Snow

your husband was a stoic man. he never talked much unless necessary.

“si’, baby, you have to let me do your eyebrows.” you sighed to simon. he shook his head, playfully covering his face with his hands, “please. i can’t stand to look at them any longer.” you groan, prying his hands off of his scarred face.

“then don’ look a’ ‘em.” simon mumbles. you flick his forehead and roll your eyes. “can i atleast get you to come to the mall with me so you can get yours done?” you ask, sitting on his lap now. “you already kno’ tha answer t’ that one.” simon says, rubbing circles along your hips. “please?” you plead one more time. simon hums in thought, springing your more defined curls with one of his calloused fingers.

“i guess.” he groans. you clasp your hands together, smiling. “cmon! let’s go get dressed!” you squeal, hopping out of his lap and pulling on his hand. simon smiles at your reaction, wondering where he got such a cute girl from. you two got dressed together, occasionally slapping each others asses and making crude jokes. “you ready?” you ask, holding simon’s index and middle fingers — something you’ve grown accustomed to. “mhm.”

you and simon get into the car where you turn to him, sighing. simon faced you at a red light, his eyes filled with curiosity. “wha’?” simon asks. “you’ll have to take your mask off…” you say, barely above a whisper. simon’s eyes widen and you see his hand grip the steering wheel harder. “seriously?” i mean, it is logical. although simon has never even thought about self care in this fashion, wouldn’t it make sense for them to have to see his whole face?

“i know, i know.” you mourn, watching simon hold his breath while he turned the corner into the mall parking lot. “listen, they have face masks there, you’ll be okay.” you tey to negotiate with him. “wha’ have you dragged me into..” simon groans, shutting the car off and getting out the car. he went around your side to open your door and the two of you were off.

you lead your way into the brow shop, pulling simon’s dragging body behind you. you walk inside and the smell of cleaning supplies hits your nose. “my husband is here to get his eyebrows threaded, they’re a little bushy.” you watch the front desk lady chuckle to herself. you were a regular here, most of the employees knew you and what you wanted everytime you walked in. the woman takes simon to a table, laying his large body down.

“could you take the mask off?” she asks, grabbing her utensils. simon looks to you with pleading eyes. you walk over to him and held his hand. “it’s only for ten minutes.” you console him. he sighs and takes his mask off, handing it to you. the woman smiles. “face mask?” simon asks, covering the bottom half of his face with his large, brooding hand. the woman hands him one, where he quickly puts it on.

Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 3

tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, bad description of bong usage, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, jealousy, not edited, my current brain worm

prev. part | plug! Simon masterlist

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Simon thinks the worst part of you leaving his house is when he has to watch you bend over his bathroom sink and reapply your strawberry lip gloss.

For several reasons, of course. One of them being that he hates having to watch you leave like he wasn’t just inside you mere minutes ago. The other being that he hates the idea of other men staring at your lips the way he does, with a half chub cock in their jeans because they’re imagining them glistening around their tip instead.

The hardest though? The fact that he’s ready to fuck you again against his bathroom sink every time without fail.

tf141 x jack russel shifter reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of discrimination, implied suicidal thoughts, brief mentions of torture

Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer

A/N: my chronic pain has been an absolute BITCH this week which means i have had to work from home :/ at least i can use my normal commute time to do more writing

Series Masterlist | main masterlist

Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part coming soon...

It seems like hours before Soap returns with a bundle of clothes in his arms, every second you had sitting down in that dark hole feeling like an eternity. You manage a small sigh of relief when he finally comes back in sight, passing the clothes to you through the narrow opening. 

“Thanks,” you murmur softly, grabbing the items with eagerness. It’s difficult to get the outfit on, the space not allowing much movement. You have to lie back on the dirt to shimmy the pants over your hips, hissing through your teeth at a sting in your back when you shift against the rough surface. Soap offers a hand once you are dressed, helping guide you out into the open with one hand while the other lifts some of the paneling upward to allow more space. 

Your movements are clumsy as you right yourself, limbs stiff and sore now protesting being straightened fully. The sun scorches your eyes, forcing you to squint as you adjust to the change in lighting. Soap is moving to steady you instantly, watching your staggering movements with a pinched expression. His hand lands firmly between your shoulder blades, meant to be a form of support, instead it has you twisting away with a sharp yelp. The stab of discomfort you’d felt moments prior returns, only this time it is hotter, spreading in an intense wave along your spine. Before you can stop him he is hiking the back of your shirt up to look, one hand holding your shoulder firmly to keep you still. 

“Fuck did ya do?”

“I uhh…” you shake your head, trying to remember the full events from the hours earlier, “must have hit it on the beams of something.”

“Hit-” he lets the shirt fall back down, stepping back into your line of sight, “you ‘ave a cut the length of my forearm ya’ eejit.”

You blink at him, “... I didn’t-”

You blink again, shaking your head in confusion until your eyes land on the hole Soap just pulled you through. “... the wood- I remember it dug in a bit when I went down there, I didn’t realise-”

“Jesus Christ,” Soap moves a hand to the back of your neck, steering you toward the office building, “team’s waitin’ for us, I’ll let cap know you need the medic.”

You don't have much choice but to fall in step beside him, allowing him to navigate you forward, “how bad is it?”

“Shallow, won’t need stitches at least,” his grip on your neck tightens momentarily in what you think is meant to be reassurance, but all it does is remind you of the feeling of someone's tight grip on your scruff. 

“Soap could you-” your shoulders tighten in discomfort, “move your hand please.”

The man's footsteps slow, the hold he has on you loosening. His eyes sweep over the tension in your shoulders, the way your face has stiffened. With a slow nod he shifts to gently holding your bicep, not willing to let go completely with how unsteady you still look. “Tha’ alright instead?”

With a soft breath of relief you manage a small nod in return, “thanks.”

Soap hums softly, moving his gaze back to the path ahead as he again increases his speed. The two of you walk in silence for a few minutes, him staring pointedly ahead while you focus on steadying the ever fluctuating pace of your heart. 

You break the silence with a soft voice, throat feeling tight as you do, “sorry for… disappearing.”

He hums, eyes flicking toward you in his peripheries briefly, “was a pretty stressful night.”

“Night? What do you mean?” you frown.

He fully looks at you then, brows narrowed as though you’ve said something in another language. His voice is slow when he speaks as if worried what he is about to say will frighten you, “... you’ve been gone since 3pm yesterday. 

“Three-,” you cough violently, feet catching on the pavement as you stumble. “I thought it had been a few hours not…”

“A whole day,” Soap fills in. 

You fall back into silence, trying not to spiral over the thought of losing that much time without realising. Soap seems to understand it’s best to stay quiet too, just concentrating on keeping you moving toward Price’s office. The hallways are relatively empty, which you are grateful for knowing the state you currently look. It doesn’t take long to reach the captain’s office, they door cracked slightly open allowing the sound of quiet discussion to float into the corridor. Soap releases his hold on you, pushing the door open and stepping inside. All eyes are on you in an instant, Price, Gaz and Ghost all pausing their conversation as you tentatively step into the room, pulling the door closed behind you. A white bandage is wound around Gaz’s palm, the sight making your stomach churn with shame. 

Soap makes his way to Price, leaning close to murmur something in the man's ear. Soap nods toward you and you can only assume he is filling the captain in on the state he found you in. You shift from foot to foot, hands interlocked behind your back to stop yourself from fidgeting. Soap finally takes a step back, letting Price’s attention turn fully to you. 

The captain taps his index finger on his desk twice, tilting his head to the side, “it’s time for a long overdue chat.”

You dig your nails into the palm of your hand, forcing your shifting feet still as you wait for him to continue. 

With a sigh Price runs a hand through his hair, tilting back in his chair, "withholding your status as a changeling raises some serious concerns surrounding your reliability on this team, coupled with the incident yesterday raises some warning signs. Do you have anything you would like to clarify about your actions?”

You flinch at the term, head shaking as you look toward your shoes, “don’t call me that.”

“Excuse me?”

Your eyes flick to the captains, steely and firm. Your voice comes out sharp and unwavering, “I said don’t call me that, sir.”

His jaw ticks once, “we are discussing your future upon this team and you believe it’s a good time to correct my grammar?”

You take one step forward, nails digging into your palm harder as you stand firm, “I will not stand here and be demoralized. If you expect me to be grateful that you decided to keep me alive, to allow you to treat me as lesser now that you know what I am, then you may as well draft up my discharge papers because I would rather walk away completely than be the team's shit kicker.” 

Four sets of eyes all locked on you, none of them saying a word. This would be the time most would back down and apologise, rather than jeopardise their entire career over a single word. But with everything that has happened yours is probably already up in flames, you owe it to at least advocate for yourself. 

“.... sit down kid,” Price gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk. 

“I’d rather-”

“Sit your arse down sergeant,” he orders, fixing you with a stare that has your heart stuttering. Slowly you slink into the seat, hands clenching together in your lap as the bravado evaporates as quickly as it had appeared. 

“Rest of you, step out,” Price one hand at the other men, pointing them to the exit. That order shocks you. Your eyes widen as you watch the other three file out of the room without so much as a protest, the door clicking shut behind them. 

“Talk.”

You swallow hard, voice catching roughly in your throat, “... what?”

“I’m not a mind reader kid. You don’t trust the team, can’t fix that unless you tell me why,” he leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, “so talk, I’ll listen, we’ll go from there.”

You shrug, staring at the edge of his desk rather than meet his eyes directly, “I don’t know what to say.”

Price hums, tapping his desk lightly again, “start with why that word bothered you so much.”

With a sigh you sink further into the seat, shifting uncomfortably as the cut on your back protests, “... it’s not a kind term for people like me.”

He tilts his head in consideration, “like an insult?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you pinch and twist at the skin on the back of your hand, the slight discomfort bringing and odd sense of soothing. 

“Right, I’ll make sure not to use it anymore.”

You freeze, wondering if for a second you misheard the man, “... just like that?”

Price nods, “it’s a simple request sergeant, would make me a right wanker to continue on saying it if the word makes you uncomfortable.”

There aren’t any words you can seem to form in response, so you elect to stay quiet. Price waits a few moments before speaking again, “we should talk about what happened In the humvee-”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” you say sharply. 

If he was bothered by your tone he doesn’t show it, instead just narrowing his gaze in assessment, “you were somewhere else.”

You let out a surprised laugh, “... I don’t know what you-”

He holds up a hand to stop you, “I’m not asking for the full story, not right now. But I will need some sort of explanation to fully consider the likelihood of an incident like that occurring again, especially in the field.”

This entire conversation has your head in a spin, feeling like the world has flipped on its axis, “I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Price asks. 

You shrug as if it’s obvious, “your angle. What are you hoping to get out of this?”

“Some clarity on our current predicament,” he speaks the words slowly, like talking to a child. That has something in your gut flickering with heat. 

“Bullshit.”

He sighs, “Is it so unbelievable that there is no ulterior motive?”

“Yes,” you say bluntly. When he stares at you in a way that can only be described as at a loss, you continue to explain knowing he can’t deny it is you bring the situation to light, “you were all angry and now suddenly you're not… the only reason I can think of is you’ve got some sort of plan that requires my cooperation.”

“.... Sergeant, why do you think the team was angry with you?” he says quietly, expression softening. 

“Because I’m a shifter. If you all had known you wouldn’t have put me on the team in the first place,” you say, chewing the inside of your cheek once you finish. 

Price stares at you for what feels like a long time, causing you to shrink instinctively under his gaze. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Price crosses his arms on the desk, leaning forward, “We were never angry with you kid, we were hurt that you not only lied to us but also put yourself at risk. Your illness was preventable, and allowing yourself to get to that bad a state affected not only you but the entire taskforce.”

That is…. Not the answer you were expecting. You don’t have long to contemplate before he continues, “I understand you didn’t have faith we would react to the news kindly, but your decision to withhold that information until you were almost requiring hospitalisation was, in the nicest way possible, idiotic.”

Price shakes his head, one hand lifting up in slight frustration, “we are all fortunate that this did not occur under worse circumstances. If we had been in an active combat zone, or unable to get medical, or god forbid you did more than just bite Gaz on the hand. It could have been far more detrimental.”

“So you all think I’m a liability now,” you murmur quietly. 

The captain scoffs, “kid, we are worried about you. After everything that happened yesterday, do you want to know the first question Gaz had when I checked in on him at the infirmary?”

You don’t respond, instead swallowing down the lump in your throat.

Price nods his head toward the door the others had left through, “He asked if you were alright, and when I told him you were still missing he tried to head straight out to join the others looking for you. Had to order him to stand down. Hell Ghost and Soap would have been out there all night too unless I’d forced ‘em to rest.”

“...oh,” you feel as though your entire body is deflating. 

He clears his throat, “You are a valuable asset to this taskforce, I would prefer you stay a part of it. However, if you can’t trust your teammates to have your back and disclose relevant information then perhaps it’s not the best spot for you.”

That has your breath catching in your throat, the reality of your situation careening down like a slab of concrete, “so you’re discharging me.”

“No,” he holds up a hand, “I’m giving you the opportunity to reflect on what you believe is the right step forward for yourself. I can’t make the decision of whether you trust us or not, it has to come from you.”

“But…” he sighs again, “if you do choose to stay, understand that will be on the condition that the entire team is brought up to speed on any information I deem necessary, that is non-negotiable. I will not have us blindsided again.”

Price scratches at the back of his neck, “I wish I could offer you as much time as you need, but you understand the nature of this job as well as all of us. The best I can give you is the week, if you haven’t made a call by then I will have to.”

“And what call will that be?” you ask quietly. 

“By not making a decision, you would be making one anyhow. A non-committal is not a dedicated member of this team,” he pushes his chair back from the desk, stepping toward the door and pulling it open for you, “go get yourself cleaned up kid, and check in with the medic about your back.”

The hallway is empty when you step into it, and you don't know whether to be glad for the lack of stares, or if it is just a reminder of how alone you truly feel.

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Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 2

tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, shotgunning, smut, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie, jealousy, not edited, my current brain worm

prev. part

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You text Simon a week later.

‘You got anything? Had a long day.’

‘Made some pre-rolls just for you, bird.’

‘Yay!!! Coming!!’

Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You)

tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, vaginal fingering, riding, creampie, not edited, brain worm I had

next part

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The first time you ever bought from Ghost you were wearing a skirt way too short to be socially acceptable, stumbling to his beat-up car with a drunk smile plastered on your face. He remembers it all a little too clearly, the way you leaned into the passenger window, smelling like tequila and the minty mouthwash you used to try and cover the smell up.

“Hi.” You giggled.

“Hi.” He responded, raising his eyebrow at you.

“Um, my friends over there,” You pointed to a group of girls across the street, “Dared me to come buy some off you.”

They were always too big, considering his behemoth size above the rest of his peers. Long, spindly fingers that over the years in the military, became thick with callouses and scars. Yellowed with cigarette butts, a knuckle here and there slightly out of place from all of the fractures and breaks.

The palms of his hands were completely webbed with delicate lines from both age and the extensive length of times he had worn his fingers in a fist. He had tried to make them look a little better, had gotten tattoos, would lotion when he could remember. The ink ran deep, little swirls and designs eating up the thick, aged skin on the back of his hands, fingers blotched on the first knuckle with little images or letters. It had started to bleed and fade that strange sort of navy that tattoos do after a prologued time under the skin.

But no amount of ink on the planet would erase the blood that they carried each day. Breaths silenced by those jagged palms, lives ended with just one pull of an index finger. His hands were dirty. Worse than the muck constantly tucked under his trimmed nails. They were forever stained crimson with decisions he would never be able to take back.

Right now, he was fighting hard to stop his fingers from trembling. He’d never felt his heart race this way. His palms were tense, outstretched to minimise the age lines that spanned them, and waiting for when the weight settled between them.

His breath stopped.

Bundled up in blankets and a tiny pink hat, those same hands that had carried grenades and guns and knives, was now so carefully balancing a tiny baby girl. No bigger than the length of his hands held open side by side, weighing nothing more than just a small few pounds and ounces.

Just her face was visible. Still a little smushed up from birth, peach fuzz coating the softest, pinkest skin. Her eyes shut, tiny lashes splaying across little rosy cheeks. She had his nose. Well the one before it has been broken four times. A little button nose, a little long, with a tiny bump down the bridge. But she had the poutiest little lips on the planet. Glossy with salvia, undoubtedly a carbon copy of her mother’s.

Simon was breathless and speechless.

This tiny thing, no bigger than this calloused, ugly hands… it had come from him. And the fact somebody loved him so much to give him one.

He could feel the hot sting of tears in the corner of his eyes.

His daughter stirred, her little face scrunching up even more before she yawned. Simon only watched, how her tiny pink tongue flexed in her mouth, how the fat of her cheeks shifted to accommodate that teeny tiny jaw to open as wide as it could go. Then, she settled back into the blankets, clearly comfortable in Simon’s hands. She squeaked quietly before settling in completely.

The first tear streamed down Simon’s cheek. Then the next. And the next.

His hands. Those calloused, ink stained, bloodied evil-doing hands. He had hated them for as long as he could remember.

But now, holding the smallest, most delicate, precious being in the world.

kento nanami had always been a man of routine.

his alarm chimed at the same time every morning, the first note barely fading before the second followed, pushing himself upright.

for a moment, he made no move to silence it.

the alarm continued chiming beside you.

only then did he reach for his phone, silencing the buzz with a quick tap before placing it back on the nightstand.

his gaze lingered on you for a moment before he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against your hair.

a quiet, sleep-roughened “good morning” disappeared into your strands as his arm drew you an inch closer, your warmth settling against him.

he stayed there for another heartbeat, then another, until habit quietly urged him back into motion.

only then did his hand reach for his watch, resting exactly where he’d left it the night before.

it sat on the nightstand in the exact same spot it had been for years, fastening the strap around his wrist without so much as a glance, a kind of muscle memory that came from doing it a thousand times before.

next came his collar, fingers slipping beneath the stiff fabric, smoothing it flat before a single tug drew his tie into place.

his sleeves were rolled exactly twice, before the fabric sat taut against his forearms.

you’ve watched his jaw tighten whenever a sleeve refused to sit quite right, watched him tug at the cuff again, and again until it finally met his standards.

by the time his coffee had brewed, exactly four minutes later, steam curled lazily from the rim of the mug as he lifted it to his lips.

only for his reflection to stare back at him in the dark liquid below.

the faint shadow along his jaw stood out immediately.

he noticed, of course.

he despised it.

it had barely grown in, little more than a week’s worth, yet it was enough.

every time he caught his reflection in a window or the faint shadow darkening his upper lip, his jaw tightened with quiet irritation.

he looked unkempt.

sloppy.

he ran a hand over the roughness, his lips pressing into a thin line.

he’d shave it the moment he got home.

so what was a little stubble to him?

but when he did finally step through the door—tired, rumpled, tie loosened and eyes heavy—your gaze met his, and the corners of your mouth lifted without thought.

“ken,” you breathed, and there was something in your voice that made him pause.

you were already crossing the room, and before he could apologize for his appearance or mumble something about needing a shave, your hand came up to cup his jaw.

your thumb brushed across the stubble—soft, a little scratchy, real—and your smile went all soft and fond.

“whoa, you look.. different. grew a little mustache,” you mused, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips as you reached up to brush your thumb over it.

nanami blinked. “i.. haven't had time to—”

“i love it.”

he stared at you. “you.. sorry?”

“i love it,” you repeated, and you said it with such certainty that he felt at a loss for a response. your fingers traced the line of his jaw, pausing over the the faint shadow along his jaw beneath your fingertips.

“you look so handsome. a little tired, yeah, but.. still handsome.”

“it's just stubble,” he said quietly, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“it's your stubble,” you corrected, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek, then another to the corner of his lips, letting the scratchy texture tickle your skin. “i like it. you're keeping it for a little while, right?”

nanami let out a low, warm laugh—the first one in days. he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

"if it makes you happy," he murmured, "i suppose i can endure a few more days of looking disheveled."

"endure," you repeated, giggling. "you're so dramatic. it's a good look, nanamin."

"it's unprofessional."

"it's so sexy."

"i think.. you should keep it," you said, half-teasing, half-hopeful.

"absolutely not."

"please?"

nanami sighed, long and suffering, but there was a fondness in his eyes that gave him away completely. "that sounds unbecoming of a sorcerer, my dear. "

you snorted. “unbecoming? oh my gosh ken, you literally spend your days fighting curses. i think a little stubble is hardly the worst thing you’ve got going on..”

he had no rebuttal for that. none at all.

so instead, he kissed you again—scratchy chin and all—and pretended not to notice the way you smiled, glancing at you for a moment before looking away as though he hadn’t noticed a thing.

thank you for reading, please like and reblog (๑>◡<๑)ྀིྀི.

©tivrkn, 2026.

by the time you finally made it home, the sky outside had already turned into a magnificent dark spiral. you could barely register the change from the harsh fluorescent lights of the university to the warm yellow glow of your own living room.

you let out a small yawn as your bag slipped from your shoulder somewhere near the entryway, your shoes were abandoned without their usual place beside the door, and you stood there for a moment with one hand still resting against the wall as though you had forgotten what you were supposed to do next.

you were often more energetic than usual, and you were more energetic than your husband. but even a happy pill can end up in this position too. you were after all human. and you had to admit that today was a lot and today, you were tired.

you were quite certain that it was not the ordinary kind of tired that a long stay in the shower and eight hours of sleep could fix. instead, you knew it was the sort of tired that had settled into the depths of your bones. you felt it all day but gradually sometime around lunchtime, it had gotten to a point where you couldn't shake it off and by the end of the work day, it had only gotten heavier as the day went on.

being a history professor had sounded romantic when you were younger. but to be honest, adulthood would be to a child who knew nothing of the world. you would teach students about civilizations, wars, revolutions, old governments, dead kings and emperors and the decisions that had shaped entire states and nations and peoples. even as a child, you had imagined yourself standing in front of a lecture hall, enthusiastically explaining some obscure historical event while students scribbled notes and asked thoughtful questions.

you had not, however, imagined the endless paperwork. you weren't prepared for the grading. you weren't in it for the the attendance sheets.nor the administrative reports. not the emails.

and most certainly not for the never ending the committee meetings. there were also the students who emailed you at eleven at night to ask whether the paper due tomorrow was, in fact, due tomorrow, despite a lengthy explanation about it.

today had been particularly brutal.

you had spent the morning teaching two lectures, held office hours during lunch, attended a department meeting that should have taken thirty minutes but somehow lasted two hours, and then returned to your office to discover that several students had apparently decided that the deadlines you had set were merely suggestions.

and tomorrow, you had to do it all over again. and the day after that, and the day after that. which particularly turned you gloomy by the time you stepped into the elevator to get out of the building.

you dragged yourself into the living room.

then stopped. your dining table, which you had left in a state of complete disaster that morning, was almost unrecognizable. the piles of papers had been sorted into neat stacks. your laptop was sitting at the center of the table instead of underneath three folders. the pens you had scattered across the surface were gathered neatly inside a cup. your attendance sheets were clipped together, your students' reflection papers had been separated from the administrative forms, and someone had even cleared away the coffee mug you had apparently forgotten there.

someone was sitting in the middle of the entire operation.

former volleyball player turned househusband nanami kento looked up from one of your students' papers still wearing his "kiss the cook" apron. still, he looked handsome and well-kept. he was dressed comfortably, wearing an old white button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. his well-fitted glasses sat low on his nose, his sandy blond hair was slightly messier than usual, and his sweat was all over the place.

he had retired from professional volleyball years ago, after he decided that the acl tear on his leg he told no one about couldnt be sustsined anymore. there had been interviews about it, endless articles talking about it, endless panel conversations on sports networks, and most of all, endless speculation about why someone at the height of his career would walk away.

but the thing is, even with his torn acl, he would have continued on for something else within the sport. he could have been a coach, he could have been a manager, he could have been in those lofty panels on television talking about all these sorts of things. and that is if he didn't have you in his life. yet he does have you and taking care of you, loving you, being there for you, was all far more important than all the jobs he seems to be raking in from everyone.

nanami kento had simply told the press that he was tired and wanted a quieter life. you had laughed when you first heard that from him, because you knew exactly what he had traded professional volleyball for, that life he had so adored for. but you heard nothing else from him about it. he enjoyed your life, hes told you many times and he's done so many things to show you.

you, your marriage, the house, the grocery shopping, picking up your nieces and nephews from school, cooking all your meals, picking you up, doing the laundry, he does it all as a house-husband. and, apparently, reorganizing your academic paperwork is part of that too.

he looked up at you now, studying your face for a moment before glancing toward the clock. "you're later than you said you would be. its dinner time."

you dropped your gaze toward the floor. "i know that."

"i expected you half an hour ago."

"i know that too, nanami-senshu."

"i'm no longer a volleyball player." he frowns at you. "im just a sick and worried house-husband now, sweetheart. you didn't answer my messages."

"i know." you say, the tone of your voice morose with guilt. "i'm sorry."

his expression softened. "it's okay. i know you're probably just exhausted."

you let out a long breath. "i don't even have the energy to argue with you about that, honestly."

"then don't." he pulled out the chair beside him. "come here, sweetheart."

you looked at the chair, then at him. "kento, what are you doing?"

"helping you with things."

"with what?"

he gestured toward the table. "your paperwork."

you stared at the organized stacks. your eyes widened. "you went through all of this? when?"

"i sorted it when you left this morning."

"you sorted it?" you didn't even notice it had already been cleaned out and sorted to the side. "what the...."

"yes. it was rather easy. the categorization by title method comes in handy."

you blinked. "how come i didn't notice? and you know you're not actually supposed to be doing my work for me."

"i'm aware of that, yes." he says as he goes through the kitchen to plate the dishes he left to rest. "but its better that way, no? less work for you, table is clear so we can eat dinner."

"you're not a professor."

"i'm also aware."

"you're a retired volleyball player."

"former professional volleyball player." he corrects you. "who has a big fancy degree on economics from the university of tokyo."

you looked at him. "that's the distinction you want to make?"

"yes." he looks at you. "what, you hsve arguments with that.

you smiled despite yourself, shaking your head. "no, certainly not."

he adjusted his glasses. "well good to hear. and before you say anything else, i did not grade your students' work."

you immediately looked suspicious. "you read them? the one in the living room?"

"hm, though only some fully." he whispers back in response. "your kids are rather creative in the essay portion on one of the summative tests."

"nanami kento."

"only enough to organize them." he raises his hands up in surrender. "its not that much. so call me dear instead of my name, please."

"that's still reading them."

"i did not assess their academic performance completely to be fair." he went to the living room and took a few to show you. he turned one of the papers around. "i simply determined which were complete and which were not."

you sighed and pulled out the chair. "fine, fine. as long as its arranged."

you sat down heavily. kento disappeared to the living before coming back and finishing the plating of your dinner. you tried to zone out in the meantime, resting your head against the cushioned back. you hadn't noticed your husband put the food on your area. but you do notice how kento immediately pushed the cup of tea toward you, knocking you out of the trance.

"drink, so that you can reset your body before eating a hearty dinner."

you took it without protest. the first sip was warm and sweet, exactly the way you liked it. you looked at him over the rim. "you made this from scratch, dearest?"

"yes, i did." he nodded. "remember how i talked about those tea leaves i found during our hike? i dried them and grinded them to your liking."

"you remembered how i take it?"

"sweetheart, of course i do." he gave you an almost offended look. "i have been making your tea for years."

you smiled faintly. "i know. im just always surprised each time."

"well, i sure do hope you enjoy it each time." he whispered as he leaned forward and kissed your temple. "your poor dear husband always craves for your approval."

you laughed as you took another sip. "well you have it, my dearest."

kento smiled at that, and for a moment, the tiredness in your body seemed to loosen just enough for you to breathe properly. "good to hear i haven't loss my touch." he murmured. "okay then, i think we should go ahead and eat."

you glanced down at your plate. you could feel yourself salivating from the sight of the food right in front of you. you cleared your throat. "you know, you're very commanding for someone wearing a kiss the cook apron."

"i'm a retired professional athlete, sweetheart. commanding people is practically in the job description."

"you were a volleyball player, kento." you say as you wag your spoon at him playfully.

he hums as he lets his fork fall onto his food. "hm, yes i was. for nearly eleven, twelve years. you were there."

"yes i was." you nodded. "which is why i'm confused, cause you weren't the coach."

"hm, but that seems irrelevant when i have to scream at the kids to hit the block in command."

you laughed softly, the sound barely louder than the clink of your spoon against the plate. that seemed to satisfy him. he took the seat beside you rather than across from you, close enough that his knee brushed yours beneath the table. he didn't say anything about the way you were still staring at your food without actually eating it. he simply reached over, picked up your fork, and placed it properly into your hand.

"come on, sweetheart."

you looked at him. "dearest, i can't help it. i'm tired."

"i know that, sweetheart." he kissed your cheek. "but you have to. you hsve a sensitive stomach and it will hurt if you forget."

"i don't want to."

"i know that too."

"then why are you making me?"

his expression softened. "because you're tired, sweetheart. not because you're not hungry. because you need it. and you love food. i know you get busy and you forget. but its time to eat. so, dont let it take your love for meals away."

you looked down. he was right. of course he was.

you had spent the entire day moving from one obligation to another, drinking coffee instead of eating properly and answering emails instead of taking breaks. by the time you got home, your body had apparently decided that even chewing was an unreasonable demand. kento seemed to understand that without you having to explain it.

"i'd be content with just a few bites, you know?" he said gently. "then you can decide whether you want the rest."

you sighed, but you finally lifted your fork. "you're annoying."

"hm, so i've been told." he laughs softly.

"by me." you snickered as you cut your steak. "quite a bit in these many years."

"frequently and ive enjoyed it. at times it's turned me on—"

"okay, okay. lets not get frisky." you took another bite of your food, a slight blush on your cheek.

he watched you for a moment before finally beginning his own dinner. the house was quiet around you. there was only the soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional sound of utensils against ceramic, and the faint traffic outside the windows. it was such an ordinary evening that you almost felt embarrassed by how close you were to tears.

you swallowed and stared at your plate. "my dearest."

"hm? what is it?"

"do you ever regret it?"

he paused. "regret what?"

"retiring from volleyball." you looked at him earnestly. "do you?"

his hand stilled around his fork. you hadn't intended to ask. the question had simply slipped out, dragged into the open by exhaustion and the strange vulnerability that came with being cared for. he leaned back slightly in his chair. for a few seconds, he didn't answer. you knew that silence.

you had heard it before whenever journalists asked him about his career after his retirement as well, trying to check in about his new life and whatever is there to enjoy about it. you knew the carefully measured expression that appeared on his face when someone mentioned the sport he had spent most of his adult life playing.

"i mean, it would be quite stupid if i didn't admit to missing it." he finally admitted. "because i do. i do miss volleyball."

your heart sank littly by little, noticing his tone and then his somber look. "oh."

"im quite sure its not because i want to go back, though. those days are behind me, especially with my torn acl." you looked at him again. he adjusted his glasses, his thumb briefly brushing the edge of the frame. "i miss playing with my friends. there's a difference."

you listened quietly. you take his hand which causes him to smile. "i miss the court. the noise. the routine. the feeling of knowing exactly what my body was supposed to do." he smiled faintly. "i miss winning with my team, obviously."

"obviously, that's a given." you copied him, causing him to snicker.

"and of course, i can admit miss losing too."

you raised an eyebrow. "you miss losing? you hate losing. didn't you cuss out hibara because he caused your team a loss?"

"it was educational for all of us."

"that's the most nanami kento answer you could have given, but also the most bullshit one you've ever had."

he smiled. "thank you, i aim to please."

you shake your head. "i suppose. but you're my house-husband now."

he slices his meat, laughing. "that i am. and truthfully, i don't miss what came with it. i was often gone for training camp, for overseas games. i was playing even when i was injured or exhausted. and most of the time i was often away from you. that i hated most."

you reached across the table and placed your hand over his. his fingers immediately curled around yours. "well you don't have to be away a lot." you whispered. "we'll be together all the time."

he gave you a small smile. "that's why im taking in all of our days together. i like being here, i like taking care of you."

you couldnt help but be so overwhelmed by your love for him. its as if every bit of your weariness and exhaustion left your body and all that's left is ease. "oh dearest."

"so don't be sorry for me, hm?" he whispers to you, lifting your entangled hands and kissing your fingers. "i can play volleyball whenever i want now. but im happiest when i'm with you."

"you really are...."

his caramel eyes returned to you. "this is everything to me. coming home to you. cooking dinner. doing the laundry. arguing with you about your filing system."

"my filing system is perfectly reasonable."

"your filing system is a crime, sweetheart. lets be honest, even suguru's horrified."

you gave him an offended look. he continued as though he hadn't noticed. "picking up your nieces and nephews from school and going to eat ice cream after. grocery shopping and ignoring the list. making you all the tea you want. waiting for you to come home."

"don't you get bored?"

"no, because i keep me busy being your husband." his thumb brushed over the back of your hand. "i like having a life that isn't constantly moving away from you. this dear man is a well kept man, only orbiting around you."

you swallowed. "and you don't feel like you're wasting your degree either?"

"my economics degree?"

"yeah, that degree." you pursed your lips. "i know you'd be able to use it well if you want to—"

"but i don't want to." he whispers to you, kissing your enjoined hands again. "i prefer using it to sort out your spreadsheets."

you shook your head, smiling. "you're ridiculous, aren't you?"

"hm, and yet you married me."

"unfortunately."

"it seems you continue to renew the marriage every morning." he leans in, kissing you on your neck. "want me to propose again so we can get married again?"

"dearest, that's ridiculous—" he leans in and kisses you a bunch more, making you laughed again, this time a little more genuinely. "dearest!"

kento took in the sight of you so happy, so beaming with joy, and without worry. he could feel his heart skip a beat. he falls for you every single time you laugh, you smile, every time you breathe. and each and every time, that also reminds him, how lucky he is.

"i love you. i love you very much sweetheart." he says, leaning against your neck.

after dinner, you insisted on helping with the dishes. kento immediately refused. "absolutely not."

"i can wash dishes."

"i know you can, but this is my job." he insisted.

"why? i'm fully capable—"

"because you spent the entire day working."

"and you've spent the entire day doing everything else." you argue back.

he shakes his head as he cleans up. "still a no, sweetheart."

"at least let me dry the dishes—"

"nanami kento, let me do something—"

"no, you are going to sit down and drink the rest of the tea and rest"

"i'm not a child."

"i'm aware of that, sweetheart."

"then stop ordering me around."

"i'm not ordering you around." he gently took the plate from your hands. "i'm taking care of my wife."

something about the way he said it made you stop. there was no teasing in his voice now. no smugness. it wasn't even a playful argument. it was just plain old certainty. he carried the plate toward the sink and began rinsing it. you remained standing behind him.

"you don't have to do everything for me." you pout. "im a big girl too."

"i know that."

"then why do you?"

he glanced over his shoulder. "because i want to."

you looked down. "but what if i don't want you to?"

"then i'll stop." his answer came so easily that you almost laughed.

"you'd really stop?"

"yes i would."

"even if i'm being stubborn?"

"especially then."

"even if i tell you i'm fine?"

he dried his hands and walked toward you. "if you tell me you're fine, i'll believe you." he reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. "but if you're clearly not fine, i'm going to worry."

your eyes stung. you hated that.

you hated being this tired.

you hated feeling fragile.

most of all, you hated how easily he could see through you.

"kento, dearest..."

"hm? what is it, sweetheart?"

"i don't know what's wrong with me."

his expression immediately softened. "nothing is wrong with you."

"i'm just so tired."

"then you're tired."

"i feel like i'm failing at everything."

"you're not." he shakes his head. "thats not true."

"i can't keep up with my students. i have reports due, grades to finish, meetings tomorrow, and i still haven't prepared my lecture for friday. i have three emails from students asking questions that are literally answered in the syllabus and—"

"stop." you blinked. he took both your hands. "look at me, sweetheart."

you did and all you could do was stare at him, his gentle face that was akin to an angel. an angel so full of love for you. "sweetheart, you are not required to solve tomorrow tonight."

your lips parted. "but—"

"no." he gave your hands a gentle squeeze. "tomorrow will still be there in the morning. your students will still be there. the paperwork will still be there. the emails will still be there." he leaned closer. "you don't have to carry all of it right now, okay? you already did so well."

your eyes watered. you looked away. "i don't like feeling like this."

"i know you don't."

"i usually have everything under control."

"i know, you are good at anything you put your mind to."

"and today i just..."

your voice broke. kento didn't ask you to finish. he simply pulled you into his arms. you went willingly. your forehead pressed against his chest, your arms wrapping loosely around his waist. he held you securely, one hand resting against the back of your head while the other moved slowly along your back. you stayed there, for a long time.

"i'm sorry." you whispered, sniffling.

"for what?" his soft voice threads through. "you don't have to be sorry for anything. you don't have to apologize for needing me, okay? that's what im here for."

tf141 x jack russel shifter reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of discrimination, implied suicidal thoughts, brief mentions of torture

Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer

A/N: this chapter was originally going to be a lot longer but i decided to split it in two which in theory means the next part will be out very soon... no promises though lol

Series Masterlist | main masterlist

Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part coming soon...

The feeling of the humvee coming to a stop should bring some feeling of relief. You have been curled in the same position for what feels like the better part of a day and your limbs have been cramping for at least half of that time. However when you hear the rear doors swing open and then shut as both Gaz and Soap make a hasty disembark all you feel is the deep brewing a dread begin to coil in your gut. Back on base, at the mercy of your comrades. Exposed.

The door beside you swings open and Gaz is reaching toward you in an instant, but you don’t see Gaz, all you see is the hoard. Once again you are twenty two, desperate for your rifle, not a form of protection but instead a security that you can control the outcome before others have the chance. But you don’t have your rifle today. 

In truth it’s not your fault, they all should know better. A cornered dog always bites. 

This time when you lunge toward the fingers you don’t miss, teeth in flesh, blood in mouth and a sharp yell echoing from the startled man. The metallic taste is bitter upon your tongue, acidic, and it should make you draw away but instead you just sink your teeth in harder. Screaming. The sound of tearing flesh. A swarm of people. 

A hand pulls at your scruff, tugging you backward, lifting your front paws off the floor. Your bite on the palm releases immediately, focus shifting to ridding yourself of the hold on your neck. A high pitched yowl rips from your throat, ricocheting within the vehicle. The grip on you falters, and that’s all the opportunity you need to wrench free and launch yourself outside, slipping between the two figures by the door. Yelling follows as you sprint across the dirt, pounding footsteps in pursuit that only spur you to run faster. But you know you can’t run forever. You need somewhere to hide, someplace they can’t get to you, and when your eyes land on the broken paneling spanning the base of a nearby building you decide that is your best option. 

It’s a tight squeeze, the splintered wood scratching at your pelt as you force yourself through the small opening, but you do not slow even as it bites into your skin. The space beneath the building is dark, the ground covered with dirt and rock. Pipe work and beams span the area, making for a difficult maze of obstacles for any person to navigate through, but in this form it offers little trouble. The further you scramble, deeper into the abyss, the more the light diminishes until it is almost impossible to see. 

The sounds that had been following you are long gone now, unable to pursue you any further which allows you enough reassurance to finally still. It is only then that you notice the shakiness to your limbs, the tremble that travels across your body. Your lungs burn, chest heaving with each shallow breath you draw in. As the adrenaline withers and your heart slows all you are left with is exhaustion, unable to go on even if you wanted to. You fall heavily to the rough ground, legs extended as you lay on your side. Just a small rest, enough to recover, then you can think clearly. Sleep comes for you fast and unforgiving. 

You wake to the cool press of dirt against your cheek, dust filling your nose when you inhale sharply causing you to cough and wretch. Your head collides sharply with the wooden beam above you as you push yourself upright, vision spotting as your hand moves to cradle your now pounding skull. It takes a few moments to realise where you are, for the memories of hours prior to come flooding in all at once. Your throat is dry and scratchy, mouth parched after breathing in the dust for however long you have been down here. There’s a sharp pain in your back that flares each time you twist your torso and the taste of old blood in your mouth. 

It’s hard to move, limbs knocking with pipes and stones as you try to navigate toward the sliver of light you can see in the distance. The process is slow and tedious, often finding yourself coming to spaces too narrow to squeeze through and having to backtrack to find an alternate route. Getting in seemed like such an easy feat, you don’t understand why getting out suddenly poses such a problem. 

You find yourself breathing a small sigh of relief when the way out finally becomes clear in your line of sight, the same broken paneling you had slipped through earlier. However something seems wrong, the hole looks entirely too small to get through now. Your fingers trace along the gap, pulling at the wood to try and widen the opening, hoping the wood is loose enough to pry off. A sharp his leaves your mouth as a splinter lodges its way into your palm, and as you press the stinging skin against your teeth to try and pull the piece loose you finally realise why getting out is suddenly such a difficulty. Fingers. You have fingers. A quick glance down at your own body affirms the situation, you shifted back in your sleep. 

Your skin is covered with dirt, small scrapes covering your knees and shins from crawling over the rough ground and worst of all is your distinct lack of clothes. Two weeks ago if you had been told you would wake up cold, dirty and naked in a small dark space you would assume you had been taken captive, instead you just lay in the hole of your own making. With a growl of frustration you punch at the wood, dislodging a few planks. Not that it does you any good, even with space to crawl out you have no intention of stepping out into the open with your current appearance. 

You sink backward, leaning against one of the upright support beams with a sigh, tucking your knees to your chest. If the team wasn’t angry with you before you have no doubt they would be now, how the hell are you supposed to go back to them in this state. The sound of footsteps approaching pulls you from your thoughts, a shadow passing over the hole blocking the light from entering. Instinctively you curl in on yourself, drawing your legs closer in an attempt to stay hidden but the effort proves futile.

“Tha’ you sergeant?” Soap’s voice echoes toward you. 

There’s no use denying it, the man only needs to crouch down to be able to confirm his suspicion. You clear your throat lightly, voice coming out in a croak, “I’m here.”

The man is squatting down to get a better look at you in an instant, shifting to the side to allow some light through in order to make out your figure better in the dark. His eyes sweep over what you can only assume is a very rough view, a flutter of discomfort growing in your stomach at his scrutinisation.

 “Ya’ shifted back,” he says, tone laced with surprise.

“Yeah,” you tighten your arms around your legs, trying to shield yourself the best you can. After a few quiet moments you murmur out a soft request, voice cracking as you do, “could you get me some clothes please.”

Soap stares at you for a tense second, the churning in your gut only increasing until finally he offers a stiff nod. He stands quickly, disappearing from sight. You can hear his brisk footsteps fade away until finally they disappear completely and you are left hoping that he does indeed come back with only the clothes and not the entity of the 141 on his heels. 

Taglist: @yrdax1s @mrwagster @bemeochii @f0rtunej @pinkkyangel @brebob @jason-vs-crowbar @sgt-artemis-owl-riley @whitetiger846 @probablydeadbynowdotcom @rinkashirikitateku @kaoyamamegami @drmuy @lunar-atlantis @bean-mom420 @ilovecatss10 @woahzerzzz @spacelia @weird-brain666-reblog @motzglorp @entr4p3 @masterocelot58 @pickles-the-jackalope @wowtheuniverse @morbiddog @astreaaries @lurn05 @celleryxo @fairly-feral @xxeiraxx @jessigurl-design  @naruka9015

tf141 x jack russel shifter reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of descrimination

Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer

A/N: taglist is still open so let me know if you want to be added!

Series Masterlist | main masterlist

Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part

It’s been six hours, and you still haven’t moved from your place beneath the sofa. Ghost has been back for a few hours, bringing food and hot drinks for the team. It seems he had been slightly optimistic about your predicament as he had even brought a drink back for you, it now sits undrunk and cold on one of the bedside tables. Gaz and Price have yet to make another appearance, though you know they haven’t gone far as their scents still waft through the door every so often and you catch the faint sounds of conversation. You have overheard enough to know that Price has been in touch with the base, apparently the team is expected to return within 24 hours now that the storm has broken. 

The thought of them leaving you here has a deep ache settling into your chest. Even though it was you who made the offer for them to leave you behind, note you down as MIA, it doesn’t make the reality of it any easier. You just hope they might leave you the motel room for a few days longer, even if they don’t owe it to you. Despite the storm having passed, the temperature outside is still far from forgiving. If you were forced to brave the wild still stuck in this form, the likelihood of survival dwindles exponentially, a fact you know they would be aware of. 

Soap has tried a couple times to coax you out into the open, mainly with the offer of food. It was getting harder to deny that you are hungry, the scent of the sandwiches Ghost brought back leeching into your nostrils no matter how hard you try to ignore it. With how ill you were in the previous days, and now being stuck shifted, your body has been without a meal for quite some time and your stomach has become quite persistent with its protests. 

You aren’t sure if it’s intentional, the way Soap almost taunts you with the food, holding it just far enough from the couch that you would have to step into the open in order to snatch it from his hand. And you know better than to do that, there’s no saying what they plan to do once you are exposed, if Ghost is just waiting for the right moment to grab you while Soap has you distracted. So you stay put, pressing your flank against the peeling paint of the back wall, watching each movement they make from your hideaway. 

The slam of a car door draws both of their attention, the noise causing one of your ears to flick toward it. There’s heavy footsteps trenching through the snow toward the door, based on the smell you know it’s Price and Gaz. When the door to the room opens both Ghost and Soap are on their feet, casting one last glance toward you before stepping out into the living room and pulling the door shut behind them with a soft click. Their voices are quiet, as though they don’t want you to hear, but with your sensitive hearing you hardly need to try and decipher the words as the conversation remains clear despite their attempts.

“Any change?” Price’s voice is rough from the cold, throat slightly hoarse.

“Still dinnae wanna come out, can’t get ‘em to communicate either,” Soap says with a deep sigh. 

The captain huffs through his nose, “command wants us back asap, so we’ve run out of time to wait this out.”

“What’s the plan?” Ghost grunts. 

“As soon as we are back on base the sergeants will get them back to the barracks as quickly and discreetly as possible. I’ll stop the humvee by the back entrance to avoid too much attention and then Ghost and I will go return the humvee as normal. If any of the higher ups are waiting on our arrival they’ll be in the vehicle bays, if they question any of your whereabouts, I’ll tell them you have all come down with a mild illness and have been dismissed to the barracks in order to recover. That should buy us at least the rest of the day before being expected for the debrief,” Price explains, voice methodical and assured. 

Soap clears his throat, voice lowering further “and what if they are still stuck by the time we are expected to debrief?”

You can hear Price shuffle his feet slightly, “then we cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Not like you to be without contingency plans,” Ghost says in return.

“Can’t say this is a scenario I have ever prepared for, if you have suggestions I am more than open to hearing them.”

It falls silent, clearly none of the other men having a better idea as to the best steps forward. After a few moments, the door to your room pushes open, the captain entering quietly and pulling the door shut behind him. 

“Did you hear all that?” His tone is surprisingly soft, like he’s talking to a frightened animal and you suppose in some way he is. 

You offer a soft rumble in affirmation, not quite a growl but with enough deepness to make your displeasure toward the plan clear. 

Price takes a few careful steps toward you, still far enough that you don’t feel boxed in, but close enough that he can find your eyeline when he crouches down to glance at you, “you know you’ll need to come out from down there, I’d rather you do it on your own volition.”

The thought of exposing yourself draws a whine from your throat, high pitched and almost pitiful. The captain's voice drops softer in response, holding his hands up in placation, “no one’s gonna hurt you kid, won’t even touch ya if that’s what you want. But you can’t stay under there forever, we have to head back.”

It’s not as though you have any other option. You can choose to stay hidden, but it’s likely that Price will just move the sofa eventually to get you out. No matter your choice the outcome will be the same, only one will result in an angry captain which is something you would rather avoid. 

Slowly, you inch out into the open, tail low in wariness. You don’t move your gaze from him, ready bolt at the sign of sudden movement. Price takes in a sharp breath, sweeping his gaze over your appearance for the first proper view of your shifted shape. You pause a few feet from him, waiting out his reaction with bated breath. His hands are empty along with his holsters, which at least reassures you that there’s low intention to cause you harm, but the sight of disgust from him would still be a damaging experience.

“.... least no one will pay too much attention to ya’, don’t know what I would’ve done if you were something exotic or god forbid humongous,” a small attempt at humour, one you are grateful for. The hackles that had been brimming along your spine lower, ears no longer stiff and alert but instead moving toward relaxed. Price smells… calm, which surprises you. Over the smell of guns, cigars and sweat, there’s something distinctly him and though the comfort it brings you is small, it is still a comfort none the less. 

“The others are packing the gear, can take you to the humvee while they're distracted if you want.”

It’s an offer you weren’t expecting, one that has you perking up in interest. You’d been preparing yourself for the presentation, for Price to force you in front of the group like a show pony on display. It’s… thoughtful, which is not a trait you would have ever thought would be displayed in this scenario. 

“Want me to carry you out so your paws don’t get damaged on the snow?”

The idea of being carried has your heart beginning to race. It’s a risky position to be in, unable to get away if you were in danger, at the mercy of the captain completely. Do you trust him enough? That’s the question you have to ask yourself. If he wanted you dead you already would be by now, but that still doesn’t offer full clarity to his motivation keeping you around. You believe he does want to take you back to the base, which means he will indeed take you to the humvee as offered. You can let your guard down for now, at least for this, then once you're on base you can figure out what exactly he wants from you. As Price said before, you'll cross that bridge when you get there.

 His hands are firm but comfortable when he lifts you from the floor, holding you securely against his chest as he carries you out the bedroom and toward the door outside. The others are indeed packing as he had claimed, too busy in their task to offer more than a quick glance toward the captain who has angled himself in front of your body as much as possible to shield you from view. 

The air outside is still bitter, your short coat not designed for temperatures this low. Thankfully the humvee is already warming up, the temperature inside much more comfortable. Price places you on the floor of the front passenger seat, the heater blowing directly on you which draws a satisfied huff. The captain offers you a small smile before shutting the door. You are quick to curl up in the footwell, as out of sight as you can be in the limited space. 

It’s only a few minutes later that you hear the rear doors open, a cold breeze slipping while the rest of the team load up. You can feel the glances toward you, finally able to make out more of your form. They don’t say anything, for that you are grateful. It’s a long drive back, you just hope that they keep whatever thoughts they have to themselves for the duration.

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“tch… y’know i didn’t mean to…”

[°❀.࿔] » content warning: sukuna x maid :: fem!reader :: fluff :: pet names :: mean sukuna :: soft reader

art: @madaras_wife on x

you coughed softly as you scrubbed the floorboards outside of sukunas chambers. sukuna stopped at the end of the hall, his hands on his hips. his black kimono opened up a little, revealing a sliver of his muscular legs underneath.

“brat,” he spoke, taking slow deliberate steps towards you until you were right at his feet. “you’ve been pushin’ yourself lately,” he stated flatly, nudging your knee with his foot.

“sir…”

before you could get another word out, sukuna grabbed the thin fabric of your silky white robe, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. “you’re gonna get this robe dirty.”

you swallowed hard but the lump in your throat remained there. sukuna had this intimidating aura around him that was quite difficult to ignore no matter how hard you tried. on top of that, he was devastatingly handsome despite his gruff demeanor.

“i demand that you take a break,” sukuna let his hand trail from your shoulder, down to your waist. your eyes darted from his face, down his dark kimono, and were suddenly glued to the pristine floorboards the entire time. it felt sinful to look into sukunas eyes.

“and look at me when i’m speaking to you.”

you looked up into his crimson eyes, your own glassy with unshed tears. you didn’t know why you felt so emotional. perhaps it was the sheer amount of adrenaline you felt when you were in sukunas presence.

“is there—is there anything you need from me, sir?” you murmured, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

sukuna smirked at your timid demeanor and tilted his head, his gaze roaming shamelessly over your delicate features. “i would like for you to join me in lunch, i’ve prepared the finest of dishes.”

sukuna never phrased his desires so nicely. you knew that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity so instantly, you nodded. now you sat in the middle of sukunas grand garden. the beautiful plaid blanket beneath you was nothing compared to the elegance of the lilies and lavender flowers that bloomed around you.

sukuna sat across from you, his large frame fitting in with the scenery perfectly. you felt like you looked out of place in his territory. “don’t look so shy, eat up, brat,” he scolded, blindly reaching for a strawberry.

he held the fruit against your lips, his free hand adjusting your chin so you’d meet his crimson eyes. as soon as your lips parted and you chewed, you regretted your actions instantly.

you let out a weak cough and swatted his hand away, your brows furrowed slightly. “i’m allergic to strawberries… sir,” you breathed out, coughing a bit more now. strawberry flesh spilled on your pristine robe. that stain was definitely permanent.

panic flared up in sukuna immediately. he shoved the bowl of strawberries aside, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. “y/n… you didn’t tell me,” he stated weakly, though he almost sounded… guilty? pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a long, weary sigh.

some minutes later, you were in sukunas chamber sprawled out on his bed. he made sure you had the proper medication before he scolded you any further. your cheeks flushed a delicate pink as your eyes roamed over the strong muscles of his back.

you pulled the smooth fabric of sukunas open kimono further over your frame. “tch… y’know i didn’t mean to…” he grumbled to the window, tugging at the pink hairs on the nape of his neck. “i’d never purposely hurt you, brat.”

the blush on your cheeks deepened. despite him facing the opposite direction, you still pulled the kimono up to cover your reddening face.

“you are my best maid after all…”

i like to imagine that he has the biggest soft spot for you despite himself… i actually really enjoyed writing this, more sukuna fics…? (,,> ᴗ <,,)

patience was worked through simon. etched, carved into every fiber of his being. he was born with it, the rough military work simply engraving it deeper. it came easy to him, he knew the mistakes when it came to rushing, he knew the risks of impatience, disobedience.

yet patience burned away at his nerve endings, sizzling out the tips of his fingers, his toes. he was never patient with you, all hands and teeth. and here he was, fingers wrapped tight around a beer with you in his lap. his poor cock oozing into you, slathering your soft walls disgustingly.

but the most disgusting part. you weren’t even fucking moving, not an inch, he couldn’t even feel your breaths. just your pretty pussy planted onto him, sucking him in and holding there nice and warm. it was so cruel, had his mind dripping in cruel, poised thoughts. knuckles white at the back of your neck, pressing your tears into the couch cushions as his hips fucked… no. no.

his hips bucked just slightly, subconsciously as want, need, began to consume him. and the slight movement had him whimpering out, had his rolling back against the wooden framing of the couch. if he could just…. just once more.

“simon.” your tone was berating. you couldn’t even bother him a look over your shoulder, just a demand. a demand that had his balls aching, his poor cock thudding inside of you, milking itself dry without even a fucking release.

he breathed slowly, shallowly. before he smiled gently, free hand resting just gently on your thigh. his motive clear as his thick, rough fingers stretched out. his movements were slow, precise, desperate to not distract you, fingers just ever so slightly brushing across the slick nub of your clit.

slap!

“keep tryin’ it ‘nd you’ll be here all week.” you snapped, chin jutting angrily. he was so damn impatient, always expected to get what he wanted the second he wanted it. he needed to learn obedience, to be a good boy. “and i won’t let you fuckin’ cum once.”

he whined, vocal cords going raw as it pitched into a greedy growl. he was panting, so worked up, so needy. he couldn’t help the roll of his hips despite your threatening words, couldn’t help the shudder, the shaky, desperate thrust of his hips as he came.

“m’sorry, mmph… so sorry, love,” he couldn’t even form a sentence, rocking into you as he worked himself through his own pathetic release. you tried shoving him down, but his hips were stronger, glued to your backside as he shook. “just…. i-i had to…. hurt so bad, baby, don’t you understand? needed to cum so b- hah- bad.”

he was babbling, beer spilling onto the couch cushions, release so heavy his thighs pressed together beneath you. his head lolled back, hips stuttering to a slow halt, his tongue drooling out at his bottom lip as he whimpered out low, heavy breaths. he couldn’t get a grip of himself, especially not with the way his cum began to seep out of you, pooling at the base of his cock.

★ HEAVY | bakugou, k.

pairing: katsuki bakugou x reader

summary: when you’re unable to sleep for the third night in a row, katsuki notices— and takes matters into his own hands.

( OR: your boyfriend fucks you to sleep. )

content: comfort / fluff + SMUT - mdni ! pro-hero!bkg. established relationship. domestic intimacy. implied insomniac!reader — can be read as simply having issues with sleep. some banter. clear consent. soft kissing. slight marking / hickeys. pet names (baby). breast play. spit (on ur clit). dedicated pussy eating. fingering. self doubt/insecurity + praise/reassurance. finger sucking. missionary to mating press. "i love you" during sex. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. cum eating. aftercare. emotional & soft smut with feelings, bkg is very much in love !!! and he doesn’t cum but he dgaf this is abt u. quite some build up before the smut lmao. wc: 6.2k.

note: thinking back to the days i would literally Not Sleep 🚬🚬 also this to me is veery soft dom bkg i like dat ^_^

masterlist. | fic based on this request ! ( thank u anon!! )

The glow of your phone was soft against the tired lines of your face. You scrolled through your feed mindlessly, dry eyes fixed onto the screen, barely lingering on anything for longer than a few seconds.

Dull frustration sat heavy under your skin. 

You couldn’t sleep. Again. And it wasn't for a lack of trying.

You'd taken the medicine, made your attempts— many attempts. Setting your phone down, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing desperately for a soft, peaceful slumber to come find you. 

But it never did.

So, you did what you had done the two nights before this: distracted yourself. Doomscrolled well into the hours of the early morning, when the faint, first rays of the sun filtered through your curtains and you could finally get up and not have to pretend anymore.

It was all you could do, really.

Your weighted gaze dragged over to the time in the top right corner. The bold numbers 3:24 stared back at you like a taunt. You exhaled quietly, temples throbbing.

You should stop.

You should’ve stopped hours ago.

But before you could berate yourself any further, a high-pitched squeak tore through the stillness of the room.

You clutched your phone over your chest in an instant, breath caught dead in your throat as the mattress creaked. Your pulse hammered in your ears as the sheets rustled behind you, a tell-tale sign of your boyfriend shifting in his sleep.

You've been part of the task force for almost 6 years. They were your family, the only family you had.

​You had been on deployment for almost 5 months—nothing serious, but long enough. You were so excited to see your boys. Five months without them; that's a long, long time. When you finally arrived at the base, you took a step out of the truck and realized your feet were aching so much. Carrying your bag on your shoulder, you started walking inside the building. Everything seemed exactly the same as it was five months ago, and that was refreshing.

​And then you felt it. Your stomach—God, you were starving.

​You walked down the hall and entered the common dining room. Today, the smell of the food was strangely nice, or maybe you had just missed the smell of the cafeteria a lot. You grabbed a tray and waited your turn in line.

​"Oh! Hey! You're back!" one of the ladies in the cafeteria recognized you.

​"Hey! Yes, I'm back," you offered her a big smile.

​"Come here, we have your favorite!"

​You were about to walk over, but someone stopped you.

​"Sorry, but it doesn't seem fair to me. Everybody is waiting patiently in line; why does she get different treatment from the rest of us?"

​The one who stopped you was a girl you had never seen before.

​"Yes, it's not fair!" another one chimed in, supporting her.

​"I—" you were about to speak, but then you heard it.

​"What's the problem here, ladies?" Price. That was the voice of your beloved captain.

​"Captain Price, this girl is trying to cut the queue. And personally, I think it's no—"

​"You're back. Why didn't you tell us?" Price said out loud, walking closer to you and pulling you into a big hug.

​"Hey, Captain, missed you a lot," you managed to say. He was hugging you so tightly that it was even difficult to breathe.

​"Hey, Price, why is it taking you so long to— Bird! You're back!" Behind Price, you saw the other three bulky men: Soap, Gaz, and Ghost.

​"You could have told us. We wanted to welcome you," Gaz said to you. Oh, God, you missed his bright smile so much.

​"I didn't want to bother you."

​"Oh please, we missed you so much, dove!" Soap approached you and planted a little kiss on your cheek.

​"Hello? She was just trying to cut the queue!" Oh, right, you were still in the cafeteria.

​"I see no problem here, soldier," Ghost said, crossing his arms.

​"Lieutenant, there's clearly a problem here!" The girl squeaked, notoriously pissed off because of the situation.

​"So, who's the newbie?" you whispered to Price, still wrapped in his arms.

​"She just arrived two months ago. Doesn't know who rules this place yet." He looked down at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

​This was right where you wanted to be—with your four big men. This was definitely your favorite place on Earth.

So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.

And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’

It's taboo for a hybrid to indulge in such instincts in the modern age, and many hybrids don't even possess them anymore. Of course, you have the luck to be one of the few that still do...

You try to suppress it as much as possible, no one trusts a fucking hybrid who can't even control their instincts to keep them alive in battle. You've spent years learning how to control yourself.

But something about ghost of all people sets you off.

A giant sheep hybrid, you know what he is long before he tells you just from the smell of him. It makes your gums ache with the need to bite and tear into flesh.

The first time you lost control of your instincts was during a spar. Finally having ghost pinned under you must have been too much, because between one moment and the next your teeth were going for his neck–

"Settle down, runt." Quick as you snapped your jaw open, ghost had rolled you over and pinned you to the mats. A rough hand in your scruff, the heavy weight on one thigh pinning you down.

For one mortifying moment you growl and bark before getting a hold of yourself. You realize exactly who it is you're barking at and what exactly you just tried to do, whole body going cold with terror.

Ghost is saying something but you can't focus on it, probably tearing you a new one for being so poorly controlled. There's no way he let's that slide. Treating a hybrid like prey is horrible enough, no less your own lieutenant.

You pin your ears back and whine, bearing your neck in submission.

The weight off your back dissappears. You jump up, already halfway out the door and missing the way ghost calls your name. You need to go pack, need to find some way to grovel and beg for a reassignment instead of being kicked out.

he’s in the middle of a full-blown tantrum because uragaume burned the roasted boar. he’s got two of his hands gripping the poor curse’s head, ready to pop it like a grape, and he’s screaming, veins bulging on his forehead. "useless! worthless! i should turn your insides out!"

you slam your book shut. the sound echoes like a gunshot. "oi!" you bark, your voice cutting through his noise like a cleaver. "i paid good money for that boar! and you're going to waste what's left of it by making a mess on my clean floors? sit down and shut up." sukuna freezes, all four eyes snapping to you. the rage on his face falters, replaced by pure, startled instinct. he drops uragaume, who scrambles away. "i— it was ruined!" he tries to argue, but it comes out as a defensive grumble.

"and now you're ruining my peace!" you yell back, striding over and poking a finger into his chest. "you think your little tantrum fixes the food? go to your corner and cool off before i decide to season you instead." he actually shuffles backward, a low grunt of submission rumbling in his throat.

another time, he’s bragging to jogo about some brutal feat, his chest puffed out. "…and then i tore his spine out through his mouth! a truly magnificent display," he boasts, looking to you for approval. you're painting your nails a venomous shade of black and don't even look up. "you got blood all over my new cushions," you state flatly. "the ones i specifically told you to keep clean. your 'magnificent display' cost me a fortune in silk. was it worth it?"

jogo looks horrified, waiting for the explosion. sukuna’s mouth opens, then closes. his boastful demeanor deflates. "…the stains will come out," he mumbles, like a scolded child.

he tries to command you, once. it’s a bad day. he points a finger and uses his 'king' voice. "woman, bring me a drink. now."

you slowly turn your head, your eyes narrowing to slits. the air gets thick. "what did you just say to me?" you ask, your voice dangerously quiet. you stand up, and you're not as tall as him, but you seem to loom. "you have four hands, you have two legs and you know where the kitchen is. are your limbs broken? shall i break them for you so you have a real reason to be waited on?"

sukuna stares, his bravado evaporating. he looks at your face, at the genuine promise of disproportionate retribution in your eyes. "…forget it," he mutters, turning to get it himself. "i'll do it." he decides your shared space needs a 'statement piece'. you come home to find a massive, grotesque statue made of fused bones and weeping faces installed in the main hall. he’s standing proudly beside it. "behold, a testament to my glory."

you take one look at the dripping, moaning sculpture. "it's leaking on the tatami," you say, your tone utterly devoid of awe. "and it stinks, take it outside. my house is not a trophy room for your ego."

"you dare dismiss my art?" he snarls, all four arms flexing.

"i dare dismiss the puddle of cursed fucking poop on my floor," you counter, thrusting a mop into his hands. "clean it, now. the 'glory' can reside in the garden." he blinks, looking from your unimpressed face to the mop. with a disgruntled sigh, he takes it. the statue is relocated by sunset.

his anger is a wildfire, consuming everything. yours is a scalpel, aimed precisely at his ego. he might scream about destroying a city. you'll scream right back about how he tracked ash and debris onto the pristine floors of his own domain. and the crazy part? he’ll actually look down at his feet, a flicker of guilt on his face, because your roar about domestic trivialities is somehow more terrifying than his about annihilation. he is the disaster, but you are the architect of his peace, and your displeasure is the one cataclysm he genuinely fears.