#or at least this is the impression it gives but I think they just play games because at some point i kinda played along
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ram-bles ¡ 19 hours ago
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Happy Holidays!
With love,
The Tulpar crew.
#: gender neutral reader. romantic. pre-crash. fluff. kisses.
The holidays were near. The main area had garlands made of green plastic and tinsels sparsely hung around, a small water-activated paper Christmas tree growing in the middle of the dining table, and a bright red Christmas hat on Polle's ear. It wasn't much, but at least festive enough to feel some semblance of home. Though, one day, an additional piece of decor had been added by the entrance of the lounge.
[ Anya ]
You two were on break, folding and snipping away. The medical bay was filled with both your chattering, accompanied by gasps, giggling, and more as you both gossiped about stuff back on Earth— occasionally, some rumors about your co-workers too. Before you know it, you two were unfurling the last pieces of paper snowflakes.
"You think this is enough?"
"Yeah!"
With exchanged grins, both of you gathered the newly made decor and made your short trip towards the lounge, continuing the chat from beforehand. When the door slides open, you were both silenced by Daisuke pointing above your heads. In sync, you and Anya's eyes trailed from the intern, to the Captain beside him that gave you both a wave, then to the mistletoe, then to each other with a matching tint of red on both your cheeks.
Anya's hand covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers, and yours held your own cheek. It was silent for a quick moment which scared the other two, but you both started a giggling fit.
"You don't hafta do it if you don't want to!"
"Nono, it's okay. I promise. C'mere." Anya reassures you immediately.
You lean in and so does she, planting a kiss on both sides of your cheek and then a peck on the lip.
[ Curly ]
After convincing your Captain, he agrees to discreetly make a cake for a small holiday dinner. With a not-so discreet 'Yes!' from you, he chuckles and shakes his head. Whatever makes you happy.
But that means you have to help, which isn't much of a problem to you anyways. It's just shoving packets into a machine that automatically makes it, so it's not that big of a chore. Or maybe he just needed an excuse to spend time doing something together with you.
"Alright, doll. Let's go make your cake."
Beaming, you followed just beside him. He finds it endearing how quickly it is to please you.
The door opens and something taps his forehead, making him stop, and you as well, following his gaze.
"Cheeky." He exhales from his nose as he smiles. "You put this here?"
"No, but are you giving me a kiss?"
He looks around, body leaning back to check at the hallway again before he returns to you. His fingers gently held your chin, tilting your head up and closing in. Curly presses his lips against yours, once, twice, and a last one for good measure. The man couldn't wipe the grin off of his face afterwards even if he tried to.
[ Daisuke ]
GRUMBLE.
From where you were comfortably resting and spectating his gameplay, his stomach roars at you, the sound twice as loud with your ear pressed against it.
"Wanna eat?" Your hair scrunches at your temple as you faced him.
"Mm. Almost done." The sounds of hard plastic tapping grew louder and faster as he speedran through the level. A soft mechanical tune plays as he finishes it and he throws his tiny console to the side of his pillow. Grunting, he sits up as your head rolls onto his lap. Daisuke scoops his hand behind your head to help you sit up as well, both of you stretching and leaving the bed. It was the end of the day after all, you both couldn't help but be lazy with how tiring the shift was today.
Upon successful collection and opening of canned foods, you sat on the counter to watch your partner in crime punch some numbers into the machine that popped out sweetener packets. It's impressive to you, managing to convince the captain for some of it so he could find out what the code was and memorize it.
"Got it!" He raises the two pink packets with a grin and tilting his head towards the door. "Let's go?"
With a nod, you hop off the surface and made your way back to your shared sleeping quarters when you noticed an object at the top of your peripheral. You stop on your tracks, nudging his side and nodded your head since your hands were full, gesturing at the mistletoe and pointing with your mouth.
"Pucker up, babe." He grins, energy suddenly coming back to him.
"You can just kiss me whenever you wanted to. You didn't have to sneak that in."
"Didn't put it up there, chief."
"Then who?"
With a shrug, he winks at you. "Dunno. Beats me!"
[ Jimmy ]
His mood was sour the whole day and he always beats around the bush when you try to ask about it. So, you resort to the other option-- giving him space. Oh, but that only made his mood worse. He's thinking you were ignoring him now.
It's been frustrating, you didn't know what to do about it either, so you decided to ask Curly for some advice. But that still makes everything worse! Jimmy saw you talking to Curly too and it made him even more irrationally upset, somehow resorting to a conclusion that now you don't want him, so you're going for Curly.
Jimmy then devised a plan. Making sure to chat with you and Curly in order to keep you both by the dining table, long enough so that the other three would head back to their designated quarters and unfortunately for him, he needed to be a chatterbox like you guys.
But hey, it worked, right?
That's when he suddenly had to excuse himself and asked you for some help. Agreeing, you both went on your way to exit the lounge when his arms hook around your waist, planting a kiss on your lips and you let out a surprised noise. Jimmy made sure Curly was looking too.
"Jimmy, not here!"
"Hey, I'm just following tradition." He points up at the mistletoe above your head with a smug grin.
[ Swansea ]
Another sigh escapes your lips and you hear Swansea put down a screwdriver.
"Alright, what's botherin' ya this time?"
You shift from Swansea's chair, twirling it slightly as you readjust your position so that you could rest your head on your palm. "Don't you miss celebrating the holidays?"
He seems unamused but you notice his demeanor change ever so slightly. With a huff he responds. "You get used to it up here." He takes another tool and continued tinkering.
Swansea could see you deflate from his peripheral vision. There was a moment of silence when he spoke up, not looking away from his work. "There's a box beside the birthday shit. If you could fix it before I finish here then I'll help you put it up. Deal?"
Beaming, you hopped out of the chair, rushed over to him and gave him a peck on the cheek before heading out.
"Thanks, Swans."
Fortunately for you, it wasn't a hard fix anyways. One of the wires connected to the battery holder was snapped off and all it needed was a little soldering.
Safe to say you did finish before him.
Excitedly, you helped him clean up and you both headed for the lounge. This was nice, you'd proudly say it if you had to and Swansea felt the same albeit never admitting it. Idly chatting about stuff back home as you hung up the lights. Swansea seemed to be having fun talking about his kids as well, going on about their holiday shenanigans whenever he got the luxury to come back home during these seasons. Surprisingly, the lights were long enough to decorate the wall behind Polle, even blending nicely into the garlands.
"Let's call everyone to eat now?"
"Alright."
You were walking towards the door when you notice it, grabbing Swansea's wrist as he turns back. Before he scolds you, you point up at the mistletoe above the both of you.
"I'm too old for this shit."
"C'mon, Swans! Just this once, please!"
You hear another defeated sigh from him when he suddenly holds you and dips you as you kissed. When you both finish, he raises your hands, twirling you and landing another kiss onto your knuckles that got you speechless.
"Hah. Still got it."
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tigirl-and-co ¡ 21 hours ago
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Wahoo! Rainmakers fic is here! Merry Christmas! I spent highschool mildly obsessed with these guys, and now I'm proud to present what is probably the only Rainmakers x Reader fic ever written. I didn't check or anything. Who else would ever.
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I tried to give everybody a distinct personality, please let me know if you think the vibes are coming through! It's meant to be set in a vaguely G1 universe. But more modern. Like if G1 took place some nebulous time after cellphones became common.
When I Think About Rain
Ch.1
"So what the frag is snow for?"
Watching a lime green robot kneel down in the snow and leave handprints the size of your entire body filled you with an indescribable emotion. Trying to figure out how to explain natural weather patterns to three of them gave you a feeling you could describe in a word: headache.
Looking from Acid to Nova to Ion, you tried to figure out how to respond. "Precipitation on earth just sort of happens, and life evolved to work around it. We don't really make it. We did try a few times but it just doesn't work."
Ion Storm spoke up from somewhere behind you, as blunt as ever. "That's stupid. You guys don't even control what weather happens on your own planet? Sheesh, talk about lower lifeforms!"
You shot the seeker a particularly unimpressed look, causing him to snort. He liked taunting you, and you weren't sure if it was because he had a crush on you or if he considered you 'one of the boys.' You were pretty sure it was the latter, but after Powerglide and Astoria became an item, you couldn't be completely sure.
Nova was looking up at the clear blue winter sky contemplatively, and it sort of hit you that Cybertronians don't have any childhood memories of winter. No snow days, no sledding, no digging caves in a snow bank. Snow wasn't magic to them in the same way it was to humans.
But Nova Storm didn't know what he didn't know as he turned to face his bluest brother. "I dunno, I think it's kind of cool. Having to live each day under a new set of circumstances, never really knowing what your planet's gonna throw at you. Be fun, at least for a while."
The leader of the group looked up from where he was poking at the snow to stare at you. "Sounds dangerous. Are you sure you don't wanna just move to Cybertron? We wouldn't even tell Shockwave you were there this time." You knew Acid Storm wasn't stupid enough to think it would actually ever work, but he hadn't given up hope yet that maybe you were.
Taking a swig of hot chocolate, you rolled your eyes at him. "Sneaking you lot through the spacebridge once every couple months is already risky. How're you gonna play off using it every week to get me food?" You gave a sort of faux-haughty shrug, playing at knowing better than the multi-million-year-old space warriors. "I don't see why you don't just switch sides so we can hang out more."
Suddenly, Ion Storm threw himself on his back, and even with the muffling of the snow it was such a powerful movement that you had to brace yourself to keep from falling over.
He lolled his head to look at you. "Because Optimus would probably make us actually do our jobs, instead of-" and Ion switched into an awful Megatron impression- "perfecting our acid rain formula."
You couldn't help but cackle at that, and all three seeker's optics softened. You were so small, smaller even than Soundwave's cassettes, but you weren't afraid to live loudly. To stare the Rainmakers, the flying horrors of Cybertron, right in the face and laugh about their boss with them. A life so fragile and fleeting that you refused to live in fear for it.
How were they meant to resist you?
Acid Storm found himself walking over to you. The loud crunch of snow being compacted prevented you from being surprised when he bent down to scoop you up and set you on his shoulder, you simply huff in amusement. So touchy.
Unable to protect your face from the sudden increase in winter winds from being up so high and simultaneously smile amusedly at Acid Storm, you ended up doing neither and gave him a bizarre and unreadable expression that stung your eyes and burned your lungs.
Laughing, he put a servo around you to shelter you from the wind. "Humans are all so weird."
"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure ours is the weirdest of them all," Ion Storm jeered from just out of your line of sight.
You couldn't suppress a snort at that one, and hollered a reply into the wind.
"Your human?" you couldn't help but call him out on that one. "Weird, I will own up to. But who ever said I was yours? I'm a free spirit, man, I belong to nobody but myself!" You hoped they could hear the smile in your voice.
Nova smiled back at you. "Well, we did capture you that one time," he rebutted, "which teeeeechnically makes you 'our human.'"
"Pfffft, no way! I bought my freedom fair and square! You let me go, so you don't own me!"
Ion stood up and reached over Acid's servo to seat you in the palm of his own, looking you dead in the eyes. "If you're not our human, how come we can just pick you up and you don't complain?" He narrowed his optics and sneered triumphantly.
You rolled your eyes and shook your head sympathetically. "Do you really think you're the only people who ever pick me up? Look at me, I'm adorable! People can't resist picking me up!"
You were too focused on Ion to notice Nova coming in from behind. "Aw, but we're your favourites, right?" He lowered his massive head down to your level, and if you didn't know him as the brains of the group, you'd almost think he looked like a puppy begging for praise. "We're the best at human-handling, yeah?"
After your heart climbed back down from your throat where the shock had chased it, you managed to feign being contemplative. "Hmmm... I suppose that's true. And I mean I did choose to spend a day hanging out in a snowy field in the middle of Fuckass Nowhere with you three, which probably has to count for something."
Now looking less like a puppy and more like the proverbial cat who got the cream, Nova grinned triumphantly. "See?" As he stood back up to his full height, satisfied with your answer, you simply had to giggle. In the low sun, his goldenrod colour scheme and general shape brought to mind a star at the top of a Christmas tree. His temperament certainly helped, of course. Giant killer robot or not, when he was happy, he had a sort of glow about him.
Acid Storm snorted.
"The Rainmakers: Scourge of Cybertron's Skies, and top-tier fleshy sparklingsitters." There was no malice in his tone- he really did just feel as comfortable joking with you as he did the rest of his trine. "I'm sure that'll put some real fear into the sparks of our enemies!"
You spun around in Ion's hand to give a witty retort. Ion fired a line at you, and you parried that, too. And so it went for the rest of the day. Eventually, enough hours had passed that your hot chocolate was gone and the stars had come out.
You smiled tiredly- you loved them and their banter, and you liked feeling like you actually belonged, but good God. There's only so many hours of witty banter in a snowy field the human mind can take. "Okay, boys. It's getting pretty damn cold out here, so we better get you home before I freeze to death."
Unable to tell if you were joking or not, they acquiesced. And in Acid's cockpit, on the long flight back to the spacebridge, you found yourself looking forward to the next meeting before they even left.
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bows4tyun ¡ 6 hours ago
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MINE - 최연준 ˎˊ˗ ⸝⸝
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୨ৎ: ""mother fucker... " yeonjun snarled under his breath, trying to get a glance of the jackass who had the nerve to approach and even touch his girl. he felt his blood begin to boil, coursing through his body like wildfire. he normally was never like this. "
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𓍼 pairing! - fratboy boyfriend!yeonjun x fem!reader
𓍼 warnings! meandom!yeonjun, whinysub!reader, ass smacking, big dick yeonjun, unprotected sex, breeding kink if you squint, slut shaming, groping, yeonjun referred as jjunie by reader, yeonjun calls reader baby, slut, and whore
𓍼 lexi adds! - I dont know how I've been able to finish TWO stories in the span of two days but ye enjoy frat boy yeonjun !! ༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽ (i was too impatient to let the poll end) anyways merry christmas to anyone who celebrates!! hopefully you enjoy this gift
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the party was supposed to be like any other, or at least that's what yeonjun thought it would be.
his parties were the most popular; everyone would be showing up, dressed to impress as the house was lit with bright shining colorful lights and loud music. good thing the music wasn't loud enough to wake the neighbours
yeonjun stood near the door, greeting guests one by one as they entered just as a good party host should do. maybe yeonjun's cool and funny yet approachable demeanour was the reason he became the most popular guy in college.
just because he was a fratboy didn't mean he was rude and distant like the rest. yeonjun was quite the opposite. thats the exact reason why you fell for him the same day you met him. it was only your first day in college, yet yeonjun talked to you as if he had known you for years, giving you a warm welcome as your upper classmate.
you definitely fell hard for him, but yeonjun fell even harder. he loved you so damn much, all of the small things you did reminded him why he fell for you. he just couldn't handle himself
whenever he threw these parties, he made sure your body was protected from any creeps who were trying to get a free show out of you. this time, it didnt really go as yeonjun wanted it to.
his eyes were looking around trying to find you amidst the crowd of people who were dancing inbetween the living and dining room. at the same time that he was searching, he was rejecting girls who tried flirting with him, giving them a quick "I have a girlfriend." after each of their attempts.
one girl in particular just wouldn't leave yeonjun alone, continuing to flirt and try to seduce him even after his polite rejects. yeonjun decided to stand up and go search for you but before he could walk toward the crowd, the girl stopped him, her hands running up and down his chest in a seductive manner.
"where are you going, jjun? stay with me, yeah? I promise you a good time~" she spoke, her voice full of lust and her eyes hinting desire.
yeonjun began to grow impatient his anger starting to get the best of him as he attempted to push her away lightly. oh but she wouldn't budge, staying put in her place and not wanting to leave yeonjun.
yeonjun chuckled nervously as the girl smirked with mischief. his eyes darted around the room, finally landing on you, and a guy...?
where his eyes playing with him? uncertain of what he was seeing, he blinked rapidly, trying to reset his vision.
he opened his eyes and looked again, the guy was still there yet this time, his hands were on you.
"mother fucker... " yeonjun snarled under his breath, trying to get a glance of the jackass who had the nerve to approach and even touch his girl. he felt his blood begin to boil, coursing through his body like wildfire. he normally was never like this.
that was when yeonjun lost it.
he pushed the girl aside a bit roughly, causing her to curse at him, but yeonjun didn't care. that's not what was on his mind at the moment. his only goal was to make sure you were safe.
he made his way through the crowd, finally finding himself infront the you and the guy.
"what the fuck do you think you're doing touching my girl as if she were yours?" yeonjun asked sternly before grabbing the guy by the shoulder and turning him to see his face.
the guy had the nerve to smirk at him, not caring to hear yeonjun's question. he kept his hand on your thigh which wasn't unnoticed by yeonjun. he looked at you, your eyes clearly showing discomfort.
that was all yeonjun needed. he grabbed you by your waist, catching you by surprise and you yelp. "jjunie!"
before you could say anything thing else, your lips were against his in a searing kiss, his tongue invading your mouth and dancing with yours. the guy could only watch in jealousy as yeonjun's hands dragged down along your hips and gripped your ass.
"whatever man, fuck you." the guy spoke for the last time before leaving the party completely.
yeonjun broke the kiss as you both pant to catch your breath. "that 'outta show that fucker."
"thank you, he was making me really uncomfortable... " you spoke warmly, pressing your head lovingly against his chest.
yeonjun signalled the dj for a microphone before speaking in a blunt tone, "party's over, go home."
the crowd awed in unison before obeying and grabbing their stuff to leave. you sit on the couch with yeonjun as you watch everyone leave. yeonjun's still hugging you with his arms wrapped around your shoulder, his grip tight. when a particular girl leaves she looks at you with a snarl. confused you turn to yeonjun who just kisses you in the same rough manner again.
after the party's officially over, yeonjun leads you to your shared bedroom, the room only really clean room in the whole house.
yeonjun sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "that fucker had me all worked up, what a piece of shit..." he huffs out, voice still hinting of anger. "baby, you would do anything to calm me down, right?"
"of course! why do you ask?" you questioned him innocently as you sat on the soft bed. he answered your question with a lustful glare in his eyes.
⸝⸝
"hmph-! jjunie, too fast! ah-!" you cried out pathetically, gripping onto the duvet sheets under you as yeonjun pounded into you mercilessly.
"shut up, slut." he spat out harshly before smacking your ass, causing you to yelp with tears soaking the bed. "all you do is whine and complain. I bet you liked it when he was touching you, didn't you?" he huffed while quickening his pace.
"you're going too fast oh god-!" just as you whimper and whine, you feel your head get yanked back by the hair, your scalp burning deliciously.
"what did I just say, whore? you don't ever tell me what to do. know your place shit-..." he groans and users your hair as a way to pound even faster than before. "take it! you know you can, slut. your hole was made for dick." he says this as you pussy clenches and gushes around his cock.
"jjunie! 'gonna cum fuckfuckfuck! please, let me cum!" you plead as you feel the knot in your stomach tighten. his grip on your ass tightens too as he chases his high as well.
"fuck! that's it baby, cum on my cock like the good little whore you are! that fucker wishes this were him." just as you thought he couldn't go any faster, he does.
right as his pace increases you cum on his cock, moaning out his name in a high pitched manner. "jjunie!!"
yeonjun keeps going, you could hear him huff and groan softly behind you as he continues to fuck into your spent cunt.
"you want me to cum inside? want me to claim and mark you with my cum?" you're too fucked dumb on his cock to understand what he's implying and just agree.
"yesyesyes! jjunie please-! i need it!" you mewl and grip the sheets with all your might before you hear yeonjun curse behind you
"fuck-! take it, baby!" he groans out, plunging completely i side of you, shooting out his white sticky cum into your womb, getting the perfect angle. he leans toward you, his lips right at your ear "you wouldn't get mad if you get pregnant, right baby?"
you shake your head, feeling worn out, "not at all..." he kisses your shoulder and grips your chin to make you face him.
"good, that's what I like to hear..."
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𓍼 taglist! - empty! (lmk if you want to be added for future works please and thank you!!)
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spotsandsocks ¡ 16 hours ago
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Hiiii Spotty 💕💕💕
I have a few more!
🎅+ blizzard
-❤️🪐
Ok.. in an effort to save you all from endless words today and get all my word prompts done by this merry Christmas Eve. I decided a little challenge was in order. So Saturn my lovely creative pal I’ve combined all the words you sent that I haven’t used into one fic that comes in around 800 words. Let’s see what you think.
The wind is remarkably loud, rattling the window frames of the cabin in a mildly alarming fashion. The gentle flurries of snow from this morning have turned into something much more intense. At least the fire is going strong and at least there’s blankets. The warmth of the one round his shoulder is comforting but he’s still a little cold. What he wouldn’t do for a hot cocoa or some cookies.
A shiver he can’t control catches Eddie’s attention.
“You still cold?”
He nods, “a bit. I’m fine though. Eddie’s eyes are still on him so he feels the need to keep talking. “I checked the weather before we lost the internet, they say it’s officially a blizzard now, should last a few hours.”
Eddie nods and looks away again. A few hours isn’t that bad. The radio is still working at least, it’s playing some kind of old time big band music that always makes him think about those black and white war movies and make his toes tap.
Maybe one day him and Eddie will be able to dance together. Buck thinks he’s like that. The thought comes out of nowhere but that’s been happening more often recently. He’s been thinking he’d like to do a lot of things with Eddie recently.
He’s not going to be doing any of those though. Instead he's reading the only book he was able to find on the shelf, it’s a kids picture book of ‘‘twas the night before Christmas’. Maddie used to read one like it to him when he was little. Buck wonders if Eddie ever read it to Chris or if he’ll get the chance to read it to his own child one day.
That thought makes him lift his eyes from the page to look at Eddie again. He’s also wrapped up in a blanket but nearer the fire, busy doing a crossword from a puzzle book, another left behind item in the cabin they rented for the weekend. The light from the fire is just enough to let him see and scribble down words. He’d refused to wear the pair of mittens they’d found in a drawer earlier to keep his hands warm and Buck can’t actually blame him; they did look a little crusty.
Suddenly Eddie looks up and when he finds Buck already looking at him it just makes him smile and Buck finds he doesn’t really mind having been caught staring.
Eddie’s mouth opens and Buck has a moment of insane hope then Eddie says.
“Six down - ‘inspiring or influencing people’ ten letters, second and third letters U- M”
Closing his riveting read Buck considers the clue, moving his way through the alphabet when he hits L he’s rather ironically illuminated.
“Luminaries”
Eddie’s eyebrows lift alongside a little pout and impressed nod. From his chair Buck has the sudden image of kissing that pout. The image flushes his cheeks but fortunately Eddie’s gone back to his puzzle book so he doesn’t notice.
He shivers again.
Eddie does notice that.
“You’re cold! Come closer to the fire.” Eddie moves to throw on another log. “You know it might be a good idea to sleep out here.”
“Together?” He gulps at the idea of curling up by a fire with Eddie.
“Yeah… need to keep warm don’t we.”
Blinking in the firelight Buck isn’t at all sure how he feels about that idea.
Eddie looks at him and there’s something in his eyes, a glimmer of hope maybe that gives Buck a drop of confidence.
“I think that’s a good idea. We could move the mattress from my room get some blankets. Kinda like a pillow fort but without the pillows.”
Eddie's face lights up. “Yeah, it sounds cozy.”
Clambering to his feet Eddie holds out a hand that Buck takes with a racing heart.
“Let’s get ready for bed then.”
It doesn’t take too long and the activity does keep them warm. Soon there’s a cozy looking camp by the fire and Eddie’s kicking off his shoes and climbing into the like of blankets.
“Come on you’ll get cold again.”
Nodding he copies Eddie and shucks off his shoes and clambers into the makeshift bed. It’s snug, they’re both quite large after all. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind the closeness so Buck thinks it’s ok to enjoy the warmth and intimacy.
“Warmer now”
He nods and makes a joke that changes his life.
“Well my nose is still cold but I can live with that.”
Eddie frowns, “a friend once told me you’re only as warm as your coldest part”
Buck laughs, he knows who told Eddie that. It was him on a star gazing trip.
“Sounds like a smart friend”
Eddie smiles. “He is, in fact he’s everything to me and I don’t think he should have a cold nose.”
Then Eddie kisses the tip of his nose.
“Anything else cold?”
Eddie’s eyes glow in the firelight. He looks nervous and hopeful and Buck can’t believe his luck. Finding Eddie’s hand under the blankets he squeezes it.
“My lips are pretty chilly.”
Eddie smiles, the twinkle in his eye declaring his love as he moves closer.
“Let’s see what we can do about that then.”
So illuminated by firelight, in the middle of a blizzard, wrapped in blankets and love Buck gets kissed by the man he loves and he’s pretty confident he’ll never ever be cold again.
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bigskydreaming ¡ 20 minutes ago
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The thing that absolutely drives me wild about Batman as a concept is that Bruce Wayne COULD change Gotham on a systemic level, with a proper commitment of his resources, I feel. Money absolutely is a gamechanger and a billionaire's wealth is like. Staggering when you actually think about it. There's a reason we talk about how the ten richest people in the world could change the entire world if they just stopped hoarding their resources and used them for the fullest benefit of all, and like yeah one billionaire isn't going to single-handedly change the world (particularly if the others are setting up roadblocks), but one city, Gotham, as a proof of concept? It could be done. It wouldn't be easy, it wouldn't be fast, but like....the kind of resources Bruce has to devote to things....it could be done.
And that's the kind of exploration I would kill to see in comics. And its also why I have very little patience for the "but you guys act like Bruce Wayne never does anything for the city except as Batman, he supports all these charities, he makes sure WE employees have the best benefits, employs tons of jobs, etc"....nah. We're talking about BILLIONS. He could do more. If you want me to believe that a literal billionaire is committing the fullest thrust of his resources to maximizing the potential of his city and the lives of everyone in it, then you can't give me this bare minimum bullshit, because it will always come across as him just doing the comic book equivalent of doing philanthropic work as a tax write-off. If nothing visibly is changing in Gotham's status quo, and nothing is visibly changing in terms of Bruce's personal bottom line and his wealth and resources....then no, you're not going to impress me with that because he's ultimately still not doing anything that real world 1 percenters aren't already doing.
And sorry not sorry, but I'm not gonna buy the whole ethical billionaire thing ON THE BASIS that "but he's a comic book character, you can't apply real world optics/expectations so yeah in comics it IS possible to be an ethical billionaire" if ultimately, you're still playing it safe with this character and he's at best still just matching particularly charitable real world one percenters. Like, if he's still a billionaire....he could be doing more. Ethical billionaires don't exist not because real world and comic books are different, they don't exist because ethically, nobody NEEDS to be a billionaire so a truly ethical billionaire would at a certain point have divested himself of so much of his personal wealth in an effort to help others that he would technically no longer be a billionaire.
(And yes, I'm aware there have been times Bruce hasn't been a billionaire but never because of what I'm talking about here, that's always been as a reactive consequence to storylines aimed at villains targeting his wealth, etc).
So....writing Dick as having essentially given away enough money that he no longer counts as a billionaire IS a more honest approach to that particular issue than the usual "oh well Bruce regularly gives more to charity than anyone else, etc" stuff. I will give it that.
BUT.
The reason I don't give Taylor any ground here is because like. As much as I truly believe that an honest to God billionaire's resources could definitively act as a game-changer to the status quo of at least a single city, if properly utilized.....
You have to show the work.
And that's the part Taylor never had any interest in. He talked a big game about having Dick realize that this was bigger than anything he could conceive on his own, that he asked everyone around him the best way to go about things, blah blah blah....but he never actually...SHOWED what any of that looked like, beyond the most shallow, superficial level.
I believe that comics have the potential to act as....social laboratories in a way, extrapolations of what society or social dynamics or societal interactions COULD look like if we were able to change various real world parameters....such as disenfranchised individuals having superpowers that could make them the equivalent of entire institutions or states attempting to oppress them, for instance. Or the application of a billionaire's wealth and resources devoid of having to bear the weight/burden of the exploitation that would HAVE to be at the root of that much initial wealth if it was wealth accrued in a real world setting. Or with X-Men comics in recent years, the examination of is it even possible for an ethical ethnostate to exist if one could theoretically be enacted without a displacement of an initial population or actual colonization, the crimes against humanity that go hand in hand with any real world attempt to create an ethnostate BECAUSE of the logistics of forming one in a real world setting, etc.
But it means nothing if you attempt to handwave a radical change to the status quo as just a progressive front, like Taylor did IMO, without having any genuine interest in doing that in order TO explore a specific vision of the future, a specific ethical/moral question, any kind of real thought experiment or extrapolation of some aspect of the world-as-is in pursuit of imagining the world-as-it-could-be.
And there was none of that in Taylor's Nightwing run. Same as there was none of that when he had Jean Grey do pretty much the EXACT SAME THING on a nation-building level in X-Men Red, with her literally going around to various visionaries, scientists, philosophers, etc and going "hey let's brainstorm how to make the world better for mutants" and then making a big deal about I've done it! I've figured out a better road forward!
....and never fucking showing even a hint of what that actually looks like, beyond employing a bunch of buzzwords that sound great on a completely superficial to the point of meaninglessness level, but utterly lack in substance the very second you start to scratch at the surface to see if there's anything more underneath that gloss.
Taylor's Dick Grayson said all the right words to come across as heroic but humble, "I'm committed to doing the right thing" but with only vague gestures at what the right thing is and "I'm smart enough to know I don't have all the answers" but never making an actual attempt at coming up with ANY answers vs just doing an "inclusive world tour" of people he asks for the answers or to help him find the answers that ultimately is just the height of performative....
Because no actual conclusions are ever drawn about WHAT to do. No actual novel ideas or ground-breaking risks are proposed. Absolutely nothing about the status quo in Bludhaven is ACTUALLY changed on ANY level that we can actually SEE....
Its just Taylor (through Dick) saying no I've done it, see, I've changed the status quo.
....DID YOU, though?
And yeah, like Em said, that's why Watters already has 110% more of my attention because like. Even with unlimited resources and the BEST of intentions....which I do believe Dick Grayson would always have, if embarking on a quest to truly enact societal change on a large scale....
NOBODY has the answers for how one individual can change an entire city. But that doesn't mean you're saying shit by just having the comics emphasize Dick saying "oh I don't have the answers" before then jumping to "but let's pretend that what I'm doing here IS the answer anyway."
The REAL follow-up to one man acknowledging he alone does not have the answers and has no infallible blueprint or roadmap to making a better future for his city is not just being like "oh I'm just a mere mortal, I can't figure this out on my own" -
It's following up on his attempts to change things and owning the fact that MISTAKES ARE GONNA BE MADE.
And the real crucible for him as THIS kind of hero is going to be what he does in the face of mistakes he makes when trying to change things on this level, wield societal power on this scale, all while not having a divine mandate that ensures he'll get shit right on the first try.
THAT'S the struggle I'm actually interested in seeing....and whether that convinces Dick its a mistake to try and be this ambitious and reverts him back to just regular day to day street vigilantism....or whether we get to see him pivoting and learning and growing from these mistakes, accepting the responsibility of them without making them an excuse to just stop trying to make things better.
I'm bored of heroes who have the power to change the world but never fucking do anything world-changing with the power because "oh we don't have the right to dream that big" because like....there's a point there, sure, but I don't particularly think that needs to be the point of every single story that imagines people with that level of power. I think there's room for stories about heroes with that power who can acknowledge and own the fact that hey, maybe nobody has the right to wield that much power but that doesn't necessarily change the fact that they DO have that much power and inaction IS still a choice in how to wield world-changing power....even if its simply by not wielding that power and thereby being complicit in the perpetuation of a broken status quo.
I DO want to read stories about someone - particularly someone who does have experience being disenfranchised and at the mercy of those with far more social power than him - being like okay, this is where I'm at. This is the reality....things need changing and I am in a position to change things, and maybe I'm not the right person for that job but maybe there is no right person and I'm just trying to avoid responsibility by saying oh this is too much responsibility.
But like. If you're going to write that story, you have to actually WRITE THAT STORY. We have to SEE this journey unfold on the page. And you have to go into that journey knowing that your hero is gonna get shit wrong before he gets stuff right, and the consequences of that HAVE to be major. Because playing with things on this scale IS major. It demands that kind of scrutiny.
And Taylor didn't want to do any of that, and that's why I have no respect for the lip service his stories pay towards showing a better, more progressive tomorrow. He never actually SHOWS anything. He talks about how his characters are going to make that future, has them make a lot of promises about how things will be different, and then goes right back to writing a next issue where literally nothing is different in any tangible, substantive way.
But if you want to actually write about, imagine, envision a better future for your characters to help bring about, you need to actually bring something to the table. An actual vision, an imagining, a step forward that readers can actually follow and be like okay, we're with you so far....
Rather than just throwing a bunch of characters at a buzzword dartboard and expecting readers to do all the work of imagining what the better future these characters are all talking about and promising might actually look like, and how any of them actually get from the Point A that is the status-quo-in-current-comics to the Point B that is your-claims-for-what-the-current-status-quo-in-comics-could-someday-become.
@hood-ex Do you happen to have that post handy where you talked about the differences in Watters' approach to having Dick try and tackle social issues in Bludhaven vs Taylor's more shallow "look I had him create a foundation, it fixed things, I don't intend to explore why or how but trust me, it fixed stuff" approach? I noticed it when I was online briefly a couple weeks ago and I was like "that sounds right but I don't know enough to support it" at the time, but I've caught up and now I feel like I know enough. I would like to support it.
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bmpmp3 ¡ 5 months ago
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holy FUCK IA's voisona 2.0 is OUT
#sorry this is just a 3 second made solfege with all auto tuning i just got the update downloaded LOL#am i insane. was i just not paying enough attention to their twitters or was this like shadow dropped#i mean we knew it would come someday but i think i forgot that like#voisona seems to do this with their 2.0s. they barely build any hype they just give em to you LOL#girl so much is happening rn. ia and one 2.0..... takuto's voicevox bank was finally announced.......#i have so many things i want to draw celebration doodles of. so many.#also this is unrelated but downloaded ia's 2.0 made me realize i was like three or so versions behind in voisona#because i like never update things in general and also i didnt realize they had updated so much#BUT holy shit. they added so much stuff so many presets and fun little bits BUT SPECIFICALLY#the tune parameter... that changes how much autopitch it has.... holy shit#now you can make a full pitchsnapping thing.... or you can have a blank slate when doing ur own tuning.... awesome#the husky parametre is still a little strange tho. its uh. so in cevio its basically just breathiness#but in voisona is like. tense and kinda. wet? you can get a but of subtle breathiness but mostly it just sounds like theyre hissing#like a cat. which can be good. but i abuse breathiness and tension in other software so i would love some parametres akin to that#although you can get some of that through the presets in the properties at least#so i would love some easier ways to play around with softness and breathiness. you can kind of fudge it with volume but its tough#but impromptu voisona editor 1.11 first impressions review aside im so excited#i neeeeeed to plug in as many covers as i can right NOW just to hear her voice AUUUUUUUHHHHHHH#unfollow me now this will be the only thing i talk about for the next week etc etc#edit: like immediately after I posted this i went back on twitter to double check something and then saw the new#cfm news. jesus christ today has been crazy for vocal synths truly
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lavellane ¡ 2 years ago
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yknow what i gave bioware too much credit with my 'hawke is Like That in dai bc the devs were playing it safe' theory. like what tf is MY hawke doing doubling down on hating the wardens when his bf sister and ? friend ? are literally wardens lol :/
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gayclubsoap ¡ 3 months ago
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what is m night shyamalan doing ever with any of his movies
#i'm sorry guys#rant in tags#i just really don't like any of his movies#if there's one i like it's probably lady in the water but it's just like my relationship with my oldest brother#i spent the least amount of time with it so i don't have much to dislike it for#(which is ironic considering i was with my oldest brother when i “saw” (it was playing on the hotel room TV as i was drifting in and out of#sleep on the futon) this movie)#but what is the point#why does he do this#i hated knock at the cabin#unbreakable was just. huh? i think m night just likes putting bruce willis in Situations#the beach that makes you old#signs also was just#probably the one i have the least amount of argument for but it wasn't my thing. some of the interactions just felt odd and unnatural#i didn't like knock at the cabin#why would he do that to the source material#why would he do that why would he do that why would he do that why wou#i've resolved to just stop putting any faith (pun very much intended) in enjoying an m night movie#why did he do that to cabin at the end of the world? does he hate gay people? why would he do that to tim price and king george iii#does he hate me specifically?#“oh yeah. it's not about *gay* people. it's just about giving up your life for a god that obviously shows no care for you#oh yeah and the couple we do this to is gay. BUT IT'S NOT ABOUT GAY PEOPLE“#i was especially disappointed because i was under the impression that katc was a MUSICAL. A MUSICAL#I JUST WANTED A CREEPY MOVIE MUSICAL AND INSTEAD I GOT THIS HOMOPHOBIC GARBAGE??
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heavenbarnes ¡ 7 months ago
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I wanna make it (so badly)
Art Donaldson x Fem Reader
Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).
Word Count: 5.8k
i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that
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Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details
Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.
Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.
Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.
You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.
You were above average with a good arm and better patience.
Another odd job to add to your growing list.
You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.
Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.
The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.
You always did very well.
So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.
Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.
But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.
Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.
What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?
He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.
As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.
The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.
Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.
Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.
If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.
The woman that once held the world by the balls.
She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.
The Donaldson's.
Ah fuck.
Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.
"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"
You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.
There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.
You were no exception to the rule.
"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."
How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.
A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.
The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.
"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."
"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."
Oh, okay then.
You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.
Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.
Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.
You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.
You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.
As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.
"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."
She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.
You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.
Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.
As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.
And you knew he was watching you.
-
The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.
A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.
"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"
You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.
Felt good to be the winner.
Even just once.
In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."
You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.
It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.
It was even easier to believe she was just that good.
As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.
Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?
Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.
Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.
Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.
Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.
It was no surprise you dreamt of him.
-
The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.
Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.
You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.
Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.
"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."
Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-
The kid's running you ragged.
Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.
But you're sure there are eyes on your back.
Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).
Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.
You know you're about to earn your keep.
By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.
Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.
Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.
That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.
You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.
The Original Sin.
Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.
"It's nice to finally meet you."
You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."
He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.
It should've felt condescending. It didn't.
"How did she go out there?"
"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."
He laughed.
Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.
Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"
You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.
"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"
Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.
He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.
"Must've been distracted."
Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.
"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."
And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.
-
And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?
An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.
An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.
A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.
At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.
That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.
"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."
You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.
Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.
"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."
"Your elbow is too low."
It was a miracle you didn't scream.
Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.
Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.
"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"
"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"
"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."
Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.
Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.
It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.
It wasn't.
"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."
If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.
As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.
And Lily upon her trusty steed.
The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.
"Lily, go find grandma."
Then it really was just you two.
Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.
"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."
He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.
With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.
Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.
As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?
"Good girl."
There it was.
Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.
So, you should've moved.
Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.
You should've moved.
But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.
Obedient thing you seem to be.
"Show me that again?"
So,
You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.
Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.
A simple transactional arrangement.
Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.
Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.
A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.
You figure Art will take what he can get.
And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.
It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.
The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.
Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.
So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.
You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.
-
Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?
Chasing Lily around a court.
Adhering to Tashi's every request.
Being Art's fantasy.
Being Art's.
Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.
Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-
Winning?
He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.
Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.
Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.
Until, well- until they weren't.
"Would you like a coffee?"
Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.
He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.
Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.
"Yes please."
Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.
You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.
Had he always looked this captivating?
He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.
It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.
This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.
Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.
"Mr. Donaldson-"
"Art."
"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."
He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."
Naturally.
That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.
Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.
Maybe it was fate.
All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.
Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,
Yet.
One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.
It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.
A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.
"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"
"Actually, it's still Duncan."
You screamed.
Right in his face.
Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.
However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.
Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.
What a fucking sight.
Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.
You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.
It took all your strength to find your words.
"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”
“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”
There's the Tashi you were expecting.
Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.
Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.
Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.
"Why am I here?"
She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.
"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."
-
And he had, just like she'd said.
Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.
And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.
You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.
Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.
You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.
But the showerhead knew all about them.
Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.
How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.
It was no surprise you dreamt of him.
You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.
And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.
Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?
That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.
You loved it.
When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.
Tashi's car was gone.
"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."
At least you didn't scream this time.
You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.
"Oh, ok."
"I'll see you on the court."
Oh, ok.
Lest he see the disappointment that took over.
Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.
Tennis was fun too, you guess.
Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.
You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.
It never came.
Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.
The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.
This was going to hurt.
From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.
Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.
You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.
He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-
Like he was enjoying himself.
For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.
For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.
Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.
You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.
No hurry, but impending.
Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.
Now this was God's favourite.
"You can't be giving up this easily?"
Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"
Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.
Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.
This was more your speed.
The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.
Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.
Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.
"I didn't give up."
He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.
"Mmm, you didn't."
The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.
"Where's my prize?"
There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.
But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.
You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.
Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.
Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.
Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.
You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.
His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.
With everything he had.
Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.
Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.
You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.
Utterly devotional.
The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.
His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.
Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.
The style was calculated.
Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.
Playing a game.
Art struggled to do anything but win.
"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."
"Art."
Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.
You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.
It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.
You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.
"Tell me this feels good, please."
Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?
You might black out.
"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."
He whined.
A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.
Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.
The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.
He was going for gold.
A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.
You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.
Oh, ok.
Art Donaldson knew what he liked.
You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.
Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).
Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.
A deuce.
His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.
"Uh- I already have."
Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.
Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.
Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.
All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.
He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.
Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.
"I can't lose- you."
7K notes ¡ View notes
screampied ¡ 11 months ago
Text
MONEY HONEY! — ☆ GOJO SATORU.
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➤ popstar!gojo masterlist
headline. fucking your client wasn’t on your bucket list. the famous popstar 'toru' says he can’t perform because of issues he’s having with his voice. but he finds another way to warm up his vocal cords—it involves being between your legs.
word count. 4.2k
warnings. fem! reader, popstar!gojo, pwp, unprotected sex, modern au, he's a whiney brat, overstim, degradation, praise, semi public, impact play, cunnilingus, fingering.
an. lol this was fun 2 write !! ty @osaemu as always for beta'ing
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“…nono, you don’t understand. i can’t go out there, i just…can’t—!” gojo mutters, and he’s pacing back and forth. talk about a drama queen. to think you had to deal with this every day, being the infamous satoru gojo’s personal assistant was never an easy task. his attire was…quite enthralling, to say the least. gojo was draped up in a sheeny black one-piece with rhinestones attached in a few places, he always had his outfits designed a certain way. not too tight, not too big.
you sat on the sofa, taking a sip of a latte he bought you as thanks for saving him to deal with the hoards of paparazzi that practically lived outside the stadium back-way entrance.
“satoru, you do this before every show,” you sigh, glancing at him. you couldn’t lie to yourself, he was strikingly handsome. gojo’s hair was a tad bit messy and ruffled. it was a slight v-cut towards his chest to show a bit of skin. his fangirls always went wild over the most minimal things such as that. “you do realize you’re supposed to be performing in front of 10,000 people? canceling right before a show isn’t a good l—”
“i know…i know,” he pouts, and he’s so unserious, you sort of found it hard to believe this was a millionaire pop star who’s such a household name. gojo lets off a loud sigh before walking towards you with a sheepish grin. “these cough drops you’ve been givinʼ me haven’t done shit.”
“really...” you deadpan, casually giving him nothing but a sly eye roll.
gojo sulks and he’s just a few feet apart from you now. “mhm…really,” he says, and the slight rasp in his voice catches your attention. his earpiece was still on, as well with his mic that hung just barely underneath his chin. “i did research though. about other methods that help with heh, um vocal fry..”
you stare up at the popstar, and he’s returning the gaze…as if he was trying to hide the smile that was already forming against his pink lips. you don’t give him an answer and this time, he’s the one to roll his eyes.
“…well since you asked so nicely,” he grumbles, the same pout going against his face before he pulls out his phone. gojo scrolls a thumb down against his bright screen before clearing his throat. “hm, according to this accurate article, it says… to fully recover from vocal fry, a guy must uh, receive a special treat within a woman’s—”
you blankly stare at him, already second-guessing his fake response. “just say you want to eat me out, satoru.”
“wha— where’d you get that impression?” he plays dumb, furrowing his eyebrows and cowardly looking around the room. a few seconds go by before he shrugs, speaking quickly, defeated. “….fine i wanna eat you out. hmph.”
you turn your head for a brief moment, hearing the defending roars of the crowd just a few areas down from the dressing room the two of you currently stayed in. “maybe after your show, they're chanting for y—”
“they can wait,” he frowns, and he turns you around, two hands softly holding onto your shoulders. gojo remained with a pout, bottom lip just slightly tucking underneath the top one. “i can’t.”
the both of you grow quiet for a long moment, and gojo seems serious—dramatic, but serious. you and him both exchanged sensual eye contact, and you were so close to gojo that you could practically smell the strong cinnamon scent of his intoxicating cologne. the popstar smooths his lips together before briefly shifting his eyes down at the floor and then back up at you. 
“five minutes…five minutes, that isn't too long is it?” he stammers, and the gaze the two of you made starts to get more and more intense. “i won’t get into too much trouble if it's just five minutes right?”
“you’re insufferable.” you mumble, letting off a soft sigh. “okay, five minutes. if you say this helps with your—vocal whatever.”
not much to your surprise, five minutes turned into half an hour. 
you held back a moan the sudden second you felt gojo’s warm tongue swiftly lap against your drenched folds. he made you wriggle against him, and you maintained a rough grip against the laid-back sofa.
“s-satoru,” you’d whimper out, gasping at how sloppy he was. you were prompt up in such a position to where you were bent over the arm part of the couch, skirt lifted, fishnets just barely pulled down, and the most vulgar expression. “oh my g-goddd, you're gonna make the others outside h-hear.”
“you’ll just have to be a little more quiet, assistant,” he whispers, cool breath fanning against your pussy. perhaps this was unprofessional, no it was very unprofessional. a plethora of following consequences started to race through your mind. “what time is it?”
you moaned, reaching near the wooden half table for his watch and read the time, “um.. quarter past eight.”
“aw man,” he sulks, softly licking the your tender pulsating numb with the very tip of his tongue. with a quick second, he maneuvers circles all over your clit to feel you squirm and jitter against him. “that much time passed? can’t stand rushing…”
as you cling onto the fluffed couch, your black pencil skirt that was just sluggishly raised, and yet, you continued to gnaw the inside of your lip from the feelings of his tongue, entirely sloppy.
the slurps that exited from his mouth had your bottom lip quivering in such desire. you craved more, the way he swirled and curved the length of his tongue throughout your pussy earned umpteen gasps and whines from you. 
“s—satoru,” you’d croak out, and he’s casually taking the time to make out with your folds. languidly, your slick race down his chin, and between breaks to breathe, he'd lap up his tongue before diving back in. “fuck, ‘m gonna cum again, think ‘m gonna cum..”
“wait a little longer, yeah?” he murmurs, grabbing the fat of your ass with two rough hands. you felt bundles of butterflies stir inside your stomach, feeling gojo’s nose swipe against your folds for a few jiffs. “let me eat, haven't had a good meal all fuckin’ day.”
you swallowed, not even facing him but you could practically see the grin stretching across his lips. “and…and who’s fault was that?”
he chuckles, warm breath fanning against your cunt. “okay, you have a point,” and your thighs feel feverish—you’re so hot, and not because of the sudden humidity wafting around the small dressing room.
the popstar lolls out his tongue, humming before you moan, feeling him lick your pussy in a straight direction. “mhm, this is better than anything else though.”
you were about to speak, but all that did was make you let out a shaky whine. the smooth pads of his thumbs graze against both parts of your ass as he continued to eat you out like a starved man. it was as if time stood still, your mouth grew exceedingly dry and your legs felt like they could barely stand up on their own. 
“sa..satoru,” you once more repeated, not knowing how long you could last. simply, his tongue was dangerous—god, it was just the way he moved it in every direction.
he knew where to lick, where to suck, and even nibble. gojo found himself tickling his tongue against your little nub before sucking on it. all to hear you cry out in desperation. cacophonies of whimpers depart from your glossed lips such as, ‘satoru,’ ‘please-please,’ and ‘m gonna c-cum.’
there was no denying, gojo had you an entire stammering mess. you found yourself even questioning how this became, the two of you were never intimate. although, there's always been steamy moments between the two of you. 
for instance, there was a moment where gojo took you with him to the hot springs while he was on tour…which non-surprisingly led to a hot make-out sesh. that was a few months ago, and the two of you decided to not think much of it. of course, though, there are always assumptions being made about the two of you—always from the nosy journalists and interviewers. 
each interview, it’d always be questions they’d ask about the precious little assistant that’s essentially attached by the hip to the famous gojo satoru.
“are you and that girl exclusive yet?”
“how long have you two seen each other?”
“please. describe to us. what’s she like in b—”
they’d get more perverted each time. alas, gojo always loathed it whenever the press referred to you as ‘that’ girl.
his jaw would always clench in sheer annoyance. perhaps he didn't have the right to feel that way, but he was somewhat protective over you. it wasn't like you were his bodyguard or anything clearly, but still. he always liked how you treated him just like you’d treat anyone else.
“satoru..” you'd cut him off from his deep thoughts. “your phone keeps beeping.”
“huuuuh?” he grouches, ears perking at the annoying screech of his device. gojo’s thumbs remain against both edges of your ass before he breaks off his lips, a long string of his saliva running down your slit. “oh, can you hand it to me?”
he's so nonchalant, and with your back still arched, you lightly fling his phone towards him.
he grumbles.
picking up the phone, typing in his twenty-one digit passcode of ‘sexymansexyspraycan69’ before with a click, it unlocks. gojo darts his eyes towards his phone and hums at the five messages left by his manager, kento nanami. 
‘Greetings. Where are you? Message me Ass.’
‘ASAP. Autocorrect.’
‘Your fans think your dead.’
‘Don’t tell me you're busy with that assistant of yours again.’
‘When your sales start going low, don't blame me.’
and many more unread, “blah blah yeah yeah,” gojo murmurs, skimming through the loads of unread gray bubbled messages. “nothing important. geez, can't have a single moment to myself.”
you were so close to orgasming and that's when gojo flips you over to face him—you're panting and he flashes you a soft smile, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “aw, waiting for me?” he whispers, bringing a gentle kiss towards the inner corner of your neck. his touch was immensely warm, something you just couldn't describe. “you wanna cum don't you, baby?
“m-mhmm.” was all you could manage out, wrapping your arms around him as he got right between you. gojo continues to trail kisses down your neck before chuckling. 
“use those words, c’mon. don't be shy. i wanna hear ya tell me what you want.”
the way he was such a tease, you couldn't stand him, then again you could. so annoying, gojo’s warmth of his performing outfit brushed against your skin. the perfectly knitted fabric of it dancing against your skin as he inched closer towards you. “tell me how much of a messy girl you wanna be.”
“i—” you started, and he took a moment to stare into your eyes. gojo looked so pretty, smug yes, but pretty. long lashes each time he blinked, fluttering against him. whenever he showcased that well-known cheeky smile of his, his dimples would poke right against his lips. “i-i wanna cum. please, lemme cum, ‘toru..”
“pretty girllll wants to cummmm,” he sings in a playful melodic tune. again, you couldn't stand him. singing right in the middle of something so intimate. gojo runs a hand down your buttoned-up shirt before chuckling. “hm, i suppose. go ahead, let go fʼr me.”
once you do, immediately your vision turns dizzy. all you saw was a few blotches of white, and it feels so good that the feelings have you biting down on your lip. gojo leans into your neck, whispering sweet nothings against you while giving your ass a soft caress.
“good girl, just let go…yeah,” he purrs, giving your collarbone a gentle suck. you taste so sweet to him. you're addicting, simple as that. like candy, he can't get enough of.
gojo satoru had a sweet tooth for you, there was no doubt about it. “fuck, i can just suck on you all day,” he utters in a low voice, and his warm hands part your thighs so he can get a bit more between you. “i need more…fuck the fans, i need you.”
“idiot, don’t say that..” you moan, and he's kissing all down the crevices of your neck again. gojo’s lips against your tender skin gave you chills. even still, you were so hot, from the neck down. it felt amazing, the feeling of him sucking and kissing against your skin to such a point that you're just throbbing. “t-they’re waiting for you.”
“they can keep waiting,” he smiles, leaning down to kiss near your chest, moving the exclusive backstage lanyard pass away with a slight grip. “damn, you don't know how hard i’ve been during rehearsal. i—i think about you, you know?”
you gawk up at him as his body towers over you, his costume glimmers in the light before he starts to peel it off carefully. you were taken by surprise so you mutter, “you…you do?”
“well yeah girl,” he rolls his eyes, such sass in his tone, following with the low rasp that hid underneath his voice. “you drive me crazy in the worst way.”
“the feeling’s mutual, popstar.” you utter, a glint in your eye.
“hmpf. now that i was nice enough to let you cum, you decide to be a brat, huh?” he raises a brow, using two fingers to brush his mic piece aside. 
a coyish grin goes against your lips. “sorry. are you gonna do anything about it?”
“…shut up..” he grumbles, and he does. 
pretty much, you then found yourself on your hands and knees on the couch, feeling gojo caress your ass briefly before meeting the mounds of your skin with a mean spank.
you suck in shortened breath. “ooh,” he says as you moan in unison with the light thwack. “you get off on spanks, huh?” he utters in a grouse, the feeling of his palm kissing against your skin making you continuously pulse. 
“n-no.” you spat. 
“liar,” he matches your snarky tone, and you let off a gasp once you feel him finally rub the tip of his dick against your folds. gojo grows abnormally quiet the minute your slick coats his length freely. “fuckkk,” he sighs, eyes closing for a short second. you teasingly wriggled your ass against him and he spanks you again. “you’re so impatient, wait.”
“do you even know how to fuck?” you slip out, and you held back a giggle. perhaps you shouldn't have said that, your thoughts did speak way more than they should anyway. 
gojo’s eyebrows curl into a furrow, and his voice genuinely sounds offended. “wha—?! of course i  do.”
“just asking.” you tease. 
“just asking,” he mocks your tone, completely butchering it purposely and gojo slowly starts to make his way inside of your tight pussy. he's gradually moving himself in, and you let off a moan before he continues, “yeah. shut the f-fuck up.”
a small grin stretches against your lips because you hear how gojo stutters whilst sinking inches into you. even while trying to be mean and degrading, he was so close to moaning himself. it was simply adorable. you maintained a mere pristine arch while biting the inside of your cheek once more. 
“you're s-so wet ‘n sloppy,” he huffs out a groan, and the squelches your pussy made against him were simply enticing. for a second, you grew mute once you gave your own body a listen. just the faint sounds of gojo’s jagged breathing, “f-fuck, ‘s good. keep facing that way, just like that. good.”
gojo’s touch against your spine was purely gossamer. 
he was soft, gentle, delicate.
yet the minute he started to create a pace with his rollicked hips, he couldn't contain himself. the way his dick probed throughout your walls, you kissed your teeth in longing—just for him to just hurry.
gojo was always such a tease, the fat plump head of his cock dabbing against your pussy. 
“s-stop playing and just put it in.” you moaned, growing impatient by the mile. 
“heh, you know what they say,” he mumbles, you pulse even more once you feel him slide in about a single inch or two…only to then go right back out. “patience is a virgin.”
“…it’s virtue.”
“that’s what i sai—”
“just fuck me.” you whined. 
gojo giggles, and finally, he starts up his slovenly pace again. he grips your hips before sighing. he takes note of the way you progressively suck him in.
you linger over the couch, the fabric of your pencil skirt just hovering over your waist before gojo starts to sway his hips. 
you had to stop yourself from being so noisy, executives were probably in the other room.
some kind of meeting perhaps occurring, yet here you were, happily entangled with your client. such thick inches he was dumping into you had nearly drooling. gojo’s base was rotund and fat, thwacking and thwacking against you to where you were so dizzy. 
“f-fuck, ‘toru.. ‘s good,” you whined, every few seconds he’d smack your ass to watch your ass jiggle with such recoil. it was one of his favorite moments to witness. as your lips stuck together, your thighs already felt weak and tremulous. 
“damn girl…didn't expect you to s-start throwin’ yourself back again me,” he sibilates, and for a concise moment, his head goes back. a groan flies past his glossed pink lips as your ass continued to thrash against him. “you're such a needy girl. tryna…f-fuck me back..”
the way his voice unintentionally got low whenever he was in such a trance had you throbbing, such convulses making you nearly weak in the knees.
to you, the feeling was indescribable. such pools of heat ran between your legs the more his thrusts picked up.
his dick reached every spot, so much so being precise—you felt the curve of his length analyze throughout your inner walls. it didn't miss a spot, he reached deep and you let off the cutest whimper. “god, r-right there. please, ‘toru. y-your curve, ‘s reaching me deep.”
“you f-flatter me,” he pants, trying to ignore his flusteredness. gojo’s right hand, the hand that had a half-cut open glitter glove that coordinated alongside his outfit ghosts against your ass. his lip quivers from his pace, and the way your pussy just sucks him dry, a few splotches of pre-cum cutely coated against the outer part of your ass. “fuck, dunno how much i can take with you movin’ your ass against me like that…shit, shit.”
“…s-satoru,” you breathed, biting down on your arm to suppress your moans a bit. not before long, he deepens the angle and you feel his sharped hips piston in utter contentment. “fuck, f-fuck. ‘s deep.”
gojo groans, swallowing the nonexistent lump in his throat before he feels himself coming close.
“think you’re gonna m-milk me dry,” he gasps, jerk after jerk his hips go against you at full throttle. the base of his dick, you hear the pap pap pap noises commence, and it’s so obscene. “shit, think ‘m in love,” and then you grow hot. it’s a long inelegant pause before he adds to his words, “…i-in love with your pussy.”
you were gonna comment on something, but you were too fucked dumb to comprehend anything. you’re being fucked stupid into the cushioned sofa. the cottony bristles of the fabric went against your skin as your body lurched forward each time. 
splaying at an almost animalistic pace, gojo’s ears, the very tips of them at least grow incredibly hot, you’re making his body heat up, scorching. the way your pussy tightly hugged around him like a vice, he was obsessed.
he just couldn’t get enough. to think this was the first time he’s been this intimate with you—oh, how he could only imagine what it’d be like for a second time, or a third time, or a…
“s-satoru, your phone’s ringing..”
he grunts, glancing down to see the bright-lit screen display, and this time it’s geto. with an eye roll, he ignores it, still gripping your hips, he’s attaining his peak before he lets off a husky groan. “f-fuck, ‘m gonna cum.. can i—?”
“y-yes, jus’ do it, ‘toru,” you spoke, not even letting him finish his sentence—you knew what he was gonna ask though if he could shoot inside. you were so drunk from his dick, thoughts on your mind were straight mush. 
“okay, okay,” he breathes, and even his moans were pretty. figures, gojo was a soprano, so he was bound to sound angelic, even while moaning his head off. it had the perfect pitch to it, such rasp in it, almost breathy. 
you feel gojo’s pelvic bone thrust a bit more at a quickened pace, accelerating just a bit more and his nerves were just going wild. “fuck, f-fuck..” he grunts, and he starts to grow a bit whiney, his sloppy hits against your rear made out to be a tad bit voluntary, rhythm a bit more expedite, and he clenched his jaw. 
once gojo came, it's so much.
thick ropes that seeped right into you. you moan, and he pauses his hips just to watch, feeling himself pouring all inside. velvety ropes of the popstar’s cum fills you up to the brim. you're panting, he's panting, and gojo was in love.
was it love? he didn't know, but his pupils were dilated for sure. 
his breath hitches once he pulls out, watching his cum slowly spill out between your folds and he lets off a moan. “made me fuck such a mess into you,” he spouts, running a thumb down your slit to watch you cutely jounce against his touch. 
“you ruined my panties,” you whined, turning over to face him—gojo leaned in for a kiss, and you returned the favor, tasting yourself once more on his lips. the sweetened taste of your slick that remained all over his tongue. 
“baby, it's not like you need them,” he rasps, grabbing ahold of you, and he positions you to get on his lap. “besides, i was gonna ask to keep them.”
“why?” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his neck, slipping off a moan at his already sensitive tip hovering against your entrance as you realigned yourself. 
timidly, he runs a hand down his neck. “y’know. for uh…good luck? was gonna keep them in my pocket or something.”
“you're so—”
“shhh.” he hums, interrupting your words for another tender kiss. your tongue slides against his, and he tastes minty.
as his breath collides against yours, you playfully bite down on his lip. gojo grunts, and he’s making your way inside again. gingerly, you sink against his thick base and he gives your ass a mean squeeze before spanking it once you start to move. 
“oh f-fuck…fuck, forgot how sensitive-” he hiccups, watching with half-lidded eyes at your hips rotating against him in an orderly fashion. you moan from his pleasure, taking a second to swallow before whimpering—softly, you kiss against his neck and he grunts. “you-you make me feel so good, baby.”
gojo’s almost at a loss for words, he’s had his fair share of women, but none could make him feel like this.
besides, he's never had the time. touring day in and day out was a hassle, and intimacy was a straight no due to his overly busy schedule. 
although, whilst the two of you were screwing around, making out and you're riding him, cowgirl, that’s right when the wooden creaky door bursts open.
not to anyone’s surprise, it's no one other than gojo’s best friend and bassist, suguru geto.
“you've got to be joking,” he utters with crossed arms, immediately darting his eyes away. “everyone’s been calling you, there's a search party, and—”
geto pauses, tilting his head. “…is that my clothes you're wearing, satoru?”
“suguru…hey man,” gojo gasps, nervous laughter following his tone—you jump in surprise, and he wraps an arm around your waist. “i’m… kinda busy here.”
“i don't give a fuck,” he grumbles. “by the way. your mic was on the entire time. you moan like a girl more than her.”
gojo’s eyes widen, reaching for the tiny button near the edge of his mic.
indeed, the switch was turned on and he awkwardly laughed, bringing the speaking part up to his lips.
“eheh…hey mic check?” and he could hear himself echo through the earpiece. embarrassing.
despite you still being inside, you just sat there—geto staring away, not even trying to comprehend what was happening before gojo coos out a subtle cheeky, “uh…i didn't know my mic was on. my bad.”
“you're so stupid...” you run a hand against your forehead in disbelief. an entire stadium practically heard the both of you. 
the heels of geto turned before gojo brought a finger against your lips to shush, and he pouts. “sugu wait,”
“what.” he mutters, turning back around. 
“wanna join…? don't think a few more minutes wouldn't hurt…r-right?”
“…….”
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itoshikinozomu ¡ 1 year ago
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Btw beware about intercepting cop shit sometimes the issues last 😑
#i mean is it disability or just having to deal with casual visits over every damn thing because of certain records#like i mean the attention is overwhelming (the weird thing about cops is that sometimes they are straight up almost flirty)#these cases are the worst tho because it's kind of up against the wall but nothing happens but you know if anything happened either you are#casual about it either well i won't elaborate#or at least this is the impression it gives but I think they just play games because at some point i kinda played along#and he got uncomfortable like so uncomfortable i mean the dude went silent and sat in my stair for over 45 minutes#i did nothing just gave an ok vibe#was enough 😐#maybe he was like really unsure either way he wanted but like we have a bidet bitch#all that when his colleague yelled at my bitch and asked them for a coffee next#some destiny's child was even playing in the bg#we had so much fun 🥺#everyone wanted to bottom especially the yelling one probably like i mean bitch probably on the way to arrest crimes#and we dunno how we got here i mean it was my dad who made the call over a clown thing but a mega one#that's why i kinda hate him#twice#but like he just...i don't know why he prank cops over my case but sometimes parents are insane#i had to go to fed court because he thought he was funny...#like...dude#i wasn't guilty of course but he had to say funny quotes to the cops#and he straight up no helped because he was like “oh shit fuck ohshit oh no but not guilty and work every receipts but oh shit fuck sorry”#when i received the real receipts he almost landed us in a wall ajdjsjsjfjfjd#i mean with car and everything#but in face of things#we figured#this is stupid and keep the circus up#and i won while he went...i mean imagine#i cope as much as i can#bitch just roam around in jacksonville to prance i mean what are you doing here?#i mean i get the very will to die but can you cope better you don't go through the deal bitch eh oh
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rotary-supercollider ¡ 6 months ago
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Average leverage episode
Victim: please mr. Leverage. They bought my orphanage and they’re going to sell all the orphans I need you to stop them
Nate “Leverage” Leverage: I think we can get you some… leverage
Sophie: I’m going to start a bullshit argument now
Nate: please dont
Sophie: it’s going to last the whole episode
Nate: 🙄women (laughtrack)
Hardison: alright this is our mark Mr. Monopoly. He owns 16 weapons companies and took in 100000 billion million dollars last year. He just got into the orphan business and on the weekends he plays puppy golf.
Parker: whats puppy golf
Hardison: it’s like golf but you use puppies
Elliot: I’ve seen it. (snifffs deeply) not fun
Hardison: this guys ruthless. we’re going to be exploiting his one weakness. He really likes having a lot of money
Sophie: how?
Nate: we go steal an abstract concept
*they steal an abstract concept*
The mark: hello. I was impressed by your ownership of an abstract concept
Sophie: we’ll give you 50 trillion dollars for the orphanage
Mark: Zamn!!!
Sophie: 😏 we got him
*1 day later*
Sophie: here’s the 50 trillion dollars (holds up briefcase full of crimes)
The mark: I don’t want your money any more. I have a new plan. I’m goijng to dress all the orphans in hot dog costumes and start a theme park
Sophie: 😦
Elliot: we’re blown
Nate: Sophie throw the briefcase 💼 in the lake
Mark: whoa!! Thats wet money
Sophie: I can give you 5000 more orphans. Meet me at this unmarked warehouse in 6 hours
Mark: awooga
Hardison: Nate do you have a plan?
Nate: not yet
*Fade to black*
Nate: alright the marks on his way. Hardison what’s your 20
Hardison: I need at least 30 minutes to finish this Lego Taj Mahal
Nate: ok I’ll stall
Nate (playing bit character): I cooka da pizza!! Ohhhh (drops full pan of sauce on the marks head instantly killing him) mamma Mia (walks into the sea)
Parker: guys we have a problem
*6 Bad Men materialize out of thin air*
Elliot: 😒I got this 👊👊👊👊👊👊👊👊👊👊👊🤛🤜🤛🤜✊🩼✊🦶🦵✊🤛🚪🦶✊🦵🤌✊🦶👊🦵✊✊👊🎷👊👊👊
*the Bad Men disintegrate*
Elliot: shit hes here (dives into a trash can)
*the mark reaches the building. There are orphans waving at him from the windows*
Mark: ok I’m here to take the orphans
The police: SIR YOURE COMING WITH US
Mark: what?? This is a completely legal orphan deal
Police: theres no orphans here
*police man grabs an orphan. Hes flat. Flashback to Hardison setting up 5000 cardboard orphan cutouts*
Mark: but what are you arresting me for??
Police man: sir you filled all of city hall with gravy
*flashback to Nate filling city hall with gravy while wearing a T-shirt that says “Im bad businessman”*
Mark: you can’t do this to me!!
Police: (arrests him)
Nate: heh. You could say he got... Leveraged
Parker: i have autism
Everyone: oh my god Parker shut up
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wheres-mylove ¡ 3 months ago
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ice-cold revelations - modern!cregan stark x fem!velaryon!reader
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Summary: You are in a risky secret relationship with your brother's best friend. What happens when Cregan's unexpected injury exposes your feelings? Well, isn't there somebody you forgot to ask?
Disclaimer: English isn't my first language!
Word count: 2.8k
The wind tore through the streets with a biting ferocity, tugging at (Y/N)’s skirt and making her instantly regret both her outfit choice and this entire trip to the bus stop.
“Stupid winter has to be coming,” she muttered, yanking a colorful scarf up to cover her nose. Her phone chimed in her pocket, vibrating with the familiar sound of a new message. She fumbled with one hand to pull it out, her fingers stiff from the cold.
🐺: jace wouldn’t stop bugging me about that earring under my bed
🐺: i convinced him sara must’ve left it when she crashed at our place lmao
(Y/N) raised her eyebrows, her breath fogging the air as she sighed. The last thing she needed was her brother playing the part of a suspicious rom-com wife, finding random jewelry in odd places and jumping to conclusions. At least he hadn’t figured out where he’d seen that earring before.
Jacaerys Velaryon, as much as she adored him, had a habit of being a little too protective. He was always there when she needed him. But he was also the kind of brother who, despite being only a few minutes older, seemed to think that fact gave him full control over her dating life. Any guy who so much as glanced her way was either a potential threat or one of his friends. And friends were off-limits. Too much drama, he’d say. Too awkward if things went south. Even more awkward if things somehow worked out. Conflict of interest. Absolutely not.
Which was precisely why, in the grand scheme of things, the most logical solution was for her to start dating his best friend and his hockey team captain, Cregan Stark.
Cregan was wonderful. The kind of guy who would do anything for her, no questions asked. That's what had brought them to where they were now. Hiding their relationship from her dramatic brother and quite literally gaslighting him.
Did she feel guilty? Absolutely. Did she know it would be a hundred times worse if Jace found out? Also yes.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a bus speeding past the stop, tires screeching as it flew by. Her bus. Of course.
With impressive force, she pressed the green phone icon.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s up?” Cregan answered in three seconds. Her irritation melted a little at the sound of his deep voice. Down bad.
“Hey, did you guys finish practice?”
“Yeah, just now, I couldn’t cut the boys any slack before tomorrow.”
“Any chance the strict captain could give me a ride home? I missed the bus. Or more like the bus missed me.”
“You’re kidding,” Cregan said, sympathy already thick in his voice. “Of course I’ll come get you.” He paused for a beat, then cleared his throat. “Only thing is… Jace wanted a ride too.”
“The gods are punishing me today,” she groaned.
“Call him. It'll be the same ride. Just, you know, he'll think it was his idea,” Cregan suggested.
“Are we bad people, Cregan?” she asked, half-serious now.
“Nah. He’ll find out eventually, just better if I’m in full hockey gear when it happens.”
“Fair enough,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smile. “Thanks. Love you. Bye.”
She hung up and immediately dialed her brother, requesting the same exact thing.
“Sure, you owe me one though,” he said cheerfully. “I don’t have my car today, so we’ll have to go with Stark. Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” No, her boyfriend wouldn’t be a problem.
(Y/N) Velaryon paced back and forth under the shelter of the bus stop, her boots crunching against the thin layer of frost that had already formed on the pavement. She rubbed her arms, trying to keep the cold at bay, when the familiar growl of a black Jeep Wrangler cut through the quiet. It rolled to a stop near the curb.
She jogged toward the car, her breath puffing out in small clouds, as the driver’s window slid down.
“Your chariot awaits, princess,” Cregan announced with a mock flourish.
“More like a toad,” Jace quipped from the passenger seat, his grin unmistakable.
“One more word and you’ll get my bag to the head. I’ve got half my textbooks in there,” she threatened playfully as she slid into the backseat.
The backseat of this car had witnessed many events, and that was the first thought that crossed her mind. One look at Cregan in the side mirror, and she knew he was thinking the same.
She pretended to be very engrossed in buckling her seatbelt.
“How was practice?” she asked out of politeness.
“Not bad. Stark was all business today, but it was necessary. Big day tomorrow,” Jace replied, fiddling with the radio. Cregan slapped his hand away as he slowed down for a red light.
“Great,” the girl muttered, not trusting her tongue around the two of them together.
An awkward silence fell, broken only by some random song. How long can a red light last?
“So, (Y/N),” Cregan began, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. His voice wavered, but Jace was in his own world, watching pedestrians crossing the street. “How’s it going? How was your day?”
“Pretty good,” she replied, playing with the hem of her skirt. “Though the classes dragged on.”
The devil on her shoulder won an uneven fight with the weak angel. She smirked.
“‘M absolutely knackered.”
Cregan inhaled slowly through his nose.
“Dude, it’s green,” Jace informed him, just before the car behind them honked.
“I can see,” Cregan reassured him, finally moving forward. “I’ll need your sister’s address since I’ve never been there before.”
If Jace had one more brain cell, he wouldn’t be so easily fooled.
“Sure thing,” her brother agreed, typing the info into the GPS on his phone. “Hey, kid, are you coming to the game tomorrow?”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” (Y/N) asked angrily, kicking his seat. “Baela’s taking me.”
“You know what I think?” Jace started, spreading his arms dramatically. “A girlfriend in the stands is such a power boost. Such a boost… I never play as well as when Baela supports me from the bleachers.”
“You never play well,” His sister muttered under her breath, but Jacaerys was currently listening only to himself.
“Cregan wouldn’t get it,” He patted Cregan on the shoulder in the meantime. “If you combined your skills with that support, if you brought a girl, trust me, your performance would be a hundred times better.”
“Talented people don’t need superstitions to play well, Jace,” (Y/N) chimed in, leaning forward. “Besides, Cregan is single.”
“Because he’s too serious and broody, girls don’t like that,” her brother declared in a know-it-all voice. She gave him a side-eye. “He is afraid of women.”
“Are you afraid of women, Stark?” she asked seriously, barely holding back laughter.
Cregan shot her a look in the mirror, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Terrified,” he deadpanned. “That’s why I’m thinking maybe your sister should be my good luck charm tomorrow. Just as a friend, of course.”
“Eh, it’s not the same,” Jace protested, scrunching his face.
“Don’t you believe in the power of friendship?” the driver asked with full seriousness.
“Can I get a jersey with your number?” (Y/N) batted her lashes playfully at her boyfriend.
A jersey with his number was already hanging in her closet.
“Alright, you’ll see, you need deeper feelings for it to work, otherwise it just won’t…”
Jacaerys continued his monologue all the way to her apartment. The girl sighed with relief once she was back in her room, the familiarity of it a welcome escape from the tension.
Two new messages.
🐺: you looked so pretty today
🐺: but next time wear a damn coat, or you’ll catch a cold!!!
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The fluorescent light above (Y/N)’s head flickered ominously, casting creepy shadows across the cramped janitor’s closet. She swore that if the bulb died completely, she'd either pee her pants or spiral into a full-blown claustrophobic meltdown. Leaning back against the wall, she tried to focus on the neatly arranged rows of brooms and mops. Soon, the door creaked open, revealing Cregan in all his glory.
Full hockey gear? Check. Helmet? Tucked under his arm. That goofy, ridiculous smile? Definitely check.
“You look so good,” she admitted, grabby hands already in the air. “Come here.”
Cregan shut the door behind him with a soft click, casting a glance at the flickering light overhead. He sighed, took one of her hands, and kissed her wrist softly. 
“We have to tell your brother,” Stark said, his voice serious as he placed his helmet on the wooden shelf beside them. “It’s not right that my girl has to sneak me a good-luck kiss in a smelly closet. You should be able to strut right into the locker room.”
His girl grinned. “You’ve got your gear on,” she pointed out. “We can tell him after the game. Besides, Baela’s softening him up for us. I asked her to.”
Baela Targaryen was known for sniffing out secrets, and the second she spotted (Y/N) wearing Cregan’s jersey before the game, she didn’t even need to ask. Her knowing look said it all, and within minutes, Velaryon girl spilled the truth, enduring Baela’s delighted squeal that had probably echoed for miles.
“I knew you had high standards, girl. Going straight for the captain!” Baela teased, laughing. “Jace obviously doesn’t know? He hasn’t said anything... and Stark’s still breathing.”
Thankfully, Baela had been more than willing to help, distracting Jace so Cregan could sneak away after the pre-game pep talk. Now, Cregan was looking at (Y/N) with pride, his eyes lingering on the jersey she wore. 
“She’s a real one for that,” he mused. “But seriously, we have to tell him. I want a picture of us on my lock screen, and that asshole keeps looking over my shoulder.”
She laughed, pulling him closer and kissing him hard, savoring the way his rough stubble tickled her skin.
“For now,” she murmured against his lips, “just focus on the game. You’re incredible. An amazing captain. And it’s going to go great. I believe in you.”
Cregan grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe one more kiss. Just to make sure we win.”
“The power of having a girl in the stands,” she teased, poking his chest playfully.
“Jace definitely exaggerated that theory,” Cregan confessed with a chuckle. “But honestly... I’m just glad you’re here.”
With butterflies in her stomach and a grin she couldn’t wipe off her face, (Y/N) found herself in the stands minutes later, sitting next to Baela. Her friend was watching the silent exchange of glances between her and Cregan with thinly veiled amusement.
“I always knew Jace was blind, but this is just tragic,” Baela remarked, elbowing her in the ribs. Jace, oblivious as ever, waved enthusiastically from the rink. Both girls waved back, cheering with the crowd.
“You’ll boo with me when the Dornish Spears come out, right?” (Y/N) asked.
Baela gave her a mock-serious look. “Technically, we shouldn’t. Obviously, I will,” she promised. 
The game was fast, brutal, and nearly deadlocked until the very end. (Y/N) had never yelled so much in her life, though her shouts were lost in the deafening roar of the crowd. Cregan played like a man possessed, commanding the ice with his usual grace. At least twenty times during the match, she found herself holding her breath, her heart leaping into her throat with every risky play. But she knew he had it under control. He always did.
Of course they won.
The victory rippled through the stands like a wave, and (Y/N) screamed herself hoarse as the crowd erupted around her. Cregan pulled off his helmet, his eyes scanning the stands until he found her. His smile—tired and breathtaking—was for her, and her alone. She didn’t regret the ringing in her ears or the scratch in her throat for a second. Moments later, he was swept up in a sea of celebrating teammates.
“Girl, are you crying?” Baela asked, pulling her into a hug.
“I don’t know,” She sniffled. “I’m just emotional. I just like that boy so fucking much, Bae.”
“I know, honey. Come on, they’re heading off the ice. Let’s congratulate them, and then have a crazy party or something. No time for tears.”
Cregan was one of the last players to leave the ice, trailing just behind Jace. But before he could step off, the captain of the opposing team, his face twisted with anger, skated up to him. For a moment, it looked like they might talk it out. But then, it all happened too fast.
The player from Dorne shoved Cregan hard against the wall. Stark, ever the calm one, simply raised his hands in a peaceful gesture.
And then he took a fist to the face. The sickening sound of bone cracking echoed across the rink.
“What the hell is going on? Jace!” Baela shouted, holding her friend back as she tried to rush forward.
Jace jumped back onto the ice, but by the time he got there, the other team had pulled their enraged captain away. Cregan stumbled off the ice just as (Y/N) reached him.
“Are you okay? Oh gods, let me see,” she fretted, her hands hovering near his face.
“What a fucking jerk!” Jace nearly screamed, skidding to a stop by the exit. “I called for help, they’ll be here in a second.”
(Y/N) carefully moved Cregan’s hand away, revealing the damage. His face was a swollen mess, his nose clearly broken.
“Do you think they’ll make me lie face-down on the ice?” Cregan joked weakly, leaning on her for support.
“Does it hurt a lot? Maybe you should sit down. Oh shit, I can’t believe—”
“Hey, sweetheart. Calm down,” Cregan murmured, his voice soothing despite the pain. “It hurts like hell, but I’ll live.”
Just then, the medic arrived, momentarily distracting Jace. But despite the chaos, he had clearly heard what Cregan just said. For a moment, Jace stood there, his face pale as the words and the image before him sank in.
“Sweetheart?” he echoed softly, but no one paid him any attention.
“Jace, maybe now’s not the time,” Baela said gently, stepping up beside him.
“I feel physically sick,” Jace muttered, staggering to the railing for support.
The medic handed Cregan an ice pack. “Hold this to your face for a bit. I’ll get you something for the pain right away, but a doctor’s gonna have to set that nose.”
Cregan winced but smiled through it. “You might wanna check on my friend first,” he said, gesturing toward Jace. “I can wait. He looks like he’s about to pass out.”
Jace did, in fact, end up passing out.
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Cregan had to take a break from sports after that little adventure. He’d recovered, but now sported a slightly crooked nose—something his girlfriend found oddly hot.
(Y/N) saw his temporary recovery as the perfect chance to manipulate him into watching Teen Wolf with her every evening. After all, the title worked in her favor.
They were nestled on the couch, wrapped together in a soft gray blanket. It was their first time lounging in the living room of the apartment Cregan shared with her brother, rather than hiding behind the securely locked door of his bedroom. 
It would be perfect, really. If it weren’t for Jace’s constant, deliberate trips to the kitchen and bathroom, each one an obvious reminder that he was keeping an eye on them.
“Dear Jacaerys,” (Y/N) said, her patience wearing thin, “you do know we don’t need a chaperone, right?”
Jace barely paused, shooting her a sidelong glance before muttering, “You need someone to knock the stupid ideas out of your heads,” as he slammed the bathroom door.
Cregan chuckled softly, pulling her closer. “Give him some time,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “To be honest, I thought it would be worse. He’ll come around eventually.”
They’d already gone through several long, tension-filled conversations, with Baela stepping in as the voice of reason when things got too heated. They were careful now, avoiding anything that might provoke Jace further.
But Cregan was right—Jace was slowly coming around, even if he was still stubborn. The days of silent treatment had finally passed.
“This is on us for hiding things from him,” (Y/N) sighed, watching her brother embark on yet another purposeful long journey to the kitchen. “No more secrets now.”
“Your brother’s just looking out for you,” Cregan called out, raising his voice slightly so Jace could hear. “He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you, and I respect that. I don’t know anyone else who cares like he does.”
Jace stopped, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His lips curved into a sweet, mischievous grin.
“Yeah,” he began, drawing out the word. “So tell me sister, when are you introducing him to Mom?”
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charliemwrites ¡ 5 months ago
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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
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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.”
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lovelywritinglady ¡ 6 months ago
Note
For our little writers' Art Trade...! Gyomei has no idea how much his small Fem!Reader lover enjoys seeing her beloved show his strength like he does during the Training Arc... Honestly, it's a HUGE turn-on to see him move a boulder with ease or stand in the middle of flames while balancing heavy weights over his back... Or see him hugging kitties. Sadly, Reader is weak and can only help train Demon Slayers by feeding them, much like Tengen's wives do. She is kinda motherly and that in return turns Gyomei on SO HARD. Where she is weak, he is strong, and vice versa. Maybe some smut? Maybe they sneak out to take out the NEED they lit in each other? I would be eternally thankful!
I shall do my best!!
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Strength and Weakness ďżź
Gyomei Himejima x Fem!reader
In which you and your strong lover cannot contain the burning love for each other even in important times.
Fluff, SMUT, size kink, praise, outside sex, desperation sex, maybe out of character Gyomei.
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It’s been nearly four weeks since the training with the Hashiras began. You had been working with your husband, Gyomei, to wip these young demon slayers into shape. However, most of them have yet to show true promise and the few who you think could are still training with the other Hashira. Knowing that the only reason that they are even going through such rigorous training is because of Muzan. The mere thought of Muzan would make anyone here shiver with either anticipation for a fight or pure fear.
Today marked the third day that this batch of young demon slayers were attempting to push the massive boulder that your husband had told them to move. It’s size was impressive to say the least but to your husband it was child’s play. He was strong and was considered the strongest Hashira around.
You could definitely attest to that as through out your relationship with the strong man, you had seen him push boulders nearly five times the one that he’s making these young demon slayers push, and for much longer. He was truly an impressive man and you knew that you had been blessed to have him as yours and only yours. However, it’s had been nearly four weeks since your husband last touched you.
Four weeks since you had felt his strong arms around your body in glorious passion. You were beginning to get antsy and it didn’t help when you saw his strong arms and ripped muscles flex as he pushed boulders or showed how to say his mantra at the waterfall training area. Your body flowed with desire for him and you could tell he felt the same. Seeing him being so soft and kind to the students ignited a fire within you. Not to mention the time he was absentmindedly holding a small black and white kitten while he was giving instructions. It didn’t feel fair but you knew that waiting was the right thing to do as you didn’t want any of the students to see the two of you in such a way.
Just as you were trying to think of anything else the very man in question passed by you pushing a boulder. His face calm as he chanted his mantra. While his muscles were in full display as the veins in his arms were bulging out. God you loved him. God how much you needed him. You were glad In that moment that he couldn’t see as the look you were giving him was simply sinful. Your body felt hot as your pussy ached with the absence of his cock. You needed him, your craved him and you knew it was only a matter of time before you were going to snap. You heard footsteps behind you and turned around to see one of the young demon and quite tired demon slayer students.
“Mrs. Himejima, I’m sorry to ask you this, but when do you think dinner will be ready?” One of the young demon slayers asked you with a strained voice as politely as he could manage.
“In about five minutes, tell the others for me will you?” You responded giving the poor tired boy a sweet smile as you did your best to push down the burning desire you had for your husband.
Meanwhile…
Gyomei had just wrapped up the waterfall demonstration as he noticed some of the young demon slayer students practically sprinting to the area that he knew his sweet wife was in. He decided to go there himself needing to hear your sweet voice after a long days of hearing the complaints of others. He sighed wiping the tears that had recently streamed down his face doing his best to look presentable to you. Soon, he had made it to you as a smile was present on his face.
To him, you were the very definition of perfection. Despite your physical weakness, you were kind. And to him, that was the greatest strength that anyone could have. He admired you for that and your kindness was one of the many reasons that he fell in love with you in the first place. He may not be able to see you but his soul knew that you were his and he was yours. And like you, he was getting very impatient for you. Hearing you day and day out being so sweet to these poor kids and how much you wanted to help him made him incredibly grateful and not to mention horny. He neeed you and he knew you needed him too. Now, he was probably the most patient man out there but when it came to you, it was though all reason and logic left him completely.
The thought of the way your smaller body sucked him in like it was meant to make him take a deep breath. His cock was beginning to grow and he tried his best to rid himself of such impure thoughts but hearing you now speaking so gently, so motherly, make him want to take you into the woods and make you the mother that he knew that you wanted to be. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“Honey, would you like some too?” You asked suddenly as Gyomei had realized he was just standing here lost in the sinful thoughts of you.
“Yes my dear, thank you.” He responded after a few moments taking the massive plate of rice balls that you had made shivering slightly at the warm touch of your fingers brushing against his.
“You’re welcome! I made those just for you. I know you’ve been working really hard!” You beamed at him doing your best not to lose control at the mere sight of your husbands tall godlike stature in front of you. His sleeves were pulled up to his elbows as you had full view of his muscular arms still wet from the waterfall as his veins were in full view. You were doing your best but were practically drooling from just his arms. “Fuck.” You breathed out
“What was that, darling?” He asked putting one of his very large hands on your cheek, stroking it softly.
“N-nothing!” You chirped feeling slinky embarrassed for not keeping it together. “I hope you like them!” You quickly added
“I’m sure I will! If they are made by my sweet wife, then I know I’ll love them.” Gyomei spoke as pure adoration was lacing every word.
“Love?” You whispered
“Yes?” He asked bending down as he knew you needed to tell him something that only he needed to hear.
“I need you.” You whimpered finally admitting the thing you’ve needed to for four weeks now. “I know that we need to be professional but I can’t stand it anymore, I need you my husband. I need you. Please.” You added sounding so desperate so needy and who was Gyomei to deny you.
Without so much as a word, he set his plate gently down on a long and grabbed your hand as softly as he could and began walking into the woods a little too quickly. You began stumbling on your feet, barely tripping. Because of this, your husband quick as he could picked you up bridal style and now quicker than before, carried you far into the woods where he was positive that no one would wander. The very last thing he wanted was for someone’s innocent eyes to see what sinful acts he was about do upon his sweet wife.
Soon, he had found a suitable spot and had gently put you down on the soft grass. You hadn’t stopped looking at him the entire time as your mid was swimming with hundreds of scenarios that could happen in this very forest. Pussy was now soaking due to your excitement and impatience. Gyomei knew this as he could feel your wetness as he carried you earlier as his own make a sizable spot on his pants.
Gyomei then kneeled down and hovered over your smaller frame. He then without warning latched himself onto your neck. Kissing it roughly then softly allowing for you to fully grasp the sensation. And grasp you did as your whole body jerked with every kiss and every nip he was giving you. Your moans were loud and it was evident that he was doing well but could tell you needed more.
“Oh god, Gyomei please I need you.” You moaned out solidifying what he already knew.
“I know my love, I know.” He breathed out as he decided to start kissing down your chest more leaving a massive trail of love marks and kisses making your head spin as you grabbed a massive fistful of his spiky hair causing him to loudly grunt. He began sucking the skin on your hip making you buck up in response.
“Please!” You whined out needing more than this.
“Patience darling.” He whispered pressing kisses down your pussy causing your back to arch.
Without warning, he pushed your panties to the side and latched himself on your clit sucking it softly. His tongue began circling it making you moan your husbands name louder. Gyomei then proceeded to insert one of his large fingers into your needy hole and began pumping it in the way he knew you loved.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop. I’m gonna cum soon.” You moaned out pushing his head down against you as you began impinge is face softly.
He hummed in response as he inserted another finger slightly picking up the pace as he began scissoring your hole so that you were ready for him. Gyomei was content in his work as being intimate with you like this made him feel so accomplished. Knowing the he was the one to make you feel this good make his cock ache in his pants even more than it already had. ďżźFeeling bold, he decided that it was best to insert one more of his thick fingers.
“Gyomei!” You screeched as your climax had finally reached it peak. Your juices flowing into your husbands mouth as he greedily drank then with pleasure. Your then squeezed his head from the overstimulation you were feeling. You moaned his name over and over again as your vision went blurry and body numb from your orgasm. When he finally finished his meal, he lifted his head and gave you a sweet smile, his face covered in your pleasure.
“You did well, love. Would you like to continue?” He asked making sure you were going to be okay taking him.
“Y-yes. I need you.” You whimpered coming down from your incredible high that only Gyomei could give you.
“Good.” He spoke as his voice suddenly got deeper.
“Would you like me to take care of you?” You asked sitting up slightly as you watched him take off his clothes.
“I just need to feel you as you are. I’m getting rather impatient now my love.” Gyomei said as he suddenly picked you up as he latched his lips hungrily onto your own. You wrapped your arms around his strong neck as your boobs pressed against his hard chest.
Your eyes widen at the ferocity of his kiss. His tongue mixing with yours without warning. A moan escaped from his throat and that very sound sent shivers or pleasure down your spine. His arms gripped your smaller body as one of his hand heals you against him as the other gripped your ass firmly. You were shaking from this needing more.
“Honey..” you whined out.
But as soon as your spoke, your husband took his hand off your ass and desperately undid his pants, freeing his hard and sensitive cock. He the, rather boldly, grabbed your panties and ripped them off of your body like he was picking a flower.
“G-gyomei.” You stuttered shocked at his eagerness.
“Just need you and they were in the way of you.” He grunted and you whimpered my his show of strength. “Are you ready, dear?” He added making sure to take time to make sure you were comfortable.
“Mhmmm.” You moaned out
“Use your words sweet one.” Gyomei calmly asked.
“Yes! Please fuck me!” You cried out desperately feeling more and more desperate the longer this gets drawn out.
“Good girl.” He whispered in your ear as he lined himself with your pussy.
You felt the thick tip of his cock beginning to push in. You were more than ready to take him, wet from your previous orgasm. However, your husband, was not a small man. Meaning his cock was huge and no matter how long you prepared yourself, it would always be a slight challenge to take him. You were a smaller woman after all.
The burning sensation as his cock entered you made you suck on your breath at the pain. You gripped onto his shoulders digging into his skin. He grunted softly feeling how tight your pussy was against him a small smile graced his scarred face as the sensation he was longing for, praying for, was finally here after so long. Soon, after taking his time, his cock filled you up completely making you moan out his name. He stayed still allowing for you to adjust even more.
“Y/n, my darling, I’m going to move now. Is that okay?” He asked you softly as you felt his hands drift down to your ass once again.
“Yes!” I cried out with clear frustration in your voice.
“Good.” Gyomei responded
He then moved his hips slowly making sure that he wasn’t going to hurt you. Hearing your whimpers make him feel slightly crazy but he knew going too fast now would make you not be able to walk the next day. And he certainly didn’t want to embarrass you. However, your next words surprised him.
“Gyomei,dammit, stop being so nice to me and fuck me. I need it.” You cried out almost angry.
And that was the very encouragement he needed. Gyomei then pulled his cock out, only leaving the tip in making you whine in response before snapping his hips hard.
“Oh fuck!” You cried out as tears began pricking your eyes.
Your husband gripped your hips and ass as he began fucking you relentlessly. His pace was quick as his cock was hitting your cervix hard making your eyes roll back. He then began kissing and sucking on the most sensitive part of your neck making you moan loud. Your body was completely and utterly his in this moment as he was fucking you like never before. His grip on your ass would leave bruises and you knew that, not that you minded. Gyomei was grunting loud as he was pounding you in the air. Holding you like you weighed nothing. Using your body to his liking and god you loved it. You let him know how much you loved it scratching his back and moaning his name like a mantra. As you scratched you made sure not to hurt him.
“Harder my love, dig into my flesh!” He yelled out before crashing his lips hungrily onto yours.
And so, you did. You dig as deep and hard as you could as your husband went even faster than before making your mind and body feel like it was floating in ecstasy. The pain you felt before was long gone but you need for your husband grew and grew with each of his powerful thrusts. You began to cry due to overstimulation and the fact that you loved your husband so dearly.
“I-I love you so much.” You blabbered out as your tears poured out from your e/c eyes.
“I love you too, my darling.” Gyomei spoke out as his own tears started to flow as well. It wasn’t uncommon to see him crying but on this occasion it solidified his feelings for you. He was crying because of how much he loved you, how good you felt, and how thankful he was to have a woman like you in his life. And as he was pouring you he makes a silent prayer to God thanking him for you.
His grip on you increased as he felt himself close to cumming. His pace was erratic as the anticipation to his release was overwhelming. Your pussy was so tight, warm, and made perfectly for him. As for you, your own climax was soon as well. He was overwhelming all of your senses as you had already cum. Your body was far more sensitive than it had been in a long time due to waiting so long. You began to shake as you were getting weaker and weaker. However, you knew that even if you let go completely, your husband would hold you up due to his strength.
“Honey, m’gonna cum soon.” You blabbered out looking at his pleasure filled face.
“Me too, my darling, me too. I’m going to cum inside of you. Is that alright?” He asked quickly as his breathing became ragged.
“Y-yes. I want it.” You wined taking your turn to capture his lips with yours as you stuck your tongue in his mouth as your hands found new strength and gripped his hair roughly. His pace quickened as did his breathing. And soon you husband came as he held you closer to him as his dick was inside you fully.
“Oh my y/n, my one, my love.” He moaned out like he was praying a mantra.
You felt his thick cum filling you up like a warm embrace. You felt so full, so warm, so content. And as your husband held you, he brought one of his large hands yo your clit and began rubbing it in small circles, in the way you loved. He used the mixture of his cum and your slick to bring you pleasure. And just like that, you came hard. Your orgasm wracking your body with indescribable pleasure. His cock still stuffed deeply inside you as Gyomei could feel you tightening around him causing him to grunt as he decided to hump you slowly, enjoying the overstimulation that you were giving him.
“My love. Oh god!” You cried out still shaking from your high.
“I love you.” Gyomei whispered in your ear as he brought his left hand up to wipe the sweaty hair off your face as he placed a loving kiss on your forehead.
“I love you too. I’m so glad we did this.” You told him still in his embrace with his cock still inside you.
“Me as well. And as much as I’d love to do this again, we have students to attend too my darling love.” He said hesitantly as he gave you one more forehead kiss.
“Yeah, even if we did have time, I’m not sure my body could handle that again.” You admitted feeling tired. You laid your head on his chest taking deep breaths basking in the after glow of sex.
“Are you tired now?” He asked as he slowly pulled out making you gasp at the empty feeling.
“Yes, very.” You responded doing your best to sad on your own as he put you down. The feeling of his cum running down your legs made you shiver with the memory of recent events.
“Good I know you’ve been more restless recently. So I suggest you nap for awhile. I’ll tell the students.” He suggested as he put his clothes back on, doing his best to look at leafy semi presentable.
“I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” You yawned taking his arm to balance yourself. “But first I think I need to clean myself first.” You acknowledged feeling a bit gross due to the amount of sweat that was just on your body.
“It’s as though you read my mind, my love.” He spoke with a smile as he hoisted you up again. You were more than accepting of his gesture as your legs were too wobbly to walk properly. “There is a spring near by so we’ll go there and cleanse you, my darling.” He spoke softly sensing you were falling asleep.
“Thank you, my love.” You sleepily replied as you closed your eyes and snuggled into his warm embrace.
Gyomei then took you to that spring and clean you up all while you were too tired to do really anything. Your husband didn’t mind whatsoever as he loved doting and taking care of you. He was a lucky man and he knew that. Once you were all clean, he put your clothes back on your tired body and walked back to camp. As he did some of the students were questioning why you were in his arms and if you were okay. But he simply replied that you needed rest. Soon, he found a nice shady tree and place you under it. The grass was soft enough and this he kissed your lips and said a silent prayer to the gods for you. He then went back to the students and resumed his training to make sure these young demon slayers were ready for the fight with Muzan.
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-L.W.L
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applepixls ¡ 4 months ago
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season 10 really is the social season.
tango in a stream from a week-ish ago joked that this is the season of non-redstoners learning redstone but i think it goes deeper than that
first of all, everyones putting in effort to interact with others and not burn out and balance their episodes with building and work and just having fun with friends
then, theres all the skill sharing.
tango asked bdubs to critique his starter house build, pearl's doing the hermit tours and asking for critiques and things they'd add, bdubs and impulse are working on the cyberpunk city together, stress and iskall are building murder mystery lane together. a lot of redstoners are developing their building skills and styles
then there's armour stands, of course cleos messing with them as always but now joel is as well and she's not holding back with praise for his work and he isn't holding back any admiration for hers either. impulse did the little king kong because the scaling update to the armour stand mod has everyone inspired to play and learn and mumbos asked cleo to teach him about it as well (sidebar: cleo does really well teaching? like i know they used to be a teacher but the clips from mumbos video just convince me they were a good teacher. they give him tips and tricks and suggestions and hints without telling him what to do or how to do it. shes also just like... teaching creativity? almost? along with the skill of giving the armour stands life, shes giving tips on how to imagine and realize a scene etc.)
and ofc, last but certainly not least, more people are building games and using redstone in general!! pearl built a game and showed it off to everyone, cleos doing the same with guess the hermit and xisumas more than happy to help trouble shoot and problem solve to make everything work. and its not just games! grians actually building farms (even if from tutorials, in the past he mostly just goes to the shopping district) and pearl and skizz are both learning and doing the research and designing their own farms?!
im sure i've missed a bunch but i'm just so impressed with the hermits and im happy everyone's having fun with friends this season
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