-> Mars (or Maggie idc) | 24 | she/they | bi + ace spec | grad student (with about 23 years worth of burnout. don't be a double major, y'all)
-> this account is 18+ so minors, ageless and blank blogs please DNI. content on this account can and will contain dark and NSFW content, none of which is suitable for minors.
- that being said: if you're an adult and want to talk, hop into my ask box and let's chat! I love collaborative creativity, as well as just chatting, and I'd love to make friends here (I just really suck at making the first move)
-> Links + Boundaries + Other Info Under Cut (subject to change at anytime)
- updated as of (11/16/2024)
-> Links:
COD Masterlist
COD-specific AO3 (slowly adding some of my works here)
Old SKZ Gifs
-> Important Info + Content Boundaries
- I am staunchly against the censorship of media. If you don't like something, be it a kink, character, or writing style just don't read it. Block the tags, the content, even the person(s) posting about it, and then move on. You have a duty to curate your online experience and to keep yourself safe, be responsible w/ your media consumption.
- Please block content as well as actual tags to ensure your media consumption is safe!
- I don't tolerate bigotry or assholery* of any kind, and I liberally use the block button. (*this includes but is not limited to: racism, sexism, homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, Zionism, antisemitism, etc...).
- While I might reblog a lot of smut, personally writing & posting it will be rare but I am trying to get to the point where I can confidently write + post it. Here are a few of my limitations:
- I will not read or write about the following (subject to change): cheating, scat or emetophilia (vomit), age-play, underage stuff, bestiality, cuckolding
- Some of the posts I reblog AND some of what I write may include: mild piss kink stuff, dubcon/cnc, somnophilia, desperation kink, bondage of all kinds, relationship struggles, miscommunication / lack of communication (but only if there’s reconciliation), pregnancy + pregnancy related- topics and issues, established relationships, force / arranged marriages, horror and the associated gore + fear, monsterfucking, and a bunch of other stuff I'm blanking on atm
- While this blog is now COD focused, I will reblog BG3 and maybe even Dragon Age related stuff from time to time.
- My absolute favorites from each are: Ghost & Gaz | Karlach, Halsin & Wyll | Vivenne, Iron Bull and Cassandra from DA:I
- My writing is my own: don't repost my stuff, claim it as your own, use it for chatbots, etc. I spend an abnormal amount of time overthinking the stuff I post, even if it's not very much, so don't snatch it.
tags specific to me:
-> #mars' writing, #mars' ramblings or #maggie's ramblings, #Overgrown AU, #Who's Who Darling? AU
18+ mdni soap x reader // dubcon/noncon, rough oral (f), misuse of teeth (unless?😛) + biting
Like it or not if Soap is eating you out he's gonna put his teeth on you to make you squeal... yeah. Like it or not he's gonna put your swollen little clit in between his teeth and bite you - not to hard, not enough to really damage you, but enough to feel it
And he's counting on the fact that you can't buck, you can't jerk around, not with him attached to you in such a delicate place by the teeth. Not when he sucks so delicately afterwards and says sorry, hen, just got carried away.
You're shocked, and a 'no' is building up in you but you can't quite get it out, not when you're getting flip flopped between the sharp, painful pleasure of his bite and the heat of him going back to eating you out like normal
Christmas Story
Single Dad John Price x Reader
Christmas fluff
Merry Christmas if you all celebrate! 💙
There will be one more chapter for New Years.
The snow that the news originally predicted would be just a dusting for Christmas kept building. Three days ago, they upped it from a dusting to a few centimeters, but just the afternoon before, the weather stations had to eat crow and admit the storm was much bigger than they expected. It had stalled, and a few other ingredients had come together to potentially produce a half metre of snow in some places.
This amount of snow was unheard of in recent memory, and as the news started spreading, panic set in. People who needed to travel were trying to push up plans to get out earlier. Others were running to the store to prep for having family in the house for longer than expected. Traffic turned into a nightmare by lunchtime, and when dusk settled in, and the cold wind started, delays and cancellations began rolling in.
Trudging through the brisk swells of wind and the start of the storm you head toward your flat, flipping up your collar as you walk. Your travel plans are a bust, and while you would have loved to pick up some more wine to help wait out the storm, you aren't going to battle the shops. It’s not worth fighting with people to get the last box of crackers or standing for an hour in line. Cereal and mac and cheese would have to suffice for your Christmas meal.
By eight in the evening, the wind is howling, and snow is swirling around the street lamps. Pouring another glass of wine in the kitchen, you hear a knock at the door. You hesitate and stare at it when the knock sounds again. Who would be at your place this late on Christmas Eve?
After a quick glance out the peep hole, you open the door to find your neighbor standing there. He has a box at his feet, a sheepish grin on his face, and snow dotting his coat.
“John?” You ask pulling the door open a bit more.
You knew him enough to have polite conversation, grab his packages for him when he’s out of town for work, and him offer to lug your heavy things inside after shopping. But that’s about the extent of it.
“Sorry, I know it’s late, but I saw your lights on. I think we’re the only people still in town,” he reasons as he picks up the box. “That sounds worse than it is.”
“It’s fine,” you answer peering at the box as you glance into the box. Clothes with the tags still on them, a few toys, some trinkets, a stocking, and rolls of wrapping paper. “I don’t think those shirts will fit me, though,” you tease, glancing at a pale green long sleeved number.
He glances down and grins a bit before looking back at you.
“I was supposed to be home alone until Boxing Day. But the storm trapped Emily’s mom in Germany, so we had to make last minute changes..and she’s too nosey for her own good. I had to hide these in my boot until she went to sleep,” he starts explaining as you step aside to let him inside. “She still believes in Father Christmas, and I didn’t want to risk her waking up while…”
“Come in, we’ll figure it out,” you offer. You know what he’s asking without him having to. “She asleep?”
“For now,” John answers as he sets the box on the ground by the coffee table. “Spent the past few hours doing up the tree. She wanted blue and white this year and eventually made me sit while she fixed my mistakes,” he laughs as he pulls out rolls of paper.
Setting your glass of wine down on the end table, you grab a pair of scissors from the kitchen. John has all the items laid out and boxes to put things in. For being such an intimidating looking man, he certainly looks out of place and unsure as he looks at everything to figure out where to start.
“You work on the stocking,” you offer, sitting on the couch next to him. "I’ll box.”
“Why are you still home?” John asks as he hands you the roll of tape as you seal up a pair of pajamas.
“I’ve been stranded at the airport before. I wasn’t risking it over the holidays,” you state as you grab a roll of paper and begin measuring it out to wrap. “Not so sure I hate the idea of a quiet Christmas at home though. My family can be…a lot,” you laugh.
You both work while chatting a bit, the Christmas movie you had been watching playing in the background. Despite being out of his element, John seems to be enjoying the work. His wrapping isn’t world class; the edges are bent, the ends jagged, and some things are too loose, while others are so tight they look like they may tear.
To keep the illusion of Father Christmas, you send him back to his flat to find things of his own to wrap. It doesn’t matter if it’s old items; Emily will be too excited to notice that detail, but she would certainly pick up on the fact that her dad had no gifts. When he returns with a few shirts that look relatively new and a coffee mug, you smirk before taking them.
“You’ve got nothing under your tree,” John remarks as he glances at the tree in the window. It’s a small thing, a few twinkling lights and ornaments covering up the bare spots.
“Oh, no. I sent my gifts for family to my parents, easier than trying to travel with them,” you explain pouring yourself another glass of wine and topping off the one you had poured for him.
“No I meant,” he pauses as you hold out your hand for the tape that keeps disappearing. “For you. No gifts to open in the morning?”
“Ah, no,” you reply with a small shrug. “Not a big deal. I’m sure my family will send them in the post.”
By the time you both finish your drinks and clean up, it's almost eleven. He doesn’t say anything else about your lack of gifts, but you see him looking at the tree around your flat and then at the pile of gifts at your feet a few times.
“Get some sleep, she’ll be up at the crack of dawn,” you joke as John heads back into his place to set the gifts out.
“You as well,” John states as he looks at you from across the hall for a moment before slipping into his dark living room.
Unintentionally you fall asleep on the couch. Having spent the rest of your evening watching the snow from the living room couch. So when another round of knocks, sounding more impatient and perhaps a bit quieter rap on your door, you jolt up. It’s barely seven, and you yawn and stretch, ambling to the door to pull it open.
“Forget some-“ you start before seeing it’s not John there, but Emily.
She’s wide eyed and grinning as she fumbles her hands in front of her. The little girl is practically bouncing with excitement. Glitter from the wrapping paper coats her hands and shirt, and you spot a pair of socks you had wrapped the night before on her feet.
“Morning!” She bursts out, “dad asked me to come over and invite you for breakfast! He said you were all by yourself for Christmas because of the snow…like us!” She turns to look back at the door where John has appeared, a bit of flour on his flannel shirt…another item you had helped wrap.
“It’ll be ready in about ten minutes,” John adds as Emily darts back to him, pushing past his legs to get back to her gifts. “If you’d like to join that is,” he finishes watching Emily go before turning to look back at you.
“You know…why not,” you state after a second with a shrug. “I’ll just go get changed.”
“We eat breakfast in our pajamas,” Emily chimes in when she returns with a doll, fingers twirling the hair that matches hers.
“Uh, well,” you glance at your sweats and sleep shirt. “Alright be there in a moment.”
You take the few minutes you have to freshen up, ie fix your sleep mussed face and hair then quickly brush your teeth before heading over. The flat smells of pancakes, bacon and maple syrup as you push open the door. The layout is the same as your place, just mirrored, so you’re able to find the kitchen easily.
“Father Christmas did pretty good it looks like,” you state as John digs out plates and forks.
“She was beyond excited. I think she was a bit nervous about him not knowing where she was…Christmas is always at her mother’s,” he explains as he heads to small dining room table. “But at five sharp she was squealing and dragging me from bed.”
“You did good, dad,” you whisper, glancing over your shoulder to see Emily on the floor digging another new toy out of the box.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he replies and when you turn back around there’s a small box sitting in front of you. Wrapped in the same paper as the night before, but with a ribbon and tag with your name.
“I, what’s this?” You ask grabbing the box and turning it over in your hands. “You didn’t have to get me something,” you mutter as he slides a plate in front of you.
“Wasn’t me. Father Christmas must have mixed up our houses,” John answers with a knowing smirk as Emily slides into one of the chairs.
“What is it?” Emily asks as you peel back a corner and glance at John who’s busying himself at the sink.
Not sure what to expect, you pop off the top of the box and peer inside. It’s a familiar looking pair of socks, the same ones on Emily’s feet, though on your size. Pulling them out, you spot John's note under them, and you carefully put the cover back on. Emily doesn't need to see the note and ruin the illusion.
“It looks like we have matching socks,” you say with a grin, looking at Emily as you hold them up.
“Dad got a pair too!” She exclaims before darting from the table to go find them.
“When did you have time to get these?” You ask as you clutch the soft material. “It’s a blizzard out there,” you remark glancing at the bright white snow still falling.
“Doesn’t matter,” John answers as he sits across from you and nudges the box toward you again. “There’s one more thing in there,” he adds as he glances to where Emily is rooting around in the discarded paper. “A proper gift…I hope,” he adds as Emily comes in and shoves the socks at John, demanding he put them on so you all match.
While they’re busy, you unfold the letter still in the box and read it over. It’s an invitation to dinner and drinks with John for New Year's—a date of sorts at a very hard to get into restaurant in downtown London that costs about half your rent for one meal.
You blink at it, preparing to refuse because of the cost, but when you glance up to see John smiling a bit nervously at you, you don’t.
Unable to give him an answer with Emily sitting there, you eat instead, grinning to yourself and catching John’s eye every once in a while. The anxious grin John had at first turns into a dazzling one as time goes on. And when Emily darts to her room to get changed, yelling about sledding, you catch John’s arm as he stands up.
“Wasn’t exactly the Christmas I had planned,” you state as he looks at you. “But…it is better than the quiet one I was planning on having. Only issue is, I have nothing to give you.”
“A yes would be good enough for me,” John states as his eyes dart to the box.
“A yes? That’s it?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as you stand up, realizing how close you are to him. “Seems easy…and not exactly a fair trade since you’re the one taking me out. ”
“Just a yes,” he replies looking down at you, his hand braced on the table fisting a bit.
“Well then. I wouldn’t want to ruin the day, John,” you say quietly. “So, Happy Christmas,” you state and push up on your toes to kiss his cheek lightly.
“Happy Christmas,” he answers, cupping your cheek to give you a proper kiss before his eyes dart to the suspiciously well placed mistletoe…right above your chair.
idk what came over me I have a disease and it's incurable and idk if this makes any fucking sense and I know very little about vikings so... anyway viking!Simon Riley x fem!reader
wc : 548
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Viking!Simon who you’re married off to, you're a fisherman’s daughter and he's one of the most feared Vikings for miles around, it’s an oddity that the both of you are over twenty and still unmarried
the thing is your consummation was quick, left you with fingertip bruises on your hips and thighs, but it was still quick. reason being that you and Simon finally got to bed only an hour or two before dawn and he was supposed to leave for a raid in the morning
he left in the early days of spring, him and fifty other men, only to come back in the middle of summer
you never thought he liked you much, even before you were married, if you spoke your conversations were short and he spoke in that same gruff voice that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. along with him hardly saying a word to you for the entirety of your wedding night
so when he trudges back to your cabin and the first thing he does is kneel in front of you while you’re sitting and sewing, pushing his head down into your lap and gripping your calves before you can even say hello to him, of course you’re confused
your confusion only deepens when he plants kisses to your thighs over the fabric of your dress. you don’t stop him, he’ll be done in a few seconds and then go back to being the cold man he is, you’re sure
but he doesn’t stop, he takes the needle and cloth from your hand, places it on the ground next to where he kneels, and kisses along your wrist. the kisses trail up until they reach your sleeve, then returns to your lap, pulling you closer to him so your knees dig into his chest and he presses the top of his head against your stomach
“you’re a vision,” Simon mumbles against your dress, his voice muffled. you don’t say anything, you don’t reach out to touch him
he does finally stand after another minute, looking at you for another second before he leaves to change
Simon’s kind of back to normal when he returns, he stares at you while he eats the food you cooked for dinner, but he’s back to the normal, distant Simon
up until it's time for bed and he's already pushing the skirt of your nightgown up around your hips, softer than he was on your wedding night, the next morning is even more startling when you wake up to him kissing along the back of your neck and cupping your navel
Simon's not changed in any way, maybe finally having a wife to come home to made him sweeter, at least with you
because now for as long as he's home he's shadowing you, following you around to tend to the gardens and split wood, doing the heavy lifting for you. the sweeter part of him wraps you up in the furs that cover your bed when you're about to fall asleep, the sweeter part of him insists that you come join him to bathe, the sweeter part of him says "can't keep m' bird waitin'," after being stuck in a conversation with someone in the village for a few minutes
so let me share something with you guys for a second
(nsfw)
ghost is hot, right? we all know that. picture him always having someone sneaking out his room during unsocial able hours, shushes and clattering of buckles hitting the floor as his latest hookup creeps back down the halls to the cold barracks
and you, the awkward recruit with a fat crush on your lieutenant who envys every person who shamelessly shoots their shot with him and succeeds. letting him make a mess out of them for one night only
and it is always one night only
no same person has ever left his room twice, nothing more than a cheap hookup to him. you know you wouldn’t be any different, shown the door before you can even get your cargos zipped back up but if it meant at least one night with simon riley, you really didn’t care
but when it’s finally your turn? when you finally drink up enough courage to speak to the brooding man in the corner nursing his own drink in the corner of the bar, it turns out he didn’t even know your name
but that’s okay, it’s not like he was gonna be your future husband anyway so you power through. pull out all the charisma you have stored away for moments like this and you soon find yourself back in his room, making a complete fool of yourself
struggling to unbuckle his belt, biting down too hard on his lip during the, quite frankly, terrible make-out session that led up to your current situation, responding to his dirty talk with blinded stutters
and when he finally pulls out his cock? you’re too nervous to relax, and it doesn’t fit. before he can give you some half-assed ‘s’alright, love. another time, yeah?’, you’re shoving him off and rushing out his room before you can even get yourself fully-dressed
for weeks, you avoid him. at least, that’s what he calls it. you didn’t consider it avoidance under the assumption that he had no intentions of pursuing you again
simon was under the same assumption, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about you. every hook-up leading up to you was a performance, an act he completed as some odd way of reminding himself that he was still, in fact, human
your heated cheeks and scrunched nose every time you fumbled was strangely refreshing to simon, a friendly reminder that not everything needed to be so serious, so professional. maybe the humanising act could be an experience instead, he thinks as he reaches for his phone
that night had been keeping you up for weeks, replaying every stupid way you messed up the thing you had been thinking about since you laid eyes on simon
and then your phone pings. from an unknown number.
‘price is off base. come to my room and I’ll make it fit this time.’
simon who meets you way past his supposed expiration date, decades after he's buried ghost for the last time. there are more wrinkles than scars on his body at this point, a deeper kind of pain settling into his aching joints.
price, more settled into his retirement (thanks to the wife he picked up shortly before his notice), tells him to go to the doctor -- like a normal person. a civilian. price did it at the behest of his wife, but simon...simon doesn't have anyone to hold him accountable. not since...well, not since johnny.
and he hates it. the doctor asks too many personal questions, touches him without warning, before shuffling his fingers over a keyboard and handing simon a written referral for six weeks of physical therapy.
if he hated the doctor, he absolutely loathed physical therapy. it was never a high priority when he was actually in the military -- give him an over-the-counter painkiller and some butterfly stitches, he'd be right as rain. he does simple stretches and easy exercises with a grimace, earning glowing faces and praise from his therapists. but it only makes him feel small, like a child learning to walk.
until he overhears you discussing your healing with your therapist. "maybe i never knew how to properly walk to begin with, isn't that funny? you do something so long, you forget how it works."
yeah, he's familiar with that sentiment.
so he awkwardly strikes up a conversation, chapped lips forming around words he's never thought to say -- in fact, always hated. why are you here, what do you do for work, do you like the rain, how do you take your tea.
you answer too easily, like you've been doing it all your life. a long, good life, if the smile lines and and spine tension are any indication. you're older, not as old as him, but old enough to know when someone needs a conversation just as much as you. even if it's odd, full of pregnant pauses and mumbled replies that you have to ask him to repeat.
you don't necessarily notice when the change happens, but it does. the weathered, lumbering retiree sitting in the waiting room every time you come in for an appointment, handing you the perfect tea from your favorite shop. you don't question how all of your appointments seem to coincide, it's just nice to have someone to laugh with while you're tightening your core. he doesn't reveal too much about himself, but his corny dad jokes add a bit of levity to your dull routine.
the first time you touch him, innocuously placing a hand on his shoulder as you adjust the heel of your running shoe, he knows he cannot reach that 6-week mark without feeling it again. more of it, really. his body doesn't ache like it used to, not with tightness or lack of use, but a strange heat that spreads and relieves his tension. it's unrecognizable, the way his old heart thunders in his chest, something he hasn't experienced in decades. a feeling so ancient he never thought to consider it again.
not since...well, not since johnny.
johnny, who he finds himself thinking of more than ever in the lead up to his final appointment. johnny, with his blue, clear eyes that always kept him honest. johnny, who could temper or exacerbate simon's rage with just a smile. johnny, who would have driven him to every single appointment and made sure he kept up with the exercises at home. johnny, who he loved with his whole heart.
which is why -- on his last day of appointments, between final measurements and discussions with his therapist -- when you simply say, "we should stay in touch after this. keep each other accountable, y'know?", he falls.
or rather, jumps. because that's what johnny would do.
there’s just something about seeing a man do his finances that really awakens something primal in me
especially when it’s john price. sleeves rolled up and reading glasses perched on the bridge of your seat his nose. hunched forward with his elbows on his knees as he looks down at the bills and statements in front of him
a concentrated furrow in his brow that doesn’t shift even he bumps his glasses back up after they slip down or when he scratches at his greying temple
the front room is quiet besides the mumbles of mental math under his breath and the gentle tapping of the calculator in front of him. occasionally calls out to scold you, not maliciously of course, when he finds a particularly high shopping bill from you
pipes down quick, grumbling under his breath instead when you remind him that you can always take back all those lingerie sets that he said he loved
his poor posture only corrects when you come in to bring him some lunch or a stiff drink. a couple taps to his back as a reminder to straighten up. thanks you with one of his big paws soothing over the small of your back, giving your ass a loving squeeze before going back to the bills in front of him
my hatred for the holiday season grows more and more every year 🙃 i just wanna write, what do you mean I have to spend hundreds of dollars on people who i’m not even sure actually like me, on top of decorating the house and having plans change every three hours all while i’m finishing up a semester which leaves me with no schedule/structure?
Hi Ghoul! I just wanted to tell you, I think about worshipping Nikto and his one lonely ball most days. 🙂↕️
Lots of love!
The way I would be down there slobbering all over his ball...
I mean you wouldn't be able to leave it alone, as soon as you see that scar running alongside his cock you have to follow it to its origin, sliding your tongue over the scarred sack and sucking the remaining ball into your mouth just to hear the way he hisses, his fingers clawed against your skull, unsure if he wants to push you away of pull you closer. That bite of pain from the pink scar, still so sensitive as you drag your tongue over it. He keeps trying to guide you back to his cock, that's a feeling he knows, one he can better steel himself against, but you'll be damned if you don't pay that lonely nut the attention it deserves.
Really Nikto should know that if you have your mind set on something you're damn well going to do it. He just doesn't understand why the thing you've set your mind to is him.
Can't stop thinking about Price gaining some winter weight, having you warm your cold hands on his soft hairy stomach while you're sat on your knees between his big thighs, looking at the soft fat pad that's starting to settle around the base of his cock as he feeds it to you, your nose tickled by the hair on his stomach as he guides you down towards the base. It all makes his cock seem thicker, makes it feel like he's really stretching out your throat until tears are brimming on your lash line and he's wiping the wetness from your cheeks with a big gentle thumb. He'll make you hold onto his love handles while he fucks your face, just you wait.
Sleeping with Ghost means a lot of octopus cuddling. He lays on his back, sleeping like the dead if he gets and sleep at all, and you curl against his side to cuddle. Your arm slung over his chest and your leg thrown over his thick thigh, trying to find a spot for your other arm and ending up with it wrapped around Ghost's bicep. It doesn't feel very romantic, pretty one sided actually, except for the big warm hand that holds onto your thigh and squeezes the soft skin appreciatively, holding on like a lifeline through every nightmare. You always end up sharing his pillow despite having you own, letting him feel your breath against his neck, an assurance every time he wakes up that you will too.
You've never even thought about getting a bigger bed before but then Ghost starts complaining about back pain and cricks in his neck, and you figure its from your clinging. Except when you finally get the new mattress through the front door the look Ghost gives you is one of utter betrayal. You guess that means you're not the only clingy one.
weird question, but for anyone you write for, what's your fave physical feature of theirs to write about? Or a fave hc for appearance? Since there's a couple (>.> mr. riley ) that give us nothing to go off of.
Off the top of my head i really really like Nikto's eyes, Soap's lil pouty/ angry face he makes, Simon's biggness (and his big brown eyes), Gaz's body (he looks like a model and i just wanna stare at him all day), Price's voice and i hc König as having a roman nose :3
Oh I absolutely have some opinions on this.
For Ghost it's definitely his scars. Personally I think he has one cutting through his lips, perhaps even adding an extra opening you can see his teeth through. The sort of absolutely striking feature that stops you dead on the street and forces you to take in the whole man, but somehow doesn't take away from the rest of his attractive features. Either that OR I love writing about his eyes. They're the one part of Ghost that we reliably see and they feel incredibly expressive to me, so I love writing about them.
Similarly I live for Gaz's beautiful brown eyes. They're just so soulful and he truly wears his heart on his sleeve with the way they sparkle. You can't tell me that man doesn't know how to work his puppy dog eyes to get what he wants. Also his lips. His mouth in general. The way he speaks, the way he shapes vowels, is just absolutely captivating. He feels so deliberate with the way he speaks and it's so striking the way he's able to emote with just a flash of those eyes and a quirk of his mouth. I could go on.
For Soap I'm going to take a slightly different approach and say that his brows are so strong they're hard to ignore. His eyes get a nice shadow from his brow bones and it makes the blues look more intense. Also I love how the animators have no clue how done his brows should be so he just swings wildly between chunky bushy brows and perfe try sculpted brows. It is my unspoken yet favorite headcanon that Soap gets his brows threaded.
Price... hm. Price is a little hard because his more recognizable trait is his beard, but I would know him by that tight lip crinkle eyed smile alone. The man really has distinctive facial expressions. The smile would give him away immediately if he were trying to do anything covert. I love writing about his smile because it feels so him. It's incredibly guarded and a little patronizing, like he doesn't want to smile but he's stooping to your level to do it. Idk I love it.
For Nikto, yeah it's his eyes. Same reasons as with Ghost, I think there's just so much clarity of emotion in them that it's hard to say they aren't the most fun part to write. I live for men that can only express through the dilation of their pupils. Go girl give us nothing.
You love going on long walks with your dog and when you do you find all sorts of things. Pretty rocks on the side of the road, baby’s breath flowers and poppies and other flowers to press between your books, tumbled glass from when you go to the beach. You like shiny things, a trait that made johnny nickname you crow. You love going to antique shops and thrift stores to find things that are very old and have history. A story told in its lines and scratches and dents. All of your clothes are thrifted or vintage. You don’t wear something new. You have a macabre sense of humour so you always tell him that you are looking for something that is genuinely haunted because you always wanted a ghost roommate.
sometimes, well all the time really, when he gets deployed, he finds himself looking at the ground and all around him to find something that might interest you. So far you have dedicated a whole shelf to his finds, and every time he looks at it he feels a sense of pride. Rocks, pretty sand, postcards, miscellaneous junk for your beloved junk journal, a necklace he found in a store that you don’t take off ever, bottle caps, coins from different countries and posters. He loves the way your face lights up every time he presents you with something, you do this cute thing when you widen your eyes in surprise and then you jump up and down slightly on the balls of your feet. You then give him the biggest smile and hug him so tightly, mumbling your thanks like he gave you diamonds and not a rock he found on the side of the street.
He shares your hobby. Kinda.
He loves collecting cards and stamps. It is something that he doesn’t really tell anyone about, but it is his favourite thing. growing up, he used to go to the store and buy pokemone cards and collect them. It used to mean a lot to him, he would anticipate releases and trade for card he didn't have , he made so much friends that way. He let go of this hobby when we joined the military because he didn't have the time or the dedication to it anymore, but secretly, in the back of his mind he misses it so much he wants to get back to it. So imagine his surprise when you give him his childhood binder complete with all the cards he collected, plus a few more that he didn't remember ever getting.
"What is this?" He asks, barely able to contain his smile.
"Well, remember when we went to your mother's last year? She introduced me to your childhood room and I saw this on the shelf collecting dust. So I asked about it and your mother told me you were quite the collector yourself, so I decided that revamping it and adding to it would make an amazing birthday gift."
This is an amazing birthday gift, because it made him nostalgic and warm on the inside. His heart is beating fast in his chest and his brain is stopping, only one thought remains on the forefront of his mind.
All can he think about is how badly he wants to marry you.
You’re crouched in the grocery store, inspecting and comparing a few items on the lower shelves (why does there need to be a banana, a vanilla, and a banana & vanilla flavor of these baby puff snacks?) while your baby is sitting up in the cart. She’s an angel— never cries or throws tantrums at the store, just sits patiently with her little pint of blueberries. You’ll pay for the empty plastic container with everything else.
Gaz spots her first. Deep brown eyes staring into his soul from down the aisle. She stops looking at him only to get another blueberry— excellent pincer grasp for her age. He loves seeing babies out in public, and this is an exceptionally cute baby.
So of course he tries to make her smile. Makes some silly faces, he’ll be the first to admit. Sticks his tongue out, scrunches his nose. She bursts into a little fit of laughter, the gurgly kind that babies do— and it makes you stand up to check on her.
And you meet his eyes. The same eyes your baby has. And he meets yours. The girl he met on leave— must’ve been a year or two ago.
