My blog is small right now so making this feels a little weird but I liking organizing things which includes this I guess.
About me Ი︵𐑼
Hiii! You guys can call me Madi, Mad Dawg, Bbg, or anything really. I'm 22 & go by she/her.
I love writing, reading, and drawing. I read and write about the same subjects usually (whatever my hyper fixation is for that time period). I have ADHD so don't be surprised if some of my work includes that.
My boundaries ✎ᝰ.
I don’t post NSFW content, just a personal preference. If you’re looking for that, this might not be the right place. Some things might imply/be suggestive, but everything is closed-door.
I don't use 'y/n' so fear not! Unless stated otherwise, most of my work is gen. I don't specify physical apearance of reader ever! (unless I start making OC's but I will state that if I do). If im missing anything lmk.
I love talking to people so please interact with my blogs or send me asks!
skincare pt.2 + Simon to the rescue + curiosity killed the puppy + domesticated (begrudgingly) + you have to pay
POLY 141 x reader
1. Breath
↳ ADHD!reader
Kid fics
1. Monster Hunter
↳ fluff, Simon Riley & kid reader, dad!simon
JJK fics:
Ryomen Sukuna
1. Throttling Nerves → Biker!Sukuna
part 1 + part 2 + part 3
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
This is still under construction but posting it anyways bc I won't be done with it anytime soon. still trying to figure out if I should tag the fandoms I write for.
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Okaaaaay but Royal!Price who’s married to Reader for like two years and the entire time the court is breathing down your neck because you haven’t produced an heir yet.
And ofc somehow this becomes entirely your fault bc nobody questions Price or considers that the problem might not be you because he’s the king, he’s healthy, he’s strong, he’s already proven himself in every other way that matters to these people, so obviously it must be his wife who’s defective.
And you spend two years being poked and prodded by royal physicians and forced to drink disgusting tonic things and tracking your cycles and praying at shrines and enduring every older noblewoman at court giving you unsolicited advice while rumors about the “barren Queen” spread through the palace.
And Price doesn’t exactly stop them. Maybe in the beginning he tells you not to listen, tells you there’s still time, but as the months pass he starts treating your inability to conceive like a personal failure.
And ofc there’s this one woman at court who makes your life like absolute hell over it. Daughter of some powerful duke or neighboring kingdom or whatever, beautiful and fertile looking and exactly the sort of woman everyone whispers Price should have married in the first place.
She makes little comment about children whenever you’re nearby, brings babies into conversation just to watch you go quiet, maybe even starts getting increasingly bold because Price is starting to favor her. And you know they’re sleeping together long before he admits it. You just don’t have any power to do anything about it.
Then Price divorces you.
And he’s not quietly about it either and that’s the part that really destroys you because he could’ve found a dozen political reasons to dissolve the marriage, could’ve protected whatever dignity you had left and let you save face but instead he specifically cites your failure to provide an heir as the reason for the divorce. Has it entered into the official decree that the marriage produced no issue and that you’re presumed barren, basically stamping it into history that you failed in the single duty expected of a queen.
And to add insult to injury he marries the woman who spent the last two years tormenting you, who becomes Queen, and suddenly all those rumors about how she’d always been better suited for him become accepted fact.
Meanwhile you’re just… there. The discarded Queen. Technically still noble, technically still wealthy enough, but socially ruined because who is going to marry the woman the King publicly declared barren?
Except Simon, Price’s knight who’s his own kind of social outcast cause he’s scarred, disfigured, and everyone assumes will never marry anyway because nobody has ever exactly been lining up to become Lady Riley to a monster, you know.
So when Simon asks for your hand, you say yes. Maybe Price even allows it because he thinks there’s something almost amusing about it. His unwanted wife and his disfigured knight. Two things the court has decided are damaged being tucked neatly away together.
Except Simon doesn’t treat you like you’re damaged. And then the absolute fucking scandal when, before the end of the year, you start appearing in court with a very obviously rounding stomach.
At first everyone tries to pretend they don’t notice because surely not. Surely the former Queen who spent two years unable to conceive isn’t pregnant within months of marrying Ser Simon Riley.
Except you are and it isn’t even ambiguous after a while. You’re glowing with health, Simon is hovering around you like some enormous armored guard dog, the physicians confirm the pregnancy is progressing perfectly, and suddenly all those old whispers start changing direction because Price’s new Queen still isn’t pregnant even after and entire year.
Meanwhile you give birth to this enormous fat healthy Riley baby and suddenly the court has to reckon with the fact that maybe their discarded barren Queen was never barren at all.
Which means maybe the King publicly humiliated and divorced his wife, destroyed her reputation, married his mistress, and announced to the entire kingdom that she was incapable of giving him an heir-
when the problem had been him the entire fucking time.
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
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Husband!Kuna who believes that your child is the pinnacle of perfection. Your face adorned with his distinct markings. The immaculate combination. Especially since she has his stubbornness and your composure already, he just knows she will grow up to one day surpass him. In fact, he is training her to do so.
Husband!Kuna who is not the favourite parent, even though he spends the most time with her. Oftentimes she is found playing among the bones in his domain. She always wants to do what you do and be where you are. This both infuriates and endears him to no end. The child is doted on by the entire palace, especially Uraume who has somehow captured the little ones attention and is always being bothered.
Husband!Kuna who always engaged in your child's curiosity. He believes that children should be treated as humans, not fragile little creatures, so every question she asks is met with the cold hard truth.
"Daddy, why are we at war again?"
"Because they didn't fulfil their trade agreements and your mother is very angry, so she started another one."
"Daddy how did you and mommy make me?"
"We had sex. That is how children are made."
"Daddy, what does it look like when you use your cursed technique on a human?"
"Like this."
Husband!Kuna who lets the child do whatever they want. Quite literally. She will crawl all over him, climbing him like a tree. She will jump on him and cling to him and demand to be carried everywhere by him. She will also bite him. A lot. A habit she picked up when she was teething and hasn't lost. Luckily Sukuna doesn't mind the pain and finds it quite amusing.
Husband!Kuna who finds himself getting hit by your child whenever she is mad. It's not really her fault, she sees you smacking him around the back of the head with your fan, or slapping him when you scold him. So of course she does the same when she doesn't get her way. She only wants to be like you.
Husband!Kuna who pretends not to care but will still carry the child everywhere with him. How is she supposed to learn how to rule if she doesn't see it in action. He also spoils her to no end, something he is very prideful about.
"Thank you for the new comb, I can look like mommy now!"
"Of course, little brat. What kind of father would I be if I couldn't cater to your every whim. An inferior one."
Husband!Kuna who has an incredibly strong bond with your daughter. After anything interesting happens, whether it be feeding the ducks with you or watching someone argue, she always comes running to Sukuna to give him a full debrief. He will pause anything to stop and listen, and she trusts him with her secrets wholeheartedly.
Husband!Kuna who finds it quite adorable when your child tries to emulate you. He will catch her giving out withering looks or swishing her robes around. Though with her is just looks cute rather than elegant and cunning. She also tries to copy him by doing the hand signs for his technique and yelling cleave. This is how she discovered her technique and also how one of the servants got a new haircut.
Husband!Kuna who finds solace in his little family. He thinks you make a beautiful mother, eyes transfixed on you whenever you have her hand in yours. He also thinks you're a very attractive mother, which you find quite irritating as he's constantly in your ear whispering dirty things while you're trying to read a bedtime story. When it comes down to it, his need for violence and bloodshed is culled by spending time with his two favourite girls.
MASTERLIST (more of this au there)
I <3 sukuna being a girl dad and now having two women in his life who boss him around
REQUESTS ARE OFFICIALLY BACK OPEN SEND THEM MY WAY PLS I BEG
DONT FORGET TO INTERACT, REBLOG COMMENT AND FOLLOW ETC TO SUPPORT AUTHORS
TAGLIST(OPEN JUST ASK TO BE ADDED): @cherrytintedlens @stqrgumi @salad85 @megssleepygirl @jiyoonly @luvrmegumi @fushigurlfriend @doumassexywife @mrskamikazekaito @chososprettygirl @xcdchu
The sun is streaming through the kitchen windows, the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes is filling the air, and you are currently standing at the stove, flipping a slightly burnt blueberry pancake.
Sukuna is sitting at the kitchen island. He’s fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants, his damp pink hair falling into his eyes. He’s scrolling through his phone, sipping his black coffee, completely relaxed.
“Hey,” you say, not looking away from the frying pan. “Can you grab the syrup from the pantry?”
“Yeah, I got it babe.” Sukuna rumbles. He stands up, his massive frame easily reaching the top shelf of the pantry. He sets the bottle on the counter next to you, leaning in to press a lingering, warm kiss to your bare shoulder. “Smells good.”
“Thanks, babe,” you smile, leaning into his touch.
It’s a normal morning. A perfectly domestic, quiet morning. And then, the patter of tiny, bare feet echoes down the hallway.
Yuji waddles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas, his spiky pink hair sticking up in every possible direction. He’s clutching an empty plastic sippy cup in one chubby hand, looking incredibly serious for a toddler who just woke up.
He stops in the middle of the kitchen floor. He looks at you. He looks at Sukuna.
Then, he takes a deep breath, puffs out his little chest, and yells, “Babe!”
You freeze. The spatula in your hand halts mid-air. Sukuna stops mid-sip of his coffee. He slowly lowers the mug, his eyes blinking in confusion.
“Did he just…” you whisper, slowly turning your head to look at your husband.
“There’s no way,” Sukuna mutters, his brow furrowing. He looks down at the two-year-old. “What did you say, little man?”
Yuji marches over to Sukuna. He stops right at his father’s bare feet, tilts his head all the way back to look up at the towering 6’4” wall of muscle, and holds up his empty sippy cup.
“Babe,” Yuji says, his voice completely clear and demanding. “Juice. Pwease.”
Sukuna’s jaw drops.
You slap a hand over your mouth, your eyes going wide. “Oh my god.”
“Did you…” Sukuna stammers, looking from Yuji to you, completely bewildered. “Did he just call me babe?”
“He definitely just called you babe,” you wheeze, a laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Yuji, growing impatient with the lack of service, turns his attention to you. He waddles over to the stove, tugging on the hem of your pajama shorts.
“Babe,” Yuji insists, pointing a chubby finger at the frying pan. “Pancake.”
A loud, booming bark of laughter erupts from your husbands chest. He throws his head back, his massive shoulders shaking as he braces his hands on the kitchen island. “Holy shit,” he wheezes.
“It’s not funny!” you scold, though you are biting your lip so hard to keep from laughing that it actually hurts. “He’s going to go to daycare and call his teachers babe!”
“The kid’s got swagger, what can I say?” Sukuna laughs, wiping his eyes. He crouches down, bringing himself to Yuji’s eye level. “Hey. Buddy. Who am I?”
Yuji looks at him like it’s the stupidest question in the world. He reaches out, patting Sukuna’s tattooed cheek with a sticky hand. “Babe.”
Sukuna bites his fist, his face turning red from the effort of holding in another hysterical laugh. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Stop swearing!” you hiss, swatting Sukuna’s shoulder with the spatula. You kneel down next to him, putting on your most serious, gentle mom-face. “Yuji, sweetie, look at me.”
Yuji blinks his big, golden eyes at you. “Yeah?”
You let out a long groan, dropping your head into your hands. Sukuna is practically vibrating next to you, completely useless.
“No, baby,” you say, looking back up. You point to yourself. “I am Mama. Ma-ma.”
Yuji stares at you.
You point to Sukuna, who is currently trying to compose his face into something resembling a responsible parent. “And he is Dada. Da-da. Not babe.”
Yuji looks at Sukuna. He looks at you. His little eyebrows furrow in deep toddler concentration. He’s processing the information. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.
“Mama,” Yuji says slowly, pointing at you.
“Yes!” you cheer, clapping your hands. “Good boy!”
Yuji then points at Sukuna. “Dada.”
“Exactly,” Sukuna nods, looking incredibly proud. “Nailed it, little man.”
Yuji smiles, a massive, gummy grin that lights up his entire face. He looks thrilled with himself. He holds up his sippy cup again, looking right at Sukuna.
“Dada babe! Juice!”
“I give up,” you sigh, standing back up and walking over to the fridge to get the apple juice. “We’re raising a tiny frat boy. This is entirely your fault.”
“My fault?!” Sukuna gasps from the floor, trying to catch his breath. “How is this my fault?!”
“Because you call me babe every five seconds!” you argue, pouring juice into the plastic cup. “You never use my actual name! You never call me mama! He literally thinks ‘babe’ is a universal pronoun!”
“You call me babe too!” Sukuna defends himself, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. He looks entirely too amused by the situation. “I haven’t heard you call me ‘dada’ unless we’re in the bedroom, and even then—”
“RYOMEN SUKUNA!” you shriek, your face flushing a shade of red as you shove the sippy cup into his chest. “Not in front of the child!”
“What? He doesn’t know what that means,” Sukuna smirks, standing up and effortlessly pulling you by the waist until your back is flush against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, wrapping his arms around you.
Yuji happily takes his juice, taking a long sip before waddling over to the living room to watch his cartoons, completely oblivious to the absolute crisis he just caused.
“We have to actively start calling each other Mama and Dada around him. Seriously. I am not having my two-year-old walk around the grocery store yelling ‘babe’ at me.”
“Alright, alright,” Sukuna chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “We’ll be better. Strictly Mama and Dada from now on.”
“Promise?” you ask, turning your head to look up at him.
“Yes, mommy..” he laughs, kissing your cheek. You groan, elbowing him hard in the ribs. “I hate you.”
an: i'm laughing my ass out with the tiktoks of toddler calling their parents babe! please let me marey Sukuna :c art by: umeka ryomen on pinterest here! the dividers and GIF i got from pinterest! please let ne know who the owners are if u know!
you insisted on going to the horror movie night with your new boyfriend, sukuna, after overhearing his idiot frat brothers whispering about you.
“she’s really soft.”
“i've never seen ryo with a girl like her.”
“watch her piss herself at the first jumpscare.”
laughter all around.
and maybe it was stupid, but you wanted to prove them wrong. prove you could handle the same things as the girls he usually kept around. cool girls. confident girls. mature girls who didn’t cling to their boyfriend’s sleeve every five minutes.
so you sat beside sukuna and in that freezing theater, chin lifted stubbornly, pretending your stomach wasn’t already twisting from the opening music alone.
for the first thirty minutes, you held it together.
barely.
you got by closing your eyes at the scarier parts and subtly whispering to sukuna to tell you when it was over.
then the movie hit you with the most horrific, satan-spawned jumpscare imaginable.
you shrieked so loud the entire row flinched.
your hand jerked violently.
and your ice cream launched directly into satoru gojo's face.
silence.
then satoru yelling, “WHAT THE HELLY?”
suguru and toji snickered.
and suddenly you were crying.
partly because you’d just assaulted sukuna's friend with matcha soft serve after you'd spent a whole minute outside the theatre convincing all of them you weren't scared in the slightest before you'd gone in.
partly because that was some really good ice cream you'd just wasted.
partly because everyone was staring.
but mostly because that movie was fucking terrifying.
sukuna immediately grabbed your wrist and stood up. “aight, we’re leaving.”
you hid your face in his arm while his friends snickered behind you. humiliation burned hot in your chest as he guided you out of the theater, your legs still shaky.
outside, the cold night air hit your cheeks.
“sorry…” you mumbled miserably.
sukuna snorted. “it's fine, baby. gojo deserved it, he was being an asshole."
you whined, covering your face. "i wasn't talking about that!"
he laughed under his breath, but there wasn’t an ounce of cruelty in it. just amusement. then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, “i’ll take you home, yeah?”
you sniffled and nodded. “that was scary.”
“i know, babe. i'm sorry,” he opened the passenger door for you, buckling your seatbelt himself with surprising gentleness. “should’ve known that shit would freak you out.”
“it was my idea…” you hiccuped.
“i still shoulda said no.” he shut the door and rounded the hood of the car.
the few seconds you sat alone were awful. your eyes immediately darted to the rearview mirror. the backseat looked way too dark. you stared at it, fully convinced some horrifying demon woman was about to crawl over the seats and kill you.
the driver door opened and sukuna slid in and caught you staring.
“…you looking at your little friend back there?”
you gasped, “kuna, don’t SAY that!”
he barked out a laugh while starting the engine. “you want another ice cream?”
your watery eyes widened hopefully. “…yeah.”
“thought so.”
by the time you reached your apartment complex, you were clutching a drive-thru soft serve with both hands while sukuna walked beside you toward your door.
you were finally calm again.
until he kissed your forehead, patted your ass lightly, and turned away. “see you tomorrow, babe.”
terror immediately flooded your face. you grabbed his arm so fast he almost stumbled back.
he looked down at you with a blink. then sighed. “…should’ve expected that.”
your eyes welled up again. “y-you’re leaving?”
“nah.” he unlocked your apartment and walked in beside you. “just wanted to see your face.” sukuna lied smoothly.
you blinked. “…oh.”
“cute reaction though.”
you huffed at him before setting your ice cream on the counter. “um… i need to pee.”
“okay?” he said, lifting a questioning brow, not quite sure what this has to do with him.
you awkwardly twisted your fingers together before looking up at him nervously.
a beat passed.
then sukuna sighed the sigh of a man accepting his fate.
a minute later, he was inside your bathroom aggressively yanking the shower curtain open .checking the cabinets. looking behind the door.
“there.” he deadpanned. “no demons.”
you stood in the doorway anxiously. “is it safe?”
“yes.”
“…promise?”
“baby, if something attacks you while you piss, i’ll personally beat its ass.”
you considered that seriously.
“…okay.”
you stepped inside cautiously.
“stand by the door.”
“stand by the—” he repeated in disbelief, before he stopped himself with a long exhale. “fine.”
“and turn around.”
“baby, i’ve literally seen you naked—”
“TURN AROUND.”
“bossy as hell,” he muttered, turning around anyway.
“and cover your ears.”
he stared at you over his shoulder in disbelief. “why?”
"i don't want you hearing me pee!"
sukuna sighed slowly. then lifted two resigned hands to his ears.
“not all the way though,” you continued nervously, “or you won’t hear me scream.”
sukuna closed his eyes and covered his ears, “that all, princess?”
“mhm!” you chirped brightly, kissing his cheek. “thanks honey. you’re sooo brave.”
he looked up at the ceiling like he was asking the universe for strength.
“next time we’re watching finding nemo.”
supa kyoot dividers by my fave @anitalenia !!
perm taglist: @dreamydaredevil @paparaysstuff
[ a/n ] : if u liked this one, i'd super duper appreciate if u checked out the prequel i wrote where kuna and reader are fwb (before they become official) !! love u guys sm THANK U FOR THE SUPPORT ON THIS i didn't expect it at all c,:
because i don’t want to be in anyone’s arms but yours.
your ex boyfriend, sukuna is used to you patching him after games—with you no longer in his life, he can feel his skin start to crawl with you so out of reach. that is until his nephew, yuji, decides to give you a call. ⸝⸝ art :: @/679sinner ⸝⸝ cw :: panic attacks
sukuna could feel his heart trying to thump out of his chest while the referee raised his arm to declare his win. he'd won, again and again, time after time, so why'd it feel so worthless now? he could feel the cut on his lip, the taste of blood lingering on his tongue while a sense of dread settled in his stomach.
because this time around, it wouldn't be a familiar pair of arms cupping his face, it wouldn't be you gently trying to dress his wounds, it'd have to be a blur of different medics and nurses taking care of him. and the very thought had his stomach lurching.
the scent of iodine hit him first—something he never paid attention to while he rushed in the medic's ward, he was used to making a beeline towards you, with his head immediately resting in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent until his mind finally clears. sukuna ryomen no longer had that privilege.
he sat on one of the beds, his wounds getting treated and for a second he felt like crawling out of his skin. because it felt wrong, having someone else see him like this after his matches, dressing his wounds, a job that was once dearly yours, watching them move their hands on him, he could feel pits forming in his stomach.
he wanted to bite something—yell, scream, shove the nurse off of him, absolutely anything to have her stop touching his skin.
and it was unfair—it'd been months since he talked to you so why was getting bad now? he ruined this in the first place, avoiding you, trying to recklessly ruin the relationship because he didn't think he deserved you. it was his fucking fault to begin with.
and it only started to flood his brain now, how his entire world revolved around you, how you were basically everywhere—in the seat that you always sat at when he fought, in the ward when he finished a fight, and in the corner of the room, talking to his friends, laughing with a drink in hand like tomorrow was always promised to the two of you.
"fuck."
"sorry, did that sting, sir?" the nurse was sitting up, moving the cotton swab away from his face, her eyes filled with concern, and for a second if sukuna shut his eyes he could've pretended it was you.
he simply grunted in response, holding onto the wall and pulling himself together.
"we're done here, right?" he could barely get the words out, his heart starting to beat a mile a minute while he tried to push through, making a beeline for his car before jamming his keys in and driving back home.
he barely acknowledged yuji on the couch, collapsing in his room the second he walked in, trying to level his breathing desperately while the room started to close in on him.
your presence still lingered—it always did, the way you'd dim the lights, the way the smell of your shampoo would stay on the pillows, now the place smelled too clean. his life was scrubbed clean of you, the sheets were white, your books and figurines were no longer littered around his place and all of it felt so wrong.
his brain was running a mile a minute, trying to reach for any remnants of your presence in the room, barely noticing yuji walk into his room.
"uncle are you okay..?" it sounded like he was walking on ice, and sukuna's breath hitched in his throat, choking on his own words while trying to answer.
"i'm fine, yuji, get out of my room."
it's almost as if he was helpless without you. because, you, oh you always knew what to do—pulling him closer to your chest, wrapping your arms around him while he forgot about the outside world, but now he was by himself.
stuck in a room that was barebones, tangled in sheets where you once lay, choking on his own saliva while the walls of the massive room moved closer, his lungs barely working, his skin itching in the exact spots the nurse had treated, tempting him to itch them until they bled, just anything to get his body to stop trembling like a leaf.
he tried to stop dissociating, holding onto the sheets, trying to execute the things his therapist had taught him, but fuck, it was harder to focus the more his vision blurred and blacked out, he could barely overhear yuji dialing your number.
—
"hey y/n?" yuji sounded panicked, it'd been months since he tried to call you, ever since sukuna.
"yeah, yuji what's wrong?" you asked, because yuji only ever called when sukuna was in trouble.
"it's sukuna again, do you think you could—."
"i'm on my way."
because no matter what happened, some things never changed, and the only person who could drag sukuna's mind back was you, it always had been you. and that would never change.
—
you were there in a flurry, speeding through the roads before barging in, still holding onto the copy of the keys you had to his place.
"where is he."
yuji pointed in the direction of his room, watching you almost sprint there.
"ryo."
you could see him snap out of it, jolting up almost immediately the second he heard you, staring at you with his pupils dialating like a prey animal while you inched closer to him.
"it's been a while, huh?" you tried to make things seem lighthearted, seating yourself at the edge of your bed before he moved you closer to him, moving you onto his lap and crushing you in his arms, wrapping them around your waist until it was almost suffocating but after months, sukuna felt safe.
his eyes were already brimming with tears, with your hands reaching to run your fingers through your hair, with his head rested on the crook of your neck, flipping you over until he was laying on top of you.
his mind was still a fucked up mess, his wounds barely treated his mind just fixated on how he lost you—he could barely believe you were here with him now, holding him like you used you, your expression kind and calm, he had to hold onto you tight enough to make sure you were real. that you were actually here.
he was sniffling against you, clinging to you like a child, the choked sobs leaving his throat while he held onto you.
"i guess some things don't change, ryo."
"don't leave."
"w—what?"
"don't leave again. i'll be good this time, i swear. i'll do everything right, i can't risk losing you again."
and in all the time you'd known sukuna, that was the most genuine he'd ever been. and that scared the living shit out of you. but, there was nothing to lose, right?
did i lose my edge u guys. guys.
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
I need a Reader who’s fighting on the opposite side of the 141, storms into a building ready to complete the mission, turns a corner, and finds all four of them standing there.
And just immediately “Actually, no. Nope. Fuck this. I’ve reviewed the situation and discovered I’m deeply committed to being alive. I’m out. Here’s my gun. Here’s my knife. Pleasure meeting you all. I sincerely hope I never cross paths with you again.”
Just like… a reader who tenures their resignation effective immediately.
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asking Sukuna about the date he planned for tonight, except… he never planned one
a/n: got such an amazing idea in an ask that i just had to write it
It’s a quiet Friday afternoon, and you’re both sitting in his gaming room. Sukuna’s at his desk, sprawled out in nothing but loose sweatpants, lazily scrolling through something on his PC while a stream hums low from his second monitor. Off to the side, you’re sunk deep into your oversized armchair, legs tucked up, twirling a strand of hair around your finger like you’re not plotting the most dangerous trap he’s ever walked into.
A soft, thoughtful hum slips from your lips as your gaze drifts over to his profile, lingering on the broad expanse of his bare torso, and for a moment, it’s genuinely difficult to remember you’re supposed to be scheming.
“Hey, when should I start getting ready?” you ask softly, sounding like it’s no big deal.
“For what?” he asks, barely glancing away from his screen.
“What do you mean, for what?” you shoot back, giving him your most innocent grin. “For the date you said you planned.”
Sukuna freezes, his hand pausing mid-click over the mouse. For a split second, his brain short-circuits so violently you can almost see the static. He swivels his chair to face you fully, crimson eyes locking onto yours, searching your face for any hint, any clue. His mind races through every conversation, every text, every random comment from the last few weeks, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck he supposedly promised.
Did she say something last week? Did I promise something while half asleep? Fuck, did I actually invite her for a date and forget?
“The... date,” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave as he does his best to sound completely unbothered and in control. “Yeah, yeah—get ready soon.”
"Mm... what are you wearing then?" you ask, resting your chin in your hand. "I don't know if we're matching the vibe or not."
A beat of silence drops over the room, thick and deafening. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath his ear, and his eyes drift back to the monitor, but it’s obvious he isn’t seeing a thing. Inside his head, gears grind together at a breakneck pace, panic threatening to short-circuit every rational thought.
Matching the vibe? What fucking vibe?
He’s fifty percent convinced he blacked out an entire conversation, fifty percent convinced he’s losing his mind, and one hundred percent determined to never, ever let you see him sweat.
"Well," Sukuna starts, slowly turning his head to look at you once again. He tries for a calm, confident smirk, though tension flickers around his eyes as he searches your face for a single crumb of a clue. "I mean, that depends on what you wanna wear, doesn't it?"
"Kuna, come on, don't do that," you giggle softly, shaking your head. "You picked the place, so you set the dress code. Are we doing fancy, or should I just throw on something cute and simple?"
The trap snaps shut. Sukuna's mind spirals into absolute chaos, running at a million miles an hour. Say it’s fancy, and he’s doomed if he picked somewhere casual. Say it’s casual, and you show up underdressed for some high-end place he apparently reserved weeks ago, and he’s a dead man. Honestly, he’s a dead man either way if he really did promise you something special, because he can’t remember making a single reservation at all.
If there’s not a bead of sweat rolling down his neck, there should be. For a split second, his composure cracks, his brow furrowing in silent distress, before he clears his throat and reaches across the gap with his large hand, grabbing your ankles and tugging your legs off the cushion, draping them over his thick thighs.
"You look good in anything, angel," he purrs, leaning forward to rest his hand on your knee, thumb rubbing lazy circles—anything to distract you and buy himself five more seconds. He flashes a crooked grin. "Just pick something you like, and I'll match."
"Mmm, okay," you hum, sinking back into the plush cushions and tapping your chin in mock-deep thought. "I just hope we don't end up waiting as long as last time. The food was worth it, but that line almost killed me."
Sukuna freezes entirely, his breath slipping out in a slow, silent exhale that feels almost painful to watch.
We've been there before, great food, long line... What fucking place had a line we actually waited in?
His mind frantically scrolls through every date night from the last two years: sushi bars, steak houses, taco trucks, upscale Italian, late-night ramen, trying to pin down which one he supposedly promised you just days ago. His massive shoulders tense as he sits up straighter, the effort so intense you can almost feel the heat radiating off him.
I must’ve promised only a few days ago. How the fuck did I forget?
"Line won't be a problem tonight," he lies through his teeth, his voice dropping into a low rumble as his hand slides up to squeeze your thigh. "Took care of it."
"Oh, you made a reservation this time?" you ask, looking up at him from your seat with wide, bright eyes. "Didn't think they did those on weekends! How'd you pull that off?"
Sukuna freezes mid-motion, the smallest flicker of surprise widening his eyes before he clamps down on it, jaw going rigid.
No reservations on weekends? Great. Backed myself into a fucking corner now. What the fuck am I supposed to say after that?
This is it—the absolute limit of human endurance. Balanced on a conversational tightrope stretched over a pit of fire, he’s surrounded by conflicting clues, unable to commit to a single outfit or restaurant. There he sits, a giant, terrifying man held hostage by an imaginary date night, looking for all the world like he’s trying to solve advanced physics in his head.
He fixes you with a stare, maintaining that arrogant smirk through an absolutely heroic amount of concentration, determined to bluff his way straight into the grave if he has to.
"I’ve got my ways, brat," he rumbles, sliding his hand around your wrist and pulling you gently closer, leaning in at the same time and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead—one last desperate distraction.
"I'm just excited, you know? You're so sweet to plan this out of nowhere, Kuna," you chirp sweetly, holding back a laugh. You beam at him, swinging your feet like you can barely contain your glee, letting your voice turn all sing-song and syrupy just to watch him squirm.
Looking down at your smiling, innocent face, Sukuna's massive ego crumbles for a split second under the weight of the mystery.
"Wait—what time did you book it for?" you ask before he thinks of an answer to your praise, looking up at him expectantly as you pull back to lean against the cushions again. "I know it’s tonight, but you never said when—are you trying to make me late on purpose? How much time do I actually have to look cute?”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. For a horrifying half-second, he freezes—lips parted, eyes darting from the clock on his monitor to the floor, then back to your face. His mind is utterly, completely blank—not a single coherent thought.
Think. Dinner. Six? Seven? Eight? What time sounds normal?
"You don't remember?" you ask softly, tilting your head just a little as you look up at him with wide, innocent eyes, the tiniest smile threatening to betray you.
"I remember!" Sukuna snaps a little too fast, his voice cracking with a rare, desperate edge before he quickly clears his throat to cover it. He shifts in his gaming chair, his jaw working as his eyes widen in full-blown panic.
Pick a number. Any fucking number.
"Of course I remember, woman. It's... It's in my phone—set a reminder and everything. Who do you take me for? 7."
"Right," you say, trying not to laugh at the thought of Sukuna actually fussing with a calendar app.
"Now quit grilling me and go get ready before you start worrying we're gonna be late."
Looking up at his face, you catch the tiny, panicked tension around his eyes despite that confident smirk. Unable to resist, you decide to drag it out just a little longer, savoring every second of his internal panic.
You tilt your head, looking at him from your chair. "You're driving us, right? Or are we taking an uber?"
"I'm driving," Sukuna says instantly, the answer automatic as he clutches at the first scrap of control he can find before his own brain has a chance to second-guess it.
"You remember how to get there, right?"
"Yeah," he grumbles, rolling his shoulders as he shoots you a sharp, warning look. "Of course I do."
"Good," you chirp with an easy smile. "I completely forgot the street name. What was it again?"
Nothing. I have nothing... This is it. I'm dead.
Silence instantly smothers the room. Sukuna’s entire body goes rigid, every muscle locked, and the arrogant smirk vanishes. His eyes go wide, locked onto yours in pure, unfiltered, deer-in-the-headlights terror. Not a word escapes him—there’s no way in hell he could even guess a street. He just sits there, trapped in a corner of his own making, paralyzed by the sudden realization that he’s completely, thoroughly backed into a wall.
Letting it stretch for ten long, glorious seconds, you watch his brain fry in real time. Then, a sharp, hysterical giggle bursts out of you, shoulders shaking violently as you bury your face in both hands, wheezing for air.
"I know there's no reservation, Kuna," you manage through laughter, shaking your head. "I know there's no date."
Sukuna blinks once, then again. For a moment, it’s like his brain can’t quite process the words, and then relief crashes over him so hard it nearly knocks him flat. The tension drains from his massive frame all at once, leaving him slumped boneless against the back of his chair.
A long, heavy exhale escapes him as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away the real sweat of the last ten minutes. He sits there, utterly defeated, looking like he just barely survived a war zone. There's not even enough strength left in him to pretend to be angry; every bit of mental energy got burned up trying to solve an imaginary puzzle.
"Jesus christ," he mutters into his palm, his voice a rough, exhausted rumble.
His hand drops, and he glances over at you, taking in the way you’re sitting there, absolutely delighted with yourself. Shaking his head, he lets a slow, helpless grin tug at the corner of his mouth, exhaustion still written all over his face.
"Yeah, well," Sukuna rasps, his eyes softening as he gently shoves your ankles from his legs, then reaches out and wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling you up and into his lap. "We can still go on one."
You tilt your head, settling sideways across his thick thighs with a curious smile. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he sighs, arms locking around your waist as he buries his face in your hair, slumping back into his chair. "I'll take you for that pasta you love so much, you menace."
"Oh, you're down bad, Kuna," you tease, grinning as you tug him down for a kiss, your fingers threading into his hair at the back of his head.
"I was sitting here trying to remember if I'd booked a fucking table in my sleep, you know?" he rasps, his breath fanning across your cheek as his lips brush yours, the low rumble of a laugh vibrating through his chest.
"You really were trying so hard to play it cool," you murmur, nudging his cheek with your nose.
"I was cool the whole time," Sukuna protests, but the lopsided grin stretching across his face gives him away as he squeezes your waist.
You smile up at him, fingers tracing a slow, absentminded line along his jaw. "So what exactly was your plan, then?"
He blinks, looking genuinely lost for a second. "Huh?"
"If I'd actually gone to get dressed... then what?" you ask, tilting your head.
Sukuna just stares at you for a long moment, his brows drawing together in mock concentration before another helpless laugh escapes him as he shakes his head in defeat.
"No idea." He snorts, raking a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. "I figured I'd think of something in the car."
You burst out laughing again, swatting his shoulder as you double over, nearly collapsing into his chest. "You seriously think that would've worked?"
"I was very committed to making it work," he answers, trying to look serious, but his eyes are bright with laughter.
Before you can get another word in, he leans forward and peppers your cheeks and neck with a relentless barrage of rough kisses until you're laughing too hard to fight him off, your hands doing little more than getting in the way.
Finally, he sets you back on your feet, steadying you with a firm grip on your waist before pushing himself up out of the chair. "Now go get dressed, brat."
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who was shit out of luck for a couple weeks when his last plug got in legal trouble, leaving him to deal with his nephew fully aware of every stupid thing that toddler did. he got the contact of another supplier nearby.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who first contacted you over the phone. he was surprised you were a woman, but that's really it. he thought of it proceeding as normal business. he'd order, someone would deliver it personally. however, the thing did surprise him was when his stuff was in pink packaging — even the blunts had pink wrapping paper with bows.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who got a bit ticked off at the fact one of your deliverers was jacking up the price, so he decided to meet you in person next time.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who met you after a series of unfortunate events following him being scammed out his money (leading to your deliverer being hospitalized). in all honesty, the act of you showing up at his door with not only his weed looking like a gender reveal present, but also looking like the cutest thing in the world, threw him off.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼upplier! reader who has worked with children before turning to this choice in career.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who ended up introducing you to his nephew, yuji after a couple of times. " damn brat doesn't know what 'go upstairs and play with your toys' means. " he grumbled under his breath, glaring at the boy who seemed to have barely started kindergarten.
" he's so adorable! " your squeal made him suck his teeth and roll his eyes. you cradled yuji in a hug, he was clinging to you like a koala on a branch. " and he's strong for his age. you have the cutest nephew...! " yuji started appearing every time you arrived to sukuna's apartment; you treated him like he was your nephew.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who would show up to your apartment unannounced sometimes with yuji holding his finger, which barely fit in his hand. a good once a month, megumi, yuji's kindergarten friend would come along too (he would drag him along). " he brought a friend, " sukuna's deep voice deadpanned.
you were hesitant about letting two children barely over 5 years old into your space where substances were present. but you hid them good enough so they wouldn't accidentally find it.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who questioned your true intentions with your field of choice when he got back from running whatever errands that caused him to drop off yuji and his playdate at your home. " how'd you get this job? i'm wonderin'... " he scrunched his face in concern, " you seem better with kids. "
" being a teacher doesn't pay the bills as it should," you responded, pulling the homemade cookies from the oven. " cookies are done, boys! " your voice pulled them from megumi teaching yuji how to make shadow animals on the wall, watching them race to gobble all of the crumbs left.
" use your manners. " sukuna lifted yuji by his collar, making him squirm. " thamk you! " he spoke with a mouth full. " gross, itadori. you're getting crumbs everywhere, " megumi repulsed.
᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼upplier! reader who used the fact she was sukuna's plug and his babysitter as a way to get closer to him.
Line cook!Simon who's been sweet on you lately, always making sure to get your tables tickets out as fast as possible, and managing to sneak you a snack during your shifts.
He always brushes it off, shrugging about it when you ask, 'was tryin' somethin' new ou', luv, tell me f'its good, yeah?', knowing he would never let you eat anything less than delicious. Regardless, hes always eagerly watching for your approval, wanting to see that stupid smile on your face as you gush about his work.
Waitress!Reader whos saved plenty of money on meals, because even with your employee discount, appetisers and sides cost a fair bit of money when it adds up over the week. Not that it mattered anymore, Simon was always using his cooks discount to get you main meals, 'no' gonna le' 'is luvie, go hungry, will 'e?'
Head chef!Price who cocks a brow every time SImon does it, but never pries. Game is game, after all.
Simon who always makes sure to give you a lift home, even when you finish earlier than him, using his break to do so. He also manages to learn that your crappy studio flat is in the bad part of town...
Line cook!Simon who is quick to suggest you moving in with him. He lives close to your uni, you'd save money on rent, and be able to travel to work together most days.
You're quick to agree, it sounding like a dream to not worry about rent or transport and to live with your friend who's been so sweet to you!
Now he just has to figure out how to ask you out and address your lack of self preservation, because really luv, youd only known him a few months...
A/n: wait guys I might lowkey be onto something, let me cook up my idea 🫰
ALSO, if there are any specific posts of mine that you want a part 2 for, let me know cause im struggling to decide ("-ࡇ-)
Waitress!reader, who's a new hire, working part time in a restaurant to make just enough money to support yourself through uni.
Youve been having the absolute worst day, from losing the assignment that you were supposed to hand in today and getting reamed out by your professor, to having dropped a tray of waters at the start of your shift, a preemptive sign that the rest of your night would be tough.
You're just trying to make it through your shift, when you get a table of crude, middle aged men, who make you feel anything but pleasant.
You do your best to cater to their needs and try be as polite and neutral as possible, despite wanting to give them to another waiter, but as usual, the restaurant is overwhelmed and understaffed.
Line cook!Simon who's been watching the pretty little new hire get progressively stressed as your shift goes on. His heart aches for you a bit. A pretty little thing, doing her best to make ends meet, whilst dealing with idiot customers.
Simon who feels his jaw tighten whem you come back into the kitchen, teary eyed, explaining to another server how one of the men at your table tried to hit on you and grabbed the back of your thigh.
Simon who tells you to sit in the walk-in for a bit, whilst he goes to deal with your table, he was needing some fresh air anyway.
Simon who soon comes into the walk-in pantry with a little plate of chips and hands it to you with his now-bruised hands. He pats your head softly, before gruffly saying 'take a break, yeah luv? Go' someone on yer tables'
...Line Cook!Simon who refuses to address his soft spot for you, telling the whole kitchen to shut up when teasing him about it. They can see the faint pink on the tips of his ears though.
a rabbit-hearted girl, frozen in the headlights || Simon "Ghost" Riley
pairing → Simon "Ghost" Riley & Reader
summary → It's the first time your team, the 141, sees the other you during a mission—the animal, the wolf, the monster—and it's everything you've feared it would be. They're afraid of you, afraid of your violent nature you can never fully control. But your handler, Ghost, makes you understand nothing could be further from the truth.
warnings → fem!reader, k9!hybrid!reader, shapeshifter!reader, reader's first appearance in her wolf form let's go, (canon-typcial?) violence, blood, reader gets injured, angst & hurt/comfort, big on the hurt but even bigger on the comfort, misunderstandings, protective!Ghost, reader gets so many pets in this, no use of y/n
author's note → This was actually the first thing I wrote for "wolf to the slaughter" when the series didn't exist yet like three years ago. I edited and wrote like 5k additional words of it, and now it's officially part of the series!! I'm so excited to post this, I really, really love this part so much, and it does hold a special part in my heart because it was the actual starting point of the series, and I really hope you'll like this part as much as I do! Let me know what you think about this, every like, reblog or comment is hugely appreciated! 💕 Title is from Florence + The Machine's "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)".
word count → 7k
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You taste blood, the warm liquid flooding your mouth immediately as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your enemy.
You feel the man's bones shatter under the force of your jaw, sharp shards boring into the roof of your mouth, but you pay it no mind, only ceasing when you stop sensing the soldier’s heartbeat. You let the lifeless body drop to the ground, already having located your next target taking cover behind a destroyed wall in the next room over, breathing heavily while reloading his gun. But you are determined to get to him before he can fire another bullet.
Smoke and dirt fill your lungs as you leap forward, the stench of gunpowder invading your senses and the sound of weapons firing all around you ringing in your ears, but still you are acutely aware of your surroundings. You can accurately pinpoint the different positions of your team members, can distinguish their voices over the deafening noises of the battlefield, can hear everything they're yelling to each other over their comms—even though comprehending each and every word takes a lot of concentration from your animal brain which you simply cannot sustain in this form while fighting in an active firefight.
So you primarily focus on the most important things: Protecting your team and incapacitating anyone remotely hostile.
Because, to their great misfortune, it's the same for the enemy soldiers currently fighting you and your team. You know where they stood or cowered, sensing their elevated heartbeats, hearing even the faintest of movement which makes you able to predict where they will run to, take aim or cover.
Like this, transformed into the wolf slumbering at all times beneath your human form, you're better than everyone around you, faster, stronger, more resilient, fighting heavy automatic weapons and explosives with only claws and fangs, but still your enemies stand no chance against you. If they see or even hear you, it is already too late for them.
Your target emerges from his protected spot, standing tall and bravely aiming his rifle at your running form, his finger about to pull the trigger when you pounce on him with a snarl, latching on to his arm before he can take his shot.
The man screams in pain and horror, trying in vain to free himself from your bite, which only causes you to growl lowly and sink your teeth deeper into his flesh, your strength outmatching that of a mere human by far. You easily oppose his frantic but meek attempts at shaking you off, and you allow yourself to give in to this tempting little game of tug-of-war, pulling with just enough force to counter the man’s unimpressive strength, letting neither of you gain the upper hand just yet.
“Stop playing with your food, Fangs!” a booming voice then suddenly sounds across the battlefield, a direct command from your handler you understand and obey without hesitation. You are in enough trouble with Ghost as it is, having transformed on a mission without his authorization, which could just earn you a permanent place in the silver-enforced kennel on base and your old collar and muzzle to top it off.
With one swift and abrupt pull, you claim your victory against the enemy soldier, making him scream in agony as you all but rip his arm from his body, breaking bones and tearing flesh and muscle just as easily as the fabric of his clothes.
The man drops to the ground with a dull noise, his gun following with a clatter before you let go of his arm that limply lands next to the soldier’s head, his blood now staining the fur around your muzzle and front, making it wet and cling to your body unpleasantly, the taste of blood almost unbearably strong on your tongue.
Nausea hits you unexpectedly and all at once, a slight tremor taking hold of your body despite yourself, and your gaze frantically searches for your handler among the chaos of the destroyed house.
That is, until you hear Soap curse to your right, too Scottish for you to understand, probably even in your human form, which makes it impossible for you to comprehend now. Still, your ears instinctively turn in the direction of his voice, your eyes following immediately after, and suddenly you can't move a single muscle in your body, simply frozen to the spot in the middle of an active battlefield. Because as your teammate's impossible blue eyes meet yours, usually so kind and gentle when regarding you, you realize what he said wasn't an expression of excitement or delight at your way of handling enemy soldiers.
Human facial expressions are even harder for you to interpret in your wolf form than spoken words, but repulsion and fear are things you have been regarded with all your life, and you just know this is what you see written all across the Sergeant's face at this very moment.
Your hackles rise immediately as you shift your body weight back, the feeling of lightheadedness and shortness of breath taking hold of you suddenly and without warning.
It was always bound to happen like this. Desperately, you have clung to the naive hope your team would accept you as you are, as the hybrid capable of turning into the monster of their childhood stories. That they would trust you no matter what. And for a while, it seemed like they had, looking out for you on base and accommodating you wherever they could, never making you feel less for being different, never letting themselves be blinded by the stories and warnings surrounding your kind.
But now, seeing you like this for the very first time, seeing your true colors, brutal and wild, reduced to nothing more than an animal, they realize just how dangerous you really are, that they should've been afraid of you this whole time.
That you're not a friend at all—only a threat, never to be trusted.
A low and dangerous growl forms in your throat without you meaning to, your awareness narrowed to only you and Soap facing each other, but the sound suddenly turns into a high-pitched wail, white-hot pain exploding through your body.
A bullet pierces your flank, ripping open your flesh, and you stagger to the side with the force of it. Soap yells something unintelligible to you at the same moment Ghost’s voice registers in your mind, more gunshots ringing in the air before you regain your footing and can think clearly again.
Your eyes flicker from Soap to Ghost to your attacker hitting the ground, lying unmoving on the dirty ground in a pool of his own blood. You make a displeased noise, your tail flicking in annoyance behind you when you take several steps towards the lieutenant, pain shooting through your body with every single one. The man in question gives you what is most likely an unsympathetic look over above the edge of his skull mask, and the tilt of his head foretells that a long lecture is waiting for you as soon as your team would be back on base, holding a monologue about distractions on the battlefield and that the slight limp you will have to endure for the next day or two has been your fault alone. And he would be right about it, of course, which would only sour your mood further, hiding under the covers of your bed in his room and licking your metaphorical wounds while resisting doing the same to your literal ones.
“You alright, pooch?” Soap calls then, his eyes and weapon trained on another enemy, downing the soldier before looking over to you again, not sounding overly worried, but at least that horrible look has disappeared from his eyes. Not that he actually has to worry about you. Even with a gunshot wound like this it isn't necessary for you to take a trip to the infirmary; your wolf form also gifts you with an accelerated healing ability that you don't possess before transforming. As long as you're not hit with anything made from silver, the wound will close on its own quickly and the blood loss will only be minimal.
Instead of giving Soap any sort of comprehensible answer you could provide in this form, a growl forms deep in your throat as one last enemy soldier decides to seal his fate and storm into the destroyed room, his weapon at the ready. But before he—or Ghost or Soap for that matter—can fire, you already jumped at him and thrown him to the ground, holding him down with one massive paw of yours on his chest. Your long and sharp claws rip open his skin and only sink deeper into his flesh while you bare your teeth. The soldier's scream is silenced by the sound of his neck breaking into a thousand pieces under the force of your bite, fueled by your frustration, anger, and anxiety about this mission, your transformation and Soap’s reaction to you—the other you.
Not the human with the funny ears and tail that always betray her feelings, the one that can track down Gaz's lost hat within moments because of her amazing sense of smell and gets uncharacteristically excited when she spots a squirrel climbing on one of the trees near the base.
No, this is the version of you that the special forces are interested in—interested in controlling and having it fight for them.
The hybrid.
The descendant of the werewolf.
The monster.
The reason why the military has been the only place left for you. A place where, for once in your life, you're accepted, not feared, even if only by a handful of people.
Or so you have hoped.
“Fangs.”
Ghost’s voice, calm but firm, snaps you out of your thoughts and immediately you let go of the soldier's corpse, his lifeless eyes staring back at you full of terror, his head hardly connected to the rest of his body anymore.
You trot over to your handler, your head hanging low, avoiding any eye contact with him and Soap. You come to a stop next to Ghost, close but not touching, your whole body still tense with your ears pinned tightly to your head and your tail down.
There are no more enemies left, the only living people you can sense nearby are your team—Ghost and Soap in the house with you and Gaz and Price just outside of it, emerging from a neighboring building, on their way to regroup with the rest of you.
But still, you can't calm yourself, can't shake off the restlessness and anxiety that have taken hold of you. The stillness of the battlefield feels like it's crushing you, suffocating you, while you can only wait for the inevitable to happen. For your captain and Gaz to enter the room and see what you have done, what you are capable of. For them to look at you the same way Soap has looked at you. For all the trust and friendship you have built with the team over the last several months to be lost in a single moment.
“Don’t worry.”
When you look up at Ghost, he's already watching you, his brown eyes gentler than you have ever seen them before, and you feel yourself relax just a fraction. As your handler, Ghost is the only one who has seen you like this before, not in action but in this form, and both then and now, his calm, almost indifferent reaction to the other you and your abilities comfort you greatly. And you have believed, against your better judgment, that the rest of your teammates would have a similar reaction, that they would, after having gotten to know you, recognize that the beast they saw before them was still you at its heart.
But seeing how Soap has responded to you in this form, you have little hope that it will be any different with Gaz and Price.
Seconds later, the captain and the sergeant enter the room, their low conversation abruptly stopping as they take in the aftermath of the fight that has happened here only moments before. A low whistle sounds from Price as his eyes scan the mutilated bodies scattered all across the room while Gaz actually freezes in the doorway for a good few seconds.
“Holy shit,” he mumbles under his breath before following the captain into the room. You watch their boots step over debris and dead soldiers, not brave enough to meet their eyes and see the look on their faces as they realize that the stories about you and your kind are true, that your nature is brutal and ruthless, and that you never can be fully trusted and therefore will never truly be a part of their team.
Before you can even think about stopping it, a growl breaks through the silence surrounding you, pained and angry, having no other outlet for your fears and frustration while you were in this form. The air around you shifts immediately, your teammates tensing up around you, except for Ghost by your side. You see Gaz taking a step back and Soap gripping his weapon tighter, and suddenly you feel the ground underneath your paws crumble.
Your team—your family, your pack—has rejected you, like everyone in your life you thought had come to care about you has done before. The realization would have brought tears to your eyes in your human form, the loneliness and heartbreak restricting your throat painfully until it's hard for you to take a single breath. But now, with your mind trapped in a wild animal’s body, you can only make yourself smaller, cowering next to your handler with your tail instinctively tucking itself between your hind legs.
You don't notice the confused and concerned glances your teammates share over your head, the way Gaz takes a hesitant step in your direction at the same time Soap tentatively opens his mouth only to be stopped by a firm shake of his head from Ghost.
Your mind barely registers your handler's words as he calmly tells the rest of the team that you and he will check the perimeter one last time before getting the hell out of here, Kyle and Price having successfully collected and secured all the data the 141 has been tasked to retrieve before you were suddenly attacked.
As you limp behind your handler, your head hanging low and your usually sharp eyes almost unseeing, you hope, desperately, that your team knows you would never hurt them.
You can't tell them, not in this form, but you hope, after all, that they know.
You feel Ghost's eyes following your every move as you patrol between the now abandoned and destroyed buildings, walking ahead of him, your ears flicking this way and that, your eyes following just as frantically as you scan your surroundings, knowing very well that you and your teammates are the only living beings—four soldiers and one lonely monster—left in the area.
Still, you can't seem to calm yourself, even this eerie stillness of the battlefield after the fight too loud and overwhelming to your senses, the stench metallic of blood and gunpowder ever-present, carrying it with you, the substances clinging to your fur, staining it.
With every step you take, your paws create little clouds of dust rising from the dry ground, lingering in one spot longer than yourself as you restlessly move ahead of your handler only to circle back a few moments later, brushing past him and again ahead of him, before continuing this little routine anew.
Your tail flicks behind you in agitation, but with every step you take, with every circle you complete, you regain some composure, the sound of your pulse roaring in your ears slowly ebbing away as your heartbeat calms, finding great comfort in the fact that whenever you turn around, the Lieutenant is still behind you, still following with steady steps and regarding you with the same imperturbable expression through his mask.
The grip on his weapon is attentive and fighting-ready, trained soldier as he is, but his gaze is solely focused on you, just as aware that every possible threat has been systematically neutralized by the team.
But when you abruptly stop in front of him, every muscle pulling taut in your body, a low growl rumbling through your chest, ready to attack at a moment's notice, his attention too snaps back into place, training his weapon up at the balcony that has evidently caught your attention.
At first, he can't discern anyone or anything up there, but Ghost knows by now not to question your instincts in matters like these, trusting them completely, even with how distracted and worked up you still are about the rest of the team seeing the other you for the first time.
He deliberately slows his breathing when something moves on the balcony, the barrel of his weapon following the movement as his finger grazes against the trigger, not in the mood for any more surprises today—
—only to immediately drop his rifle again when nothing more but a little calico cat steps out of the shadow, its head held high as it slips through the railing of the balcony, gracefully and noiselessly jumping down onto the roof of the house underneath before hopping down from there too, landing on the dusty street right in front of you and him.
Ghost fights the urge to roll his eyes behind his mask—so much for trusting your supernatural instincts; your transformation in front of the team must've taken even more out of you than he thought—as the feline slinks closer to you specifically.
It's almost comical how fast the fight leaves your body and you all but drop to the ground, making yourself as small and non-threatening as possible, which in this form is a hopeless endeavor, he fears. Transformed, you're bigger than even the largest species of wolves on the planet, your head reaching his chest, just standing on your four legs while your paws are quite literally the size of his own head. Still, you desperately try your best to communicate to this little feline in front of you that you're completely friendly, your ears and eyes turned firmly forward while your tail starts to wag in cautious excitement behind you, every ounce of your attention now fixed on the cat.
Ghost can't decide if he should laugh or sigh at this ridiculous picture you make, so he just stays quiet, not wanting to ruin this moment, ruin this welcome distraction from your current worries.
By now he knows you well enough to be aware of how much you adore cats—and that this love is tragically one-sided. Even in your human form, cats give you a wide berth whenever they spot you, hissing at you when you try to get closer to them before simply bolting away from you, and he can't imagine it will be any different after you have transformed, but he lets you have this moment. After all, maybe this cat will finally surprise both of you and take a liking to you, even when you must be the largest and most terrifying dog this little kitty has ever seen in all of its nine lives.
God knows you could use this small comfort, he thinks.
The cat continues to take deliberate steps towards you, and both you and Ghost dare not to move even an inch as to not scare it away now, waiting with bated breath to see what it will do next. Ghost doesn't pretend to be an expert on cats, always having been more of a dog person—even wishing for a puppy from Santa when he was maybe seven years old and somehow, in its own strangely ironic way, being granted that wish almost thirty years later when the brass had decided to make him your handler—but as far as he's concerned the little feline seems relaxed and curious about you.
When it steps right into your personal space, you almost can't keep the exciting wagging of your tail under control anymore, your whole body vibrating with barely contained elation. You wait in breathless anticipation for what it'll do next—maybe sniff you cautiously at first before rubbing its little head against you? Would it maybe even cuddle up to you eventually, purring contentedly while being pressed close to you? You have half a mind to just transform back right this moment, even if it means leaving you stark naked in front of your handler, just to be able to pet the cat, to pick it up and hold it in your arms!
But your dreams are shattered when the little feline stops right in front of you, just centimeters away from where your head rests between your paws on the dusty ground, and suddenly its whole demeanor changes, hissing angrily before swiping with one paw at you, its razor-sharp claws striking you right across your sensitive nose.
You can't help but yowl in surprise and indignation, your nose stinging terribly as you jump up to your full height again, snarling viciously at the cat as it bolts away, vanishing into the shadows of a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
For a split second, the violent urge to retaliate—to track the cat through this whole ghost town and to corner it, to sink your teeth into its weak little body, breaking every bone in it, warm blood flooding your mouth as its lifeless body hangs from your jaw—flares up in your mind. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and you're left standing there shocked and dumbfounded, baring your teeth as an angry growl rips from your throat, the sound low and dangerous even to your own ears, but you don't move. Only staring in the direction where the little cat has vanished in betrayal.
But before you can even begin to wallow in your sorrow, a laugh rings out behind you, raspy and unguarded, and your head whips around just in time to watch your handler regain control of himself, his shoulders shaking and his brown eyes crinkling at the corners behind his mask with fading laughter. You're dimly aware you've never made Ghost laugh before since joining the 141, but your nose, feelings, and pride are bruised too badly for you to truly acknowledge this fact.
Without thinking, you snarl at him, betrayed and angry that your handler would make fun of you after everything that has happened today, your teeth on full display while your ears are pinned back against your head—only to realize too late what you're doing.
You freeze instantly, panic and dread choking you as you frantically try to think of a way to apologize to Ghost without having a shared language at your disposal, to somehow communicate to him that you didn't mean it, that it was just an accident, to tell him you accept every punishment he deems fit for your transgression—locking you away in the kennel on base or having you wear the silver collar again—if he just doesn't hurt you.
You whimper pathetically when your handler wordlessly takes a step towards you, your terrified eyes never leaving his approaching form as you cower in front of him, your ears and tail instinctively tucking close to your body, making yourself as small as possible.
Ghost stops dead in his tracks immediately, regarding you with an unreadable look in his brown eyes as his jaw ticks almost indiscernibly beneath the thick fabric of his mask. Then he simply lifts his gloved hands in a placating manner, one hand still holding his rifle, and murmurs, "Easy there", followed by your name.
When that doesn't seem to calm you down in the slightest, even backing further away from him while your eyes never leave his, he crouches down in front of you, trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible for a man of his size and stature, going as far as gently lowering his weapon to the ground next to him.
"'m not gonna hurt you, I promise, Fangs," he says then, his voice deadly serious while being softer than you ever heard it before. "I'd never hurt you, you understand? Just want to take a look at your nose, that's all."
Ghost lets his words hang in the tense space between the two of you, simply staying put as he watches you assessing him, still curled into yourself protectively. You whine quietly, desperately wanting to believe your handler while knowing the painful consequences of misplacing your trust in someone. But you're also achingly aware he's never given you a reason not to—freeing you of your restraints the moment he met you, always looking out for you on base, dragging you to the infirmary no matter how small your wound, and willingly sharing his room with you, sacrificing what little privacy he's granted on base just so you have a comfortable place to rest.
And even after months of him being your handler and you trailing after him like a little lost puppy, he's seemingly never tired of your presence despite not being able to stand anyone else talking to him for more than ten minutes at a time—his own team included. He just continues to accommodate you without comment or complaint, never losing his patience with you even though you're nothing but trouble for him, never raising his voice at you.
(Except for the time he saw you happily munching on a piece of chocolate Gaz has kindly shared with you, Ghost having all but shouted at poor confused you, demanding what you were doing while hauling you towards the base's hospital until you explained with tears in your eyes that chocolate isn't dangerous to you at all. Just to almost disprove your own point the very next day, having gotten sick from eating all the chocolates he has gotten you as an apology for his earlier behavior without restraint, your hoarse voice explaining to him between waves of nausea that you really can tolerate chocolate just fine, except apparently in large quantities when you're not used to eating much of it. Your handler just hummed noncommittally, still a little unconvinced, still a little guilty, as he gently held your hair.)
Your heart still pounds anxiously against your ribs as you slowly get up from your cowered position, taking tentative step after tentative step towards Ghost, your nose stinging and your flank protesting with a dull but manageable ache while you desperately hope you're not wrong about him.
But your handler simply proves again that he more than deserves your trust when he simply waits for you to make your way towards him, watching you patiently before slowly getting up when you come to a stand right in front of him, his weapon still on the ground beside him and his hands where you can clearly see them.
"Atta girl," he mumbles proudly and gingerly holds out one of his hands, palm facing up, without touching you. You look down at it, then up at him where his brown eyes watch you with nothing but kindness, and you only hesitate for one more second before letting your head rest heavily against the offered hand, nuzzling against it, relief washing over you almost violently.
Ghost chuckles quietly as he starts rubbing strong fingers along your jaw, his touch more pleasant and relaxing than you could've ever anticipated. Eventually, he brings his other hand to your face and you allow him to gently tilt your head upwards, his eyes sweeping critically over your bruised nose.
You think you see him wince in sympathy behind his mask as he declares matter-of-factly, "Little cat got you good."
But his words only register at the margins of your mind as you're too busy melting against his palms, sensing the warmth of his skin even through the material of his gloves, and your tail starts to wag behind you in cautious excitement all on its own.
"We'll find you a cat that likes you someday, I promise, pup," Ghost adds just as one of his hands wanders between your ears, giving the top of your head a hearty scratch. It punches a sound of pure bliss straight from your chest, making him bite back another chuckle while he continues to pet you, wondering absentmindedly if your fur would feel as soft between his fingers as it looks like.
The two of you silently stay like this for a long while, your wagging tail gaining more and more velocity the longer your handler's fingers run through your fur, scratching behind your ears and petting your head and down your neck. Ghost only stops his caressing when his eyes catch sight of your flank, dried blood making your fur stick together where the bullet has ripped open your skin.
"Gonna have a look at that too, yeah?" he tells you as he moves to your side, carefully examining the wound which is already closed by now. His fingers gently press against the still tender skin, brushing your fur the wrong way just to get a better look at it.
"Bullet went clean through," he says, more to himself than to you, his voice sounding equal parts surprised and impressed. "Really weren't lying when you said you heal fast, huh."
You chuff in agreement, impatient for him to continue petting you. When he doesn't return to his earlier position fast enough for your liking, too fascinated by your surreal healing ability, you give him a nudge with your head, intending for only a soft push. But you underestimate your own strength in this form in contrast to that of a mere human and send your handler, despite his build and mass, staggering a few steps to the side.
"Fuckin' impatient," you hear him complain without any heat behind it, but his voice gets drowned out by the euphoric rush washing over you when his fingers return to scratching behind your ears and under your chin, eliciting an elated rumble from deep within your chest.
Ghost shakes his head in amused exasperation but continues to dutifully stroke your fur, noticing that his gloves, but also his pants and shirt have already started collecting your hair on them and wondering who on base could provide him with a lint roller.
"Getting shot today was absolutely stupid and unnecessary," your handler eventually tells you, completely unprompted, and while you agree with him, it's not something you're keen to hear at the moment, too busy reveling in the first gentle touches you received in literal years. That is, until his next words register in your mind, making your eyes snap open despite yourself and look up at him in complete and utter shock.
"But I'm proud of you, Fangs."
His hands move so he's holding up your head, forcing you to keep looking at him even when every instinct in you begs you to lower your eyes, helplessly overwhelmed. And Ghost doesn't stop there either, brown eyes boring meaningfully into your own as he continues speaking.
"You did well today. Was the right decision to transform, even without my authorization. You saved this mission and all of us, you hear me?"
You do hear his words, but it's difficult for you to process them, much less to believe them. Your whole life, you've been nothing but a burden, a dangerous thing needing to be controlled and contained, so you can't just accept your handler's words now.
Futilely, you try to escape his hold on you, to shake him off, but Ghost's fingers only tighten along your jaw, firm but not painful—never painful. For someone usually not overly keen on prolonged eye contact himself, he's very adamant about this, about you absorbing what he's saying and understanding and trusting the truth in his words.
"I'm not afraid of you like this, and neither are the others," he says when you stop struggling against him, his usually gruff voice uncharacteristically gentle and sincere. You don't know if he's aware of how desperately you have longed to hear these words for a long, long time; for someone, anyone, to tell you that they see you as more than the monster of their childhood fairy tales, see the real you even when transformed. It leaves you shell-shocked, unable to do anything more than to stare up at him, the storm of emotions forming in your chest threatening to overpower you while your throat constricts painfully.
But still, Ghost is not done.
"Price, Kyle, Johnny—they're not used to seeing you like this, but that's all. They trust you, trust your instincts, trust you with their lives, just like I do. Earlier, back in the house, that was nothing more than a misunderstanding, I promise you."
A second passes, and then another one, and then you do the only thing that makes any sense to you in this moment.
You press close to him, as close as you can, forcing Ghost's hands to fall away from your jaw as you rest your head heavily against his sternum where his heartbeat is loudest, putting a little too much of your weight against him, but he doesn't object. Doesn't tell you off or push you away like you feared he would.
Instead, he simply puts his strong arms around you as best as he can and holds you close, his fingers sinking into your fur, not letting go of you for a long while.
The flight back to your current base is uncharacteristically quiet, no mindless chatter can be heard from Soap just to fill the space, no attempts to bait either Gaz or Ghost into a friendly, albeit not less heated argument, are started by him, and not even a casual conversation between the four men starts to form like it usually does even when fatigue begins to settle heavily in their bones after a mission.
Instead, the only sounds filling the tense silence inside the aircraft are the hum of the plane's engine, one of the men shifting in their places, or the occasional cough or hum from someone or another.
Still transformed, you're lying down a little way away from where your team is sitting strapped into their seats, your head resting wearily on your paws as you pretend to not watch your teammates anxiously, who in return pretend their eyes are not also flitting over to your corner from time to time, exchanging worried and helpless glances between each other in the meantime.
Despite Ghost's words, you're still wary of approaching the rest of your team, especially when you can't yet properly communicate with them to show them that you're still you. Still fear that having seen you on the battlefield, having witnessed what you're capable of, has damaged your friendship with them irreparably—that even if they're not afraid of you, they can never truly forget this glimpse of the savage animal slumbering underneath your human facade at all times.
Wallowing in your self-pity, you must've accidentally made a little noise, because suddenly four pairs of eyes are firmly fixed on you with varying degrees of concern visible in them. It's Soap who eventually speaks up first, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.
"How're you feeling, Fangs?" he asks you carefully, leaning forward in his seat and letting his gaze sweep over your body where it inevitably gets stuck on your hind leg, the area still an unsightly mess of bloody fur and tender skin. "The wound giving you trouble?"
He looks and sounds heartbreakingly guilty, almost as if he's blaming himself for you getting hurt back in the house. Perplexed, you stare up at him before vehemently shaking your head, your ears following the movement comically. You vocalize a sound, trying to make him understand that the injury is nothing to be concerned about, that he can probably watch it heal during the rest of the flight, only to remember in frustration that words are currently not something at your disposal.
Your head whips around to where Ghost is seated, his gaze already trained on you, and you give him a pleading look, begging him to explain what you're not capable of in the moment instead. Your handler sighs heavily, as if what you're asking of him is a great burden, but answers your request anyway.
"Don't worry, MacTavish," Ghost addresses the Scot, his eyes meeting his teammate's blue ones for only a second before returning to yours, "she's alright. Had a look at it myself. Bullet went through cleanly and the wound's already closed itself."
"Fuckin' hell," is all Soap can reply as his blue eyes widen in surprise, looking as impressed as Gaz and Price at their teammate's words.
"Still," the Scot says to you after a moment, shifting in his seat as if he just can't get comfortable, "I'm so fuckin' sorry that you got hurt because of me, Fangs. Wasn't my intention to distract you, I just didn't realize how strong you actually are like this."
He says it like it's a compliment, like it's something to be admired, something you can be proud of, and it wrecks you completely. Not to mention that you can't recall the last time someone sincerely apologized to you.
When you don't react, too stunned and moved by his words, Soap makes a move to open his safety belt, but you're faster than him.
In the blink of an eye, you're up and in front of him, and without checking your strength, you press close to him, your head all but slamming directly into poor Johnny's stomach, who doubles over with a breathless 'oof'. But to his credit, he recovers immediately, even before you can freeze in horror at having accidentally hurt your teammate, and throws his arms around you, welcoming this opportunity to pet you to his heart's content.
He's ashamed to admit it, because it makes him every bit a bastard as the people constantly taunting and insulting you on base, invading your personal space and grabbing you without your consent, but he's always wanted to touch your ears, always wondered if they're as soft as they look. But now that you've initiated the touch yourself, he allows himself to carefully trace a finger over the shell of one ear, over the little notches where pieces of skin are missing, watching your reaction closely so he can stop the moment you show any signs of being uncomfortable. But judging from your happily wagging tail, you seem to thoroughly enjoy it, especially when he begins to scratch behind your ear.
Just as Soap's hand moves to the side of your head to give you a good and affectionate ruffling, chuckling in boyish delight while the continuous thumping noises your tail makes on the floor of the plane get faster and faster, he stops his ministrations abruptly when he notices the sorry state of your nose.
Concerned, he guides your face closer to his, trying to get a better look at the cuts visible on this sensitive part of your body, and asks, "What happened to your nose, pooch?"
You only huff in annoyance, not keen on having your embarrassing one-sided scuffle with the little cat repeated to your teammates, but Ghost doesn't share that sentiment.
"Cat," he simply tells the rest of the team, the smirk audible in his voice.
There is a beat of silence before Price closes his eyes and grins while Gaz and Soap break out into unrestrained laughter.
"Ohh, did the big bad wolf try to make friends with a cat again and got her ass handed to her?" Soap teases by literally baby-talking to you, a fat grin plastered across his face which only grows bigger when you growl lowly and bare your teeth at him, clearly not as amused by your little misadventure with the cat as the rest of the team.
"Look at these pearly whites," the Scot continues undeterred, still using that stupid baby talk with you, "look how scary you are!"
You roll your eyes at him, but halfway through the motion, Soap begins to scratch under your chin which forces your eyes to fall shut in pure pleasure, a happy sigh escaping you as he shows no sign of stopping to pet you anytime soon.
Besides, you can't really be mad at him, or the rest of the team for that matter, for poking a little harmless fun at you, not when Ghost was right and your teammates really do accept you for who, and what, you are.
Not when you finally have found a place among people who genuinely care about you.
The rest of the flight is defined by your tail thumping joyfully against the metal floor of the plane while you happily let Gaz and Soap try basically every stupid thought that comes into their minds with you.
At first, they're just petting you in tandem until Soap has the brilliant idea to stick a finger into your mouth and curl it around one of your massive canines, tugging while you playfully pull against him, obviously using only a fraction of your strength. Otherwise, you'd simply drag him out of his seat, or worse, bite his finger off like it's nothing.
Now, the two muppets are amusing themselves with putting Gaz's iconic hat on your head and taking pictures of you while you sit primly in front of them, seemingly not opposed to their antics at all. They even try begging Price for his bucket hat, but the captain sternly refuses.
And maybe, after the plane has landed, Ghost goes out of his way to track down Gaz again to ask the younger man to send him the pictures they have taken of you for no reason whatsoever, really. Certainly not for the pure and adorable look of happiness he can see in your eyes even in your wolf form, surrounded and accepted by the first real family you had in years.
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