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bits-and-babs · 6 months

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✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

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"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house.

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises.

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether.

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence.

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde."

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'.

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes."

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel.

✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it.

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that.

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order.

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it.

He says nothing.

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt.

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils.

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk.

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action.

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much.

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose.

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock.

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'.

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head.

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform.

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast.

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune.

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed.

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet.

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission.

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you.

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up.

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another."

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins.

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side.

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention.

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes.

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow.

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth.

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue.

"The mask stays on."

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand.

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise.

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body.

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape.

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave.

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you.

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged.

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation.

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair.

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand.

“What was the prize?”

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes.

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex.

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression.

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–”

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly.

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress.

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion.

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips.

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot.

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing.

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre.

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?”

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth.

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?”

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper.

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–”

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name.

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration.

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–”

✰

“He’s blonde.”

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull.

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust.

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively.

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

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two-sibyls-tall · 1 year

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Consider if you will. Leaning more into Stalker Tim Drake.

- Dick references an inside joke to Jason from Jason’s second week as Robin. Jason pretends not to remember, which distracts just enough from Tim stifling laughter behind them.

- Barbara and Tim are away from Gotham when someone starts attempting to hack the Batcomputer. Barbara could protect from it regardless of where she is, but first she needs to be on the Batcomputer’s server, which might be a tad difficult w/ her firewalls, and might take too long. Tim slides her his laptop, already logged in to the server, and Barbara’s too happy about the time-saver to question it.

- Jason & Tim on a drug bust, and Tim flawlessly replicates a series of movies that Jason did years ago with Batman in a similar situation. Jason just figures that it’s something Bruce told all of them, even though Tim included the bit of flair that Jason liked to add.

- Steph handing Tim a list of solved riddles so he can double check them before she goes off to save people from whatever the Riddler is doing this time. About halfway down the list he quietly scoffs at the Riddler reusing one of them from early in Dick’s first year as Robin.

- Cass watching Tim Alarming Body Language (TM) when Jason off-handedly mentions saving some kid with a camera while he was Robin, and how he wonders whatever happened to him.

- Damian receiving a gift one year that is a small collage of photos of Dick, Jason, Steph, and Damian all in their Robin outfits, all in-action. He isn’t sure who it’s from, or why there aren’t any pictures of Tim.

- Bruce loses Tim on patrol at one point, and after a frantic three hours of searching and several phone calls & comm links so the other Bats are on lookout as well, he finally finds Tim. He’s tucked into a hiding place Bruce never knew about in an alley right on their patrol routes, fast asleep. He only thinks to wonder about it after he’s called everyone back and assured them that Tim was found.

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hjizngs · 4 months

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sick days | lee minho

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

hi! this is my first ever post on here,, hehe. constructive criticism is welcomed, hate is not.

cw: sick reader, petnames, slight cursing, slightly suggestive (??), angstyish oops, mostly fluff! just minho being the cutest bf :3

another hacking cough forces itself from your throat, leaving behind a painful sting and the inability to swallow. a frustrated groan emits you, followed by disgruntled sniffle. you hate being sick.

sore throats, gross coughs, painful headaches, and a stuffed nose were all a recipe for disaster — especially today. you and minho had planned out the perfect date; a picnic, stroll in the park, and finally a movie. you had looked forward to it all week, barely getting through. only the promise of seeing your boyfriend kept you going.

you turn over on your side, the gentle movement sending another round of pain signals ringing in your head. tears sprung to the corners of your swollen eyes. you were devastated at having to miss your date. blearily, you swung a hand over to the bedside table, blindly searching for your phone.

once found, you swiped over to minho’s contact. pressing the call button, you slumped back onto your pillow defeatedly.

“jagi?” came the sweet voice of your boyfriend. “what’s up?”

an exhausted whimper answers him. “min.. min i’m sorry” is all you can utter.

his voice instantly is filled with concern. “what’s my love sorry for, hm? is everything okay?”

“no, m’sorry min.. i feel so bad. my head hurts, and i puked earlier, and it —“ another pained sound exits you. “— it hurts.”

something shuffles over the phone, and your boyfriend is quick to reply. “oh, my poor jagi. i’m on my way, don’t worry.”

you furrow your brows. “wh-what? no no you don’t have to do that, min!”

“see you in five.”

your eyes rolled as your boyfriend hung up on you a abruptly (like he always does — and it never fails to surprise you). coughing again, you accept that there’s nothing you can do to stop him from coming over. you scan your messy room and groan. you’re sick! you don’t want him to see you like this!

you swing your legs over to the side of your bed, only pausing when a sneeze erupts from your pinkened nose. you settle your socked feet on the floor and attempt to rise to your feet.

you sway, blinking harshly as to try to clear the black spots plaguing your vision. maybe getting up wasn’t the best idea..? oh well.

slowly, you begin to shuffle around your room, picking up discarded clothes and trying to round up any embarrassing wrappers or trash. you’re halfway through folding another t-shirt when your body flashes hot, then cold. the pounding in your head increases tenfold and you drop the shirt in favor of clutching your temples. spots engulf your sight and you sink to your knees, not even attempting to make it to the bed.

you’re sweating. but the ceiling fan above only makes you shiver, goosebumps lining your arms. everything is too bright, and you squint from a combination of a headache and the glaring overhead light that suddenly feels like a thousand suns beating down on you.

another whimper crawls out of your dry throat. the only thing your fever-weakened mind can think is minho. where is minho? you need him, it hurts it hurts everything hurts —

“jagi?! oh my god, are you okay?” thunderous footsteps make their way to you and you wince at the sudden exclamation.

cold, cool hands press themselves to your trembling body and you sigh in relief. they stroke through your hair, carding through gently. you open one eye to see who they belong to, but clamp it shut immediately, the bright light making your eyelids pulse.

you hear shuffling from the side, and one of the hands leave you. you suppress a whine, but something in your expression must be alarming because the voice coos. “oh, baby, i’m just turning off the light, okay?”

no, it’s not okay. not when those hands are the only thing grounding you, keeping you from melting. however, as promised, the offending light gets shut off, and you hum in appreciation.

the nice hands quickly return to their rightful place in your hair, and you bravely attempt to open your swollen eyes again.

your boyfriend looks down at you gently. “my poor girl. let’s get you back into bed, hm?”

you nod pathetically, letting him lift you up and place you softly on your mattress. you murmur a quiet thanks and he kisses your sweaty forehead in response. he sits on the side of the bed next to you, placing his hand on your leg and rubbing comforting circles into your skin.

“have you eaten at all yet?” he inquires.

you shake your head, “no, not yet. i don’t think i could eat a thing without puking it back up, to be honest.”

minho hums at that, scanning your face. he reaches out and places a small hand on your forehead, feeling out your temperature. he frowns.

“i think we need to check for a fever, honey. you’re very warm.”

he moves to go stand and you pout. “don’t leave, please.”

“i’m just going to grab the thermometer and a glass of water, i’ll be right back, okay?”

“be fast!” you plead.

he cards a hand through your hair. “i’ll be so fast, jagiya.”

it feels like an eternity as minho tries to locate the thermometer from outside your bedroom. you shiver again, pulling the closest fuzzy blanket over you and burrowing into it.

and that’s how he finds you when he returns — a sweaty, sick burrito. you watch as he smiles down at you fondly, pulling back the blanket a little to take a look at you.

“think you can sit up for me? need help?” he asks.

“need help, please,” you respond nasally.

minho aids in positioning you up so you’re leaning against your pillow. he holds out the found thermometer and motions for you to open your mouth.

you oblige and he places the thermometer under your tongue. after a few moments, he pulls it out and looks down on it with a displeased expression — like it personally offended him.

“100.” he states, his brow crinkling. “yeah, you’re not leaving this bed.”

you sigh and slump farther into your blanket. “i’d rather hear that in a different situation.”

minho blinks slowly, fondly. “i’ll ignore that, just because you’re sick.”

you stick out your tongue as he rises from the bed to put away the thermometer. he looks down at you, unimpressed, but with a twinkle of amusement in his catlike eyes. “brat.”

“i’m sick!” you whine, “be nice.”

“i am being nice. so nice, in fact, that i’ll ignore this little attitude —“ he reaches down and pokes your forehead, “— because i know that you feel like shit.”

you roll your eyes when he’s turned and putting the thermometer in some drawer, but deep down you’re very grateful he came over to take care of you. for all his teasing, he really does treasure you. you still feel bad for canceling the date.

in some feverish, dramatic mood change, tears begin to well in the corners of your eyes. they’re hot and uncomfortable, and you sniffle. not only did you cancel the date, you’re acting like a brat instead of thanking minho for looking after you.

“m’sorry,” you croak from your cocoon of blankets.

minho turns around sharply and scans your face quickly. he strides over to the bed and sits beside you. “what?”

“m’sorry!” tears begin to trickle down your face, sticky and unwanted. you reach up to swipe them away.

minho’s hand reaches out, grabbing onto your arm and lightly tugging you into his chest. “silly girl. what are you sorry for?”

“f’making you come over and take care of me and being a brat and not saying thank you!” you rush out, slurring some words.

a chuckle shakes minho’s chest. “oh wow, you’re really out of it, huh?”

“i’m sorry!”

“hey, hey,” his joking manner disappears when a fresh wave of tears erupts from your eyes. “you have nothing to be sorry for. you’re sick. you have a fever, baby. you aren’t being a brat, i’m sorry i called you that when you weren’t feeling well.”

you peek up at him. “you mean it?”

minho doesn’t respond, just pulls you tighter into his chest and kisses the top of your hair. his cool hand rubs on your back soothingly under your shirt. he gently lays back onto your bed, cradling you to his chest.

“try to sleep some of this off. take a nap,” he orders you lightly. “i’ll be right here.”

at his words, you snuggle into him. he reaches to the side and pulls a blanket over the two of you. just before sleep takes it’s hold over you, you look up at him, catching his eye.

“thanks for being here, min. i love you,” you murmur, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier as you begin to succumb to sleep.

the last thing you hear before sinking into feverish dreams is, “anytime, baby. i love you more.”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

yas! ok! first post done, please lmk what u think!!!1 reblogs and likes are appreciated:3

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lundenloves · 9 months

Text

{✧} 500 wc | no warnings

taglist | masterlist | dad!simon masterlist | request info

Simon Riley who swore to never have kids, then was surrounded by three. Two oldest fighting and waking up the baby in his arms, earning a wild cry and two sheepish apologies.

Simon Riley who was unable to bond with his children, not until after they had approached him for their missed love. An unsure hand pushed hair from their faces and a kiss to their temples, soft touch forever being a weakness.

Simon Riley who had to leave for deployment and his youngest couldn’t understand just why he was leaving. She cried and whined, stuck to his camo clad leg at the door. “Dad has to go.” Was his attempt at consolation, picking her up and pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ll be back lovie, before you know it.” He couldn’t stop his leg from anxiously bouncing for a week after that.

Simon Riley who secretly hoped to never make it back home after the scarring of previous deployments. He’d hoped to be shot square in the chest, with no chance of resuscitation. Because sometimes, just sometimes, the weight of his own emotional burden was too much to carry.

Simon Riley who often dreaded coming home and having to take off the mask. The riddance of his failsafe ‘Ghost’ was like having the sheet pulled, entirely accountable for his actions (or lack thereof) and it was hard to hack.

Simon Riley who couldn’t speak to his family for a day after being home. The urge to isolate so overcoming that he would either leave the house entirely or lie in bed for days. ‘Dad isn’t well’ was what the kids were told nearly every time, until they were old enough to see through it.

Simon Riley whose jaw tightened at his daughter's fluoxetine on the counter. A mental spiral he had sent himself down, assuming it was entirely his fault she had been prescribed such medicine with his failings as a father.

Simon Riley who was called upstairs to deal with spiders and such. Picking them up and taking them outside with ease, providing the largest amount of relief to his kids that he never did quite understand although reveled in.

Simon Riley who had formed a bond with his middle child by collecting a note of cash from whichever country his deployment saw him in. She had hit most middle eastern countries, all strung up on a pinboard above her desk with a skull sticker beside. It was one of the few times a genuine smile stretched his balaclava, tucking the note gently into his tac vest with practice.

Simon Riley who would never admit it but felt a pang in his chest on the night of his eldest daughter's first breakup. The faint stubble on his cheek dashed with few grey hairs, skin scarred, back sore and giving unwanted but secretly appreciated advice.

this wasn’t supposed to be depressing but i know nothing else apparently. it’s bittersweet. leave me alone. it’s unedited and chucked out, sigh.

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkjoequinn @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov

as always, comments are reblogs are hugely appreciated! i’ll sit in a hole if no one pats me on the head every now and then.

#simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw fanfiction #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley headcanons #dad!simon #simon ghost riley headcanons #cod headcanons

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dcxdpdabbles · 10 months

Text

The Adoptive Son. Part 4

Dick struts into Crowne Co. main office like he owns the place. He has shaped his civilian persona to be a watered-down version of Brucie Wayne, so he winked at the receptionist and offered a kind smile to the employees wandering around.

The receptionist, a lovely man named Ace, waves him to the elevator without pause, pressing the button and allowing Dick to go to Crowne's office. Danny Crowne's main office was its own floor complete with five corner desks, a joint conference office, three stylish comfortable couches, and lots of open space filled with potted plants.

Only someone with the highest clearance levels was allowed in there. Dick had been made to wait in the lobby by Ace., The first few times, he came to visit Crowne. Thankfully, his presence is so commonplace now that he was allowed in without signing in.

The elevator's door close, blocking out all noise but the soft, classical music Crowne was rather fond up. His fake boyfriend seemed to swing from one music genre to the next with little sense. He could listen to an instrumental waltz, switch to punk rock, fall into the country, and finally go to pop within an hour. Dick can tell what kind of day Crowne is having based on the elevator music he has playing.

Since it's Mozart No. 13, Crowne is likely dealing with a stressful day. Likely trying to clean up a mistake made by an employee.

It was a good thing on the one hand- Crowne would be too overwhelmed to keep a proper eye on him. But it made Dick worry against his will. Crowne tended to work himself into a frenzy and often forgo his well-being if it were not for Tim or Dick telling him to rest.

You don't have time to worry about the trafficker. Dick tells himself as the elevator rises up to the top floor. You have a mission to complete.

He's carrying a take-out order to surprise Crowne with lunch. That's his cover store, at least; if things go according to the schedule they managed to hack into, his fake boyfriend will be called away for a meeting.

Dick will claim that it's fine. He will spend ten minutes reading a book he's left in Crowne's office and "fall asleep".

During that time, Bruce will hake into the cameras in Crowne's office and play a loop of him napping on a couch. In reality, Dick will be going through the office to find any kind of evidence. It's been almost five months since he took on this assignment, and he barely has anything to show. Bruce was becoming impatient.

Thankfully, little Damian kept most of Bruce's attention. The little eight-year-old had been the surprise the three main Justice Leaguers had found at Nanda Parbat. All those years of Dick complaining about Talia al Ghul being evil were true.

She had done something terrible to Bruce without his consent, and Damian al Ghul had been the result.

Then, Talia planned to raise her son as the next heir for her father's league until Bruce convinced her that Damian deserved better. Now Damian was at the manor, slowly unlearning all the terrible habits installed into him from birth.

He had attempted to fight Jason for his second son position, but Bruce had put a stop to it by claiming Jason was a new recruit, and that must have meant something to Damian because the kid backed off.

Now, Damian stuck to Jason's side like a small shadow, watching and learning everything he could. He seemed to adore Jason and looked up to him like the other boy was his idol.

Jason was over the moon about having a baby brother, deciding he wanted to teach Damian proper English- the young child had been learning but struggled a bit- and read him a bedtime story every night.

Dick wished he could claim the same regarding his younger brothers. But sadly, he and Jason did not have the best relationship due to Dick's horrible temper. This, in turn, made little Damian weary of him, keeping a safe distance whenever Dick came over to report on his undercover mission.

The door to the elevator opens, and Dick comes face to face with Crowne, rapidly typing away on his computer with a mantic glint in his eyes. He's got all three desks covered in piles of paperwork and four chalk boars with various colored writing.

Oof, it's worst than he thought.

This looks like it was a level 10 mess. In the five months that he has dated Crowne he's only seen a 10 twice.

Dick clears his throat hoping to break Crowne from his trance. It doesn't work, not that he's surprised. Carefully placing the take-out bags on one of the couches, he struts over and gentle taps one hunched over shoulder.

Crowne eyes swing to him, his entire expression brightens when he realizes who it is. "Hello Darling. I'm sorry I didn't hear you come in"

Dick's heart flutters at the word of endearment. He takes control of the reaction by channeling it into making his eyes soft as he leans down for a kiss. Crowne meets half way, melting against Dick like he's not used to being desired.

It's so adorable that Dick allows the kiss to linger longer than normal. He pulls back, smirking at the red cheeks and a slightly dazed expression on Crowne's face. He never gets tired of putting that particular look on Crowne.

"It's alright, I can see you're busy. My fault for dropping in unannounced, but I was in the neighborhood, and we could have lunch together." Dick tilts his head "If you have time to spare".

Crowne looks very remorseful. "I'm so sorry, darling. I have a meeting about the new cellphone models, and I just found out the model is having issues. The batteries are blowing up while the camera feature is either freezing the whole processor or just breaking down the command. I don't have much time today for lunch"

Dick knows it's part of the plan, but he can't help but be sad they can't spend too much time together. It's done wonders for his undercover job as Crowne nervously plays with a pen, apologizing again for his workload.

He shrugs, offering to wait for Crowne with the prepared excuse. The other man brightens, promising to finish as soon as he can. Dick walks over to grab his book as Crowne returns his attention to his screen, typing even faster.

He's never seen anyone that could type as fast as Crowne, not even Bruce or Babs. The fact Crowne created his working computer from the processor to the modified keyboard meant very little.

Crowne typed on any computer as if he had lessons from birth and not learning alongside the rest of the world when computers started getting more popular. Dick still knows many people who prefer paper and pens to have to press keys.

"You won't be alone for too long," Crowne calls, eyes never leaving his screen as his fingers fly over the slightly curved keyboard "Tim will be here in half a hour. You two can spend time together"

Dick forced a smile "Sounds great"

Just great. Drake's arrival would limit his snooping time. Recently he's noticed the younger boy always seemed to insert himself between Dick and Crowne. Alfred had laughed when he reported this slight mishap claiming that he would get the same complaints from Bruce a few years ago.

Back when Dick would try to scare away Catwoman or Talia.

Dick knows that different. He is trying to stop a legit trafficking ring and doesn't want to have some adult time with Crowne. Bruce should have not been looking for a stepmother for him, especially with those women.

Not when Clark Kent was literally right there. He'll convince the old man of this someday.

"Tim looks up to you. He makes inquiries about you often." Crowne continues. His more formal speech means he is slightly nervous. Dick's lip twitches into a smile as his face turns red; simultaneously, his posture straightens. Another give. "I was wondering if you would like to do an event with him."

"A event?"

Crowne pauses, then in a forced calm voice, he says, "I have a side project that involves some of Gotham's youth. The kind of youth often overlooked."

The warm feeling crumbles in Dick's chest. Quickly he double-taps his recording bracelet. This is it. The first real sign of Crowne's side business. He has finally been let in on it.

Dick is going to be sick.

"I wouldn't mind. This project..what is it?" Dick asks carefully, standing up and sauntering to Crowne. He swings his hips a little too much, but it is just what the other man likes as his eyes finally leave the screen and lock on his strut.

He leans on over the desk, smirking as Crowne fumbles in front of him. He's adorable-

No. He's easy to trick.

He sells kids. Dick needs to remember that. His treacherous heart still speeds up.

Crowne stares at him with a slack jaw, and it strokes Dick's ego fiercely. He waits a few minutes, but when all his fake boyfriend does is gawk, he leans closer. "Darling? The project?"

"Oh! Oh yes, of course," Crowne jerks in place, quickly pulling open a drawer. He presses a button inside the drawer- Dick makes a note to check that later- and a side compartment opens. He pulls out a small black notebook with a green ghost flying around a white D on the front of it.

Dick recognizes the symbol. It's the same one that a few street kids passed to Jason a few weeks ago. Jason had gone in as Robin- the more beloved Robin. Dick hates to admit it, but his brother has a better connection with the people of this city.

The street kids said that if you showed this symbol at secret meetings, then you would get supplies and support at said meetings. The thing was, most of the younger kids did not come back from the meetings.

They weren't taken by force, but after a third or fourth visit, they agreed to go with the men and women passing out the resources. Batman had yet to pin these meetings down since they were using vans and popping up randomly throughout the city. They would tear down and be on the road long before the morning light graced the sky.

Crowne flips through the book landing on a page and pushing it to Dick. "I am opening a gym for youth. I was thinking of advertising it as gymnastics and aquatic sports. I know you've dabbled in them before and was wondering if you would teach a beginners class?"

Dick reads over the page. It's like a mind map of a gym, with ideas and more accurate details circled and connected in a giant web. None of it seems sinister.

None of it seems well organized either, but it's wild and brilliant just like Crowne. Why did this man waste so much talent on crime? Why couldn't he be the perfect partner he was pretending to be?

"Where did you get this notebook?" He hears himself say, eyes tracing the beginner's trapeze and beginners Aerial silks with question marks hungrily. He's never thought about teaching his skill, but being surrounded by eager children looking up at him to learn of his family's legacy...... makes him yearn.

When his fantasy turns to the horde of children calling him dad and then running around Crowne calling the other man father, that desire is pushed to the furthest part of his mind.

He won't give in to them. Maybe he would one day find someone to settle down with. One day the Flying Graysons will grace the skies again. But they will never carry the Crowne name.

"A kid sold it to me," Crowne says with a confused tilt of his head. "I was walking through the street vendors festival, and he had a blanket covered in different notebook designs. He didn't pay for a table, and he was a bit away from the entrance, but he was doing his best. I bought eight of them. You should have seen the way his eyes lit up."

Dang it. Not a confession. Not even anything he could use to tie Crowne to the symbol.

The other man raises a brow "Why do you ask?"

Dick smiles with enough heat he practically undresses. Crowne predictably goes beat red at the sight. "I like the design. Wanted one for myself."

"I...I have the young man's contact information. If you desire it, I could purchase some for you?" Crowne melts, pulling on his collar.

Alright. Maybe the kid will be willing to talk. "That would be lovely. You know what else would be lovely?"

He rounds the desk, his lips pulling into a slutty smile. Placing his hands on each arm rest he leans forward, trapping the other man in his office chair. Crowne swallows. "What?"

"You, me, and a hotel room all to ourselves." Dick's voice turns dark with sinful promise. Crowne lips tremble, but he nods.

"I....I've never been with anyone before" the other man confesses and Dick feels a wicked amout of want. He wants to be the person to show him. To teach him. To make his first time so special and wonderful and-

The elevator doors dig open. Drake hopped in, using clutches, and shouted proudly, "I broke my leg!"

Crowne pushes Dick away, rushing to the boy. "Ancients! What in the world happened!?"

"I got mugged on my way to the library!" The boy says it's the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

"That's not a good thing, Tim!"

"It's okay! Robin and Sparrow saved me! It was so cool!" Drake swoons. "I don't know why they were out so early, but they swooped in and got the man who broke my leg before he could get away. Robin even swung me to the hospital! Sparrow didn't say much besides tsking, but he was cool too!

Dick squishes the small amounts of regret for being Interrupted. He glances at the other two before quickly shoving the black book into his pocket. This may give him more answers. They need to see if they can spot that symbol anywhere in the city.

Damian still needs to be discovered in the media. Bruce had decided to keep him hidden in the manor to build a better introduction. Which means they have the perfect candidate to try to get a in at the meetings.

He must close this case before his rapidly developing feelings get in the way.

Drake spots him over Crowne's shoulders. The excitement on his face dies, as he glares at him. Dick hides a wince. Looks like today will be another, "Stay away from my big brother" day from Drake.

"Thank goodness the vigilantes were near you." Crowne gushes, brushing the hair out of Drake's face. He places a kiss on the bruised forehead.

Drake's voice turns hard. " Yeah...almost like they were following me."

Crude. He'll have to warn Jason and Damian to not follow him for a while. Again, he curses that Drake is far too smart for his own good.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #the adoptive son #part 4 #Dick is slowly falling.#Tim thought his heroes saved him randomly until he realized #Damian is here now!#Danny's symbol is a new calling card for those in need

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rboooks · 10 months

Text

The Adoptive Son. Part 2

Dick tries his best to keep his smile as Danny Crowne fumbles with his laptop, attempting to show Dick all the fantastic features he programmed onto it.

Don't be wrong; he enjoys new software, and the stuff Crowne made was awe-inspiring. He just wished it wasn't being used for one of his most disgusting crimes.

Babs, who was recently super into coding, had been all but foaming at the mouth when she got access to the new writing application Crowne Industries put out.

Yes, she got access a bit earlier than most since she hacked into the system attempting to find evidence of criminal activity, but she had tested it out and wanted it for herself.

"This writing program has an automatic save option after a certain amount of time goes by." Crowne blushes a little, looking bashful when Dick sends him a winning smile. "I-ugh, I forget how often computers crash, taking with them hours of work, so hopefully, this will help tired college students. It even has a way to retrieve lost files, just in case something does get deleted."

"Wow, you made all this by yourself? That's so impressive." Dick purrs, allowing his hand to land on Crowne's knee. The other man jumps slightly, looking down at the hand like he's never seen one before. At least this mission was easy.

Crowne's had plenty of people flirt with him over the years of his adoption. Dick had watched him at galas, sidestepping any courtship attempts like a well-practiced waltz. He charmed so many would-be suitors simply by his prince-like mannerism, silver tongue, dripping good looks, and of course, very large wallet.

He had thought it meant that Crowne was experienced in this sort of thing. Imagine his surprise at the beginning of the mission; Crowne fumbled through his flirtations and seemed so awkward it was almost endearing.

Danny Crowne didn't make much sense to Dick in this way.

He quickly became one of Gotham's most eligible bachelors and one of the first openly bisexual ones. Despite his adoptive parents less than ideal views on the gay community, Crowne never hid that part of himself. Once he had taken over the company, he had even gotten charities set up to support the gay youths of Gothams. He practically funded the Pride Celebrations, even more than Bruce, which showed how he became the new head of Crowne Industries

In four short years, he had snatched the company from the jaws of bankruptcy and dragged it to the top again. Everything they made was so revolutionary, even Bruce had been tempted to ask Crowne to join him for the first two years.

Back then, Dick had thought Crowne was weird.

All the guy did was talk about tech, and when he wasn't, he was staring into space or attempting to get into different equipment so he could take it apart and figure it out.

Crowne had been invited to his birthday party a few months after his adoption. Dick had seen him arrive, but he vanished from the room not long after- at the time, he didn't blame the other. The rest of their classmates were snobbish and a pain to be around- he later found Crowne pulling out one of his light sockets to check the wiring in Bruce's house.

It may have been the cheap light he was using, but Dick swore he had seen the guy's eyes glowing while he muttered to himself in an unknown language.

The Crownes had been mortified, forcing Crowne to apologize profoundly for ripping Bruce's things. Bruce had to play his part of Brucie, so he had laughed it off, asking the boy why he had done it in the first place.

" I meant no offense. I apologize for allowing my curiosity to cross a line. I was only interested in how advanced your home is. I figured the Wayne's would indicate where the world's leading systems would be." Fourteen-year-old Danny Crowne had told Bruce with a sweet smile that was far too wide and eyes that were far too bright.

It creeped fourteen-year-old Dick out so much he actively avoided the adoptive son of the Crowne for the last four years.

Now he wishes he had paid a little more attention. Maybe then he would have caught on to Crowne selling street kids on the black market.

"It's nothing, really." Crowne laughs nervously, flushing read as Dick gently rubs his knee. He smirks inwardly as the other man fumbles. "I couldn't have done it without Tim so-"

"Tim?" That's a new name. Dick quickly pressed the recording device that Bruce had installed into his bracelet. He hated that he was working with his ex-mentor again, but this was too big of an issue to allow his hurt feelings to get in the way. There were so many kids at stake.

"Tim Drake. His parents are out of the country a lot, so I started babysitting him when he was eight. He's thirteen now, but I got temporary guardianship of him when I turned eighteen. He's my pride and joy. " Crowne clarifies with a growing smile. Dick wanted to punch his teeth in for acting so loving, so caring, so fucking kind when it came to children.

He swallows the urge with incredible difficulty. "He sounds great."

He did know Timothy Drake, actually. The boy was his neighbor for years but didn't stand out much. He always looked like a little doll at the galas, vanishing from sight once his parents' backs were turned.

Dick often thought the boy was out of the country with his parents, primarily when they enrolled him in homeschool when he turned eight.

To think the Drakes were working on making a good relationship with Crowne since he first showed up, and no one within the Bats noticed. It was a little troubling.

Were the Drakes involved with the trafficking ring? Were the world trips just a means to smother out poor victims? Were they using their son, or was Tim Drake part of the scheme?

More questions and not enough answers.

"Y-you could meet him if you want," Crowne coughs, playing with a specialized keyboard- it was so flat. Dick had never seen a slimmer design- his face was a lovely red hue. "I have him for this month, so he's back at my apartment with his babysitter."

Perfect an opening.

"Mr. Crowne, are you inviting me back to yours?" Dick asks, allowing his voice to turn husky with sinful promise.

Crowne face turns even redder. "I didn't mean to assume, but...ugh, are you hitting on me?"

Dick almost laughs.

"I am." He says even as he thinks If only you weren't a scum bag. You are not ever going to get this lucky, you disgusting pig.

"Thank the Ancients. I was worried I may have interpreted your intentions. I would be honored if you accompanied me home-but, not for sex! I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to sex at a later date-just dinner? I can cook." Crowne closes his eyes as if pained, and Dick wishes he was the person he was pretending to be.

Oh well.

They all have their own masks.

Dick just happens to be someone who was bestowed with a criminal. He slips it on as quickly as his NightWing one, throwing an arm over Crowne and placing a tracker on his neck. The bastard didn't even notice. Good.

"I would love that Crowne."

"Danny." The man says with a warm relieved smile. "You can call me Danny."

"Then you can call me Dick"

Dick will have this man rotting away in a jail cell soon. He swears it.

(Part 1) (part 3)

#dc x dp crossover #The adoptive son #Part 2 #Danny Saw the way Tim was being treated and went You Mine Now #Dick thinks Danny is evil at this point #Danny may not want to leave anymore #Flirting #misunderstandings #Anyone confused this was just after Jason was taken in #Dick and Danny are 18 #Jason is 15 #Tim is 13 #Sorry if the ages are off the comics

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whereireid · 1 year

Text

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐍 | masterlist

pairing: senator!steve rogers x fem!reader

⍟ — nsfw content ahead. soft!dom steve. married life. housewife kink. oral [f receiving]. degradation of reader.

Summary: Your husband, Senator Steve Rogers, has been acting strange recently. He makes it up to you after he catches you snooping.

You don’t want to snoop on your husband.

Honest, you don’t.

Sometimes, though, duty calls. It feels like a crime to be in Steve’s office, perched at his desk, attempting to hack into his computer.

You’ve tried three different passwords, now. The first, the name of your daughter, and her date of birth — BeauRogers2012. The second, your anniversary — 19October2007. And, finally, the name of the family dog — CooperRogers.

Nothing. There’s nothing. All to no avail, the screen lighting a shade of red with each incorrect guess, your lips tugging down into a frown as you try to pinpoint exactly what his password could be.

If it’s not Beau, and it’s not you, and it’s not the family dog… then what is it?

Your eyes scan his office, desperate for a moment of realisation. You want something to click, your eyes dragging from a photograph of him and Bucky, to the miniature American flag which sits on his desk.

That’s it.

107thInfantryRegiment.

The computer lets you in. Steve’s desktop background is a photograph of you, him and Beau — baby Beau, curled in her daddy’s arms, asleep, in a pumpkin patch.

You pause. You feel bad, snooping, hesitating as you stare at the pixelated desktop background.

You feel awful, but you have to know what he’s getting up to.

Your lips press together as you swallow away the tightness in your throat, dragging the mouse towards his emails. Before you press down, you hesitate — Steve has never given you a reason not to trust him.

Yet, you’re in, now. You might as well look whilst you’re there, and you’re glad that you do, because a particular name piques your interest as you snoop through his emails.

Sharon Carter.

Steve’s ex-assistant, although you’d always assumed she was more than that. She helped your husband climb to the position of Senator — she was his number one fan, more obsessed with him than you.

Your brows knit together. Steve had told you that him and Sharon no longer speak, as a result of her switching to the Republican to spite him. This — these emails, which go back for months — is unfathomable evidence that he’s been lying to you. Your throat feels cotton dry as you frantically scroll, unable to comprehend that they’ve been communicating for months without you knowing.

“What are you doing?”

Fear cracks through your body like a whip. You feel like a thin sheet of ice, cold flooding through your body as your eyes dart up from the computer screen, focused on your husband, who appears unamused by what he’s found.

“So, what are you doing?” Steve repeats when you don’t answer, his lips pursed as he stares at you. The suit he’s wearing is somewhat tight on his arms, and you can see his muscles flex beneath his clothes. “Be a big girl and use your words, honey.”

“You’re — you’re messaging Sharon Carter.”

His eyebrows quirk upwards in amusement. “You went through my emails,” he comments, “without my permission.”

“You’re messaging Sharon Carter,” you repeat, your voice coming out a whisper.

The look that he gives you is degrading. It’s a look of pity — his jaw ticks slightly as he cocks his head, his tongue darting over his plump, pink lips, leaving a glistening sheen in its wake. “And you’re going through my emails,” he reiterates, pushing himself off of the doorframe. “Without my permission.”

“Are you cheating on me?”

An amused expression flitters over Steve’s face as he approaches you. You feel timid in his chair, his large frame overbearing as he looms over you, the blue irises of his eyes impossibly sheathed by his black and blown pupils.

“Cheating?” He asks, beginning to lower himself to your height. You brows furrow in confusion as he kneels in front of you, his hands placing themselves on your knees. “No. Why? Did you think that I was?”

“Yes.”

“Liar,” Steve whispers from beneath you, your skin prickling with goosebumps as his fingers run over the pleated fabric of your skirt. “You just wanted to know what I’ve been doing.”

You push at Steve’s head, forcing him to look up at you. You frown, a twisted warmth pooling inside of your stomach as his hand caresses the plump flesh of your thighs. “Yeah. You’ve been doing her.”

He snorts. “If I wanted Barbie, I would’ve had Barbie.” His hand beckons your thighs apart, and you flush as his hums in content. “No underwear. Whore.”

Your face flushes with warmth. "That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

Steve grins, his fingers parting your folds softly, his knuckle pressing against your swollen clit. You try to kill the moan which climbs up your throat before it can slip past your lips, but it refuses to die. “Like music to my ears,” he comments, his stubble grazing your skin as he peppers deliberate kisses to your thighs, his tongue a cool stimulant to your hot skin, “you’re a naughty girl, you know? Going through my things and then getting all worked up over what you find.”

You can’t bare to look down at his smug face. His blue eyes twinkle as he gazes up at you, and you force your eyes shut, the delicious, dirty feeling of desire brooding inside of you. It pulls at your heart and burns wildly inside of you, only to be smothered by the feeling of his fingers gliding through your folds.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what you found?”

You shake your head, your eyes scrunching shut as his tongue finally makes contact with your heat. “Oh, God,” you whimper as he glides the muscle through your folds, his fingers pushing inside of your cunt.

“Not God. Just Steve.”

His lips twitch, tugging upwards with a smile. Pleasure rides through you in a gentle wave as his tongue makes contact with your clit, his motions gentle as he suckles on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

It feels so deliciously wrong. You’re in his office, sat in his chair, with him between your legs. He wasn’t even meant to find you here — you were supposed to be in the kitchen when he got home, but you’d lost track of time.

“Since you won’t tell me, I’ll make an assumption, and I want you to tell me if I’m right.” His voice is gravely, rumbling against your cunt, and you shiver as his fingers curl inside of you. “You went through my emails. You saw Sharon Carter’s name and you had to click, and you read them in detail and you found information.”

“Yes,” you say shakily, groaning as his nose nuzzles into your pelvic bone, his tongue rolling small circles into your sensitive bud. “Yes, I read them. She’s — she’s a bitch and I don’t want you talking to her.”

His brows quirk upwards, his fingers carefully scissoring your tight cunt open. You clench down around him, the pointed look he’s shouting you making you tense. “She’s my spy. Why else would she have switched to Republican last minute?”

“Because you married me and she wishes it was her.”

A wave of pleasure ripples through you as he suckles on your clit, his fingers heavenly as they roll inside of you. “Is she the one getting her cunt eaten in my office, honey?” When you don’t answer, he hums, his voice muffled as he continues to roll his tongue up and down your sticky, wet folds, “no, she’s not, so stop being a brat and let me finish speaking.”

As if to make a point, his fingers still inside of you, and your chest burns with disappointment. “Okay. I’ll stop being a brat,” you submit to him, your voice shaking slightly as you buck your pelvis towards his hand.

“Good girl." His praise makes you shiver, a delicious pleasure crackling through you as his fingers contain their steady motions, his lips peppering soft kisses against your heat intermittently

“The information that you found is very important people, only meant to be seen by people in government.” A delicious pleasure cracks through you like a whip as his fingers glide through your glistening folds, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he rolls his thumb over your sensitive clit. “And, honey, you're not in government. You've got too much of a dumb baby brain for that."

You whine, your legs trembling involuntary as Steve licks up a deliberate stripe up your cunt, his tongue flattening against your clit. "I'm not dumb," you protest weakly, your thighs tensing as his fingers curl inside of you, the lewd squelching of your cunt echoing around his office walls.

Your body becomes electric with sparks, exploding with ecstasy as his tongue licks stripes up and down your slick. It's so intimate, so gentle — his movements are precise, your legs jolting at every movement, every lick.

"Really? You're not?" Steve pulls away, tutting from below you. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought that only dumb wives went through their husband's stuff without permission."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"You're not," he replies, his tongue flat as he swirls his muscle around your swollen bud, "but that's okay, honey. I don't expect my wife and her dumb, baby brain to feel sorry for me. I'm the man of this house. I don't need feeling sorry for."

His kisses grow sloppy, his nose pressing heavily into your pelvis. You let out a shaky breath, your stomach flipping as Steve's fingers glide in and out of your cunt. A moan catches in your throat, and you're unsure of whether or not it actually escapes your lips or dies before it gets to do so.

Steve's movements are skilled, deliberate. You melt into the office chair, the leather fabric growing slick beneath you as you softly behind to grind against his face. He's slow and teasing, his tongue swirling around you bud, nipping at it softly. The pinching pain makes you gasp, your breath hitching in your throat as he groans against your cunt.

"Come on, honey. I know you want to let go," he purrs against your cunt, the sensation sending shivers up your spine. "I know you're not holding that much of a grudge against me that you're denying yourself of an orgasm."

You pout. He's right — of course he's right, he's your husband and he knows what's best for you. You finally allow yourself to relax, fully, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as Steve's movements makes your stomach tighten.

And then, it happens. You grow tired of holding back, needy and desperate, and Steve's fingers curl inside of you again, and you let go. Your slick paints his face, your legs trembling as he laps at your heat, his groans sending sparks to your core.

By the time he pulls away, you feel weak. The sight of him only makes you grow weaker, his chin glistening with your slick, his eyes black and blown, a sultry grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand runs over his lips and he hums, satisfied with the orgasm that he drew from you.

"I'm sorry, honey. You should have never seen those emails, or the documents attached to them. They're not for you to be concerned about." His hand runs over your thighs, his motions gentle and soft as he caresses your skin. Steve's lips purse, his voice dropping dangerously low as he speaks. "But if you ever go through my emails again, you'll be in serious trouble. You got that, honey?"

Your body grows stiff as he reaches past you to turn the computer off, his lips nestling against your head in the process. The kiss he plants to your forehead is soft and gentle, and you smile up at him.

“Yes, Steve.”

You nod your head like an obedient little wife, and he smiles down at you as he does so.

Domesticated bliss keeps him sane.

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loveindefinitely · 4 months

Text

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

07 — DISTANT MEMORY I USED TO KNOW

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Quickly switching to the main channel once more, you go to report the status of your target, when black consumes your vision.

Pain sparks in the back of your head, your head unnaturally twisting to the side as you fall to your knees, forehead colliding with the harsh concrete as all of the oxygen within your lungs leaves you in one thick swoop.

“Sweetheart?! Sweetheart, what’s your status?!” You can hear Price barking out through the comms, but all you can see, hear, feel, is the sparks in the darkness behind your eyes, the cool, rocky surface of the ground on which you lay. That, and the all-consuming ache your body’s become.

Your hand claws at the floor, an attempt to right yourself, but the very new feeling of a boot’s sole presses against your skull, crushing your cheek between it and the rocks.

“Now it’s clear why you got Colonel,” a nasty, nasally voice spits out from above you. Above? Beneath? You can’t tell, not with the world spinning, not with everything within you falling apart at the seams. “Thanks for confirming what we all knew.”

Even with your centre of gravity out of whack, your words never seem to fail you. “That your,” you suppress the urge to vomit everywhere from the onslaught of nausea, “Commander’s a bad lay?”

The man’s – a Shadow’s – boot presses further against your skull, and you can’t stop the pained groan that falls from your bloodied lips. When you cough, you can hear the red liquid splatter across the floor. He laughs, coldly, unamused.

“No. That you’re a filthy whore who slept her way to the top,” he seethes, and your chest heaves with every intake of breath.

“Real. Fucking. Original,” you manage to grit out, through every flash of pain in your head. Your stubbornness was going to get you killed. Right now, even, maybe.

…Hopefully not.

Struggling to open one eye, you manage to allow yourself a small sliver of vision. You know where your small, hand-held pistol sits, hidden beneath your vest. If you can distract him well enough, all you’d need is one shot.

He grinds the heel of his boot into the nape of your neck, and you find yourself hacking up even more blood. Not a good sign.

“How does a combat medic even make it to Colonel?” He continues, sneering, ignoring your grunts of pain and frequent squirming. “Was your pussy that good?”

“Jealous, Corporal? Wanted his small prick up your ass instead?” You goad, every word a struggle to get out, but worth it nonetheless. He doubles down, looking up to the roof to calm himself down with shaky breaths.

The short, two second window allows for you to slip a trembling hand into your vest, grab a hold of the small pistol, raise it, and pull the trigger.

Your eyes flutter shut once more as the revolting feeling of a corpse on top of you has you freezing up. You can’t even check for more threats, not with every nerve ending in your body feeling as though they’ve been frayed, the truest form of torture you’ve ever experienced.

It’s then that you fall into a state of limbo. A grey area, an unknown, a state of something that can only be described as a loss of self. The crash you’d been anticipating. A pain-induced one, maybe?

“Love! Love, shit, fuck, hey, hold on!”

In the floaty, intangible abyss you find yourself floating in, you’re unsure if the words are even spoken in reality. If they’re just a figment of your imagination, a taunt, a way for the gods to mock you before you fall into their clutches.

Graves escaped, the thought comes to you through your haze, as what feels like phantom hands clutch the nape of your neck and your hip, an alarm bell ringing through the blankness of it all. He’s free. He survived.

You will never belong again.

“Ghost Team, I have Sweetheart, she’s in pretty bad shape,” the words are more certain, this time, your consciousness slowly coming to. You think someone’s carrying you against their chest, a potent smell of cinnamon and gunpowder surrounding you that has you instinctively curling in closer to the source. “We need exfil, now!”

You think you let out a small whimper from the confusion, the agony of it all, because the person holding you shushes you with a soft sound and tightens their grip around the back of your head, squeezing your outer thigh. A princess carry, then.

Attempting to open your eyes, the instant light that floods them has you burying your head into a chest, the fabric blocking your vision. It, too, has that distinct, comforting smell.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart, I got ya.”

…Gaz.

Gaz is the one holding you, the one carrying you to exfil, the one who, embarrassingly, saved you. Out of the four of them, you suppose you were grateful it was him that had seen you passed out. A body on top of you.

Oh. God.

“What,” you croak, your voice broken and throat sore, “What. I – are we safe?”

“You’re safe with me, love. Won’t let anything bad happen to ya. You probably have a concussion so imma need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

But sleep. It sounded so nice. You haven't slept since. Since you met them all. Since everything, since your life got ruined.

Whatever he says next goes unheard. Whatever pleas are made.

You let slumber take you in its icy grip.

“It’s a myth, ya knob. Only gotta wake ‘em up every few hours.”

“Brushed up on ya first aid knowledge to impress her? Real smooth, Soap.”

“The two of you – quit it. She’s wakin’ up.”

“Great.”

“You shut your mouth too, Simon.”

With a small groan, you try your best to gauge your surroundings. You’re moving, that much you’re sure of – by the thrum of the engine in your core and the distant whirring, you’re in a helicopter.

You think your head’s resting in someone’s lap – a hand in your hair, stroking against your scalp, soft and sweet.

Eyes fluttering open, you quickly adjust to the neon lights of the roof, finding yourself face to face with Gaz. So, you figure, you’re in his lap, his hand in your hair. He’s good, you think distantly, a proper damn masseuse.

His brows are furrowed, bottom lip forming a small pout as he glares at who you gather is Soap to your left.

When he looks down, however, a grin quickly replaces the expression and the hand in your hair starts rubbing smooth circles into the base of your skull. If this is what Heaven is, you suddenly understand man’s desire to reach it.

“There we are,” he smiles, voice lower and smoother. “Sleepy head.”

You shoot him the world’s weakest glare. He, dutifully, doesn’t comment on its lacklustre effect. “I promise. I don’t usually have to get saved,” you petulantly point out, but the edge is dulled as Gaz continues to play with your hair. And that intoxicating cinnamon seems to have you on a leash.

“Didn’t think you did,” he reassures, and you accept the confirmation with a steady breath.

You try and pull yourself up, using your hands to do so, when a soaring pain through your left shoulder has your breath hitching and your head falling back into Gaz’s lap. It’s only then that you realise that someone’s got your bent legs in theirs, too, and when you try and get a look, you see it’s Price.

“Try not to use that arm,” Price jerks his chin to your aching arm. “You got grazed.”

It hits you, all at once, what has just transpired. What you failed to do.

“He escaped,” you croak, looking up to the ceiling even when it starts spinning. “I tried to take him down. I did. But. He escaped, I’m…” you swallow, a heavy thing, “Sorry.”

“Hey, no, lass,” Soap chimes in, and with a secure hand at your non-wounded shoulder, Gaz helps you sit up, head resting against his shoulder, “Dinnae ken why yer sorry. It was one against ten.”

Your head pounds, a relentless rhythm, and when you look down, it’s to find Price’s hand fall onto your thigh and give a comforting pat. When you turn to him, he gives you a small smile. “You did good. We have to finish up another loose end, but we’ll take you to the nurse on base –”

“I want to go,” you interrupt, sitting up straighter with a small wince. It’s a small helicopter, obviously meant just for the 141, with bolted metal as far as the eye can see. “I can’t. I have to be useful.”

“No.”

The final member, the worst one, the man seemingly out to get you.

Ghost.

“What do you mean, no?” You quip, shooting daggers at the man who sits beside Soap on the other side of the chopper.

“Did the concussion give you hearing loss?” He asks, cold, and you feel as though you’re buzzing with energy, “Or do you just hate hearing the word no? We don’t need you on this mission.”

“Didn’t realise you were taking over the duties as Captain,” you grit, your headache increasing tenfold, even with Gaz’s hand at the base of your nape a soothing presence, “How does Price feel about his Lieutenant’s new role?”

Both you, and Ghost, shoot a look to Price. He unknowingly tightens his grip around your thigh.

“We can discuss this on base,” he commands, allowing no room for argument. “We head for Chicago in two hours.”

Your brows furrow. “Chicago? Why?”

Soap’s smirk is dirty, excited as he simply says, “We talked to a… friend. She gave us the information we needed.”

“Information for what?” You ask, narrowing your eyes, leaning further against Gaz as more pain shoots through your body. He doesn’t say a word about it.

“Graves didn’t tell you…?” Gaz asks, looking down to you with barely concealed shock.

You look around at the four men. “What? What’s going on?”

“The last missile,” Price folds his hands together, leaning forward to meet your eyes with serious blue. “We’re heading to Chicago to dismantle the last missile.”

“There we go, doll. Right as rain.”

The woman gives you a kind smile, securing the bandage around your arm, the disinfectant and tape underneath it along with the shot of morphine she’d given you easing the pain. She pulls off her latex gloves, a ring adorning her wedding finger.

“Thank you…” You trail off, not seeing a name badge on the nurse.

She places her hand on your good shoulder and gives you a soft squeeze, her smile warming. “Sarah. My name’s Sarah. I’d say that I’ll see you around, but… I hope not.”

You let out a laugh, and she lets out her own chuckle.

Sarah’s gorgeous, with dark features, black hair cut short to her head, graceful in her movements. A gold necklace rests on her collarbone, the pendant in the shape of a K.

The 141’s base is, well, almost exactly how you’d imagined it. Busy, well-stocked, off the grid.

Gaz and Soap had been lenient to leave you in the Med Bay by yourself, but Price and Ghost had made them haul ass to the conference room. You were all running on a very tight ship, time seeming to fall through your grasps with every breath you took.

“Thank you, again, Sar–”

“Colonel?” Turning where you sit on the white, hospital-issued bed, your confusion doubles when you see a woman you don’t recall having met before. She seems kind, motherly, almost, but steely in a way that only came with being in Special Ops.

“Hello to you too,” Sarah rolls her eyes, and you watch as the stranger looks to the nurse, her expression immediately easing into something loving.

“Hey, love,” the blonde woman says, pressing her lips to Sarah’s cheek, before pulling back and watching you.

“Who are you…?” You ask, feeling bad for ruining what seems to be the couple’s greeting. But also. You just got here, and couldn’t be expected to understand everyone and everything on base.

Inclining her head in a small apology, the woman extends her hand to you, which you take with a firm grip.

“Kate Laswell, Station Chief,” she greets, and recognition sparks in the back of your mind. This was the woman that had found out about Shepherd and Graves’ off the books treason. It feels as though a rock has gotten stuck in your throat as you pull away, not breaking eye contact. “You want to come on this mission? You’ll be with me.”

You immediately look to Sarah, expecting her to object, as a normal nurse probably would.

Instead, she just gives you a cryptic, knowing look. “I know how you soldiers work. If I tell you to rest, it’ll just give you more of an incentive to get yourself shot again.”

Your smile is the brightest it’s been in years.

“What’s our role?” You ask, standing up from the bed with the smallest of winces. Morphine has its limits, you suppose. Sarah starts cleaning up the supplies, and when Laswell encourages you to walk beside her with a hand at the dip of your back, you do just as much.

“We’ll be locating the missile,” she explains, low as the two of you walk through the crowded hallway. Her hand doesn’t leave its position on your back, and you’re grateful. “And you’ll be telling me everything you can about Graves and the Shadows.”

You fall into pace beside her, embarrassed by the difficulty of the task. Sarah had said you’d suffered a minor concussion, and a pretty hefty cut on your temple which she’d patched up as best she could. Being a combat medic, you knew most of your diagnoses anyway, but it was nice having it cemented by the kind woman. The bullet graze was at risk of infection, and a general pain in the ass, but it was durable with the tending in Med Bay.

“I’m surprised the boys aren’t the ones interrogating me,” you jest, more of a seeking for reason than anything. Why would they have Laswell do the talking, when they seemed so… interested?

She shoots you a look – a mystery for you to uncover. “Price told me that you mentioned a… questionable difference in authority and age. Gaz said just as much, and while they may be brutes,” she smiles to herself, telling of her history with the team, “They’re good men. Think they’re looking out for you.”

The only person, in hindsight, who had ever looked out for you was your mother.

You blink away the burning in your eyes, swallowing, before adjusting your smile once more. “I think they’re… wary of me, more like it.”

Her brows shoot to her hairline. “You don’t think that Gaz finding you unconscious with a dead Shadow atop of you cemented your allegiance? The two Sergeants haven’t shut up about you since they arrived. Only stopped talking when Price threatened them.”

“He threatened them?” you choke on a shocked laugh, getting lost in how… nice it is, talking to another woman. How safe, how it feels like you have someone to trust. The 141, you think you can trust them, but there’s something so different in the camaraderie of women. The inherent safety you feel with one in a position such as herself, that niggling in the back of your mind gone.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she looks to you with a smug grin, pushing open the back exit of the compound with a nudge of her shoulder. The wind slashes against your face, a strand blowing into your mouth, making you wince and spit it out.

“Fucking hate that,” you mutter, Laswell immediately quipping, “The worst.”

You think you and Laswell are going to get along quite well.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, there ye are!” A now all too familiar Scottish lilt calls, stood with the rest of the 141 by two helicopters. You stand across the field, but you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face when both him and Gaz come bounding over, Gaz adorning what appears to be a wetsuit underneath his standard uniform.

Bulky arms wrap around your waist, and you find yourself being lifted off of the ground, Soap pressing you against him with a strong hug. A surprised giggle leaves your lips, and you see Gaz stop just in front of you both, hands on his hips.

“She’s still injured, you dolt,” Gaz goads, and Soap responds by squeezing you harder.

“Aye, that she is,” Soap grunts, letting you down a touch gentler as you find your footing once more. He smirks. “But… She still owes me one for that dirty move back in Las Almas.”

You playfully punch at his shoulder. “Wasn’t patching you up enough? Not leaving you for dead?”

“I don’t seem to recall…” He trails off, his dimples deepening when you punch him again, harder this time.

“Good to see you up and ready to go.” The wind whistles through your ears, the near-dusk light brushing you all in sensual blues as you meet the Captain’s affirming grin.

Even when you try and flatten your mouth into an authoritative line, the smile seems unable to leave your face. You fold your arms. “I seem to remember you all wanting me dead or nowhere near you, just a day ago.”

Gaz raises his hands in defence, teeth on display as he swings his arm around your neck, pulling you in. “Don’t group me with ‘em. Trusted you the moment I saw you.”

“And who’s to say we still don’t want those things?”

Right. Ghost.

Laswell, standing behind you all, seeming to cast her calculative gaze over the five of you, narrows her eyes at the Lieutenant at the exact same time you do. “If you can’t play nice with the Colonel, Ghost, we can and will swap you out.”

That has you instantly ready to protect the woman’s six.

“Someone seems to recognise my rank,” You look to Laswell as Gaz unravels his arm from around your shoulders, and the woman simply shrugs, hands in her vest’s pockets.

“I just recognise another woman deserving of her power when I see one,” she says, and you might’ve proposed at that very moment if it weren’t for her wife just a few doors away.

“Sergeants, Lieutenant, go ahead and check over the supplies. I’ll catch up in a moment,” Price orders, and when both Gaz and Soap go to answer back, he raises a hand, raises his brow, too. “That wasn’t a request, boys. Go.”

They do just as much, both Gaz and Soap waving back at you as they jog back over to the helicopters.

Just you, Price and Laswell then.

“Kate, a minute.”

…Or, well, just you and Price.

Leading you with a hand on your elbow, Price pauses by a quiet section of the base’s wall, looking around you for any stragglers. Not seeing any, he moves both his hands to rest on your shoulders.

“The deal we made,” he begins, and it’s like a blow to your side. You lift your chin, straighten your posture, clench your jaw. “We – I would like it to extend until Graves is officially KIA. If we can plan a takedown properly, not rush it as much, we can do it. But it’s only right if you do it right alongside us.”

He subconsciously squeezes your flesh, but it’s a grounding motion, one you find necessary.

This feels like more than just that. This feels like an offering – a sense of stability for your foreseeable future. A way for you to find your feet, with a community, a support system to help you restart this path your life has diverted to.

“Yes,” you say, earnest, eyes not straying from Price’s for a single moment. “Yes – thank you.”

“I’d argue that we get the better end of the bargain,” Price mutters, and it’s so quiet and human that you think you might’ve imagined the words. You go to push, ask what exactly he means by that –

“Captain! Hassan has entered the building!”

He breaks eye contact, finally, and your eyes catch on his profile in the night of dusk – the slope of his nose, the angles of his jaw.

He is, all things considered, a beautiful man.

Your heart thunders, and you pull away, his hands falling from your frame like weights. With a small, delicate smile, you raise your hand to your head in a faux-salute.

“Good luck, Cap.”

His responding smile is softened by the dreaminess of it all, the light, the nervous buzz in the air. He raises his own hand, then, a mocking of your movement.

“See you on the other side, Sweetheart.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. i have TWO very specific. but huge. plot twists thatll happen WAY later in the fic. im very curious if anyone can guess em before hand! both of which HAVE been hinted at. a part of me hopes that you guys miss it!! :p

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lafiametta · 27 days

Text

As much as I'd like Shōgun to return to the dynamic pacing that characterized the first part of the show (have we really spent the last four episodes in Ajiro?), slowing the action down has allowed for some fascinating explorations of character and theme.

One that featured heavily in this week's episode (as well as in the previous one) is the idea of myth-making and story.

Toranaga, of course, is the center of one such myth. The “boy warlord,” he won his first battle at age twelve and then served as second to his defeated enemy, taking off his head with one blow. This is the story that Saeki Nobutatsu tells at dinner, a tale that delights his young, impressionable nephew. Nagakato, who wants to prove himself to his father, takes such story as truth and wants to emulate him by riding off to battle, where he will likely be killed, but as a glorious end that will be told and retold. (“Will we die with blood on our swords?” he asks, which is the only honorable way to die.)

Lady Ochiba is surrounded by her own legends. Whereas Toranaga's exploits are the stuff of dinner party entertainment, she literally watches her own life be made into drama. The play performed at the Noh theater depicts her courtship by the Taikō, a courteous affair where her character does not speak, an frozen mask covering any expression she might make. (“Dear Lady Ochiba,” the fictionalized Taikō tells her, “if we have a son, prestige will spread in every direction...”)

(Mariko is also haunted by a story, that of her father's actions against Kuroda. But unlike Toranaga and Ochiba, she has no desire to disillusion herself. In her mind, her father died a hero, the man he killed a tyrant, and for fourteen years she has suffered by not being able to fulfill her duty to him by joining him in death.)

But what Shōgun is also trying to tell us is that life is nothing like the myth. A glorious death, the honor of one's family, the prestige of bearing the Taikō's only son, these require far more of us that we can ever imagine, pain and horror laced through every act.

The true story is one we never want to tell. It is being drugged and assaulted on a nightly basis by your consort and his wife, all in the hopes that you will give them a child. It is hacking at the bloody neck of your defeated enemy, until the ninth blow finally severs his head. It is attempting to kill your uncle in the darkened garden of a tea house, only to slip on a wet stone and dash your brains against the rocks, not a single drop of blood on your sword.

#shōgun #shogun #shogun 2024 #shogun fx #fx shogun #shogun spoilers #1x06 #1x07 #yoshii toranaga #yoshii nagakato #lady ochiba #toda mariko #meta

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nerdofspades · 1 year

Text

Bruce looked at the pop-up on the Batcomputer's screen.

"Explain," he growled, glancing down at Tim.

"Not much to explain," Tim answered, pulling up lines of code. "It showed up ten seconds ago."

"I'm starting a full diagnostic," Barbara said, voice filtering through the speakers. "So far, I'm not seeing anything."

"And yet..." Time trailed off glancing at the window again. It had a video queued up to play and the words "IMPORTANT: PLEASE WATCH. DO NOT DELETE" in large text at the top.

"There's a new folder labeled 'a gift for Batman,'" Tim said. "Not something any of us made."

"Clearly."

"I'm still not finding any viruses, corrupted files, or spyware," Oracle said. "The new folder was programmed to stay in a hidden partition for a few days after it was placed. Then, obviously, the pop-up to catch our attention."

"Folder also has a text file named 'security notes,'" Tim said. "Maybe our new hacker is friendly?"

"It's starting to look like it," Oracle agreed. "The video is clean. It should be safe to watch."

Bruce sighed. "Then let's see what they've got for us."

The video opened with a dark room. The background hidden in shadows, while the foreground was well lit, letting them clearly see the tired teen in the center of the frame as he took a heavy swig from his mug before putting it down.

"Pulling up facial recognition."

He ran a hand through his messy black hair and then down his face, pinching his nose and hiding the bags under his blues eyes for a moment before he dropped his hand and finally looked at the camera.

"I really don't want to do this," he said, "but you need it." He glanced longingly off screen in the direction of the mug he'd put down.

"First of all, I think I should apologize for hacking you. Or asking my friend to, technically. I just. You need to know about this and I didn't know of another way to get it to you that would be secure.

"I did at least make him promise to make a record of how he got in so you can patch that.

"That out of the way... to business? I'm Danny Fenton, for the last year or so I have also been the hero Phantom in Amity Park. My parents are Jack and Maddie Fenton. They are ectobiologists and ghost hunters. While extremely biased and not actually that good at catching ghosts, their tech is easily the best in the business."

"That's a positive match."

"Running a search on Phantom."

"I- fucking shit." Danny put his head in his hands again, running them back through his hair before leaning back, almost collapsing into the chair.

"This kid has... gotten into some shit."

"Everyone knows you're the League's strategist, Batman. And. I'm strong enough. I can handle my problems, that's not what I'm worried about.

"It's been about a year and I've already been mind controlled once." Danny laughed. A dry, broken, almost desperate laugh. "And that was just some lowlife that wanted to rob jewelry stores. I'm still not worried about. It's not why I'm sending you this. The magic relic he used is broken and gone now."

"Well that explains one of his problems."

"The others?"

"An attempted kidnapping and fairly standard property damage. I want to see some footage of those fights before passing judgement."

"Even more standard given he doesn't seem to have a mentor. Batman, he was fourteen."

"No. I. I've seen a version of the future. One where I go mad. Where I snap. And the Justice League can't stop me.

"I don't know if I- he kills everyone. I don't know who, if anyone, makes it out. But it's not anyone that could really do much. I... I saw ten years after he- I snapped. Earth was little more than rubble and ash. Only one city was left holding out and it was about to fall- was falling when I got there.

"I've managed to change the time line. What broke him didn't happen here. But. I can't guarantee nothing ever could.

"So. Yeah. Next best thing is making sure you're prepared. All my powers. All my weaknesses. Everything I know of that could possibly hurt me. Schematics and blue prints for anything you could need to fight me, track me, keep me out, keep me contained. All nice and giftwrapped for your convenience.

"Uh... that's everything. Why is it always so awkward to end a video? Hopefully we never see each other? I guess? Pretty sure us actually meeting is gonna be a bad sign.

"You know what. I'm gonna turn this thing off now before I say something stupid."

"Batman, who's 'Phantom'?" Superman asked, glancing up from the Watchtower computer he was working at. "Aren't we supposed to vote on new members?"

Batman grunted. "He's not a member, just someone who understands the need for contingencies."

"You know what, I'm not gonna even ask."

"Probably for the best."

#dp x dc #bruce wayne #batman #danny phantom #dc #batman's contingincies #tim drake #barbara gordon

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wheeboo · 5 months

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in bloom | kim mingyu

SYNOPSIS. in which you struggle to tell your husband something that can make or break your relationship. PAIRING. idol!husband!kim mingyu x afab!reader (ft. best friend!seulgi) GENRE. fluff, established relationship, idol au, pregnancy au, comfort WARNINGS. reader is pregnant and has female reproductive organs, vague mentions of intimate relations, mentions of fatigue and throwing up, terms of endearment, kissing WORD COUNT. 2.5k

requested from anon: idol!husband!mingyu x reader where you find out ur pregnant, and youre nervous to tell mingyu <3

notes: this is my second time ever writing a pregnancy au (first time on this blog), so... i hope u enjoy! i had too much fun with this lol

Being in the bathroom has never been this suffocating before. It's embarrassing, because literally anyone can walk in and hear the way you've been hacking over the toilet the past couple of days just like at your workplace, but the sudden bursts of nausea leaves you with no other option. You take a deep breath, attempting to compose yourself, and finally manage to stand up straight.

The little stick trembles in your hand, and as you peer down at the result, you swear you can feel the world around you completely stop. The two unmistakable lines are staring down at you through the small window of the test. You blink a few times, shaking the test even, as if hoping the lines will disappear or change, but they only remain.

It takes a moment for the reality to sink in. You're going to be a parent. A million thoughts race through your mind, and amidst the chaos, one question stands out: how do you share this with Mingyu?

Your husband is an idol, for God's sake. You've already seen the intensity of his schedule, the rigorous demands of his career, and the constant scrutiny from the public that has negatively affected other celebrities too. It feels as if you're going to be dropping a bombshell down on him.

You both always been careful when being intimate. And though you've had your conversations together about what it would be like to start a family, you never imagined it would happen quite like this, right at this moment when your husband has been reaching the peak of his career and is constantly in the spotlight. The timing couldn't be more unexpected, yet here you are, holding the proof of the little life growing within you.

Bringing the test out of sight, you splash some water on your face, taking a moment to collect yourself, before calmly making your way out of your bathroom, even with the anxious pounding of your heart feeling like it's bouncing off the walls of your place. And then suddenly, you're met with Seulgi running up to you from your living room.

"Well?" she asks, hands clasping together in excitement and an eager smile spreading across her face.

You turn towards her, and for some reason seeing the way your best friend's eyes are literally glowing with curiosity and anticipation almost makes you want to pull her in for a hug and sob into her shoulders. But you can't do that𑁋you're still struggling to process everything.

Instead, you take the pregnancy test out and show it to her.

Seulgi's eyes widen, and her hands fly to her mouth in disbelief.

"No way! Are you serious?" she whispers loudly, staring down at the test just to make sure.

"Yeah, I..." You take a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

Seulgi just squeals, unable to contain her joy. She pulls you into a tight hug that makes you let out a groan at the sudden pressure over your tired body, yet you feel a sense of relief and happiness sharing this moment with someone close.

"Sorry! Oh my gosh, I feel like crying. This is𑁋I'm so happy for you!" Seulgi exclaims as she lets you go, holding your shoulders at arm's length and bouncing up and down happily.

The two of you share a knowing smile with each other. And as Seulgi catches sight of the way your smile doesn't seem as bright as hers, the way it doesn't seem to reach to your ears, she takes a step back, concern etching across her face.

Seulgi takes your hands in hers. "Are you okay? How are you feeling?"

You let out a sigh. "I'm... I'm just overwhelmed, you know? It's a lot to take in, especially considering Mingyu's schedule and everything."

Seulgi squeezes your hands reassuringly. "I'm sure he will be over the moon, Y/N. He loves you more than anything."

Her words seem to offer comfort, but a lingering worry tugs at the edges of your thoughts. Seulgi senses your unease and pulls you into this time, a gentle hug.

"Listen," she says softly, rubbing her hands up and down your back comfortingly. "Mingyu is your husband. He loves you, and this is something you both have talked about before, right? You both will figure things out, so don't worry too much, okay?"

Feeling a bit more reassured, you manage a small smile. "You're right. I... I just need to find the right time to tell him."

When you both pull away from each other, Seulgi just grins.

"You'll know when the time is right, Y/N," she says, taking another glance down at the test out of excitement once again. "I'm going to be an auntie and spoil that little one rotten!"

You only let out a laugh and playfully shove her away, a lightness in your heart gradually replacing the worry in your bones.

It's been hard trying to conceal away the fatigue whenever you and Mingyu wake up together in the morning and the subtle changes in your eating habits, but you've managed to keep it under wraps so far, constantly playing it off as stress or tiredness, though you do marvel at how your husband is just a little more oblivious than you thought.

Seulgi has been nagging you almost every day to take it easy and to share the news with Mingyu. And as the days pass, the weight of the unspoken truth feels heavier, and you realise that the longer you wait, the more difficult it becomes to find the perfect moment.

So you decide to act on it. You venture to the grocery store to buy some ingredients, and prepare a romantic, intimate dinner at home. You hope that it could help clear away the cloud of anxiety running through your mind and encourage you to finally tell him once and for all.

As the savoury aroma wafts through your home, you set the table with care, ensuring everything is just right. And when you overhear the familiar clicks of the locks at the front door, you take a deep breath, your heart beating a little faster, and slowly make your way to greet him.

Mingyu walks in his almost disheveled glory, a charming mess that somehow makes him even more endearing. His tall, strong frame moves with a grace that seems effortless. You can tell the day has left its mark on him, evident in the slight weariness around his eyes, but there's an unmistakable warmth and charm that lingers in the way he carries himself.

When he catches sight of you, his eyes lock onto yours, and a smile spreads across his face, seemingly erasing any signs of fatigue.

"Hey, beautiful," he greets, closing the door behind him and coming up to you to place a sweet kiss to your lips, like he always does. Then he gestures towards the table. "What's all this?"

A shy smile plays on your lips as you take his hand and lead him to the table. "I thought we could have a special dinner tonight. Just the two of us."

He quirks a teasing eyebrow up, eyes scanning over your face. "Did I forget something?"

You shake your head. "No, you didn't forget anything, honey. I... just missed spending some quality time with you. That's all."

Mingyu's expression softens, and he pulls out a chair for you. God, you love him. "Well, I'm all yours tonight."

As the two of you begin to share the carefully prepared meal, the tension in the room slowly dissipates. He tells you about the recent preparations for his group's performance at an upcoming award show, and you update him on all the latest gossip at your workplace.

You love the sense of normalcy returning to your evening and being with him after such an eventful day. Yet within you, the anticipation courses through your veins beneath the surface of your composed act.

It becomes a bit too hard to handle that you have to dismiss yourself to the bathroom to calm yourself down.

Your hands clutch the countertop as you take a deep breath and lock eyes with yourself in the mirror. The reality of the situation dawns on you anew, the nerves doing nothing but making you overthink. It's a blend of excitement and anxiety, and it makes you tighten your grip on the cold surface of the sink.

You look down at your pocket, where the pregnancy test is safely tucked away. You know you can't postpone this moment any longer.

You've imagined the two of you as parents so many times𑁋waking up together and preparing breakfast for a little one, taking family trips, and experiencing the joy of watching your child grow before your eyes. Envisioning this kind of future with Mingyu has always been a dream, and now that it's becoming a reality, the knot in your stomach tightens.

When you head out of the bathroom, you catch sight of your husband already tidying up and washing your dishes under the dim kitchen light. And for some reason the sight alone is enough to send a surge of warmth through you and make your heart leap out of your chest. You married this man, decided to devote your entire life to him despite the complications with his career, and now, you're about to share a piece of both of you with him.

He dries his hands upon noticing you coming up. Then he looks at you with those warm, loving eyes, and it hits you like a wave𑁋the realisation that this incredible man, who has been your rock, your love, and your partner in all aspects of life, is going to be the father of your child. Just in that moment alone, you swear you fell in love with him all over again.

"Hi, angel." He reaches for your hand, interlocking your fingers together and you can feel his wedding ring pressing against your skin, giving you a playful twirl before pulling you into his arms. "What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

You smile softly, feeling the warmth of his embrace. Mingyu has this uncanny ability to make you feel safe, and right now, you need that more than ever.

"Nothing, just..." You bring a thumb up to brush over his skin. "Thinking about you."

Mingyu giggles heartily, pushing back some hair away from your face. "Oh, yeah?" His voice is low and husky, sending shivers down your spine. "Hmm, is it good thoughts?”

You only give him a sly grin. "Always."

Mingyu just pulls you even closer, his hands making their way down to hold you lightly at the waist.

"Good, because..." He leans in, pressing a kiss to the spot behind your ear. "I've been thinking about you too."

You laugh softly, relishing the feeling of his warm breath against your skin. When he pulls away, your gazes meet together, and you take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. This is it𑁋the moment you've been waiting for.

"Can you close your eyes for me?" You whisper, a nervous but hopeful smile playing on your lips.

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "What's this, a surprise?"

You nod, trying to conceal the trembling excitement in your voice. "Just close your eyes, honey. Trust me."

He chuckles but obliges anyway, shutting his eyes and wearing a curious grin. You take a moment to compose yourself, feeling the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders. With a deep breath, you retrieve the pregnancy test from your pocket and carefully place it into his hand.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now."

Mingyu blinks his eyes open, and as he sees the pregnancy test in his hand, his expression transforms from curiosity to bewilderment. He looks down at the test, then back at you, his eyes widening with realisation.

"I𑁋is this...?"

"Yeah, we're..." Your words trail off for a second, and you swallow down the lump in your throat. "We're going to be parents."

Mingyu's eyes widen even further, and for a moment, he seems frozen in place. The seconds only continue stretch, feeling like an eternity in the utter silence of your place. You watch the flicker of emotions on his face𑁋surprise, confusion, shock, joy, and a hint of nervousness.

Then, as if a switch is flipped, a radiant smile breaks across his features. Before you can say something, you find yourself being lifted up and sat on the island of your kitchen with Mingyu standing between your legs.

"W-We're going to have a baby?" he stammers, as if the test wasn't enough to convince him and he needs to hear it from your own lips.

You cup his face with your hands. "Yes. We're... we're going to be parents, Gyu."

That's all it takes him for to kiss you, a gentle yet fervent kiss that feels enough to knock the air out of your lungs. Smiles emerge on both of your faces, laughter leaves your lips as he peppers kisses now all over your face.

"I can't believe it," he says between kisses, before pulling away to look at you. There's something a bit different in the way he's looking at you now, something deeper, more profound. "You're carrying our baby. I'm... I'm going to be a dad."

He gently rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cupping your face.

"We're going to be parents," he repeats, savouring the words on his tongue. He knows that phrase will be repeating in his head for the longest time. "I can't believe how lucky I am."

You kiss him again. The kitchen seems to glow with warmth and love as Mingyu holds you close, refusing to pull away anytime soon.

A pair of large arms sneak around you, the soft light of the morning seeping in through the small window and bathing your bathroom in an relaxing, ethereal glow. Mingyu nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his familiar scent wrapping around you comfortingly.

"Good morning, my love," he whispers, lips grazing against your ear.

You dry your face with a towel, letting out a contented sigh as you relax into his embrace. "Good morning."

As the quietness of the morning takes over, you feel Mingyu's hand drift a little lower, before stopping right at the hem of your shirt.

"Can I?" he asks carefully.

You can't help but grin. "You know I'm not even showing yet, right?"

Mingyu just smiles meekly against your skin. "I know. I just want to feel close to the both of you."

So with a nod, you feel his hand make its way under your shirt and gently rest on your stomach. It's only been a day since you've told him, yet he traces over your skin with such tenderness that it makes your heart swell with right out of your chest. He's always been this gentle with you, treating you with the utmost care and love as if you're the most delicate treasure he's ever held. And now, knowing that he's going to extend that same love to the tiny life growing within you, it brings heat to your eyes.

You lean back into him, relishing the warmth of his touch.

As his hand comes to a stop, he places his head on your shoulder. "This is real, isn't it?"

You cup over his hand with yours, following the way he's caressing over your stomach. "Very real."

Mingyu presses a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, and one to your shoulder blade.

"I love you," he murmurs into your skin. "I love you both so much."

His words linger in the hushed bathroom, and you both stand there for a little while, simply basking in the warmth of the moment knowing that your little family is now in bloom.

"I love you too," You finally reply, turning so that you can face him. "We love you too."

Mingyu just pulls you close and kisses you once more. He will never get tired of hearing that.

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#kflixnet #k-labels #caratsland #caratlibrary #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen fic #mingyu imagines #mingyu fluff #mingyu x reader #mingyu fic #kim mingyu imagines #kim mingyu fluff #kim mingyu x reader #svt imagines #svt fic #svt fluff #svt x reader

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