#this isn’t quite enough to be able to make into a full video

[rahiwatching]

BIONICLE Science: The Heights of the Mangai Volcano and Mt. Ihu

So, when I was looking for reference images of the Island of Mata-Nui for my next Knowledge Tower video, I found this image, which I think is the only view we ever get of the full island from sea level, rather than a shot from above. It’s a really neat image, the only one I know of where you can clearly see the heights of Mt. Ihu and the Mangai volcano. And that gave me an idea - I could use this image alongside the canon length of the island of Mata-Nui to determine the heights of both!

So that’s what I did:

The island is canonically 489.09 km long, making each pixel in this image roughly 2.26km.

Mt Ihu is 17 pixels above sea level here, with the Mangai volcano being slightly shorter at 15 pixels above sea level. This means that:

Mt. Ihu = 38.49km tall

Mangai volcano = 33.96km tall

For context, not only are both of these taller than the highest mountain on Earth, Mount Everest (4.35x taller and 3.84x taller respectively) these are even taller than the highest mountain in the whole solar system - Olympus Mons on Mars! (Which is 25km tall, making Ihu 1.54x taller and The Mangai 1.36x taller)

The scale of things in BIONICLE continues to amaze…

[charliemwrites]

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)

Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternization (therefore power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Body Piercings, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

“Yessir.”

[srjlvr]

꒦꒷ enhypen ! oopsies…! fans actually caught your relationship….

in which you and your partner are really awful at keeping your relationship as a secret. || Idol-ot7!Enhypen X Idol-fem!reader … full fluff!! … no warnings!! … not proofread<3 || note. this one is very similar to the shipping scenarios, but not quite the same.

ε ї з — heeseung ; having temporary matching tattoos.

you and heeseung felt a bit childish in your last hangout at your dorm. you told him you ordered those little temporary tattoos that kids do these days and joked about doing it. one thing led to another and both of you ended up with a weird heart shape right on the back of your hand.

“i think it looks cute” you looked at it and smiled.

heeseung chuckled and kissed your cheek, “but you’re cuter”

“if i could i would get a permanent tattoo with you”

“our fans will probably notice it if we do”

you forgot the next day that both of you have a performance to do.

no one noticed it, it was as if it never happened, your staff members and manager didn’t even notice, your own group members were too oblivious to it as well.

it was only after your performance that a hashtag with both of your names became popular on every platform that ever existed. fans going crazy and posting pictures of your performance with the tattoo circled, then compared to heeseung’s picture with the tattoo as well.

not only that, you actually uploaded a photo where it was clearly seen and not even a bit hidden. your company thought they were fast enough to delete it, but fans are much quicker these days.

it was very much needless to say that you found yourself in your CEO’s office the next day.

ε ї з — jay ; performing and showing everyone your matching bracelets.

jay had recently bought the both of you matching bracelets. he knows you love bracelets and he’d do anything to make you happy.

your bracelet had a few charms he picked that perfectly completed his own charms, if you ask any other person, they’d tell you it’s the perfect matching symbol.

being too excited about the bracelet idea, you forgot to take it off before your comeback performance.

at first fans thought it was just a beautiful bracelet your stylists gave you.

that was until you decided to show it again on live, and jay decided going on live and showing his matching one five minutes after your live ended.

“is that a new bracelet? yes actually, isn’t it so pretty?” you answered your fans’ questions and showed it off.

“show us your bracelet?” jay read one comment and immediately showed it on screen, “i love this bracelet a lot, i don’t think i’ll ever take it down” he chuckled.

not even a minute passed and the whole comment section began asking about his bracelet again and why it looks so similar to yours. jay’s eyes widened and quickly came up with an excuse to end the live.

“please tell me you took it off before going on live” he told you over the phone.

“i did not, why?” you asked innocently.

“i guess i’ll see you tomorrow at the CEO’s office, i love you” he chuckled.

“oh,” you started laughing, “it’s about time we reveal it actually”

ε ї з — jake ; mindlessly hanging out in public.

life had been so stressful lately for both you and jake. him being on tour and you being too busy with your upcoming comeback just added up to the stress you’ve been already having.

you barely found time to hang out or even have video calls. the time difference was sometimes too much for you and you found yourself going days over days without texting properly.

“i miss you so much” he said in one of your very rare video calls.

“i missed you so much more” you replied quietly.

you’ve been on a call for more than four hours, either of you wanted to hang up, you don’t know when will be the next time you’ll be able to talk like that.

as soon as he came back to korea, he texted you, asking to meet up and hang out at the very late night hours.

you being so drunk in love, missed your partner and had to hold him again in your arms, you agreed instantly and made your way to the dorm as fast as the light.

after reuniting he suggested both of you will get out and get some fresh air, the inside was suffocating both of you.

you decided to have a walk in the nearest park and even go to that one arcade he told you he’d take you to when he has the chance. you ended the night with some ramen you bought from the closest seven eleven store.

this idea of publicly hanging out without your managers or even group members knowing was a mindless idea, but you missed each other too much to care.

fans went crazy the day after when dispatch revealed pictures of the both of you hanging out, and just then you realized you fucked up.

ε ї з — sunghoon ; posting the same location photos.

you and sunghoon recently went on a vacation in a very quiet yet beautiful place. no one could recognize you no matter where you went. it was the perfect place for the both of you.

sunghoon brought his cameras, and you as well brought yours. of course, the perfect couple would also have some shared interests.

“the view is so beautiful” you took in the beautiful view you were looking at, and raised your camera to take a picture of the beautiful place.

“you’re way prettier than the view” sunghoon back-hugged you with one hand and raised a camera with the other to take a picture of the view as well.

you chuckled at his remark and shook your head, “you’re the prettiest view i’ve ever seen”

a few days later and your vacation sadly ended. on your way you asked sunghoon for suggestions, he told you which ones he thinks were the prettiest and you happily agreed.

the next day you uploaded the pictures you were discussing on with sunghoon, and got lots of compliments for your little hobby.

it didn’t take that long for sunghoon to also upload a post. you being a supportive girlfriend opened your fake account to give him a like and look at the post your pretty boyfriend uploaded.

your smile quickly faded when you noticed his pictures were oddly similar to yours. you entered the comment section and fans were already discussing on whether this is all a coincidence or not.

you decided to leave the post on, and hope for the best, knowing that you and sunghoon are probably going to get an angry lecture.

ε ї з — sunoo ; uploading the wrong tiktok.

you and sunoo filmed the new comeback’s challenge after constant beggings that it would be only the two of you.

the staff members were so supportive of your relationship and hyped you up a lot.

“let’s do one for fun and a serious one” he told you and you nodded.

“wait what do you mean one for fun?” you asked.

“one that i’d keep for me only to watch” he cutely smiled and hugged you.

you wondered what he was up to but cooperated and did your best for this tiktok, on the few freestyle seconds, he kissed your cheek and winked at the camera while you were left blushing.

“that was the one for fun?” you asked and he nodded, “we can’t show that to fans, they’ll know we’re a couple the second they see it”

you filmed another one with a cute pose at the end and agreed it’d be the best one to upload. you thanked everyone as you were called back to your dressing room, you kissed goodbye your boyfriend and signaled him to text you.

a few hours passed and you noticed enhypen uploaded a new tiktok. you tapped the screen to give it a like even before watching it until the end.

you focused on your dance moves and the way your chemistry with your boyfriend was displayed over the screen, but your mouth dropped to the floor when you noticed the last seconds of the tiktok.

it was the wrong one. and it was too late to delete because fans were already reposting it and going crazy over it.

ε ї з — jungwon ; forgetting to hide your framed photobooth pictures.

due to their upcoming reality show participation, enhypen members were required to clean their rooms from any suspicious things that fans might see.

the reality show showed enhypen members’ own room and dorm in general. so the rooms had to be very cleaned and organized.

jungwon took in the request very seriously and cleaned every part and any corner of his room, or so he thought.

your framed pictures stood there right next to his bed stand, he can’t go sleep without it being right next to his head and he forgot to hide it somewhere else.

he only figured about it when they showed him his own room in the show, he tried to hide it and tried to stay unbothered as much as he can so fans won’t notice anything suspicious.

too bad fans have 6/6 vision and they’re actually specialists at finding stuff like these.

as soon as the show was aired, fans tried to find out who’s the mysterious girl in the framed picture who’s seen kissing his cheek and smiling widely with him.

luckily, the picture was very much blurred so it was hard for fans to see, it was an easy pass for the company to say that these pictures just so happened to be pictures with his sister.

the company’s plans were ruined when you decided to post a vlog in your room and there sat the same framed picture behind you. it was very far and really hard to notice, but as we all know your fans are crazy.

“you forgot to hide it too?” you giggled over the phone as he laughed as well.

“i love this picture too much i guess”

“i don’t regret not hiding it”

“me neither”

ε ї з — riki ; posting a selca with his sunglasses.

everyone knows about riki’s obsession with sunglasses. he’s like the sunglasses king.

you yourself even bought him a few sunglasses that he tends to wear very often. fans don’t notice it since they always assume it’s always him who buys them.

however, there’s one particular sunglasses that riki has been known for. it’s one of the rarest sunglasses and riki decided to draw some random things on the sides of it and showed it to his fans.

he was so proud of himself, showing his pure talent on his favorite sunglasses, it’s actually one of the sunglasses you bought him as well, but no one has to know that.

you asked for his sunglasses one day, you felt cute and your outfit matched perfectly with his sunglasses.

you also asked him to take a few photos of you with his sunglasses. he smiled through the whole process.

“wait let’s do it like that” you said as you bent down and held the sunglasses that were sitting right on the end of your nose.

“you look so cute” he complimented, “focus on taking the pictures instead of simping!” you ordered and he laughed.

“you can keep them to yourself! it looks better on you”

“i’d never do that to my very lovely boyfriend! ….but if you insist then i will”

one of the first mistakes you made was not noticing a glass window was right behind you, and so the reflection of riki was much seen behind you.

you uploaded the pictures, feeling so cute and excited about the outfit with your boyfriend’s sunglasses.

your second mistake was forgetting that those sunglasses were only unique to riki since he designed and drew on it on his own.

it didn’t take that long for fans to notice his sunglasses and his reflection behind you.

••• copyright © srjlvr all rights are reserved.

PERM TAG-LIST ; @sungwhoonz @ohdudehesflirting @unlikelysublimekryptonite @deobiis @manooffline @miumiuoi @in-somnias-world @lovelovelovebts @filmofhybe @wonbinsnovia @daegutowns @aurumiee @soobywon @dhriti-stories @ariadores @firstclassjaylee @watamotee33 @moons-v @s00buwu @hoonheepretty @jjeoni-7 @dimplewonie (bold means cannot be tagged)

[alphajocklover]

InstaJock: Going Viral

**Hey! This is my entry for @occamstfs Viral Transformation Challenge. Congrats on getting 2,000 followers, and thank you for beta reading this and helping me edit it. I hope I can get to 2,000 followers myself one day! For those who are new to my stories, this does connect to the plot established in my blog, but the concept is simple enough you should be able to follow along even if you don't usually read my stuff! I hope you all enjoy!**

When I talk about the InstaJock App Phenomenon – which I seem to do a lot. What is this, the 17th InstaJock related post? I need to diversify more – I usually talk about the transformation aspects and not the app itself. That’s partially because the transformation is the most interesting and hottest part, but it’s also because I haven’t been able to take a good look at the app. Even with all the protective spells and equipment I have, I can’t use a phone with InstaJock on it for very long without getting an urge to set up an account. 

Until now.

With some help from the devilishly handsome (and literally devilish) Nick, I’ve been able to get my hands on some better equipment and better explore the app. I was able to spend a couple hours on it before I needed to quit, and actually got some very interesting information, mainly about how the app works post-transformation. I had always assumed that once a user got transformed into a jock, they’d ignore the app from then on unless they wanted to change someone. I was very, very wrong, not just about that but about the purpose of the app itself. It’s not just for making people into jocks: it’s for finding the best ones.

The app generally works like any other social media app, with its members posting about their interests. It’s set up is a lot like Instagram, where pictures and videos are the main format used for posting, but what really makes it different from other social media apps is the content. You can probably guess what an app full of buff cocky jocks looks like, but I’ll confirm it for you: the app is a thirst trap paradise.

The entire app is stuffed with half naked –  and sometimes fully naked – photos of buff jocks, ones of all different kinds. If you can think up a jock related stereotype, they have a full hashtag dedicated to it. Just buff jocks playing sports, flexing and making out with other hot people, for as far. I know that doesn’t sound too different from normal social media apps, as most have a healthy NSFW side, but the posts have more in common then just showing jocks. Each and every post, every one that I saw, mentioned a Master. Some were talking about how they were getting pumped up at the gym for Master, some were talking about how they loved being jocks and were so glad Master had found them, and some were literally begging for Master to notice them, often wantonly describing how they’d debase themselves and be the sluttiest jock ever, all for him. Everyone on the app would post at least once a day about this mysterious Master. It doesn’t seem to matter if the jock is a dom, a sub, a top, a bottom, in a relationship, single, gay or even straight, all of them wanted this mysterious unnamed master – so much so they seemed to completely change personalities whenever he is mentioned. It seems instaJock has an additional side effect I didn’t know about till now: complete and utter devotion to their Master.

It took me a while, and some covert interviewing of a number of jocks in their DMs, but I think I figured out what's happening. The Jocks aren’t just posting for fun, they’re competing with each other. InstaJock isn’t really a social media app, it’s a sort of ranking app. Every day the jocks log on, post a picture of themselves with a caption somehow related to their Master, and leave likes on some of the other posts, usually the ones they find hot. If a jock’s post gets enough likes though, they get what every jock wants, what all of them are trying to get. They get to Go Viral.

Going Viral on IntsaJock isn’t like going viral on a regular app. It essentially means you’ve gotten enough likes, been reposted enough times, and have become popular enough on the site… that Master has noticed you. That's what the social media part of the app is really for. It’s just a way for Master’s jocks to organize themselves so only the hottest ones show up on his feed. If he really likes you, he’ll do more than just look too. Soon that Jock will disappear from his regular life, never to be seen again, whisked away to become a part of Master’s personal harem. This entire time the app has been about one thing: creating lovestruck sex slaves for the man who created InstaJock.

Like most actual social media apps, InstaJock jumps from one thing to another, and what's viral is always changing. But there are two tags that are always trending on InstaJock. The first, and most popular, is #JockMaster, which is only ever used by this mysterious Master when he makes a post. I’ve seen his account. He never shows his face on it, but from what little of his body that makes it into the photos, he’s… enchanting. As much as I hate to admit it, seeing just a bit of that creep almost made me drool. He usually only posts a couple times a week, as opposed to the jock who posts daily, but everything he posts goes viral on the app in moments. I’ll admit, there's something about his posts that is just… hypnotic. I almost set up an account after seeing one myself, and probably would have if Nick wasn’t there to stop me.

The other tag that's always trending is… more interesting, at least to me. It’s #MastersBoyfriend. It’s another tag used only by Master, and one he uses whenever he posts a picture of one particular member of his harem. 

Whenever he posts pictures… of my Uncle John.

I finally know who took my Uncle. I know who this Master is. I suspected it was him for a while, but now I’m sure. The man who made InstaJock and the man who turned my Uncle into a slutty buff himbo are one in the same. I finally have proof.

So now what?

**The identity of the person behind InstaJock AND the person behind my Uncle's transformation and kidnapping has finally been revealed! Been working up to this for a long time, and I'm glad to keep this story moving forward! Hope you liked it as much as I do! Thank you to @occamstfs once again for being absolutely awesome and inspiring!**

[teymars]

NSFW hc’s for the Sully men bc I am bored:

MDNI

General:

• They are each EXTREMELY fertile, pregnancy is almost inescapable when you’re with one of these boys.

• On top of being very fertile, they enjoy breeding their women more than anything, so cock-warming is a nonnegotiable.

• They have great stamina, allowing them to go round after round, ensuring they “fuck you properly”.

• They aren’t particularly vocal, (unless overstimulated) but the growling, grunting and whimpering in your ear never ceases.

• Major pleasure doms fs

• Think with their dicks more than anything (specifically Jake and Lo’ak)

• They enjoy scenting and marking their women in every way possible, even if it’s just leaving you full of leaking cum, to fend off other interested men.

Jake:

• He will happily be late to any of his duties if it means an opportunity to fuck you full.

• Is especially sensitive about you touching his jewels, the feeling of them swelling within your small grasp always has him keening.

• Won’t admit it aloud but he’s totally came untouched to the thought of you in lingerie, giving him a lap-dance.

• Hates when you hide your noises from him, he doesn’t give two shits if somebody is standing 5ft away, let them know you’re his.

• Likes to fuck around by grinding against you in public, not so subtly. He has no regrets when you’re all needy and wet for him by the evening.

• Enjoys littering your inner thighs with deep-purple marks, secretly hoping they are noticeable to other people later on.

• Uses his old camera to create some fun videos with you, mainly so he can fuck into his own fist whilst you’re busy.

• Craves nights where you beg him to be rough, sure he enjoys making slow tender love to you, but being able to use you as he pleases always excites.

Neteyam:

• Is a huge family guy, consistently keeping you bred and arguing that his heart will never be full enough of you and your ever-growing family.

• Prefers your muffled moans and gasps, he’d rather be the only man in the universe to hear such sounds from you, he can prove you are all his in so many other ways after all.

• He is always in favour of doggy-style. He’d never pass up the chance to mount and rut into you with all the energy he has. Simultaneously pushing your head into the cushions of your shared bed.

• He will lean over your shoulder and whisper the filthiest nothings, accompanied by licking your hot pulse-point, hoping to encourage copious amounts of slick from you to aid in his relentless pounding.

• Absolutely has a dick and tongue piercing. Though he may be a bit ashamed by his past foolishness, he soon figures the endless orgasms they produce from you are quite worth it.

• If he isn’t thinking tactically or about what his next meal will be (probably you), he’s planning all the positions he will put you in throughout the night.

• Gets especially needy in the mornings, often waking you up with the prodding of his swollen cock-head, at your already soaked entrance.

• Is especially sensitive on his tip, the way your walls squeeze and slide over it have him near cumming on the spot each time. When it pushes against the textures of your cervix though, he dives over the edge practically every time. (Good thing he’s got that endless stamina)

Bonus: • Will lazily thrust into you throughout the early morning, coaxing both your orgasms slowly before thrusting forward abruptly and emptying every last drop into your aching cunt, remaining there until he is 110% certain you’ll be giving him another child to cherish.

Lo’ak:

• Loves to sit and watch you fuck yourself with your fingers all evening, smirking consistently because he KNOWS his cock has ruined you for anything & anyone else.

• Will comfortably have a conversation with any family member over the comm devices, while fully sheathed inside your warmth.

• Will attempt to breed you anywhere, anytime regardless of who is around. That man has his priorities set fs.

• Fucking creams himself when you openly submit to him, wether it be through a suggestive “yes sir” or spreading yourself open upon your shared bed, ready for him.

• Bites onto your shoulder to muffle his increasing moans when your soft pussy becomes too much for him. The feeling of his cock’s ridges hooking into your wet walls only intensifying this.

• Most sensitive at his slit, the second you tease your delicate fingers or hot tongue along it, he is gone. His hips will be jolting as he fights to hold back an orgasm, succumbing to the tantalising feeling of your pinkie-finger pushing into his tiny slit, teasing him.

• Secretly wants nipple piercings but would never express that openly, he fears what will become of him the day you realise how stimulated his tits can get. Sticks to ear piercings instead and is yet to grasp how Neteyam dealt with the pain of piercing his own cock.

• Also unlike Neteyam, he is not as fussed about ensuring his bloodline carries on through the next 20 generations, BUT he does take pride in having a family with you and will never refuse breeding you so long as you’ll let him.

And that’s all, feel free to speak on any of your own hc’s!! 🩵

[aroeddiediaz]

8x01 coda- depression cupcakes

(Sorry this is super depressing but Eddie needs a nice long sulk after that devastation of a birthday party. Also maybe mild tw for some kind of disordered eating.)

The cupcakes should taste like ash, Eddie imagines. Cardboard, maybe wet sand. Something bland and sour, to match the blankness Eddie has been feeling as he watches Christopher get sung Happy Birthday without him, cut into a cake without him, play with his dozens of new friends in his grandparents’ backyard without him. It went on for over an hour before the laptop sitting abandoned on the picnic table in an El Paso backyard lost battery and winked out.

Instead, the cupcakes are sweet. Cloying, sticky sweet. The frosting sticks to the roof of his mouth and bits of crumbs get stuck behind his teeth. The kind of sugary confection that would have given Eddie a sugar rush back when he was Christopher’s age.

Eddie chews his way through his first cupcake mechanically, then reaches for a second one. Behind him, Buck and Tommy make quiet rustling noises as they take down the decorations and balloons they had helped him set up earlier. None of them have spoken a word since the interactive part of the video call ended.

The second cupcake wrapper falls in a limp heap on the coffee table on top of the first one. Eddie grabs a third cupcake. His teeth ache and his lips tingle as he takes another bite.

What if Chris never wants to come back? What if this is all their relationship will ever be, and Eddie fucked it all up for the last time? What if Chris is so happy with his goddamn pool club and his new neighborhood kid friends and Eddie’s parents build him a pool so he never comes home?

It takes increasing amounts of effort, it feels, to wallow each thick wad of chewed up cupcake matter. It clumps up, sticks to his throat. He can taste sugar now, even when his mouth is empty.

He takes another bite, only to taste dry crumbs on paper. He already finished the third cupcake.

He drops the third wrapper on top of the other two. Somehow Eddie doesn’t feel full, he doesn’t think. At least, no fuller than he had been before he started on the cupcakes. There’s a creeping sour taste in his mouth, and some sensitivity in his molars when he runs his tongue along the gums.

He reaches for a fourth cupcake.

Buck’s hand lashes out and grabs him by the wrist before he reaches the tray of cupcakes.

“Uh, whoa there, buddy,” Buck says with a hesitant chuckle. “Maybe save some for the rest of us, huh?”

Eddie blinks. Suddenly, like his senses had been turned down and just now returned to full volume, he feels aware of sensations all over himself, none of them particularly pleasant. Sticky, greasy fingers. An unpleasant rumble somewhere in his intestines. More dry stickiness across his mouth, chin, and for some reason, a single fingerprint on his cheekbone. And his mouth tastes like a sewer rat had crawled in to die.

Eddie gags a little, trying to summon enough saliva to wash out the sourness in his mouth. He struggles to his feet, ready to duck into the kitchen to grab a cup of water, and maybe gargle in the sink a few times.

Before he can make it anywhere, Tommy’s there, holding a bottle out to him. Eddie takes it gratefully, not quite able to look him in the eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbles as he cracks open the cap and takes a long swig.

Eddie takes a look around. The decorations are all gone now, all the streamers and party hats and balloons. Everything except the half-eaten tray of cupcakes in front of him. Looking at it turns his stomach a little now.

“You guys take the rest of the cupcakes home with you, ok?” Eddie says. “I think i just ate more sugar in one sitting than I did all month long.”

Buck and Tommy exchange a wordless glance over Eddie’s head. Silently, Tommy reaches for the tray of cupcakes.

Buck nudges Eddie’s shoulder. It’s probably the one part of him that isn’t covered in sugar residue. “Hey,” he says softly. “I know that was rough. But I promise things won’t be like this forever. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”

“When, Buck?” Eddie says, clutching the bottle tightly enough that the plastic bends and creaks. “It’s been months already, and he’s barely said a word to me.”

Buck tries for a smile, but his eyes are tight and his voice trembles a little. “You just gotta show him. Show that you’re not going anywhere.”

Eddie nods helplessly. Nothing to do but sit and wait. Sit and pray.

Eddie missed three birthdays when Chris was a baby, out on deployments or in a hospital waiting for his bullet holes to heal up. All he can do is hope that by Chris’s next birthday, things will be different.

tagging: @cal-daisies-and-briars @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @lemonzestywrites @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @diazsdimples @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @coatedpanda16 @nicotinewrites @estheticpotaeto @babytrapperdiaz @snowviolettwhite @wikiangela @jesuiscenseedormir @made-ofmemories @asexual-fandom-queen

[formosusiniquis]

It’s Wednesday have some worms I’m using as a warm-up.

So this is inspired by these style videos that I’ve seen a lot lately on youtube shorts cause i quit tiktok just to get stuck on the vape version. Where people go up to athletes and ask them to sign old pictures of themselves. And I’ve got two versions that have been playing in my head.

1. Chrissy and Eddie run a joint besties tiktok/social media thing where they show off their opposites attract platonic soulmate life by pushing each other out of their comfort zones, making them do things the other likes, and showing that it can be fun. Eddie takes Chrissy to a show and makes her get in the mosh pit, they jump out of a plane -- each claiming it was the other’s idea -- she makes Eddie try cheer; you get the picture.

So Chrissy drags Eddie to a sports game of your choosing, I’m going with baseball cause @thefreakandthehair ‘s latest fic with baseball steve is living in my head rent-free this week. Eddie decides that if he’s going and they’re going to do the sports equivalent of stage-dooring then he’s going to double up and get in on this trend he’s seen. The reactions are middling to bland, Tommy Hagan flips him off but does sign the photo of himself from what Eddie thinks is probably his junior prom and he and Chrissy are both pretty positive that'll be the best reaction they get for the video. But the next person they have planned to get is Steve and Eddie had to dig deep to find a picture of Steve that wasn’t a photo of him in a group shot at a party when he was in high school. It’s like the guy hit senior year and disappeared off the internet.

So Eddie walks up to the hottest guy he’s ever seen and asks for an autograph while handing Steve a photo of himself from grade school. He’s got the biggest smile on his face, one of his front teeth is missing and his hair is slipping forward onto his forehead from its picture-day perfect styling. Steve cuts off his by-rote agreement with a laugh and actually turns to look at Eddie (and Chrissy) now.

“Did everyone get one like this or am I special?”

Chrissy answers since Eddie lost the ability to speak the second Steve looked at him while smiling, “Yours is the littlest, but we did choose to ignore everyone’s professionally taken headshots.”

“You think this wasn’t done by a professional? Look at the lighting and the weird tree in the background.”

Chrissy laughs and does that thing where she kicks her leg out enough to knock Eddie back to planet earth. “You can make it out to Eddie, with an IE.” She tells Steve while Eddie massages his smarting ankle.

Steve takes the sharpie out of Eddie’s slack hand and looks down to sign. “I was always gonna sign, cause I like to think this little guy would be really excited about how far I got. But, this would be creepy if you weren’t so cute.”

Eddie is only able to answer because Steve still isn’t looking at him. “Her?”

Steve hands him the picture. “She didn’t ask for the autograph.”

They have to blur it for the video, but underneath his perfectly practiced signature, Steve sends Eddie home with his number.

Alternatively my take 2. The kids get full VIP experience tickets for Corroded Coffin and they have to go Steve. Claudia doesn’t want to cramp their style so she’s out, but if they can’t find a certified adult to take them then Ted has been volunteered. Ted, Steve. He agrees to go because even if he can’t stand the idea of spending the night fighting a migraine during the flashing lights of a heavy metal concert, he also isn’t going to let the Party suffer the social repercussions that would be Ted Wheeler going.

But he decides if he’s going to go he’s going to have fun with it. The kids let him know that it’s a small VIP (for plot reasons) and every group gets a set amount of time with the group. He’s listened to them talk about what they’re bringing to get signed, what they’re going to say to the band to sound both cool and mature. Meanwhile, he’s taking inspiration from his own feed to come up with a plan that’s going to hopefully only annoy everyone a ‘God Steve why do we take you anywhere, but yeah okay that was pretty funny’ amount and not actually ruin the kids' time.

He doesn’t actually know anyone in the band, but the internet exists and as he goes down his rabbit hole, trying to find pictures that are suitably dweeby but also cute in a wholesome way, he realizes that oops the lead guitarist is super hot and also vaguely familiar.

The night of the concert comes and Steve goes into the VIP line with five photos for the four members. Pictures from so far down the Instagram timeline that an accidental like would get him put on a watchlist. He’s got a sophomore Gareth trying his blue steel in a selfie, a photo of Jeff from the one year he did marching band to get out of his gym credit, Freak in the suit vest he got for Junior prom, and Eddie at his most dramatic ‘it’s not a phase Wayne’ stage in high school.

Eddie absolutely thinks they’re being made fun of for a minute, it’s Jeff who laughs and breaks the tension first. Which is good because Steve had waited to bring out the second picture he brought, turns out he finally figured out why the hot guitarist looked and sounded so familiar, and he shows Eddie a picture from the summer camp they went to together where they had been inseparable. That one Eddie signs gladly, his messy signature blocking out the camp counselor they had both hated. Steve won’t let the kids see, he tells them it’s weird to see your heavy metal heroes when they were eight and still waiting to get the gap between their front teeth fixed with braces. But he really just doesn’t want them to see the number Eddie wrote there and the vague promise to have Steve over to catch up and see if they can make kids as cute as they were.

[camywamycam]

bringing the Marauders to their first muggle party HCs

733 words

Sirius

He's used to parties but not muggle parties. he was never exposed to any muggle activities due to his parents the only related muggle thing he was able to sneak by was music and he nearly got away with it most wizarding world parties are laid back and the most insane it will get is jumping around to muggle music and drinking fire whiskey. the whole reason you brought him was that one night he and the rest of the marauders planned this little party and you were all like "this is a cute little get together" and he was like no this is a super awesome rad insane party wym?? and after you tell him about muggle parties he basically BEGS you to bring him to one when he walks in and sees muggles taking all sorts of drugs and doing stupid shit he just stands there like :0 DO NOT leave him unattended because he WILL try any drugs he sees people doing and WILL green out. he is in his moment fr he sees a Keg stand and he just HAS to try it by the end of the night he's on another planet all over you but in an existential crisis sort of way "what if when we're old and married and you die first? I would never be able to go on but when you think about it we are just tiny little specks in the galaxy almost too small to see....." he's going around bragging about going to a muggle party to everyone the next day.

James

he like Sirius isn't used to muggle customs since he grew up in a pure-blooded family you show him your muggle camera and all the videos on it and the two of you find one with you and your friends at a muggle rave he's all like WHOAHHH :0 he's never seen anything so colorful and aggressive at the same time you bring him to one in the summer and someone offers him acid he 100% takes it being the naive baby he is you lost him so you were freaking out looking for him only to find him with a group of ppl doing the dumbest shit ever and hes like "whoah can I try?? :0" and they're like shooting fireworks at people he CAN NOT be trusted alone when you leave he's carrying 80 glow-sticks that he didn't bring and wearing a neon fedora he tells Sirius and now he's begging you to take him to one the next day he's telling everyone he knows he never thought muggles could be so fun

Remus

you invited him to your friend's party during the summer and he thought it would be like the ones in his common room and boy was he wrong... you get him to try weed and he's never been so relaxed in his life you make a note to bring some for full moons he tries muggle alcohol and he looks like a baby trying a lemon for the first time you quite literally have to beat off both women and men of him with a stick he somehow finds a group of nerds to talk to about muggle books but its 10x more entertaining because their all high out of their minds you trust him enough to leave him for 60 seconds to go to the bathroom and you find him sitting on the kitchen floor eating a cold once was warm baked potato?? also his socks are missing but he still has his shoes on? this just reminds you he's just as irresponsible as the rest of the boys hes just slightly smarter about his stupid actions high Remus is INSANE he's hanging from a chandelier one moment and skinny-dipping into a pool the next you HAVE to bring a camera so you can show him all the crazy out-of-character shit he did he has the worst headache ever in the morning but he had the best sleep ever you ended up going up to your friend's room and crashing there but he wakes up naked in the backyard covered in peanut butter for some reason he's so embarrassed even more so when you show the videos/photos from the party the next day to James and Sirius they start calling peanut butter sandwiches peanut-butter-Mooneys or peanut-butter-lupin sandwiches he is not amused at all

[astralfms]

[ … ] ❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed { CELESTE JAMES } walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who { SHE } is/are ? they kind of look like { NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO } and i could be wrong but i think that they might be { TWENTY EIGHT } years old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last { TWENTY YEARS }. and i don’t know if anyone has ever told them this before but they kind of remind me of { CARRIE BRADSHAW } from { SEX AND THE CITY }. if you stick around the town long enough you might catch them in action working at { SUNSET VILLA BEACH } as a { LIFESTYLE VLOGGER }. you see this town isn’t really that big of a place, some folks like to call them the { VIDEOPHILE } of palmview! they took a liking to the name too after a while, go figure. oh crap, they must have heard me yapping. they’re coming this way. i got to warn you though, rumor has it they can pretty { SELF ABSORBED } at times. i wouldn’t take it too seriously though, from the times i’ve spoken to them they seemed pretty { CHEERFUL } to me. we see each other all the time since they live in that { TWO BEDROOM } apartment beside me over in { MANGO BAY }. i better leave you to it. it was nice meeting you

STATISTICS:

full name: celeste james

nicknames: cel, cely, letty

birthday: may 12, 1995

hometown: cape cod, massachusetts

occupation: social media influencer, lifestyle vlogger

hobbies: vlogging, trying new food spots, serial dating, shopping

lives: mango bay lofts

BACKGROUND:

enter: celeste, first born of the james family. her mother likes to tease that she was born to be an older sister. in fact, she'd rub her mom's pregnant belly and say, "my baby, my baby." it's safe to say that her childhood was largely focused on playing with her sister, doing any silly thing she could to make her laugh, and getting into as much trouble as you'd expect of two girls under five. when their family packed up and moved to palmview, celeste made it her personal mission to show charlotte that moving was no big deal. so what, they'd packed up their whole lives and moved across the country? that just meant they'd have new adventures to go on, and it wasn't like they wouldn't go back to visit. this mindset stuck with her throughout her life, choosing to see the cup half full even when logic told her otherwise.

her teen years were as chaotic as you'd expect, celeste taking full advantage of her short summers in cape cod. parties, boys, sneaking out, boys, nights on the beach, boys. rinse and repeat. during this time she swore she was just making the most of her teenage years, but her parents would say they let her watch way too much sex and the city. this would become exaggerated one summer when celeste got the bright idea to take her dads boat out at night, all in efforts to impress a boy. she'd been sailing with her dad since she was a kid, what could go wrong, right? wrong. she hadn't accounted for the coast guard, who luckily let her off with a warning, ( and a call to her parents. ) for the rest of the summer, they cut her off entirely, forcing her into her first summer job.

this is where she met her first true best friend, who was able to speak some knowledge into that delusional head of celeste's. instead of pouring all that energy into boys, she was encouraged to take her ambition and ideas and put them into making videos. her friend was convinced she had what it took to make it big. following this advice was the best thing for her, although, her bad habits hadn't left entirely. after graduation, and throughout college, celeste was known to party on the weekends and seen with a new beau in what seemed like every other new vlog. it's not her fault she's a lover girl, right? at least, that's what she tells herself.

tldr; celeste is a silly goofy girl that hasn't quite grown out of her boy obsessed phase. her friends encourage her to put that ambition into something creative, and she does, but that only keeps her delusion at bay for so long. will she overcome the boy fever? will she ever not be a sleazebag wrapped in a pretty package? stay tuned and find out!

[schrijverr]

Lunchtime Delivery

When Dustin forgets his lunch he calls Steve to come bring him some. He watches as the cafeteria reacts to Steve bringing a random Freshman lunch, not to mention a Freshman at Eddie’s table. Also how does he know Robin?

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~

Dustin had forgotten money and lunch. His own mom works full-time a town over, but there was someone else he could count on. So, he had borrowed a quarter and called Steve between classes, only having enough time for Steve to complain a little, before ensuring him he'd being something by.

Right now lunch period has started and Dustin is sitting in the cafeteria with some of the other Hellfire members.

Eddie frowns at the empty table before him and asks: “You don’t have lunch?”

Dustin knows that Eddie isn’t able to bring lunch everyday and the last thing he wants is for the other to give up a bit of what he does have. So, he says: “I forgot, but Steve is bringing me some. Don’t worry about it.”

It doesn’t look like Eddie believes him, which is confirmed when he offers him half of his sandwich.

Before Dustin has to worry about how he can decline this without making it awkward, because Eddie doesn’t seem to like Steve much, there is commotion at the doors of the cafeteria.

Steve.

Dustin smiles and waves at the older boy to get his attention when he sees him looking around with a searching look.

When Steve sees him, he nods, face brightening before he begins to make his way to their table. He is dressed in his normal clothes, hair perfect of course. Though his green work vest stands out against the outfit, as does the paper bag in his hands. Still, he must be quite a strange sight if Dustin goes on the whispers that start up as Steve walks.

Not that Steve seems to notice the stares that follow his every step. He just holds his head up confidently and walks with an air of oblivious carelessness that Dustin envies. Steve doesn’t have to care about the opinions of others. Steve is cool.

Unbeknownst to Dustin, Steve is intimately aware of the whispers that follow him. They have been for all his life, one of his earliest memories is his mother hissing to calm down, because what would people think, seeing a Harrington behave like that?

So, yeah, he knows. He has always been the center of attention. For a long time he thrived on it, but that diminished with more and more vicious rumors making the rounds after his fall from grace. However, he knows not to pay them any mind, the only advise from his mother he listens to.

Dustin doesn’t see any of that though, he just sees his friend that he admires displaying traits he wants so naturally, oblivious to the years of work that went into that confidence.

By this time Steve is practically there and he calls out: “Next time don’t forget lunch, dipshit.”

“Sorry,” Dustin grins not feeling that sorry as he takes the bag and looks inside. Once he sees what’s in it, he exclaims: “Dude, you got me a burger? Thank you!”

Steve rolls his eyes and says: “Yeah, it's like the only joint that’s near Family Video and if I’m gone too long Keith will kill me. My lunch break doesn’t last forever, you know.”

“You’re the best,” Dustin tells him, seeing the happiness at the compliment that Steve tries to hide beneath annoyance.

Luckily for Steve, Dustin knows him too well. So, he isn’t deterred and just pulls him into a quick hug to extra show his thanks.

Steve stiffens in surprise as he always does. Dustin doesn’t let it stop him, knowing that soon Steve will melt as he always does. This time is no different and Steve pulls him close for a second before stepping back and ruffling his hair with a grin.

Dustin now noticed the other members of Hellfire, who aren’t in The Party looking at them with shocked confusion. As if Steve is an unknown alien. He doesn’t know why that is, since all of them seemed to know Steve, but just in case, he goes: “This is Steve.”

“We know, Dustin,” Eddie breaks the silence, not breaking the stare he is directing at Steve.

It feels a bit like a stand off.

Steve’s back straightens up, looking much like the fighter Dustin saw in Starcourt and with the demodogs the year before. It makes him look intimidating and Gareth, Jeff and Chris shrink away slightly. Though, Eddie doesn’t let himself get intimidated like that and just stares right back.

Dustin is about to worry that he should step in – he didn’t think the rivalry between the two of them ran this deep before now – when he recognizes Steve’s stance. He isn’t trying to be intimidating, but trying to hype himself up to do something. Dustin wonders what.

Right then, Steve sets a step forwards and holds out his hand for Eddie to shake, as he says: “Thanks for looking after these dorks. I hear you’re a crazy mean DM.”

If Dustin were to go off Eddie’s look he’d say Eddie just witnessed the Upside Down with how his worldview seems to have shifted.

To be fair to Dustin, he isn’t that far off. Eddie has never been a target of Steve, but has observed him for years, creating his own stories and prejudices about the other. This is the last thing Eddie expected Steve to do when Dustin mentioned him bringing by food.

So, there is a moment of silence, the whole cafeteria holding its breath andwatching the stand down. They wonder if King Steve will be rejected by The Freak, or if a weird compromise will be made by two on opposite sides of the social ladder.

Then Eddie tentatively reaches out and shakes Steve’s hand. He answers: “They’re good players, glad to have them at my table.”

At that Steve grins and they shake once before letting go. With that done, he turns back to the kids and tell them: “You better be ready Friday, I have a date after I get your asses home.”

“We don’t have control over that, Steve,” Mike rolls his eyes. They all know DnD can run overtime, so they can’t make any promises. Not that Steve has ever been truly mad at them if they made him wait, even when he had a date then.

“We’ll try," Lucas assures Steve, placating him after Mike’s remark.

“Thank you, Lucas,” Steve says, giving Mike a look before turning back to Lucas and asking: “Still on for practice Sunday?”

“Yeah, man,” Lucas grins, which Dustin still finds crazy that anyone would smile in relation to sports, but he loves his two weird friends.

“Stay in school,” he tells the table like a hypocrite as he leaves.

They call their own greeting to his back and he holds up a hand as he goes.

He scans the cafeteria as he leaves and Dustin thinks he knows who he is looking for. This is confirmed when Steve’s face splits into a wide grin like it had done for Dustin and he yells: “Robbie, your Indie film came in today. Watch it when you clock in?”

The two of them are perfect for each other Dustin thinks as he watches Robin grin back, getting up to meet Steve before he leaves the cafeteria. He wonders why they won’t just date and why Robin didn’t say hi until Steve did, since she normally has no inhibitions about draping herself over Steve.

Unlike Dustin, Robin has knowledge over Steve in the high school ecosystem.

She knows that Steve isn’t the person to be seen with her and she wasn’t sure he’d want to be her friend when under the watchful eyes of others. It’s something she realized was stupid the moment he looked for her and grinned.

Steve is her dingus and soulmate. They will always pick each other and he has already told her that many times before. Her own anxieties just get in the way from time to time.

With permission, she runs over launching herself into his arms. Steve catches her without problem like he always does.

Softly he says: “I used my extra time to get Dustin food, I don’t know if Keith will let me pick you up. Can you get to work, because I will fight Keith, no worries.”

“I’ll ask Nancy,” Robin assures him. “I don't mind. You’re still dropping me off at home?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says, like she's an idiot for thinking any different.

It’s only then, when Steve truly has to go if he wants to get back to work on time, that they let go of the other. Dragging out their goodbye as Steve makes his way out of the cafeteria.

Dustin gets pulled out of the – in his eyes – couple-y display by Gareth commenting: “You don’t see that every day.”

“Is Robin dating Steve?” Eddie asks like that is very surprising to hear

“No,” Dustin rolls his eyes. “They’re practically perfect for each other, but they both keep insisting it’s platonic, like with a capital P. Steve’s date this Friday is probably some random girl, at this point he’s more likely to show up with Mike’s mom than Robin.”

“Gross, dude,” Mike exclaims, but is ignored.

“Ah, okay,” Eddie says, like that makes more sense, which Dustin doesn’t get.

However, he lets it go in favor of focusing on something more interesting. “You shook Steve's hand, does this mean you’re gonna be nicer to each other now?” he asks Eddie.

Eddie raises a brow and gives a cynical smile as he answers: “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, squirt. He’s still the king of his court. Today was an exception of gracing us peasants, but that won’t last.”

“I don’t get why you think Steve’s like that,” Dustin complains. “He is a cool guy.”

“Exactly,” Jeff says. “He is cool, we are not. It’s not the same.”

Eddie clicks his fingers as he points at Jeff, backing up his point through the bite he’s eating.

“You just don’t know him”" Dustin says, but lets it go again. He isn’t getting anywhere with these two, no matter how much he thinks they would get along if they’d just try.

“Maybe I don’t,” Eddie agrees, voice absent as he watches Robin, who is seemingly getting interrogated by the band kids. Then Eddie brings his eyes back into focus and adds: “But I know his kind.”

“Whatever,” Dustin sighs, then dives into his burger, humming happily at the food Steve got him. He truly is the best

The whispers about Steve’s visit roam the halls for weeks after. Dustin is asked by multiple people how he knows Steve, when he answers that they’re friends, he isn’t believed. But Dustin is used to it, besides why should he care? He knows Steve better than any of them. They’re best friends.

~~

A/N:

I love the idea of Dustin being very oblivious to the weirdness of his friendship with Steve, bc to him it’s Steve, the dorky guy, who is also a badass and saved them. He has never really been king Steve in his vicinity and he has no clue why anyone would find it weird that Steve is hanging out with him.

Also Eddie totally has Robin clocked and is shocked that it seems Steve knows too and protects and respects her

[kennysboxergf]

omg the niko alphabet is chef’s kiss, pls we need one for aj🫶

Alphabet ~ AJ Shabeel

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He would go straight to the shower. Clean up and stuff but after giving you tons of praise and kisses.

And if you join him when he’s there then 🤭🤭

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and their partners)

His favourite body part of himself is his dick, he’s got a lot to be proud of there (making up for his height)

And he probably loves your cunt. He’s a very simple man ya know? Also your waist, he loves just wrapping around your waist whenever the two of you are together outside, also when you’re riding him, he’s holding on to your waist.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum)

Can recover ridiculously fast. He’s always up for another round and you look over and he’s already fucking hard again. Also loves watching you swallow his cum if you’re blowing him (makes you stick your tongue out to see it all gone)

D = Dirty secret (self explanatory, a secret of theirs)

There was definitely an occasion he asked you to tie him up and ride him. And he loved the experience and wants to repeat it soon. He isn’t into this all the time because he loves touching you but he thinks there is something different about not being able to give in to that urge and it kinda turns him on. He hasn’t been able to tell you this yet though because he doesn’t know how to phrase it right.

E = Experience (how experienced are they)

He’s pretty experienced I would say, he’s been with a few women. He definitely knows how to get you screaming his name.

F = Favorite position 

Missionary, he said it in a video and it makes sense with him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious or goofy at the moment?)

Not goofy but like mean teasing. He’s making fun of you and the noises you’re making. But he loves them and never lets you hold any in but there’s no way he’s going to fuck you without making fun of you, it’s in his nature.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they)

I think he’s pretty lazy when it comes to grooming. There’s hair there, sometimes it’s kinda wild. But he’s a clean person, he just doesn’t like shaving.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment?)

He’s very close to you. Focused on you and you only when he’s making you feel good. He’s kinda addicted to his phone tho, if he gets a text or call during the build up (so when he’s not inside you) he will probably answer it and pretend like the two of you aren’t naked right now.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s very loud when he’s jerking off, and he’s pretending it’s your mouth on his dick instead of his hand. Most of the time he tries to find you instead of jerking off but when he does he makes sure to tell you about how he touched himself to you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Degrading/praising depending on you. If you like to be degraded he will happily oblige but he’s cool with praise too. He just likes talking to you during it. 

Choking you. It’s either gentle pressure on your neck or a full hand over your mouth, pressure hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t wanna cut your air off just choke your words and moans, the barely there noises turn him on further.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

He likes the hiding of fucking in public places. Bathrooms and stuff. Also hotels (I paid for it, let’s wreck the bed). But nothing can really beat the bedroom at home because you can be as loud as you want. He is kinda an exhibitionist tho can’t lie.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Girlie if you walk out in a tank he’s immediately on you. He's always up and ready. You bend over and oh no suddenly he’s there behind you how did that happen?

N = No (something they wouldn’t do)

There isn’t much he wouldn’t try, but he is quite picky and loves sticking to routine so it would take a while for soemthing ti be incorporated into your daily sex life.

Doesn’t like the mess of food play tho or any of the weird puppy shit (speaking of this Sharky is probably into weird puppy/kitten shit, I said what I said) He would probably like being called names like daddy or whatever but no master shit he doesn’t wanna own you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving)

I think he LOVES getting head because he’s got so much control and he can see you down there on your knees and then he gets to watch you swallow his cum? He LOVES IT. He would give it too but he loves getting it more.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)

Fast and rough all the way. Fucking you out quicker than a F1 car. And he’s rough, grabbing whatever he can and bruising it with his grip.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often)

He totally would. It’s never his preference cus he loves talking you through it but he would have quickies all the time. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks)

He likes to stick to what he knows most of the time but there are rare occasions he brings something new into the bedroom to try out and if it sticks it sticks otherwise he’s back to what he knows. But it’s always unexpected with AJ.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

It’s almost always multiple rounds if you aren’t in a time crunch (sometimes even if you are). He is consistently needy and will go multiple times in a night. His rounds are fast though, but never unsatisfactory.

T = Toy (do they own toys? do they use them?)

Meh he doesn’t need them. He might have a few like bondage type things (rope, handcuffs) but like nothing too extravagant.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

OH MY GOD. He’s so unfair, teasing you endlessly when you can’t do anything, going so far as to make you cry. Teasing all the time, never giving you a break. Even after you come he’s still teasing you. But you try and do it back and he comes home to show you why you shouldn’t do that. (It only wanna makes you do it more tho, so he repeats what he did that night 🤭)

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’s relatively loud, he doesn’t care if anyone hears him. He’s also panting and grunting. 

W = Wild Card (get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Would pull your hair, and he kinda loves doing it because he loves how soft your hair feels.

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

He keeps chatting about how he makes up for his height in other areas and with the way he acts, I believe him. definitely on the larger side with 6-7 inches, it isn’t thick but it works.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

So much, so high. He is always up and ready for it, and like I said, a quick recovery period so that means even MORE sex.

Z = ZZZ (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Meh, he probably chills on his phone, or talks with you afterwards, sleeps like an hour or so later if the two of you don’t end up going again.

—

sorry for the late reply 🫶 all the requests are slowly in the works so please be patient with me 😭

but anyway as always requests are open and please come by and say hi <3

[goldennika]

Thoughts on TXT’s Paris Fashion Week Debut (Dior Men FW2024)

TXT made their Paris Fashion Week debut at the Dior Men FW2024 show!

Taehyun mentioned in their livestream that they were wearing custom outfits for the show and I say that’s how you should treat your brand ambassadors!!

Wearing house-sponsored outfits to fashion week is a fairly common practice but it’s nice to know that Dior Men went and had custom outfits made for them instead of just loaning them outfits straight from the collections.

Before I dive into each of their outfits, I wanted to touch briefly on the Dior Men FW2024 collection for some context. 

According to the Vogue writeup, Dior Men’s artistic director, Kim Jones, drew inspiration from both the onstage and offstage life of Rudolf Nureyev, a celebrated male ballet dancer. The collection begins with more casual outfits with their shorts and ballet-inspired shoes, then we make our way to their more business-appropriate suits, and Dior Men’s first(?) ever attempt at couture.

I must say that the more dramatic looks from their FW2024 collection were such a sight to behold, with all the drapery, cutouts, and embellishments. There were a few pieces that I think would work quite well for TXT but I’ll save that discussion for another time. For now, let’s talk about their PFW looks!

While I really appreciate how their outfits are all custom, I do still think that TXT’s branding and that of Dior Men isn’t exactly the best. Having TXT make their PFW debut during a time where Dior Men is injecting a little more youthful elements into their work is welcome but overall, the partnership just seems like a mismatch (especially when they wear full outfits), IMO. It feels like a bit of a letdown to see how bulky-looking and swallowed up by fabric most of the members seem to be. Hueningkai, Yeonjun, and Beomgyu in particular look so overwhelmed by their outfits in their photos. In motion/videos however, their outfits do look a little better. The boys mentioned that their outfits were very comfortable. I think that is more evident in videos than in stills! There is a softness and flow in their outfits that don’t seem to translate as well in stills. Unfortunately, most of us are only ever going to see them in these outfits through still photographs so it’s a bummer that it doesn’t highlight them enough.

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Not to be a total soobrangdan or anything, but I think Soobin’s outfit was the most flattering of the bunch.

I’ve mentioned before how I think Soobin could be a Soft Dramatic in the Kibbe system, meaning his lines are largely yang (think long, large, angular, sharp) with a yin undercurrent (think small, soft, rounded, curved). Under the Kibbe system, it is thought that outfits that mimic your body’s natural lines are most “harmonious,” and this outfit helps illustrate that!

For starters, the tonal dressing helps to draw attention to how long he is, as there are minimal distractions to what is essentially a column of color. It appears as though their might be a very fine print/pattern to his clothing but these details are quite small/faint and well within the same color family as his suit so the streamlined look is maintained.

The wrap style cut of his suit is also flattering for him as a Soft Dramatic as it adds a touch of yin to what could have been a very boxy suit. The large collar detail, the singular button, and the ruffle details around his neck and wrists add visual interest to his look, and also help to draw out his softer features!

They could have very well just gone for a plain turtleneck for this look and it would have worked out alright. But by going for a ruffled detail in a lighter fabric, it elevated the look even more and was able to balance out the power dressing look by providing the touches of softness that his Soft Dramatic frame calls for. 

I suppose my only real gripe about this look would have been the color, as it appears to be a little too light for his personal colors. A cooler or richer color palette would have made this perfect! 

On the topic of colors, I love these colors on Hueningkai! A softer color palette really does make him shine and the pop of bright blue was just enough so as not to distract from his features.

I am feeling a bit conflicted about his coat though. It seems oversized but also not oversized enough. I think if the coat were longer and the collar details were larger, it would have been more flattering on him, as his frame would be able to pull it off!

I suspect Kai to be a potential Flamboyant Natural, which is characterized by blunt yang. The gray coat is about knee length on him, which is relatively long so it still helps to draw attention to his long frame. But when coupled with the light brown pants and the cream/white shoes, his body is visually cut up into three parts and in odd proportions at that.

Flamboyant Naturals are among the Kibbe types that look most at home in relaxed silhouettes, and I think this is where their partnership with Dior could be a mismatch since Dior leans towards very structured, boxy silhouettes. While Kai’s outfit is a little more relaxed for Dior’s standards, it feels a bit too plain and safe for him. 

I haven’t seen any photos or clips of Kai at Fashion Week with his coat open but I think that might have helped too in terms of making the outfit more “relaxed” to suit his blunt yang, as we would be able to see the fabric move around and create different shapes that would have added more visual interest (see how Nicholas Hoult’s open coat and hand in pocket pose gives off a more relaxed vibe). These little styling tweaks could really make a difference.

Moving down the line, we have Yeonjun who is dressed in what looks to be a deep purple version of Soobin’s outfit.

I’ve been back and forth about what Yeonjun’s Kibbe type could be. He definitely is some Yang type but I couldn’t decide if he’s a very slim Flamboyant Natural or perhaps a (Soft) Dramatic? 

As a Yang type, again the tonal dressing approach really helps to highlight his long frame. However, his suit doesn’t seem to fit him as well as Soobin’s does. This is now making me think that he could potentially be a Flamboyant Natural too, as this style of clothing appears to be restrictive on his frame (even in videos), rather than highlighting it.

The ruffled neckline and gauzy fabric of his shirt, while more “relaxed” in comparison to his suit, looks to be a bit too delicate for his frame too. Either a heavier fabric or less frills could have worked better with his lines, as it seems to be distracting from him in this case. On the topic of relaxed lines, his hairstyling for the Dior after party seemed to suit him more. It has volume and structure and it frames his face quite nicely.

I also still think that Yeonjun might be flattered more by lighter colors. In natural light, the suit’s colors don’t seem as deep as they do in these red carpet photos but he seems visually weighed down by the darkness of his outfit, imo. Or perhaps they wanted him to take on a more mature image for their PFW debut. Who knows?

Like I’ve said earlier, their outfits look better in motion. When in still photographs, Beomgyu’s coat swallows him up.

Standing at six feet tall, Beomgyu has vertical. However, in comparison to the first three members, his frame is more delicate, and he has some rounded features. Given those, I think Beomgyu could potentially be a Soft Classic Kibbe type. With this Kibbe type, clean and simple lines with a touch of softness would be most harmonious. 

Hueningkai shared during their livestream that he and Beomgyu have similar outfits but notice how differently it falls on Beomgyu.

While this outfit has fairly simple lines, the oversized sleeves are a bit much on his slender frame. He could benefit from a coat that had a tad more structure, particularly around the shoulders, or if it were a slimmer fit instead of an oversized one.

Now, the majority of the outfit’s colors do suit Beomgyu, the pink sweater is rather distracting for an Autumn type like him. It’s much too cool and bright for his complexion, imo. It also takes some attention away from his vertical as it breaks up his body. Although it is visually interesting to combine the bright pink with deeper brown pieces, it just wasn’t the most flattering combination on him.

Taehyun’s outfit looks cozy but out of place for an event like Paris Fashion Week, especially when you place him beside the rest of his members who have at least two layers to their outfits for more visual interest.

I haven’t really figured out what Taehyun’s Kibbe type could be yet but am leaning towards the possibility of Dramatic Classic for him, as his proportions are moderate but he has rather angular facial features. That said, he is still a little too young to be typing and it’s possible he could be growing in his other features as he grows older.

Working under the assumption of being a Dramatic Classic though, this outfit would then be a little too yin for his type. While the fabric lends the touch of yang he needs (the texture makes me think of denim somehow), the shape of the sweater is noticeably rounded and the color blocking visually cuts up his body whereas a more tonal palette could have honored his vertical better. Even his hair is rather soft and floppy for his type. A shorter cut with sharper edges tends to flatter him better.

Depending on the lighting, his top appears a little more muted, which is flattering for him, as I think he could also be an Autumn type. While Autumn types tend to pull off browns, this particular shade appears a little too light on him. A deeper shade of brown like Beomgyu’s coat could have worked better for his complexion, imo.

Overall I think it’s a huge boost and testament to TXT’s popularity that they got to attend Paris Fashion Week as a brand ambassador but so far, I’d think that their partnership has produced a few more misses than hits, especially in terms of red carpet attire.

But like I’ve said at the beginning, there were a few looks from the Dior Men FW2024 collection that looked to fit TXT’s image a bit more, and as they already have a history of getting custom outfits from the brand, maybe we’ll end up seeing TXT in couture pieces too? Or at least one can dream so!

If you’ve made it to the end, thank you so much for reading!! Would love to hear your thoughts about their red carpet looks or anything TXT and fashion-related so leave a comment or reblog to share them with me!

[ponder-the-orb]

Chapter 3/12 of my F!Tav x Gale fic

***

“Please Ciri, say something.”

Gale takes her hand, imploring her as she sits stiff as granite in their bed. She isn’t sure how many moments have passed since he’d finished talking, since she’d awoken to find him dressed and staring at her, since the peace of the winter’s dawn had shattered around them with two short sentences.

The orb is destabilised. I can’t stop it.

He touches the cluster of freckles by her thumb, rubbing there until her eyes finally meet his. 

“Ciri?”

“You’re wrong,” she finally whispers. They’re the only words she can manage, the only ones that make any sense right now.

Gale continues to stroke the back of her hand. “I wish I was.” 

She wrenches free from his grip, jerking away from the mattress. 

“You are. You are wrong . You’re… why would you say something like that?” She pulls her robe tighter around herself, shaking her head as her foggy thoughts unspool in every direction. They’d traded blows sharp enough to pierce skin last night, but a retaliation like this is crueller than anything she could imagine.

Gale sighs and pulls down the collar of his shirt. The dull purple mark there now flickers with light, erratic as a spell not quite mastered. She stares at it, following those curving lines from his chest to the corner of his eye. That’s when she sees it, the ghost of a wince wavering with each pulse. Two year old pain they both thought they’d left long in the past. 

“Gods.” She sucks in a breath, pushing down the panic rising in her stomach. “Well, this- this happened before. We can fix it. We can find more items for it to feed on.” She rips open her bedside drawer and grabs the silver ring from the bottom, a small souvenir from her latest job.

He takes the offered ring and slowly flips it between his fingers. “I have already gone through half the artefacts in this tower, very powerful ones, and it is still hungry. I am not sure there’s any source of weave strong enough to sate it anymore.” His fist closes around the silver. “Ciri, I need you to–” 

“ Alright . Alright alright alright-” She rubs her forehead as she paces, trying to pull the flapping thread of her thoughts into a plan. “ We’ll buy more items, just enough to tide you over.”

“Ciri. ”

“There are so many archmages in this city, one will be able to help. Or Elminster. Someone.”

“Ciri– ”

“I’ll send word to Baldur’s Gate. Yes. Then I’ll be able to-”

“Cirinna!”

She stops immediately as her full name hangs in the air between them. Two years knowing him and yet it still sounds so strange in his voice, like a language not quite settled on the tongue. She can count the number of times he’s used it on one hand, the last instance a quiet breath against her ear as the evening of their wedding drew to a close.

‘Mrs. Cirinna Dekarios.’

There’s none of that softness now. 

Read the rest on AO3

[alphajocklover]

Would you be able to right a baseball coach tf wear the person is turned into a baseball coach.

I haven’t talked about Jock Studies in quite a while, and when I’ve talked about them, I’ve mostly talked about their effect on the students who get brought into these programs, the ones who get brainwashed into becoming slutty jocks. When I’m not talking about the students, I’m talking about their coaches, most of which were also brainwashed into helping the program in the first place. But there is one important thing about Jock Studies I haven’t talked about at all: the sports!

Because the Jock Studies program makes students into, well, jocks, the schools they get a hold of change as well! It makes a sort of sense when you think about it. You wouldn’t expect a regular college to be the same as a college filled to the brim with buff jocks. If you’ve read my other Jock Studies stories you might have an idea of the difference. Regular colleges don’t have classes like ‘Intro to Worshiping Coaches Body’ or ‘Flexing like a Slut 101’ after all. But it isn’t just the classes that change, the entire school does! The school's culture changes, the hierarchy and cliches change, and most of all the sports change. Once a school has enough Jock Studies members, or just jocks in general, sports become a huge deal in a school. Almost everyone joins some kind of sports team, and those in the most popular sports, like football, wrestling, and baseball, are the most popular jocks in school! It's because of the sheer amount of jocks and the importance of sports teams to these schools that the Jock Studies program needs coaches more than ever! One coach can only fuck so many needy jocks in a day after all! So to make up for this the Jock Studies Program has instituted an assistant coaching program!

Now students who are part of the Jock Studies Program can sign up to become assistant coaches! All it takes is some extra classes, a bit of personal growth (literally) and some fun motivational videos, and any jock can become an assistant coach! Being an assistant coach is a very prestigious position in the Jock Studies Program, and includes many of the perks of being a full coach, like fucking hot slutty jocks in the ass, while also getting the advantages of being a student, like getting fucked by a beefy manly coach!

Take Clint here for example, one of our newest assistant coaches. He wasn’t even a part of the Jock Studies Program before, but after a chat with our head coach/the former dean of students, he’s ready to help his fellow jocks in any way he can!

The Jock studies program is… fairly interesting. It’s one of the least hidden transformation groups out there, and I can’t be sure what members are willing and what members are brainwashed. The fact they don’t act like most transformation groups do is one of the reasons they’re so fascinating to me… and dangerous to everyone. Try and keep your eyes open for any weird new classes at your school.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Could you, instead of Bodyguard Sokkla AU, write Azula being famous, as she should, and Sokka being a huge overly smitten fanboy who gets to meet her irl by accident through Zuko? Zuko would obviously hide that he's related to someone famous to not attract attention on himself cause he can be somewhat socially awkward sometimes but what happens when his sister calls him one day while he's playing video games with his friends and without thinking too much he answers the phone and puts her on speaker so that his hand will be free to hold the controller and Sokka recognizes her voice?

This prompt has been sitting in my askbox for ages. Idk if you’re even still here xD but here it is. A quick little thing while I work on fandom events.

Katara thinks that it is embarrassing that he has so many posters of the girl. That one of them is even autographed. That he has a closet full of concert T-shirts and fanmade ones alike. That he has every single CD that Azula has ever appeared on. 

She doesn’t quite understand idol culture and frankly he finds himself rather embarrassed by it too. 

He would never let Jet or Zuko see all of this. Toph has already given him a hard time for being, as she so delicately put it, a total fanboy dweeb. But he certainly isn’t the worst out there. He can pridefully say that he doesn’t own a body pillow.

But he talks about her all the time. He’d like to meet her more than anything. He wonders if she is just as pretty in person. Prettier perhaps? She has such a nice smile and her voice is…

It’s divine. He has never heard anything like it; gentle and powerful all at once. 

It is a volcanic eruption and a quiet sunset breeze all at once. 

Sokka sighs, he almost puts one of the CD’s in the radio but he ultimately decides that doing so might ruin tonight’s livestream; pop music doesn’t exactly scream ‘epic fantasy-action background music’. Unless of course he and his gaming group are bold enough. He can’t imagine that they would be so brave. Not when Toph takes this whole livestreaming thing so seriously. 

Sokka puts on his headset and joins Zuko in the server. “Hey, Sokka.” The boy greets.

“How’s it going, buddy?”

Zuko exhales deeply. “I’m expecting a phone call tonight so we decided to postpone the livestream. Also, Toph can’t make it tonight, she’s got a headcold or something. So it’ll just be you, Jet, and I tonight.” 

“I think that we could use a stress free night of just gaming for the sake of gaming.” Just like in the old days, before they decided to start gaming for some extra cash. Not that Toph needs any. 

“What game are we playing tonight, boys?” Jet’s face appears on the screen. 

“Well Toph wanted to play ‘Night of Claw and Fire’. But I thought that we could play that one with the race cars that we used to love.” Zuko replies.

“Are we going to play the one with the shitty graphics? Or the new one.”

“Shitty graphics.” Sokka and Zuko say at once. Nothing like some classic, old school, boxy graphics. It has been so long since he has had a chance to glitch his character into oblivion. 

.oOo.

He knows that the game is all in good fun but Sokka can’t help but be at least a little frustrated at his losing streak. He hasn’t even been able to beat any of the NPC racers. They have been lapping him for the better part of the night while Zuko and Jet cackle. 

He wishes that Toph were here. 

Toph usually protects him from getting tag teamed. 

He puffs out another sigh and tightens his grip on his controller. He stares at its sleek, metallic navy blue finish. “Come on” he mumbles to the thing, “just give me one win.” 

He revs his virtual engine. 

3…

2…

1…

Zuko’s phone rings and the game pauses just as Sokka’s character blasts off. “Oh come on, bro!” Sokka shouts. 

Zuko rolls his eyes and unpauses the game. Sokka’s race car slams directly into the barricade and Jet cackles as Zuko hits the speaker button. “Hello?” 

“Hello, Zuzu.” 

Jet too slams his virtual car into the barricade and snorts. “Zuzu?” 

Zuko’s face flushes. “I shouldn’t have put you on speaker.”

“You have me on speaker?”

“I’m in the middle of gaming!” He declares. “I’m in first place by the way.” 

“There’s a first time for everything.” The girl chuckles. 

And that is when Sokka’s heart skips. He knows that laugh. He has always found it to be so charming. “Zuko…” he swallows. “Is that…?”

“My sister? Yeah.” Zuko fills in.

“Azula is your sister!? And you didn’t tell me?”

“My sister isn’t…”

“Yes I am.” Azula cuts in. “I’m exactly who you think I am.”

And Zuko is blushing again. Sokka can’t begin to fathom why. Not until he grumbles a, “I’ve been trying to be lowkey about this. I don’t want attention.” 

“I do.” Azula declares. 

“Why do you do this to me? And what are you actually calling for?”

“Well, mother said to tell you that she found some of your old baby pictures. Like the one where you…” 

“Azula!” He shouts, his face now a vivid scarlet.”

“The one where you decided to use your underwear as a hat.”

“Dude, you used your underpants as a hat?” Jet chuckles. 

“No! She’s just trying to make me sound like a dweeb.”

“It’s working.” Jet cackles. 

To Zuko’s credit he is still in first place. “Alright, Azula, we’ll talk later tonight.” His finger hovers over the end call button.

“No!” She and Sokka say at once. 

“I want to talk to your sister!” Sokka requests. “You know how much I love her…music!” Oh, he’s such an idiot–just bursting out declarations of love. “I love her music.” He repeats. 

“It’s alright, you can confess your love.” Azula drawls. “Most people do.”

Zuko groans. “She likes attention. Stop giving her attention.” 

But it is much too late for that. He has already plunged right into a very stuttering, “c-can we hang o-out sometime. I mean if you want to. I wouldn’t force you to do that because I’m…I’m not one of those weirdos but I thought that it could be nice maybe…”

“I suppose that we can.” Azula pauses. He can hear in her voice that her face has lit up. “Oh! I can show you Zuzu’s baby photos! There’s this one where he’s trying to eat his own foot.”

“Alright that’s it! Conversation over!” Zuko strikes ‘end call’. 

And with the strike of a button his hopes and dreams deflate. But hours later, with the sounds of video game victory music echoing in his ears, he gets a text. It better not be Zuko because he is ready to give the boy an earful…over text.

He looks at the screen. ‘Tomorrow. 5:00. Jasmine Dragon.’ The phone dings again and a picture of a very chubby baby Zuko stares up at him, peeking out from under a pair of underwear.

Sokka grins. ‘How did you get my number?’ He texts back.

‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder about.’ She adds a little wink. 

‘Okay, tomorrow at 5.’ He clutches his phone to his chest. He is actually going to meet his idol in person. He just hopes that she will like him as much as he likes her. Maybe he should take some of the posters down so that he doesn’t seem creepy…

He takes a deep breath. They’re just meeting at the Jasmine Dragon. And, realistically, Zuko will probably be tagging along. He will cross that bridge when he comes to it. Until then he will relish in that he is actually going to meet his idol face to face!

[sneasedtomeetyou]

:{ Hello!! I am Echo, The Professor's Personal Porysistant™!! We've been at this for days but I think [Doppelganger] is finally starting to get it!! }: :{ A video file is embedded. [LOCATION UNAVAILABLE], Kanto. 12/24/23 4:45 pm. }:

This video starts with the hushed sounds of our two professors talking amongst one another, though the quiet words seem to be lost on us. Echo doesn’t seem too interested in this, however, and instead turns to look around this new-to-her space that we find ourselves in. This lab, though not too dissimilar to Amy’s in some ways, is much larger. Extensive bookshelves line the largest of the visible walls, and a large picture window lets in the warm evening light as it looks out over the nearby forest- quite the view really. 

As her attention refocuses on Casi and Amy we find them sitting at a table clearly meant for young students, the furniture scaled down to better accommodate them. Amy in particular appears out of place, shifting their legs and attempting to get comfortable in the small seat, favoring that left hip. Casi is able to fit well enough in his seat, a fact that seems to bother him more as he watches the taller professor, before making a bit of a face down at his own desk.. 

As echo comes closer the soft whispers between the two become more distinct, though still difficult to make out on the recording. They hold hands and Casi rests her head on Amy’s shoulder for a few moments.

Casi: Hey, we’ll get through this together, okay? I love you.

Amy: I love you too.

When Professor Holly enters the room, an extremely short older woman with gray hair streaked with the remnants of her natural green, Casi abruptly straightens up, flustered. His hand does not let go of Amy’s, however, dropping a bit in between them almost as if to hide the affection from the newcomer. Instead of tea this time the older professor has brought them a tray full of cookies. They smell amazing,- :{ Echo note: Who programmed me to smell?? Why is this something that I can do?? ‘:3 }:  -but combined with the classroom setting it becomes unclear if she is treating them more like colleagues or students. When Holly speaks her voice is gentle but holds a bit of a teasing humor in it. 

Holly: How are you two lovebirds feeling today?

Casi flushes at the word lovebirds but tries to ignore it. His voice is noticeably a bit higher when he speaks. 

Casi: Much better thank you! I do apologize for my… Outburst yesterday. Traveling can be stressful. 

Holly: Which is exactly why I refuse to do it. Did you manage to find a place to sleep last night that wasn’t your car? 

Casi: Am…Professor Amaryllis made the hotel arrangements, actually. 

Amy: It’s rather easy to do when you only have to book one hotel room. 

The statement itself is rather vague and casual, but the way Casi visibly reacts makes it clear what Amy is referring to. They chuckle under their breath at the dismayed look on Casi’s face, apparently finding a bit of humor themselves in the teasing. Almost as if to change the subject, Casi clears his throat and picks up a cookie.

Casi: Anyway… Umm.. Any results with the DNA test? 

Holly: The tests confirmed the Sneasel is in fact a cloned specimen. 

Casi: That isn’t possible.. If she was then I would’ve known about it. There’d be a record of her! 

Holly: It’s the truth. The evidence of the cloning process is clear in her genetic code. Casi: We don’t even have anyone working in Hoenn right now–

Holly: Are there any other programs that you lent DNA samples to? 

Casi: None that I’m aware of…

Holly: Then it may be best to get to the bottom of this quickly.

Casi starts nervously drumming her fingers against the table. She gets increasingly fidgety throughout the conversation, finishing one cookie and taking another, and then another, she doesn’t seem to notice how many she’s eating in her distracted state. Despite the obvious discomfort with the topic she tries to keep her tone level and respectful whenever possible- A tone of disbelief, nervousness maybe, but not anger. 

Casi: Could you trace the DNA back to anything specific? 

Holly: I wouldn’t have access to any of those records. 

Casi: I suppose I do… Next time I’m in Sinnoh I can look through our records for anything…

Amy: Think you’ll find something? Casi: I sincerely hope that I don’t…

Casi: ...Could you run the tests again? 

Holly: It won’t change anything, but I can rerun the sample if it will put you at ease. Casi: I need to be completely sure. If she truly is a cloned specimen then that’s a serious accusation to level.-

Amy hums and squeezes Casi’s hand- Bringing him a little bit back to the present and out of his head. Casi looks over at them and then down to the now half full plate of cookies and the new one that he’s just picked up. 

Casi: …These cookies are good.

Holly: Thank you! I made them myself.

{: Transcription ends :} {: Now imagine this conversation over and over again and [Doppelganger] eating cookies until he's sick and you have a rough outline of the past week!! ':3 :}