says.
“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.
Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.
“Debrief now?”
“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”
They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.
As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.
At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.
“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”
“The intel isn’t confidential.”
Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”
You get the fuck in.
As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.
Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.
When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.
He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.
You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.
He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.
“So how was it actually?” you ask.
“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”
You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.
“There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.
“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”
You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”
He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.
“Mask,” he mutters.
It takes you a second to realize what he wants.
“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.
“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.
“Oh for the love of…”
You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?
You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.
“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.
Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.
“What?” you ask.
You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.
“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”
“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.
He snorts. “My problem?”
You consider, humming. “Probably not.”
“Probably?”
You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”
He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”
You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.
“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.
“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”
You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.
“That fast?” you ask.
“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.
“It’s clear!”
“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”
You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.
“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.
“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.
“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.
“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”
He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.
“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”
And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.
Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.
“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.
But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.
“…Want me to take it out?” you try.
His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”
Oh?
Oh.
“Want… to see it?”
He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.
Then he shifts.
His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.
“Squeaks.”
You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.
Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.
Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.
“Taste good,” he rumbles.
“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.
He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”
You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.
It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?
Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”
You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.
“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.
“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”
You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.
“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”
You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.
“Go on,” he urges.
You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.
“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”
You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.
When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.
“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”
You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”
He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.
“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”
“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”
A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.
“You have experience,” he asserts.
“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”
He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.
“And my hands,” you add, gasping.
“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.
You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”
His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.
“Strip, sergeant. Now.”
You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.
“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”
“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.
The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.
If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.
He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.
“Trying to kill me,” you pant.
He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.
“Is that…?”
“Come find out.”
You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.
“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”
“It will if you can be patient for me.”
“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.
His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”
You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”
His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”
“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”
That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.
“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”
“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”
You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.
“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”
“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.
“That’s my girl.”
He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.
You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.
“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”
He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.
“How copy?” he hushes.
“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”
“Tactical retreat?”
“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”
His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”
You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.
He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.
“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”
“N-no,” you lie.
He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.
It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.
You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.
He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.
“Close,” you pant.
He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.
Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.
“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”
“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.
“Yeah?”
You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”
He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”
“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”
“Fuck.”
He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.
You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.
And he doesn’t stop.
“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.
But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.
Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.
“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.
He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.
Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.
Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.
He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”
His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.
A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.
“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.
“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.
“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”
You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.
“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”
You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.
You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.
His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”
You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.
You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.
“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.
You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”
“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.
“Have to fix that, then.”
You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.
You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.
“Yes,” you agree.
That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.
“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”
And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.
You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.
He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.
And your eyes.
The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.
“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.
“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.
“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”
Just the head. Christ.
The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)
He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.
Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.
“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.
You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.
By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.
“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”
“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.
“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.
You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.
“Stressed?” you ask, confused.
He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”
You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.
“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”
You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.
“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”
And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.
He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”
He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.
“What about you?”
He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.
“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”
You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.
“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”
“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.
He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”
You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.
“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”
And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.
When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.
“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.
“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.
“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”
You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.
“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”
His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.
“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.
You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.
“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”
You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.
“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”
“That so, sergeant?” he asks.
“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”
He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”
You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.
“Show me how nice you can ask then.”
And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.
You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.
“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”
“Need what, lovely?” he husks.
“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”
Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.
There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.
Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.
There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.
He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.
It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.
“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”
You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.
“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”
You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…
“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”
There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.
You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.
“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”
“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”
He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.
The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.
“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”
His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.
“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”
His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”
It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.
You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.
“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.
You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.
“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”
You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.
And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.
“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.
“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”
“Fucking fantastic.”
That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.
“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”
Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.
“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”
You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.
“Shut up, Simon.”
“Insubordinate.”
“Fraternizer.”
“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”
“Only if you report me.”
“Mutually assured destruction then.”
Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”
He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”
You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.
“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”
He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”
“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”
“Guess so.”
He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.
“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”
You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.
When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.
“Nap?” you ask hopefully.
“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”
Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.
“You’re my hero.”
He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”
“Yessir.”
#cod#my writing#fanfiction#reader fic#cross posted on ao3#old fic#sergeant squeaks#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost riley
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The construction industry relies on efficient warehousing and material handling services to keep projects on track. Dependable Transfer LLC offers specialized solutions tailored to the unique needs of the construction industry. With state-of-the-art facilities and modern equipment, they provide secure warehousing and reliable material handling services, optimizing the construction process.
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The Best News of Last Month - August 2024
1.Negative Power Prices Hit Europe as Renewable Energy Floods the Grid
European power markets are experiencing a notable shift as renewable energy sources, particularly wind and solar, become a larger part of the energy mix. On Wednesday, power prices in several European markets, including Germany, dipped below zero due to a surge in green electricity production.
2. Taiwan introduces ban on performances by captive wild animals
Live performances by wild animals held in captivity, including performances by dolphins, tigers, and other non-domesticated mammals, will no longer be permitted in Taiwan under new Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) regulations.
3. FTC bans fake online reviews, inflated social media influence; rule takes effect in October
The FTC voted unanimously to ban marketers from using fake reviews, such as those generated with AI technology, and other misleading advertising practices.
The ban also forbids marketers from exaggerating their own influence by, for example, paying for bots to inflate their follower count.
4. Chinese drones will fly trash out of Everest slopes
Come autumn, Nepal will deploy heavy lifter drones to transport garbage from the 6,812-metre tall Ama Dablam, south of Everest. This will be the first commercial work an unmanned aerial vehicle does in Nepal’s high-altitude zone.
The heavy lifter from China’s biggest drone maker, Da Jiang Innovations (DJI), will take on tasks traditionally handled by Sherpas. Officials believe it will help reduce casualties on Everest.
5. Swiss scientists have found a way to use the whole cocoa fruit to make chocolate and not just taking beans and discarding the rest.
Kim Mishra (L) and Anian Schreiber (R) cooperated on the new chocolate making process
Food scientists in Switzerland have come up with a way to make chocolate using the entire cocoa fruit rather than just the beans - and without using sugar.
The chocolate, developed at Zurich’s prestigious Federal Institute of Technology by scientist Kim Mishra and his team includes the cocoa fruit pulp, the juice, and the husk, or endocarp.
6. Six-year-old boy found in Vietnam forest after five days
A six-year-old boy who was missing for five days has been found deep in a forest in Vietnam. Dang Tien Lam, who lives in the northwestern Yen Bai province, was playing in a stream with his nine siblings on 17 August when he wandered into the hills and got lost, local reports said.
He was found on Wednesday by local farmers who heard a child's cry while they were clearing a cinnamon field close to the forest.
7. Lego plans to make half the plastic in bricks from renewable materials by 2026
Lego plans to make half the plastic in its bricks from renewable or recycled material rather than fossil fuels by 2026, in its latest effort to ensure its toys are more environmentally friendly.
The Danish company last year ditched efforts to make bricks entirely from recycled bottles because of cost and production issues. At the moment, 22% of the material in its colourful bricks is not made from fossil fuels.
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