SOFT SPOT ââââă
mdni .á oral (f), unprotected p-in-v mentioned, dacryfilia, blood mentions, spit and drool, overstimulation, impact play, cunt slaps, squirting, cum play, free use, dex is lwk a weirdo...
dex always had a soft spot for you.
you could get away with anything with him. he'd make dinner even after a long night out dealing with god knows what, covered in blood and all you'd still be his priority. it's not as though he wouldn't kill for you, bleed for you even, of course he would do that within a heart beat if you asked. but what really got you is the little things. the butterfly kisses, the squeeze of his hand when you got nervy.
so when he found you there, wrapped up in your sheets sniffling and teary eyed he knew what to do. crawling up into your bed and over your body, cooing sweetly in his rough raspy voice, his face hovered over yours.
"oh my poor babyâ"
"lemme fix it for youâ make you feel all betterâŚ", he whispers close to your ear murmuring in his heavy, low voice, his breath dancing across your skin as he reached his big hands to cup your face. it was dark and dim and the moonlight, that managed to slip into your room, framed him perfectly, highlighting the glint of his teeth and the slight inhuman look behind his eyes. you feel his thumbs rubbing across your cheeks softly, soothing your tears and wiping them away softly.
"s'all better now babyâ"
dexs' body made its way between your legs as he dug his nose right under your jaw, inhaling your scent deeply as he split your legs wider, itching closer to what he wanted. his tongue lapped over your skin, getting a taste of your salty tears while his hands palmed over the the skin of your thighs. rubbing over them soothingly as his hands dragged under your flimsy pyjamas, palming at the soft skin of your belly and curling his thick arms around you to grope the plush of your ass.
he kissed you messily, letting his tongue slip into your mouth and trace over your teeth and gums, letting you suck at it needily as if it would placate you, distract you from your tears and mess of a mind. he laps at your tongue before he trails his kisses down your neck letting his sharp teeth scrape down the length of your soft skin, over your collarbones and drag down the dip in between your tits. he shifted while tugging down your panties, trying to get face to face with your cunt.
dex was drooling like a fucking animal leaving spit filled kisses and nips over the sensitive skin of you inner thighs as if he were taken over by the untamed, savage part of his mind.
"such a pretty pussy sweetheartâŚ" , he groans with his hips pressing into the mattress, jaw slack.
"fuckin' deliciousâ poor things cryin' more then youâ"
dex pulls your legs over his shoulders with ease, tugging your dripping cunt closer to the heat of his mouth, urged on by your grasping hands and heavy panting breaths of his name. his hands spread open your pussy, before glancing up at you with his endlessly dark eyes and a curl of excitement on his lips. suddenly he's nosing up into your cunt, letting his nose drag across your soaked folds and bump into your twitching clit.
a desperate, gutturally hungry moan leaves his mouth, straight from deep in his chest whilst grasping at your legs, keeping them pried open. he listened intently to each of your little gasps and moans, breathless and whiny praise that had him licking broad stripes along your pussy with a little smirk.
it's wet and disgusting and purely vulgar.
and thats exactly how dex liked it.
dex pushes his face further into your weeping, soaked pussy, kneeling between your legs as if in deep prayer. you taste like sin and salvation all in one. he groans, mouthing over your sopping hole, dipping his long tongue into it. the hot muscle had you seeing stars, your legs tense around him, holding him there.
hes lapping and babbling like a mad man, his nose swiping back and forth across your clit to your opening, soaking his face with your sweet slick.
"that feel good baby?"
you cant even answer, too busy crying out with your back arched and your eyes rolling back behind your eye lids. he lets out a tiny, almost mocking laugh.
"dexâ fuckâŚ"
"love it when you make that faceâ" he whispers lowly into your crotch as your thighs squeezed and trembled around his head.
dex devoured you completely, as if a starved man.
he buried his head into your bucking hips with crude slurps of his tongue, making a mess of himself with spit and slick drenching his face from his nose to his chin. your head tilts back with a loud moan and he knows you're close to release. this only urges him on.
"so pretty babyâ fuckâ"
his hands force you wider, watching your pussy pulse around nothing, drooling and crying for him to sooth it. he responds by spitting harshly, right on your pretty clit, making him let out a lazy laugh, watching patiently as it dripped down the rest of your pussy only for him to lap it all up again in one firm stroke of his tongue.
he groans loudly into your cunt, watching your chest heave as his hands tighten around your thighs. he can feel it, how close you are, he can feel it with every moan and cry and obscenely sloppy sounds of his mouth connected to your cunt.
"cum on my tongue babyâ shitâ c'monâ", he pants out as you begin to convulse, muscles spasming as you cry out his name, fisting at his hair as he tongue fucked you through your peak. he groans loudly, devouring your high not letting any of your sweet creaming release go to waste.
when he's done you're left a mess, a wet twitching, fucked out mess. you're panting into the sheets, barely awake with your hands reaching for him blindly as he crawls over you. behind your own slick and the mess of spit on his mouth he smirks, proud of his mess and with that mouth he kisses you. its gross, you whimper at the taste of yourself, letting him push his tongue into your mouth. he watches you face, your pretty fucked out face that barely understands what's going on. he can still see the dried streaks of tears going down your cheeks, he smiles humming against your mouth and into the kiss, all proud of himself and the state he put you in.
"feel better now?"
he smirks seeing you still spread out by his big hands, still shamelessly staring down at your wet plush pussy. dex loves the way you can't even respond.
"answer angelâ", he huffs sternly, watching you let out a little whine.
"babyâ", his smile widens before his hand comes down on your cunt making you yelp.
"dex!", you cry out grasping at his veiny forearms. you see the little furrow of his brow, still expecting an answer from your lips.
"i feel better dexâŚ", you flush as you manage to sigh out, trying to tug him down to join you, to rest a little but its fruitless. he stays hovering over you, watching every little twitch of your body. he did that a lot, lose his train of thought while staring at you.
"dexâ"
you're about to huff out a little whine to coo at him and get him to comply with your shaky arms only to feel another impact landing on your hot cunt, his rough palm brushing against your clit. you let out a moan instead, trying to back up only for dex to pull you back easily by your thighs.
this wasn't about him or his throbbing hard dick straining against his pants or how badly he wanted to stuff every inch into you until you squirmed desperately on his cock, squirting pleasure over his balls and lower tummy, coating him in your slick to show he was yours.
no, this was about you. how he'd do anything for you.
his smile grows again, kneeling down again, palming his clothed cock as he blows gently on you still wet cunt, admiring the little twitchy, pulsing movements of it.
"you got one more in you baby⌠you can do it f'me..."
Š rottndeer 2026. please do not repost, copy, translate or use any of my work for ai. i post only on tumblr.
Me: I don't know. I didn't know. I wanted to find out.
Wound: well, this is what happens. You hurt and my work is done a little less.
Me: what work? Bleeding?
Wound: no, not-bleeding. You seem to misunderstand. I am not the violence. The violence is no longer in the body. My job is to be a wound - so that you won't bleed out on me - and then a scar, so that you can go on with your doing. I am not smooth skin, sure, but I am not the violence.
Me, suspicious: but you come from the violence. I remember. Perhaps if I dig in a little I will find the thing, the secret thing to pull out to heal all at once and to not even have the memory of violence, which is what you are.
Wound: what you'll find inside is just tired old flesh. There is nothing here but you. Even I is you. That's why you are the one hurt when you pick at my scabs. I am not telling you anything you do not know.
Me: but the knowing doesn't help.
Wound: yes.
Me: I am still unhappy with having a wound as opposed to not having a wound, even though I know that isn't the choice in front of me.
Wound: yes. You will just have to wait.
Me: for you to heal?
Wound: maybe, if I am a wound that heals all the way. I do not know. Perhaps you have to wait for my work to be as done as it gets and for the itch to stop. The itch, at the very least, will subside with time.
She got the idea for the study while walking with her advisor at Stanford to discuss her thesis topic, and the paper she eventually published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology in 2014 is sharp enough that it should have ended the seated meeting on the day it came out.
She ran 4 experiments on 176 people. Same person tested twice. Once sitting, once walking. The creativity tasks were the standard ones psychologists have used for decades to measure how good a brain is at generating novel useful ideas.
81% of participants in the first experiment produced more creative ideas while walking than while sitting. In the second experiment, 88%. In the third, 100%. Every single person walked into a more creative version of themselves. On average, people generated 60% more novel useful ideas the moment their legs started moving.
The skeptical question is the obvious one. Maybe it was the fresh air. Maybe it was the scenery passing by. Maybe it was the change of environment doing the work, not the walking itself.
Oppezzo killed every one of those explanations with one experimental decision. She put people on a treadmill facing a blank wall. No scenery. No fresh air. No environmental change. Just legs moving in place while staring at white drywall. The 60% boost held.
Then she ran the experiment that closed the case completely. She took participants outside in two conditions. Half of them walked through a Stanford courtyard. The other half were pushed through the exact same courtyard in a wheelchair. Same outdoor stimulation. Same scenery passing at the same speed. The only difference was whether the legs were moving.
The walkers produced dramatically more novel high-quality ideas than the wheelchair group. The outdoors did almost nothing on its own. The walking did everything.
She also tested the opposite kind of thinking. Convergent thinking. The kind where there is one right answer and you have to narrow down to it. Word puzzles where 3 words share a hidden fourth word that connects them. The seated participants did slightly better on these. Walkers got slightly worse.
Walking is not a general intelligence enhancer. It does one specific thing. It opens up the divergent search inside your brain. The part that generates options. The part that produces unexpected connections. The part that takes a problem and finds five ways into it instead of one.
When you need to converge on the single right answer, sit down. When you need to find the answer in the first place, get up.
The mechanism is now well understood. Walking selectively activates what neuroscientists call the default mode network, the system inside your brain that runs when you are not consciously focused on anything. The DMN is where mind-wandering happens. Where memories cross-reference each other. Where ideas that have been sitting in separate folders inside your head finally bump into each other.
When you sit at a desk and force yourself to concentrate, you suppress the DMN. When you walk at a natural pace, the executive part of your brain gets just busy enough handling the walking that the DMN comes online and starts doing the work that focus was blocking.
The most useful finding in the entire paper is the one almost nobody quotes. The boost did not turn off the moment people stopped walking. Participants who walked first and then sat back down stayed elevated. Their next round of seated creativity work was still significantly better than people who had been sitting the whole time. The rest lingered for at least several minutes after the legs stopped moving.
You do not need to do creative work while walking. You need to walk before the creative work. The brain holds the state.
Okay this is the problem with sharing pop science stuff online and content aggregation accounts
The study is real, it's very easy to find by searching up the author's name + study. Give it a read yourself. It's written in a pretty accessible way imo.
Note that it does not put forward any explanations for why this effect happens, only that it does. In the conclusion it posits many possible reasons for why, and that it's most likely nothing to do with the specific action of walking, merely any semi automatic repetitive activity. They also acknowledge the study did not account for the social company the walkers were in, which is a pretty massive factor imo. Considering the conclusion brings up MANY alternative explanations and future experiment possibilities, it's decidedly not "killed every alternative explanation" like the tweet says. The actual paper ends like most scientific papers, listing alternative possible explanations, these are preliminary results, more research is needed, wider demographics of people need to be included, etc.
Another thing is the phrasing of these tweets are like red flags flapping in the wind to me. Any short form social media content that's 1. Pop science 2. Conveys absolute certainty 3. Ends with self improvement biohacking adjacent advice, should set off alarm bells.
Look at the implications that if the tweets were true, it would mean wheelchair users and people with mobility issues would be inherently worse at creative tasks.
So who is this person that's tweeting this, rephrasing this paper in a "helpful" way that is sure to get shares from people who really value being creative and are looking for any way to become more creative in their -
OFC ITS AN AI BRO
You wanna see what his recent articles look like?
CAN WE STOP GETTING BAITED INTO PLATFORMING GRIFTERS
Thank you! There were so many red flags in the first post's language. The original paper straight up says that the mechanisms weren't isolated! Also there is no single part of the brain responsible for creative idea generation, it involves communication between multiple brain networks.
Glad I wasn't the only person who looked at this and thought that it was weird to say this study is SO perfect when the way it's framed here directly implies that people who can't walk are inherently less capable of being creative than people who can.
I can't leave a reply but to the disabled people in the notes who now genuinely seem to believe their mobility issues have robbed them of their ability to be creative pls don't think that! That's not what this study said! You're dealing with ableist misinformation from an AI bro, the study did not make these claims. I encourage everyone who's shared the version without the corrections to take them down, this misinfo is hurting already clearly hurting disabled people and should not be spread.
It turns out nearly being 30 means you get really passionate about slip on shoes and how the new wall your neighbors built to replace their fence is painted a lovely shade of green that really pops compared to the copper gate they picked.
You need to know that my fiancĂŠ and I turned our car around just to drive past the house again and look at the new green wall hootin' and hollerin' like kids watching their science teacher light something on fire. This really is as good as it gets and I'm not even mad.
Bridgerton/Regency AU | Dex x fem!Reader where Lord Benjamin Poindexter duels every man who flirts with you and leaves a trail of dead suitors in your wake.
TW: implied stalking, suggestive sexual themes, parental verbal abuse, duels/murder, obsessive jealousy, dark romance, but daddy, I love him! vibes
Lord Benjamin Poindexter, Duke of Arrowhead, is a violent man.Â
And somehow, somehow, you are the problem because you like it.
You are the daughter of a viscount. Unfortunately, you are also a romantic to the point of self-destruction. You want a love match, the kind poets lose sleep over. Your father, unfortunately, wants you married to Lord Daniels, a man thirty years your senior with fine manners, excellent prospects, and the emotional texture of damp bread.
Worse, Lord Daniels looks at you as though you are already his property. Not a woman with thoughts, wants, or a heart of your own, but rather just a pretty vessel meant to warm his bed, bear his heir, and behave while doing it.
And god forbid you have hobbies! He treats your love of plants like a defect, like a girlish little habit he intends to prune out of you after the wedding.
So when you try to make your father understand that you cannot marry Lord Daniels, he does not listen. He calls you a selfish bitch.
You get into a screaming match with him after that. You tell him he is selling you off. He tells you that you are ruining your own future.
By the time you start crying, youâre running out of the house.Â
You are not running forever, of course. You are not foolish enough to think you could survive alone outside your fatherâs house, let alone in the wild.
You just need space from your family.
So you run into the woods behind the estate, skirts damp, gloves dirtied, face hot with rage, needing only to be alone for a little while.
And that is where you meet Lord Poindexter.
Every woman in Mayfair knows of him but none of them truly knows him. Your mother once said he was âa fine match, of course,â then immediately followed it with, âThough there is something rather severe about him.â
Severe is one word. Dangerous is better.
He is hunting alone when he finds you, rifle in hand, coat across his shoulders. He frightens you, a little.
But then he lowers the rifle the moment he sees your tears. âMy lady.â
âYour Grace.â
His eyes move over you, like he is cataloguing every sign of distress and deciding who must be punished for it.
You should curtsy and leave. Instead, you talk.
You tell him about Lord Daniels. About your father. About marriage without love. You tell him you would rather disappear into the woods than be handed over to a man who thinks your hobby is an inconvenience.
âI think I would like to marry a man who knows the difference between a daisy and a dahlia,â you say, bitterly.
That earns you another almost-smile. âDaisies,â he says.
âWhat?â
âYou like daisies?â
You blink, thrown by the gentle edge of the question.
âYes,â you say. âMy favourite, in fact. They are not grand, but they survive almost anywhere. People overlook them because they are common, but I think that is rather unfair.â
Dex looks at you. He looks and looks and looks.
âMy lady,â he says finally, âI do not think Lord Daniels deserves you.â
Your breath catches in the cold air. âYou hardly know me, Your Grace.â
His eyes do not move away from yours. âNot yet.â
Hello?
What the hell do you mean, Lord Poindexter?Â
Because what is that? Who says that in the woods to a crying viscountâs daughter he has known for less than an hour? A madman, maybe. A loaded pistol in human form.
He escorts you to the threshold of your home, kisses your gloved fingers before he leaves, and you spend the whole night staring at your ceiling and thinking about him like an idiot.
The next morning, Lord Daniels is dead because he had been challenged to a duel.Â
Apparently, he has been shot through the heart at dawn by Lord Poindexter.
Oh, Lady Whistledown is frothing at the mouth.
The entire ton becomes rabid, because even the scribe doesnât know why the Duke of Arrowhead challenged him to a duel. Some say Daniels owed him money. Some say Daniels insulted him at cards. Some say there was an argument over hunting rights. The men insist it must have been something respectable and masculine, because God forbid a duke shoot another lord over a girl he met weeping in the woods the day before.
But you know Dex loaded that pistol for you.
By afternoon tea, Lord Poindexter comes calling, telling your father that he would like to court his daughter.
He brought the biggest bouquet of daisies you had ever seen.
Your father grinds his teeth and hesitates, because Lord Poindexter has just killed your intended.
But alsoâŚ
He is a duke.
A rich duke.
A handsome duke.
A rich, handsome duke who has come calling with flowers for your motherâs daughter, who, as your mother very gently reminds your father, has not exactly been cooperative with any of the men your father has presented to her.
So eventually, he is allowed into the drawing room.
Your father looks like he is swallowing a knife. Your mother looks like she is watching a scandal unfold in real time.Â
And Dex looks only at you. He gives you the daisies like the dead man between you is merely an unfortunate scheduling matter.
From there, it snowballs.
Lord Benjamin Poindexter becomes devoted to you in a way that makes every ballroom feel like a crime scene waiting to happen.
He appears at social events he would once have avoided. He stands at the edge of every room in black gloves, watching you like the rest of the ton is background noise. He asks you to dance, and people are speechless, because the Duke of Arrowhead famously does not dance at balls.
Except now he does.
With you, and only you.
He is not charming with anyone else, though. Other ladies still try to speak to him (again, handsome, rich, duke). They flutter their lashes and smile and ask about his estate, his hunting, his views on town.
He gives them nothing.
Then you walk up and mention that your new fern cutting is struggling, and suddenly this man is leaning in like you have declared war on France.
âWhat kind of fern?â
âMaidenhair.â
âHow much light does it need?â
And you talk and talk and talk, and the other ladies stare because this is not the Duke of Arrowhead they know. This man remembers the layout of your greenhouse, even when he claims he has never been there. He remembers the variety of your roses. He knows the shade your orchids prefer.Â
He remembers everything.
And God help every Lord who even attempts to talk to you.
A lord compliments your figure too boldly?
Duel, shot through the head.
A viscount laughs about Lord Daniels and your âunfortunate effect on menâ?
Duel, shot in the bowels and bled to death.
A gentleman grips your waist too hard at a ball, and you come crying to Dex because you feel ruined?
Duel. Shot through the liver at dawn so he feels the pain as the light drains from his eyes.Â
There are dead lords behind you now. Injured lords. Ruined lords. Men leaving London for their âhealth.â Men avoiding your side of the ballroom as though you are cursed.
And maybe you should be horrified.
But there is a terrible and satisfying feeling curling inside you every time Dexâs eyes tunnel across a room because another man has made a pathetic attempt to court you.
You feel⌠flattered.Â
Your mother is like, âHe cannot continue challenging every gentleman who causes you discomfort.â
Your father is like, âHe is making you impossible to marry.â
And you are likeâŚ
Is he?
Or is he making me impossible to marry to anyone but him?
Because Dex is not stupid.
He knows what this does. Every duel ties your name tighter to his. Society begins to understand your honour as his territory, your reputation as his concern.Â
He wants the whole ton to know that touching you, wanting you, and embarrassing you comes with consequences.
Yes, he wants you ruined if ruined means no one else can have you. And the night Dex actually ruins you, it happens at Lord Ashcombeâs ball.
Ashcombe has been secretly admiring you all season like a man too stupid to notice the bodies piling up behind him. He asks for a dance with you and says it would be rude to refuse the host.
And you know Dex is watching.
Usually, you would say no. But today, you were feeling particularly brave and you wanted to test the limits of Dexâs affections. So you say yes.
Dex becomes murderously jealous almost immediately.Â
Dex watches Ashcombeâs hand settle at your waist and crushes the wine glass in his hands. You smile and pretend not to hear the shatter.Â
The moment the dance ends, Dex pulls you out to the garden and corners you there.Â
The wisteria hangs heavy overhead, purple and soft and romantic in the most damning way. The music from the ballroom is muffled behind glass. Your heart is still racing from the dance, from the thrill of knowing you provoked him and he came exactly as you knew he would.
âWhat was that?â He demanded.Â
And you pout, because apparently you have lost all sense of self-preservation. âPerhaps I am tired of waiting for a proposal.â
His jaw tightens. âYou think I will not ask?â
âYou have not even asked my father for my hand.â
And oh.
Oh, that wounded him. âI will.â
See, you donât understand that yet. Dex is not delaying because he doubts his love for you. He is delaying because he is who he is. Because in his head, before he asks your father and puts the ring on your finger, he must clear the field.
He must eliminate every man who wants you and every lord who thinks he still has a chance.
And yes, that is deranged, but he enjoys hunting his romantic rivals for sport. He loves the fact that he gets to prove, again and again, that wanting you is dangerous unless you are him.
But then you ask with sad lashes, âHow do I know youâre not lying, Your Grace?â
And Dex goes very still.
Then he kisses you.
His hands are on you at once, crushing your silk dress, dragging you closer. He kisses you like he is furious you ever doubted him. Like your mouth is the only argument he needs.Â
You should stop him.
You could.
You do not.
Instead, you kiss him back and sigh a triumphant yes, knowing no other man will have you now.Â
Eventually his hands bunches up your skirts and rips your undergarments. You gave a breathless little panic gasp, knowing no lady should let a man touch her like this before marriage.
Dex turns you carefully, presses you forward until he bends you over the garden wall, one gloved hand braced beside yours, the other holding you at the waist like he is both keeping you steady and making a claim.
âYou want to know,â he murmurs, voice rough against your ear, âwhat husbands and wives do?â
Your breath catches.
âI need to hear you say it, Your Grace,â he says. Dexâs mouth brushes the shell of your ear, and you know that is not your title yet. You do not have a duchy. But it is the title you will take if he marries you.
When, you remind yourself, not if.
âY-yes, Your Grace,â you managed.
âThatâs my good girl,â he breathes, gloved hand tightening at your waist.
So Dex fucks you there beneath the wisteria, with the ballroom glowing behind the windows and your fingers trembling against old stone. He takes you, letting you adjust to his size as he ruins you completely and makes you understand exactly what he means to give to you once you are his wife.
He talks to you through it in that low voice, telling you this is what he will give you on your wedding night, and every night after, telling you he would not ruin you if he did not intend to keep you, telling you no other man will ever know you like this because no other man will live long enough to try.
You hate that it works.
You hate that every possessive word goes through you like fire. You hate that you believe him most when he is like this.
And when you fall apart for him, he holds you and kisses your temple through it, ever so gentle.Â
He destroys your reputation with the tenderness of a man arranging flowers.
By the time it is over, your legs are unsteady, your mouth is swollen, your skirts are a scandal, and Dex is still pressed close behind you.
Then, you turn your head and see Lord Ashcombe at the edge of the path.
He looks pale and absolutely destroyed by what he has walked in on.
You glanced at Dex in a panic, but he is just casually buckling up his trousers and smiling.Â
That's when you realised that Dex wanted you two to get caught.
He knew Ashcombe slipped into this part of the garden to smoke, thatâs why he dragged you here, of all places! This was a trap. This was the hunting for sport he loved so much.
This was Dex proving his love in the most deranged way possible: by ruining you just enough to make Ashcombe understand he had already lost.
Dex adjusts your skirts while challenging him to a duel for your honour.Â
By dawn, Ashcombe is dead.Â
By noon, Dex comes calling again with more daisies.
Your mother sits down very slowly. Your father says no when Dex asks for your hand.
Dex only raised an eyebrow like it was a minor obstacle.
So he leaves and comes back with a deed. He has bought you the largest greenhouse in the country.Â
A scandalous duke with dead men in his wake gives you a kingdom of flowers and expects your father to keep saying no?
Please.
Your fatherâs protests are running thin. Your reputation is half-shredded. Your mother is exhausted. The ton already speaks of you as though you are his. Men no longer ask for your hand because they enjoy having all their organs where they are.
So finally, your father agrees.
Dex proposes in the garden with daisies everywhere, because of course he does. Because the man is unwell and romantic and terrifying and yours.
He kneels in the dirt like a duke who has never cared less about being a duke.
And you say yes with your whole stupid romantic heart.
Lady Whistledown writes of speculation like the ink has been laced with laudanum. Your mother cries. Your father looks like heâs biting through bullets. The remaining eligible men of London quietly celebrate surviving the season.
And Dex looks at you at the altar like every dead lord was simply the road he took to reach you.
You wanted a love match?Â
Congratulations.
You got a love match with a body count.
â
note: reminder! This is a hear me out, so no taglist. Also, eventual full fic of this, yay or nay? (Might take me a year at this point lol)
Summary: People start calling you Sharkbait. One day someone does it in front of Park.
Tags/Warnings: Brendon Park x reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, brief mention of an age gap (40s-20s), mild language, mild power imbalance, watch me avoid talking about medical things
wc: 1,146
a/n: I was possessed to write this in the middle of the night. Mean beefy men have me in a chokehold.
Dedicated to @godmadeaterribleerror . Look! I finished something!!
You didn't really think about it, the first time it happened. You'd been halfway through a chart, awareness pitched somewhere behind you in case someone needed you â someone always did, eventually â and when you heard the name Sharkbait, you knew instinctively Santos was talking to you. She's always giving out nicknames like that, and you didn't have one yet, and people had taken to dragging you over to present for Park the Shark, because apparently you were the only one who could handle him without getting your head bit off.
You didn't really get what the big deal was. It wasn't hard to figure out how to deal with him â that's what you do, after all, assess people and then figure out how to deal with them. He wants clear, concise answers, and respect, so you give him both. Easy.
He's not the kind of person you'd joke with, or get chummy with, not unless he crossed that line first. Even then, best to tread carefully.
But he's not complicated, and he's certainly not scary the way everyone seems to think he is â though you would categorize him as intense. Focused. It's what makes him such a good surgeon.
And sure, maybe he trains his laser focus on you more than anyone else in the ED. Maybe his attention is less sharp when it settles and finds you on the receiving end.
It doesn't mean anything, surely, but that didn't stop Santos from noticing, and it didn't stop her from making a shitty nickname, and if you were thinking a little more clearly, you'd have realized that you should've shut that shit down. Park is your much older, much more attractive, incredibly no-nonsense indirect boss, not to mention, you actually kind of like the guy. He probably wouldn't take lightly to everyone going around implying he's trying to get in your pants, and even if Santos is mean, she's not evil. She'd back off if you needed her to.
But you'd been tired, and distracted, and you hadn't really thought about it that hard. And when she called out "Sharkbait, get over here!" you hadn't corrected her.
Instead, you'd tapped out the last line of your sentence and carelessly called back, "Sharkbait, ooh-haha." It wasn't even a conscious decision.
It's from some fuckass movie you watched when you were eight, and you hadn't thought about it in years, but apparently that one word had been enough to trigger the call and response you learned in second grade. It shouldn't have stuck, either, but then Whittaker had called you Sharkbait while you were talking to a patient, and you'd muttered it under your breath, and now you just can't stop.
Everywhere you went, people called you Sharkbait. Even Robby does it sometimes, when he's calling you over to observe procedures. And you, in a true show of human adaptability, do not stop to think about why it's such a mistake. You hadn't caught it the first time, and you hadn't caught it the second time, and by the third it simply became another thing in the background. Another name, another title, none of them really you.
Everywhere you went, you'd parrot it back. Mostly it was an announcement, a way to say I'm here, I'm paying attention, tell me what you need, without quite so many words. In the more serious situations, it was a half-whispered thing under your breath, a reminder that there would be time where things weren't falling apart, and you would be capable of joy and whimsy again.
Either way, it always came.
Unless Brendan Park was in the room. The Shark walked in, and suddenly everyone was calling your full name like you're George fucking Bush. Even the mention of a consult from him was enough to dissuade the use of it for a few minutes.
All of which led to twenty minutes ago, when you'd been hunched over a trash can, shoveling a granola bar down your throat with such ferocity that you felt simultaneously like a starved horse and the kind owner feeding it.
You'd caught a glimpse of Park gliding through the ED like Moses parting the Red Sea, and had stuffed the last of your precious calories into your mouth in a desperate bid to be done by the time he reached you. Even when you weren't called over to present, he rarely came down without stopping by, so you'd gotten used to putting on your best face on a dime.
You could see that Dennis was going to call you over before he actually did it, so you'd already been shuffling over to the hand sanitizer when you it happened. "Sharkbait! Whittaker says you should present this one."
Your mind knew it was a bad idea â tried to stop your mouth from following through â but habit is a bitch. "Sharkbait, ooh-haha," you fired back, just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the ED.
For a half-second, everyone froze.
Park turned to you, molasses slow. Arched an eyebrow. "You like that stupid nickname?"
You'd blinked at him. Refused to shrink under his gaze, or his tone, or the way it all made your blood sing and your skin burn. Forced your voice smooth and even, just as unbothered as he sounded about... well, everything. "I haven't really thought about it all that much, honestly. Mostly just reflex by now."
Maybe he genuinely believed you. Maybe it's because you've always been honest and efficient. Maybe he just doesn't think you have the balls to lie to him. Whatever it is, he hadn't commented on it further, so you didn't either.
You both pretended it never happened, right up until he disappeared back upstairs, and you allowed yourself a single moment to acknowledge the fact that you may have just lost all your goodwill with the best orthopod in the hospital.
What you don't know is that Park had been the one to start it with an offhand comment to Garcia about the ED dangling you in front of him like sharkbait every time he went down there. She'd repeated it to Santos, and soon it had spread like wildfire. Not what he'd intended, and he'd considered snapping at the mousy boy when he'd drifted by and heard him calling you that a few weeks ago â only to be stopped dead by your sweet little call-and-response, like you were fucking taunting him. Practically begging him to come bite.
The fact that you had the balls to do it with him right in front of you â and then look him dead in the eyes and call it reflex â has just cemented what everyone else already knows.
He wants you.
And if you don't mind flaunting that fact to the whole hospital, oblivious as you may be, he's not going to be the one to stop you.
Summary: People start calling you Sharkbait. One day someone does it in front of Park.
Tags/Warnings: Brendon Park x reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, brief mention of an age gap (40s-20s), mild language, mild power imbalance, watch me avoid talking about medical things
wc: 1,146
a/n: I was possessed to write this in the middle of the night. Mean beefy men have me in a chokehold.
Dedicated to @godmadeaterribleerror . Look! I finished something!!
You didn't really think about it, the first time it happened. You'd been halfway through a chart, awareness pitched somewhere behind you in case someone needed you â someone always did, eventually â and when you heard the name Sharkbait, you knew instinctively Santos was talking to you. She's always giving out nicknames like that, and you didn't have one yet, and people had taken to dragging you over to present for Park the Shark, because apparently you were the only one who could handle him without getting your head bit off.
You didn't really get what the big deal was. It wasn't hard to figure out how to deal with him â that's what you do, after all, assess people and then figure out how to deal with them. He wants clear, concise answers, and respect, so you give him both. Easy.
He's not the kind of person you'd joke with, or get chummy with, not unless he crossed that line first. Even then, best to tread carefully.
But he's not complicated, and he's certainly not scary the way everyone seems to think he is â though you would categorize him as intense. Focused. It's what makes him such a good surgeon.
And sure, maybe he trains his laser focus on you more than anyone else in the ED. Maybe his attention is less sharp when it settles and finds you on the receiving end.
It doesn't mean anything, surely, but that didn't stop Santos from noticing, and it didn't stop her from making a shitty nickname, and if you were thinking a little more clearly, you'd have realized that you should've shut that shit down. Park is your much older, much more attractive, incredibly no-nonsense indirect boss, not to mention, you actually kind of like the guy. He probably wouldn't take lightly to everyone going around implying he's trying to get in your pants, and even if Santos is mean, she's not evil. She'd back off if you needed her to.
But you'd been tired, and distracted, and you hadn't really thought about it that hard. And when she called out "Sharkbait, get over here!" you hadn't corrected her.
Instead, you'd tapped out the last line of your sentence and carelessly called back, "Sharkbait, ooh-haha." It wasn't even a conscious decision.
It's from some fuckass movie you watched when you were eight, and you hadn't thought about it in years, but apparently that one word had been enough to trigger the call and response you learned in second grade. It shouldn't have stuck, either, but then Whittaker had called you Sharkbait while you were talking to a patient, and you'd muttered it under your breath, and now you just can't stop.
Everywhere you went, people called you Sharkbait. Even Robby does it sometimes, when he's calling you over to observe procedures. And you, in a true show of human adaptability, do not stop to think about why it's such a mistake. You hadn't caught it the first time, and you hadn't caught it the second time, and by the third it simply became another thing in the background. Another name, another title, none of them really you.
Everywhere you went, you'd parrot it back. Mostly it was an announcement, a way to say I'm here, I'm paying attention, tell me what you need, without quite so many words. In the more serious situations, it was a half-whispered thing under your breath, a reminder that there would be time where things weren't falling apart, and you would be capable of joy and whimsy again.
Either way, it always came.
Unless Brendan Park was in the room. The Shark walked in, and suddenly everyone was calling your full name like you're George fucking Bush. Even the mention of a consult from him was enough to dissuade the use of it for a few minutes.
All of which led to twenty minutes ago, when you'd been hunched over a trash can, shoveling a granola bar down your throat with such ferocity that you felt simultaneously like a starved horse and the kind owner feeding it.
You'd caught a glimpse of Park gliding through the ED like Moses parting the Red Sea, and had stuffed the last of your precious calories into your mouth in a desperate bid to be done by the time he reached you. Even when you weren't called over to present, he rarely came down without stopping by, so you'd gotten used to putting on your best face on a dime.
You could see that Dennis was going to call you over before he actually did it, so you'd already been shuffling over to the hand sanitizer when you it happened. "Sharkbait! Whittaker says you should present this one."
Your mind knew it was a bad idea â tried to stop your mouth from following through â but habit is a bitch. "Sharkbait, ooh-haha," you fired back, just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the ED.
For a half-second, everyone froze.
Park turned to you, molasses slow. Arched an eyebrow. "You like that stupid nickname?"
You'd blinked at him. Refused to shrink under his gaze, or his tone, or the way it all made your blood sing and your skin burn. Forced your voice smooth and even, just as unbothered as he sounded about... well, everything. "I haven't really thought about it all that much, honestly. Mostly just reflex by now."
Maybe he genuinely believed you. Maybe it's because you've always been honest and efficient. Maybe he just doesn't think you have the balls to lie to him. Whatever it is, he hadn't commented on it further, so you didn't either.
You both pretended it never happened, right up until he disappeared back upstairs, and you allowed yourself a single moment to acknowledge the fact that you may have just lost all your goodwill with the best orthopod in the hospital.
What you don't know is that Park had been the one to start it with an offhand comment to Garcia about the ED dangling you in front of him like sharkbait every time he went down there. She'd repeated it to Santos, and soon it had spread like wildfire. Not what he'd intended, and he'd considered snapping at the mousy boy when he'd drifted by and heard him calling you that a few weeks ago â only to be stopped dead by your sweet little call-and-response, like you were fucking taunting him. Practically begging him to come bite.
The fact that you had the balls to do it with him right in front of you â and then look him dead in the eyes and call it reflex â has just cemented what everyone else already knows.
He wants you.
And if you don't mind flaunting that fact to the whole hospital, oblivious as you may be, he's not going to be the one to stop you.
CW: rough sex, breath play, power play, slapping, squirtingâthe whole thing. Hints of piss kink don't look at me. This is like 20 words I want to write but I don't have the brainpower to do it
Simon gets a little mean during sex, sometimes.Â
Not as often as you'd like him to, unfortunately. He's more comfortable when he handles you delicately, and it took you ages to make him realise that you're not as fragile as he thinks.
So, while still scarcely, you're occasionally granted the gorgeous sight of him losing control of his urges.
Needless to say, you're over-fucking-joyed when you hear his sighs turn into groans and his caresses harden into slaps. In fact, you're over the goddamn moon when you feel his hands flip you over, chest flattened to the bed.Â
A big hand fists your hair and pushes your face into the pillowâbecause he is a little into breath play every once in a while, even if he tries to mask it on his good days.
But you can read him better than he thinks.
He likes his chest against your back. Likes the feeling of you squirming beneath his weight when his arm snakes to your belly, sandwiched between your skin and the duvet.Â
Loves it when you push back your hips to meet his thrusts. When you groan into the pillow as he flicks his fingers over your clitâover and over and over, until your moans grow breathy, lost in linen and spit.
You know his eyes roll to the back of his head when you come around him. When he feels the rhythmic pulse of your cunt as it tightens, threatening to push him outâbut he's stubborn, isn't he?
He keeps fucking you until your orgasm turns wetter and splashes his cock with every thrust of his hips. A pool on the bedsheets that sticks uncomfortably to your skin, soaking through and spreading wide.
Only then does he lift your face off the pillow with a harsh tug of your hair.Â
Your scalp stings. Drool down your lips and smeared on fabric, cheeks ripe with air now that you're finally breathing it. Oxygen burns your lungsâthe most delicious ache in your chest.
His mouth is next to your ear, hot and lascivious. You can feel his derisive smile push against your cheek, his wet kiss landing open on it.
"Feel so good tha' ya pissed yerself, eh?"Â
You know he loves the wicked grin that lazily spreads across your face. Loves the cheeky glance you send him from the sidelines as he keeps your head stuck in place with a fistful of hair.Â
Shame he won't see it for long, he thinks, as he pushes your face into the pillow again.
there's something appealing about monsterfucking in that the monster doesn't care about conventional attractiveness. the monster doesn't care if you're pretty or successful or thin or whatever else you may or may not be - it is drawn to you because you are human. because you are other, to it. you are fascinating, you are fragile. you are thrilling to them, with your soft skin and breakable bones and your heart that kicks like a rabbit in your chest when you see the monster for the first time.
thinking about how robby's rule for langdon is to not cum in reader (unless it's like. his birthday or he's been extra good (he never is)) and reader thinks its funny to beg langdon to cum in her in hopes of getting robby to punish him (maybe once or twice it backfires on reader then she's the one who ends up getting in trouble)
i have actually so many thoughts about this because youâre SO right. Itâs Robbyâs possessiveness and his need for superiority (especially above Langdon).
Generally speaking Robby treats his cum like some precious thing. itâs expected that you always swallow it allâ âDonât be wasteful, sweetheart. Thatâs a girl.â â when he finishes in your pussy heâll almost always spread your swollen lips with his thumbs after he pulls out to watch it leak out of you. The first time heâd done it youâd been so embarrassed, all bashful whines and squirming hips, but heâd tutted and hushed you and sated your worries with a low murmur â âLook at that. Such a pretty fuckinâ pussy.â
And like you said, a big rule of Robbyâs is that heâe the only one who gets to fill you up. Frankly, as far as heâs concerned, Langdon just doesnât deserve it. Heâs way far too brazen and immature to get to lay claim on a sweet thing like you. Thatâs what Robby tells himself, at least, so he can avoid having to self-reflect on the fact that being the only man whoâs ever cum inside a woman half his age turns him on more than anything.
Irregardless, Frank cumming inside you is a no-no. You both know it, and unfortunately for him, itâs one of the most tenable (and most exciting) ways to try to get Robby pissed at him.
If you try to do it while Robbyâs there it never really pans out. You try with begs of âfeels so good, please donât stop.â when you can tell heâs getting close.
You give him your most blissed out, pleading look, and his hips stutter just a bit. âShit, baby.â He sounds breathless
âWanna feel you.â You whine.
But Robby shuts it down quickly with a muttered âdonât you dareâ directed at the younger man.
Sometimes you really push it and try to physically hold Frank in. You clench your pussy up tight around him, wrap your legs around his hips and lock your ankles. Let out a string of âyes, yes, yes, right there,â to egg on his fast-paced thrusts.
But Robby catches onto that too. Heâll smack your thigh and roughly grope your tit. âKnock it off.â Heâll give you a warning look, brows raised and mouth a thin line. âIf he canât pull out itâll be your ass, not his.â
Youâve only managed to actually pull it off once. Robbyâs out of the house, and you and Frank got into a squabble that led to him backing you against the wall and fervently kissing you, all tongue and teeth.
Soon heâs fucking you into the mattress, telling you how fucking hot you are and how youâre so easy for him. Youâre whining, gripping his biceps the way you know gets him going. You look at him all brainless like his dick is so good that you canât even think.
âFeels so good,â you moan, âoh my god, Frank, you fuck me so good.â
âYeah, baby?â He sounds strained, so you can tell youâre getting to him.
âWant you to fill me up. Please, Frank, wanna feel you.â
âFuck,â he grits out. You can practically see the internal battle behind his lust-blown eyes. âFuck, princess. Canât tell Robby, okay? Gonna take a shower with me after, shit, âs gotta stay between us.â
âYes, please, I promise.â
and he cums with the lowest loudest groan youâve heard him make, relishing in the feeling of you pulsing around him and milking his cock.
He seemed to enjoy it so much that you almost feel bad breaking your promise. After your joint shower, you pull out your phone and write out a simple text to Robby. You hesitate for a moment, but inevitably hit send.
Simon doesnât get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but thereâs verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!
Simon doesnât get why you hate him so much.
Doesnât understand why youâre perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your bootâs sole.
Not that he cares; itâs only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever heâs busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Donât tell me youâre getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when youâre both on baseâ when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
Youâre both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
âOn your right,â Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that youâre still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
âOh. Hi, Lt.,â you say. âDidnât see you there.â
âIÂ told you to move, Sergeant,â he mutters.
âSorry, Lt., what was that?â You cup your ears. âCouldnât hear you over my music.â
Youâre not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
Itâs been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them. You had greeted themâ Price, Garrick, Johnnyâ with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and itâs like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet youâ like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet youâre in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and Iâll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didnât get hit in the first place, Lt.
Itâs infuriating.
But you donât stop because there are never any consequences.Â
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like youâre out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like thisâ your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesnât remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wailsâ bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
âgetting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers heâs posturing to snicker and laugh. They donât seem to care that youâre standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical heâs being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
Thereâs a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but youâve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says. The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ânoâ.
Itâs not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards youâre seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan fast before you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
âLetâs see if youâve improved, Sergeant,â Ghost taunts.
âI swear I wonât accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,â you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his musclesâ no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like thisâ and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldnât be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend whoâ)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
âIf thatâs all.â You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
âNeed to talk to you âbout something,â he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. âSir, thereâs nothingââ
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. âDâyou have a problem with me, Sergeant?â
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. âWhat?â
âI repeat, do you have a problem with me?â
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
âYes or no, Sergeant?â
His voice is all guttural and deep, like heâs holding himself back from something.
ââŚN-no, Iââ
âGood,â he hums. âWonât have a problem with this then.â
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly theyâre pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bonesâ a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
âDo you hate me?â He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to meanâ mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between kisses.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It's turns you on impossibly more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, heâs so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitchâ fuckinâ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
Itâs unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissinâ me off with thaâ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blurâ everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost kisses down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut upâ"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"HahâFuck, Lt., I'm gonnaâ," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stopâ,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath catches in your throat. âYouâre such a fucking assholeââ
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still pinning your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhhâ"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.â"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyouâ please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
Itâs embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trashâ how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141â the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
âWasnât so hard, was it, love?â Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and itâs just not enough.
âFuck you,â you cry out in frustration.
âI will," he hums. "All thaâ sass for what, hm? Someone I donât even remember?â
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerkâ hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he laps you up relentlessly, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucksâ you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your throat.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
âDon't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"âoff," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training groundsâ knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, pleaseâ."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.â," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuckâ so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoricâ combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
âD'you knowâ,â he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. ââhow much I thought âbout this?â
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cuntâ" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bedâ" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and overâ" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-unghâ"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"âmngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm youâ now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more timeâ milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes ballsdeep in your pussy.
âI still hate you,â you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But thereâs no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
âRight.â He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small âoofâ. âKeep tellinâ yourself that, love.â
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mindâ but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
I think it might be useful if we viewed representation as an imperfect community effort rather than a big, heavy weight that every writer, artist, animator, etc needs to bear by themselves.
Also I've always viewed it as a "Yes, and" endeavor. For example I don't mind queer villains in fiction but I do have a problem when that is the only queer representation in a certain context.
This post is not about making iron-clad Rules for Good Rep.
This post is about actually paying attention to your community, and the communities of the people you are portraying in your writing, and putting a little thought into finding the underrepresented and portraying it. Itâs also about taking a breath and absolving yourself of the need to do it perfectly as a marginalized person. There is no perfect way to do it, because no group is a monolith.
Iâm just a little weary of having to manage moral scrupulosity in myself and my community.
If I followed this rule to the letter, as a queer author who loves tragedy, I would not be allowed to write a single-character work of tragedy and make it queer. You know? Can we be messy? Can we let each other be messy?
And the post is also not limited to queerness.
If one does not like how the usual stories go â if one feels unseen â then the solution is more stories, rather than clamouring to take away other peopleâs pens.
You are allowed to tell your stories.
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