vonpeachy

[vonpeachy]

Rottweiler's Callsign Story

platonic 141 x reader

summary > The mission was supposed to be an easy in and out stealth operation; however, you getting cornered by enemy guards that weren't drawn out by the team's distraction left you to desperation. Such circumstances resulting in unsavory acts needed to get out alive and back to your team. Half the blood on you might not even be yours, but you're out alive and safe.

word count > 5.6k

warnings > graphic description of blood and violence, like i'm not kidding. medical terms used to describe some of the gore. reader is described like a feral dog.

ao3

You had always been quite animalistic in your ways, vocal on the battlefield with snarls and hisses escaping your lips through the sheer effort of your tyranny. Grunts and growls being a point made to enemies you faced before absolutely thrashing them to death. Your skills with a gun whether a handgun or an assault rifle were top tier, your training made sure of it, but your real talent laid in hand to hand combat. Specializing in utilizing your own body and surroundings to tear your enemy down. It was something that had confused and yet impressed your teammates on the taskforce. They stared at you with something akin to visceral horror and pure adoration when you save their asses more than they can count. 

Whether that comes from tackling the one on top and pinning them by their throat or managing to spot an enemy that they had missed on their six. Either way, any way, they were significantly impressed by you and your prowess. Your expertise offered something new to the group. Your bones held your pride that was either to be completely snapped or remain unwounded. Your muscles flexed to show the pride that was your mortal self. Your teeth were bared to the world like a stray dog. And in a sense, that was what you were.

You were found by Laswell and Price with your fur matted and your teeth too sharp from eating trash-thrown bones. Metaphorically of course. Literally though, they were your saviors. She took you off the previous military base you would’ve died on and Price raised you like his own flesh and blood. He took the limping, ugly mutt and showed a kindness you had always heard directed at others but never you. You learned to not bite at the hand that feeds you. 

The others came later once you were settled in - learning very little of your past; only knowing what you had seethed through tight lipped smiles. At that point you were known simply as ‘hound’ to them. You’re not entirely sure how or when it came about, but it seemed to fit you for the moment. 

You weren’t exactly talkative, similar to Ghost in that aspect. That’s not to say that you didn’t learn to open up and trust, especially when you were on a mission that required trust and teamwork. Collaboration and communication were the foundation for the taskforce, and it wasn’t something you could opt out of. You mostly sat back and smiled at a few of the jokes shared, but the one time you spoke to add onto the dark humor from Simon scared the shit out of them. Even Simon was a little caught off guard despite his vehement denial. It was the start of the blossoming friendship between you and the team. 

This particular mission was no different than the others. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. Unfortunately, the world had different plans in mind for you and the boys. 

Soap had been talking your ear off and you listened in with a small smile on your face at his antics. It was amusing to you that he wasn’t put off by your scars, both physical and mental. He looked past them, not quite ignoring them but not pushing for you to spill the story behind them all if you weren’t ready. You were forever grateful for that. Gaz was in a similar vein, learning to eventually see you for who you were. Sometimes he poked and prodded you, but only in the intentions of helping you. Especially when you refused to see a therapist. Not after the last incident.

Ghost respected you at face value. The mask was who you were to him, and it didn’t make a difference in the slightest for your identity. It was a refreshing contrast to the other two who were not exactly openly prying, but their curiosity emitted from them like radiation. And you didn’t need a geiger counter to see that being near them would eventually unravel your DNA containing your secrets. Ghost simply left your skeletons in the closet lie. A needed deviation in your life. 

This mission required you to sneak into the compound in order to collect intel about nuclear weapons that a recent terrorist group had gotten their hands on. Obviously, that was a paramount issue that Shepherd had wanted the taskforce to take care of. Your boys would be creating a distraction away from your position, eventually creating a path to your location for a safe exfil after they had planted bombs around the compound. This establishment wasn’t going to be left standing after you guys were done with it if you could help it. 

“Is everyone clear on their positions?” Price’s voice breaks through the disassociation your mind had thrust you into. 

The ringing in your ears faded as the chatter began to quiet down and focus was injected into your veins. There was a small nagging feeling in the back of your mind, but you brushed it off as simple leftovers of anxiety growing mold in the fridge of your consciousness. You responded with a simple affirm alongside the rest of the team, eyes beginning to lose the dazed look within the cornea. You blink once and then twice as you take in your surroundings and run your tongue over your sharpened canines. 

Your muscles tense with anticipation, letting your legs carry you out of the truck that was about one klick from the objective. You were to be going on foot from here to avoid raising suspicion. The treeline would offer some cover for the infiltration attempt, the leaves in full swing. Unfortunately that also meant so were the bugs and thorns. You would just have to deal with it, although Soap wasn’t so easily placated.

“Fucking hell,” Soap exclaims, swatting at a very vague buzz that was swarming him.

“Here,” Gaz says, throwing Soap a can of bug spray. 

The droning and whirl of wings belonging to insects that lived long before humanity came about offers you a weird amount of comfort. It’s almost a commiseration of sorts between the creatures that nobody wanted around. You and the acarids. Nonetheless, you cover yourself in a self assumed shield of the spray that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you almost uncomfortable. The thorns and sticks pricking you through your tactical gear brings you relief. The opposite from what you presumed the others were experiencing.

It’s not like you were a masochist, peace and comfort have just never quite been something you’ve gotten used to. It’s what you’ve known most of your life and it’s what you’ll continuously go through. Much to the chagrin of your boys.

Speaking of, they appeared to be having varying levels of reaction to the harsh woodland environment. Soap has been openly complaining, although you knew it was mostly to break up the monotony of the trip alongside easing the anxiety of the others. He knew just how to utilize his personality like that and he wasn’t scared to come off as brash or even semi-annoying. You try to humor him enough to keep that spark going in his soul. That’s honestly a thought that keeps you up at night; Soap becoming like you or Ghost.

Gaz was experiencing his classic bad luck; truly trying to avoid any muddy spots or tripping on an exposed root, but it appears that it wasn’t working out for him. He had tripped over his own feet two times, an exposed root five, and almost twisted his ankle thrice. It was almost as if the woods had it out for him. You wince and make that last thing four times now as Gaz tripped over a small pebble and had to execute an almost ballerina-esque move to avoid falling face first into a puddle. It made you huff out a laugh, earning you a middle finger in your direction. Gaz truly does try his hardest in everything he does, placing expectations upon himself that nobody else even thinks of. Pressure mounting upon him that moves you to make sure he takes care of himself. You’ll be damned if you let him drown himself in the same way you do. 

Ghost was similar to your apathy, although you could tell from his body language that he was in as much discomfort as Soap was expressing. He refused to let even a slip of a grunt or groan escape from his sealed lips. His combat boots were sinking into the mud as much as Gaz, but he had significantly more coordination and confidence in his steps than Kyle did. You observed him quietly, seeing thorns stick into his skin - likely releasing the red ichor of his mortal body. Nonetheless, he braved on with only a slight wince betraying his emotions. It reminded you of how he faces his own torment and demons with nothing showing to anyone around. Not unless they’re particularly attuned to him and his distinctive micro-expressions. You know this as well as anyone, so you make a conscious effort to try and get Simon to open up to you. Not a lot, and sometimes not at all, but enough to sand down the roughness around his edges. Enough to heal him one scar at a time. 

Price was admonishing Soap for being so loud and semi-obnoxious. All in good fun, at least, at the distance you were away from the location. Given that Price was back at the car, you couldn’t exactly see what he was doing or his own personal quirks. However, you had known him long enough to know his personality and behavior. You had spent a good chunk of time analyzing the man that had offered you not only a position on this team, but a hand to help you up from your back-alley way of living. He was a tired man that needed some positive affirmation in his life if you were being honest. He had this entire team on his back alongside his position that designated him to a life chained to his work. His title delegated him to the duress that came with everyone expecting victory from you. It’s probability is down right improbable for him to always come out on top. Although, you doubt that he’s come to terms with that idea. You try your best to offer support in your own way, realizing that words alone aren’t going to cut it. You try to guide him to sleep if he’s too caught up in paperwork or offer him a cup of coffee just the way he likes it if an all-nighter is inevitable. You want to be there for him like he is for you. 

Laswell’s voice cuts through the comms and snaps you from your stupor. Kate Laswell. She offered you kindness while others offered you chains. She let you into her life instead of caging you like a feral animal. She took the muzzle off of your maw and let you speak. She presented you with a purpose outside of being a killing machine for your previous team sent in with no regard for your health or happiness. She gave you a life. One of your own. A team that you could rely on with a street of protection that goes both ways. Possibilities were opened up that you had never dared to dream of beforehand. You owed her your life, and that’s what you fought with on every mission. 

“You’re closing in on the base. Can we get a general overview of how it’s going?”

You smiled and shook your head before the Scot even opened his mouth.

“How’s it going? Oh wonderful, absolutely joyous,” Soap spoke with mock annoyance, good-natured humor shining through despite his tone.

“All is well, the intel we were given appears to be good. There should be no difficulties from our view over here,” Ghost answers, genuinely. 

“Affirm, I’m all set and ready here, Kate,” Price speaks, his commanding timbre sending rumbles down your spine and through your nervous system. 

“Remember, get in and get out, don’t get caught up in the blast,” Kate reminds you all, as if you could forget. 

A chorus of proclaimed agreements echoes throughout the trees of the forest. The silence that falls over the group afterwards makes you tense up and get into the mindset of the feral mutt that has kept you alive for this long. Your breath ends up heavy, saliva coating the inside of your jaws as you harshly swallow it down - almost choking every time you do. Your shoulders rise and fall in time with your respiration. Ghost checks in with the group one last time before you’re sent off first into the craw of the compound. Being a sacrifice is nothing new to you, but it still causes you to shudder in anticipation. Goosebumps rise all across your skin despite the temperature dictating otherwise. 

You wander forward, joints creaking in protest as you sneak around the side of the building. It’s inevitable that you have to utilize your knife, but you use it sparingly - not wanting the alarms to ring because some unfortunate soul stumbles upon the body of their fallen comrade. It’s almost second nature to you at this point and you would’ve zoned off if it wasn’t for the pure adrenaline rushing through your system.  You finally reach point A in which you reaffirm with the rest of the boys that the plan is a go and no complications have arised. 

You hear a plethora of acknowledgements before you begin to move forward with the permission of Ghost and Price. You snake cam the door before lock picking it after deeming it safe. There didn’t appear to be any enemies nearby much to your satisfaction. The less possibilities for this plan to go wrong, the better. It’s a waiting game as you come upon the stairwell door leading up to the room you were meant to infiltrate. The clock ticks down, the beats of your heart sounding out in your ears as a unit of measurement. 

Boom.

It’s the signal for you to proceed as all of the cameras are abandoned with the clicking of the gun trigger replacing the clack of keys in the office. You were all set up and ready to acquire the real reason your mission was handed out. Pushing past into the stairwell, you’re met with the surprise of an elbow to the face, effectively causing a gush of blood to start trickling down your face. Despite the advantage the enemy had from his effort of concealment working to catch you off guard, you gained your balance back quickly, and the pounding of your head did nothing to quell the vexation that led you to putting a knife in the guy’s eye. You shoot a bullet straight into his cranium with a glare, just to cover your tracks. 

You lick your chapped lips, tasting the metallic mouthful you had gotten from your little scuffle. You didn’t hear a crack, but it was definitely going to be a pain in the ass the next day. Nonetheless, you pushed on, aiming to be more aware of your surroundings. There was an odd lack of guards around the area for what seemed like the main structure. It set off warning bells in your head, but there was no turning back now. From the gunfire sounding out from below it seemed that the others would be too caught up to engage in a verbal conversation regarding your worries. Not like you weren’t confident in your own abilities, quite the opposite, but Price had managed to drill into your head that not everything had to be faced alone. Jokes on him, this situation had the appearance of it being a one man operation. 

You and your blood soaked sleeves made your way to the computer where you gathered yourself into a semi-coherent being in order to upload data from their system. The hard part was already done for you; all you had to do was plug a hard drive into a computer and wait. And that you did. You almost felt sorry for getting their keyboard all slick with your carnage escaping from your sinuses. It also felt as if you had bitten your tongue during the altercation, your mouth being yet another outlet for the liquid escaping you. You spat on the floor, maroon saliva staining it. 

Running down your neck, the blood seemed to stop at that point, trickling off into a simple seeping of gore. You consider yourself lucky, just in time for the information to be uploaded onto the hard drive you were given. You report over to Price and Laswell, a slight lisp imbued into your words due to the tip of your tongue suffering from puncture wounds your teeth had embedded into the soft muscle. They understood you perfectly fine however, and you were instructed to continue with the orders you were given. At that moment however, the lack of communication on your part about your suspicions of an ambush was coming back to bite you in the ass. Almost literally. 

A gloved hand smothers your mouth, effectively suffocating you. If the arm around your throat and its connected hand stifling your ability to productively breath wasn’t enough, there was now a knife lodged in your side. Your attacker drove the knife you suspected he took from your gear even further into your abdomen, twisting it like he was wringing out the last of his laundry. Except you were the clothes and your blood was escaping you, much to your chagrin. Fortunately for you, this particular guard was practically brain dead when it came to medical knowledge, so you were pretty confident that you were going to live. That is, if you could escape without being asphyxiated to death. 

You maneuver your maw into an opportune striking position, opening your jaws like a dog being thrown a bone. The coincidental nature of that thought would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t currently on the verge of being slaughtered and gutted like a pig. You chomp down and dig your teeth into the metacarpals of his skeleton, relishing in his grunt of pain and attempt to recoil. You were like a dog with a bone though, and you’d be damned if anyone tried to take it from you. His attempt to pry your jaws open with the hand that soon abandoned the knife in your side after the puncturing of his palm. You ground your teeth into the fat of his hand before realizing the glove was going to be an issue. You turn your teeths’ attention to his exposed wrist, aiming for his radial artery. Unfortunately for him, your fangs found their intended target and perforated his skin. You threw your head back, grasping his arm with your other hands - clawing at it like a feral beast. 

You effectively were one, your mouth full of flesh and muscle that didn’t belong to you. Although, you suppose that one could argue it didn’t belong to him either. Not anymore. You spat out the pulp of tissue, realizing that he had let you go. You put a bullet right through his eyes, spraying blood and brain matter across the room. Well deserved for someone like him. You drive your boot into his lifeless corpse, really kicking the man while he was down. Your joke, although knowing nobody alive was around to hear it, made a hysterical laugh claw its way out of your throat. Your larynx had really betrayed your deranged and volatile behavior. Your manic nature had kept you alive so far, so you supposed you had only yourself to thank. 

You shoved your bloodied tongue around your mouth, hoping to wash out the taste of human flesh. It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve tasted - that goes to Ghost’s attempts at cooking - but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. You wiped your mouth against the back of your hand, quickly realizing that it too was bloody. Red wasn’t really your color right now, otherwise you would have appreciated the look. You quickly checked over your supplies, knowing that you could make due with anything around the room or at the very least your hands, but feeling comfort in the weight of the metal contraption that delivered death at a much quicker rate. Hemorrhaging from either a knife or a gun was much more effective than your bare hands. Or teeth. 

It appears that your enemies didn’t appreciate your sentiment though, ambushing you only to take away such things from your grasp. There were two this time. They almost reminded you of Soap and Ghost, if those two were actively trying to kill you. Your boys only sometimes did that, and most of the time it was pitiful attempts. You were actually the one that got quite a few new rules implemented during training - but seriously, who stops in the middle of a fight to ask if something is legal? No-one, which is exactly why you simply did what was necessary to survive, to quote verbatim what you had said to Price as your excuse when Soap had ended up in the med bay. 

Be that as it may, these guards weren’t who you thought them akin to. Therefore, everything was on the table. Especially since they had made the grave error of giving your standard weapons a place on the backburner. Now, the only thought in your mind was kill. At all costs necessary. Your sharpened canines glinted in the dim lighting with a scarlet staining the pearly white as your mouth opened. It’s unfortunate for them that they didn’t have a muzzle on hand. 

Before the one in front of you had an opportunity to shoot you through any vital organ, you used your body weight to shove the one holding you to the ground - the bullet whizzing above you. A guttural growl escaped your throat as you turned your attention to escaping the grasp of the poor soul restraining your body. You grasp his upper arm, twisting yourself to use his body as a human shield. It would’ve made you gag if this was the first time you’ve done this. Regrettably, you have quite a bit of experience in this particular experience. 

The bullets pierced the soon to be corpse of his comrade, narrowly avoiding you except for one that grazed your side. You really were losing a lot of blood today. Making your way to safety was your biggest priority; however, that was proving difficult with leftover guards that were actually doing their job semi-well. You untucked yourself from under the weight of the stiff remains and threw yourself at the unlucky fellow who had just run out of ammo in his weapon. A simple click is all you heard as the gun escaped his grasp in favor of his bare hands. You were thrown into a chokehold yet again. These guys really did like their chokeholds. His hand gripped the knife slick with your own blood from your hands and ripped it out, leaving you to bleed to death. His mistake though was only using one hand to contain your rage filled body made of torn flesh and bones. 

You tore yourself from his grasp, with the worst luck in all of history happening with the knife getting knocked down the stairwell - sounding like a fork being dropped in the sink on its way down. You were in no condition to run or even jump after it, and the only other weapon was out of ammo, so it seemed you were yet again stuck using your bare hands. They trembled as you gathered yourself, preparing yourself for what you were being forced to do in order to escape this ordeal alive. You settled your weight into your haunches and launched yourself at the enemy, vision bloodshot and tinted red. An animalistic growl escaped yourself, sounding almost like a hyena’s maniacal laugh. Your lunge proved fruitful as your claws came into contact with his facial features, digging into his eyes to blind him. The texture of the soft tissue under your sharpened nails flexed and then ruptured. The front layers of his cornea gave way to the gooey gel similar to egg whites that filled the orbs. 

A visceral scream escaped the man below you, causing Price to finally check in over comms. At least, you think so, it was getting hard to hear with the ringing in your ears. You didn’t respond either way.

You knew that even blind, the man was still a liability. Or maybe he wasn’t, but to your addled brain firing neuron after neuron that drove you with the only thoughts occupying you being: survive and kill; well, the feral nature of yourself pushed you to make sure he was dead. You had your training to thank for that. You knew that the rest of his body was protected by the structure of his epidermis, much to your dissatisfaction. Your thoughts wandered back to the first enemy you encountered as you loomed over the blinded man. Your mind was made up.

In a split second decision, you descended your fangs into his throat, sinking your teeth into his trachea and hearing a sickening squelch of his bare flesh. The muscles gave way as you shook your head like a rabid dog, separating his tissue from their home within his body. You didn’t stop until you felt his carotid artery begin to hemorrhage. You shakily stand up, staring at the massacre you had left behind. Your jaw would definitely be sore the next day. There wasn’t a surface of you that wasn’t absolutely drenched in blood, and you couldn’t tell where yours began and theirs ended. The corpse beneath you had stopped screaming after the first puncture of your teeth - at least, you’re pretty sure. The haze surrounding your mind made thinking about it too hard. It almost fills you with a sense of regret at letting the monster you once were out of their muzzle yet again. The halfway decapitated body was left as you limped down the stairs and out a back door. 

You shambled out into the woods, faltering only twice to prevent yourself from tripping since you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to get up again after that. The rush of blood in your head faded as the sounds around you finally cascaded back into reality. You swore you could feel the dripping of blood spurting out of all open wounds in time with your heart. The chaos finally sunk in, the screaming over comms for your response demanding your attention.

“I’m,” You break up your sentence with a cough. “I’m fine,” Your voice sounds crackly and hoarse. Not that you’re surprised.

“Where the fuck are you, you were supposed to be out of there five minutes ago,” Price yells out over the radio. 

“I don’t exactly know. Somewhere out in the woods?” You respond, your head pounding.

“Ghost, find them!” Price had apparently discerned that you were in no condition to be taking in your surroundings accurately enough to ascertain an accurate location. 

“Fuck, I think I see them. Hound!”

You think you hear a faint yelling of your name, although it doesn’t quite register to your unhinged and disoriented brain. All you could tell through the muddy fog of your mind was a person. Enemy. Kill. Survive. Escape. You felt their hands on you, your throat closing up in response as you preemptively expected to be strangled half to death. You let out a snarl, baring your teeth and coming into contact with what you think is a hand. Either way, it doesn’t matter to you and you bite down with the force of a wild animal. A yelp is heard, only cementing your actions in your mind. 

“Calm the fuck down Sergeant.”

A voice cuts through the haze like a hot knife through butter. You fall limp in the grasp; whether it’s because you recognize the voice or you simply are accepting your fate is up in the air. Nonetheless, your surroundings begin to load in, your eyes stopping their constant darting around and focusing on a singular face. Or, faces. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. They had found you. You were safe. You notice Soap has a bleeding hand - your own handiwork without a doubt. Guilt floods you, your behavior similar to a puppy hearing the words ‘bad dog’ for the first time in their life. 

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. You did great, Hound,” Soap begins to say. 

“Come back to us, Love,” Gaz whispers, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. 

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” You cry out, finally feeling the effects of your pure exhaustion. 

“I don’t blame you, Jesus, you’re gonna have a hell of a story to tell us when you get all patched up again, Hound,” Soap exclaims.

“How much of this blood is yours?” Ghost finally cuts in.

“Not a lot, just where the knife was and I might’ve gotten shot.”

“Might’ve?” Soap laughs.

“Mission, guys,” Price finally interrupts. “I’m glad you’re safe, Hound.”

The mission continues, you leaning on Soap since you’re pretty sure stumbling down the stairs strained one of your ankles. You spewed out numerous apologies for his hand, but he didn’t want to hear any of it. The go ahead for the air team with Laswell to level the building was given, and the exfil point was finally reached by your ground group. At that point, you were barely conscious, hearing echoes of pet names assuring you only a little longer and to stay with them. They plagued the darkness that overtook you and greeted you as you woke up to the blinding light of the medical room. 

“Welcome back to the world of living,” Soap says. “The doctors hadn’t seen anything like you before,” He laughs. 

“Do you want to explain why they found human tissue in your mouth?” Ghost asks, his tone inquisitive.

“Shit man, let them have a bit of a break before we interrogate them,” Gaz chuckles, offering you some water, much to your appreciation. 

You gulp down the water like it was the last time you would ever get the precious liquid, your body thanking you. You sheepishly hand the empty cup back to an amused Gaz. You clear your throat, not quite ready to delve into the specifics of what you had to do to survive, but knowing you had to. Being open in communication was a non-arguable point to being a part of the taskforce. 

“Most of the blood on me when you found me was probably belonging to the man I might’ve,” You pause, “ripped the throat out of?” You rush that last part out as quickly as you could, knowing that despite your efforts, they’re going to question you.

Both Soap and Gaz’s eyes widened almost comically, both quickly exclaiming different curse words. One being Scottish curses that you could barely make out from his accent. The other being aggressively British expletives spilling out of Gaz’s mouth. Ghost simply looked upon you with what seemed to be both admiration and affirmation. You had known he would be the most likely to not be surprised at your actions. He knew what it was like to have an untamed beast within you. 

“What in the bloody hell did you say?” Price was apparently looming in the doorway, keeping himself hidden until this moment.

You cough, and ask “Is now a good time to mention I also might’ve done the same to a man’s hand?”

Soap had a horrified look upon his face. “You’re saying I could’ve lost my precious hand?”

You had almost forgotten about Soap’s injury, and stared at him with a semblance of guilt flashing across your face. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” You say quietly. 

“What happened to the good ole knife or bullet?” Soap asked, offering you his bandaged hand to hold in an offer of forgiveness and trust.

“They stole my shit, and my knife ended up kicked down a staircase after it was ripped out of me,” You pouted, the drug concoction of morphine and other such things loosening you up to talk. 

“You’re quite a rabid beast, ain’t you?” Price said, his tone betraying the fact that he was in fact quite proud of you. It wasn’t meant in a derogatory way and you knew that. You smiled in his direction, jokingly baring your teeth at your Captain. 

“Aye, I think you’re more than a baying hound at this point. Maybe Rottweiler would serve you better. That mouthful of teeth sure does remind me of my childhood,” Soap says, shivering at the thought of being the victim of your maw. 

“I hate to think of the final view those soldiers saw of you,” Gaz laughs. 

“I think Rottweiler suits you,” Ghost says. “Fearless yet loyal.”

The rest of the team nods in agreement, surrounding you with support and love. Something that still unsettles you to this day, but not in the same way facing down the barrel of a gun would. It’s a warm embrace in front of a fireplace that sends a jolt of something new down your spine. A fondness spreading like wildfire, adoration deep seated in your bones to those around you. Just like a dog, you were a fierce protector of your family, but with them? You were a tender beast that rolled over at their feet. 

You couldn’t think of anything better than that thought which warmed your heart. 

[vonpeachy]

task force 141 reacting to [reader] giving them a 'happy father's day' card — python333

— — — —

synopsis you give the tf141 boys some happy father's day cards!!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & younger!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], reader is intended to be around 16/17-20/21 but can be interpreted as older as long as they're below 24 (just so that the headcanons make more sense), maybe ooc?

note i'm so sorry but there's no gaz in this one BUT i can explain why!! i was doing my research (going through three different tumblr posts) to figure out the actual age of each character and gaz is apparently 24?? in new updates or whatever?? anyway, even before i found that out, i could only ever imagine writing him as an older brother, simply because he doesn't feel fatherly to me but still has those protecive-familial vibes so if yall want me to write something on him being ur older brother then feel free to request/reply/comment or whatever and i will! :3 this is all comfort no hurt and pure fluff so enjoy!!

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ OH GOD.

➥ man i don’t even have daddy issues and i’m crying.

➥ gives you that one dad smile he has—y’all know the one. don’t pretend you don’t—and thanks you for it.

➥ gives you a lil hug too because why not?

➥ tears up just the tiniest bit but it’s pretty unnoticeable but i need you to know that it’s there.

➥ either keeps it propped up on his desk, in one of the drawers of his desk, or puts it in a small frame and puts that on or in his desk.

➥ definitely reads it at least once a week.

➥ he’s so genuinely flattered by it i think that after you leave his office he’d tear up a bit.

➥ you thought he was acting as a father figure to you before?

➥ be prepared for him to take it to a whole nother level.

➥ starts getting you cheesy birthday cards after you start giving him father’s day cards.

➥ is he a father biologically? no. is he one mentally, emotionally, and spiritually? absolutely.

—

You were reasonably pretty nervous.

It wasn’t ever really a secret that you and Price had some sort of father-child-like relationship, what with the amount of hair ruffles, head pats, shoulder pats, etc. that you’d received from him and the swatting at his hand with your own that you had given back. But none of that took away the nervousness you had when you gave Price a father’s day card for the first time.

It’s not that you thought that he would be weirded out by it, you just had a small habit of overthinking things, and this happened to be one of those things. The card didn’t say too much inside of it, a simple ‘happy father’s day!’ and a sentence you wrote that mentioned that you were grateful to know him. That’s it. That’s all it was. And yet, your hand shook as you held it, the other hand knocking on the door of Price’s office.

He nodded in greeting and opened it, and stepped out of the way to let you walk in and sit in front of his desk. He sat at his usual seat after shutting the door, and you set the card in your lap, not wanting him to see it just yet.

“Is there any particular reason why you wanted to come into my office?” Price asked, breaking the silence. You took a deep breath and nodded before you quickly handed over the card, slipping it onto his side of the desk. He took a good look at it for a moment, reading the ‘happy father’s day!’ on the front and looking over the cheesy illustration on the cover. You anxiously waited for him to say something as he simply stared at it, before he picked it up and opened it, reading the short few words that were written on the inside.

You watched as his expression melted into a softer one, and he stared at the card for another moment before wordlessly getting up. Before you could say anything, or question anything, he knelt down to the level of the chair you were sitting in and hugged you. You were frozen with surprise before you hugged him back, loosely wrapping your arms over his shoulders, a little confused by the hug but appreciating the embrace nonetheless. He rubbed your back for a quick moment before standing back up straight and patting your shoulder.

”Thank you,” He said, smiling down at you. “I really appreciated that, kiddo.”

Oh, wow. I don’t know why, but I think I might start crying. “Yeah—yeah, of course,” You’d replied, quickly getting up and giving Price a quick hug before swiftly walking to the door, “I’ll just, uh, I’ll be in my room. Or, actually, no, I’m gonna go—I’m gonna go bother Soap in his office, so if you need me I’ll be in there okaybyeCaptainI’llseeyoulater!” You rushed out, not looking back as you closed the door behind you.

Price had blinked at the door for a moment before huffing out a small laugh and sitting back down in his chair, looking at the card you’d given him one last time before sighing and letting himself tear up a bit. Eventually, after just sitting there and staring at the card, he unlocked one of the few locked drawers at the bottom of his desk and put the card there, for safekeeping.

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ he’s so excited when he reads that card.

➥ he’s so flattered?? and is so happy?? and oh my god he might pass out?? from all the positive emotions he feels??

➥ be careful with what you say because you might break him beyond repair.

➥ it’s like you’ve given a puppy it’s first treat, honestly.

➥ won’t cry but is very close to!!

➥ will definitely show off the card to everyone.

➥ when i say everyone i mean EVERYONE.

➥ he will talk everyone’s ear off about it, no matter who they are or what they’re doing, hell, the man could be pissing with his dick out at the urinals and everything and he’ll still be ranting to the poor soul in the bathroom about what a sweetheart you are and how you gave him a father’s day card.

➥ he starts calling you ‘lamb’ and ‘duckie’ after the whole ordeal.

➥ no i didn’t ask chatgpt for terms of endearment scottish parents use for their children haha!!

➥ he buys a corkboard just to pin the card to in his office.

➥ like it’s literally just in the middle, nothing else on the corkboard, just that singular father’s day card.

➥ the whole thing is just reserved for father’s day cards tbh. he hopes to fill it up with as many cards as you’ll give him, and if you only give him the one, then damn it, the corkboard’s only gonna have one thing on it and whoever questions it can mind their damn business.

—

You didn’t really know what to expect with Soap when you gave him the card.

You felt pretty confident giving it to him, knowing the guy could probably receive a rock with googly eyes on it from you and still cry tears of joy knowing you gave it to him of all people, so giving this card to him was no big deal, right?

You found him in the recreational center, lounging on the couch, reading a book—shocking, I know—and quietly reading the words out loud to himself. The moment you had entered the center, though, he looked up from his book and nodded in greeting at you with a smile on his face and watched as you walked over to him.

Before he could say anything, you quickly put the card in his lap and watched as he looked up at you, a surprised and amused expression on his face.

“What’s this?” He asked, not looking down at the card just yet.

“Read it,” You’d insisted, gesturing towards the card in his lap. He blinked at you for a moment before muttering, “Alright, then,” under his breath and looking down at the card. He picked it up and read the three short words on the front and looked over the illustration on the cover, and the moment the words registered in his brain, his face broke out into a grin and he looked up at you.

“Aww, this is sae sweet,” Soap gushed, “Thank ye!”

He got up before you could talk and hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground a bit, cooing, “Ye're jist the sweetest, ma God, when did ye get the card?”

“I got it a while ago,” You had admitted, “Decided to give it to you now.”

Soap set you down and put both of his hands on your shoulders, gently rubbing circles into them with his thumb, looking down at you with an elated grin, "I'm gonnae hang this up in ma office—I'll get a corkboard an' everything, jist for this."

You looked up at him with a confused, but amused look on your face, asking, “And you’re just gonna hang that card on there?”

He nodded in confirmation and responded, “Aye, it'll be deid center, naething else on there."

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ oh my goodness.

➥ the moment you hand him the card, it��s like he already knows what it is without reading it.

➥ probably thinks it’s a joke at first.

➥ when he realizes that you’re serious he straight up tears up.

➥ like in front of you and everything he’ll tear up.

➥ “... Are you crying?” ghost, tearing up and literally about to start sobbing, "No.”

➥ he treasures that thing and would literally cease to exist if he ever lost it or if it got destroyed.

➥ won’t flaunt it at all, instead he keeps it in the pocket of a jacket he never wears anymore.

➥ if you ever give him more cards, he’ll consider getting a box to keep them in.

➥ he’s always called you ‘kid’ but after this he starts calling you ‘kiddo’.

➥ THERE’S A DIFFERENCE. I CANNOT TELL YOU WHAT IT IS BUT THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.

➥ listen kiddo is more affectionate and its softer and its not as playful as kid its more personal and and and [explodes]

➥ the others notice the small change in behavior he has towards you (being more lighthearted with his teasing, generally being less cold with you, etc.) and will tease him endlessly about it.

➥ by others i mean soap and gaz. those two team up and tease him to death.

➥ he could care less though!! he tells himself that they’re idiots anyway and that his behavior hasn’t changed that much.

➥ he’s in denial and i think that him and me are the same fr.

—

You had practically searched every corner, crevice, nook, and cranny of the base searching for Ghost. When you finally found him, he was in the armory and weapons room cleaning the barrel of his rifle, hyperfocused on wiping away the gunk on the gun. You stopped by the door, hesitating in giving him the card. It really shouldn’t be that hard, You thought, What’s the worst that could happen?

You were aware that there were many things that could happen, most of which were bad, but you ignored them for the sake of building up your confidence to give him the card. You stood there for a while, just sort of staring at him, before he—not even looking up from his gun—called out to you with a simple yet firm, “Do you need something?”

You probably could’ve died right there, his firm voice almost completely shattering your confidence for reasons you couldn’t specify, but you instead cleared your throat and walked out of the doorway and completely into the room. You walked over to him and before he could ask any further questions you held the card out to him, your hand having a small tremble to it, an uncomfortably visible display of your nervousness.

He stared at the card for a moment before setting down the cloth he was using to clean his gun and grabbing it, reading the front for a moment before huffing out a small laugh and looking up at you to tease you for it. He was going to tell you what a ‘funny’ joke it was, to tell you to just go do whatever work you’re probably skipping out on when he sees the look on your face that tells him that you’re pretty serious about the card.

He looked back down at the card and read it again, the words ‘happy father’s day’ echoing through his mind as he opened it. He read the few short words on the inside of the card and the shitty drawing of a ghost right next to one that was scribbled out—because of course you had to use pen and weren’t satisfied with the first ghost you drew even though Ghost could make out through the scribbles that they practically looked the same.

You were pretty nervous the longer the silence stretched out, and you were about to take back the card and go jump off a cliff to avoid ever looking at Ghost again when suddenly you hear a sniffle.

“Are you… are you crying?” You’d asked, more confused than nervous now, watching as Ghost shook his head negatively and continued to stare at the inside of the card.

“No,” He answered, sniffling again.

“... You sure?” You’d asked again, far less nervous now, your tone becoming more teasing.

“Positive.” Ghost said firmly, though his voice had wavered a bit. He looked up at you and reached his hand up to give you a pat on the shoulder, muttering, “Thank you for that, kiddo.”

"Yeah, no problem," You had said back, smiling down at Ghost before taking a step back, "I'll leave you to keep cleaning your gun, or whatever."

Ghost had simply nodded and looked back at the table where your card and his gun laid, and you didn't stay long enough to watch him tear up all over again at the sight of the letter.

[vonpeachy]

déjà vu — python333

— — — —

synopsis you and ghost are more similar than the two of you realized.

relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.

characters ghost.

word count 2.88k

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [call sign/code name], ghost's backstory [yes that is a warning within itself], kind of badly written.

note holy shitttttt i'm so sorry i haven't posted in two months. to everyone who is disappointed this isn't a req they submitted—i am very sorry but i have like. no motivation. please take this small fic as a peace offering after being silent for two months. also yes i said alej fic but i only had motivation to write for ghost LMAO

“So…” Ghost can hear Price next to him, creating an echo as he speaks through his earpiece, “Doesn’t it get hot, always wearing that mask?” 

“Not when it’s made of the right materials,” Your voice crackles through, the wind blowing by slightly distorting your voice, “It’s also winter, captain, so no, it doesn’t get hot.” 

The corners of Ghost’s lips twitch upwards when you answer, but he otherwise doesn’t say or do anything, simply leaning against the wall parallel to Price. For you, maybe your mask doesn’t get hot, but his certainly does—though, he doesn’t voice that, simply listening. 

“Oh really?” Price hums, looking around the corner of the wall he’s leaned up against, spotting a few enemy soldiers walking by without a clue of who they’re in the presence of, “What’s yours made of, then?” 

“Polyester,” You answer. 

From what Ghost understands, you wear a mask for the same reason as him—anonymity. As much as he can respect that and understand the want to remain anonymous, he can’t help but wonder why you would want that. Is it for reasons similar to why he wears his? Have you gone through things similar to what he’s gone through? Did a fellow SAS soldier also murder your entire family and attempt to pin it on you, to which you responded by killing him, stealing his dog tags, and burning your own house down? He had many questions, but didn’t ask any. 

He doesn’t think you’d answer them, anyway. He certainly wouldn’t. He’d maybe try to divert the conversation with a bad dad joke, or simply not dignify the question with a response, anything but an actual answer. He strangely expects the same of you. 

He vaguely remembers a conversation he had with Price when you first joined maybe two months ago, specifically a comment Price had made about your file; “I had the same conversation with Laswell about their file that I did when I first got yours. She said the same thing when she saw their file, too, word for word.”

It turned out that they had the exact same exchange that they did when they saw Ghost’s file, verbatim. Laswell had pointed out that you had no picture, and Price said, “Never.” Ever since then, Ghost has felt an inexplicable connection to you, despite not having talked to you that much. 

He’ll admit, he tried to initiate a conversation with you more often than he did with the others when he first met them. Maybe one or two times a day, he’d find you and make small talk, something that made his skin crawl with discomfort but something he still forced himself to do, just to try and make sense of the invisible line that seemed to tie you both together. 

This small talk started off as anything from a question about the weather—yes, Ghost asked about the weather, unfortunately for the both of you considering how awkward and stilted that short conversation was—to asking about training and skills. He didn’t normally initiate conversations with anyone else, he was typically the one that was walked up to and barely even had to carry any conversations he was in. 

Every conversation the two of you had always ended the same way, though; with you cutting it short the moment it got anywhere near your personal life, or even just your life outside of being a part of the 141, and walking off elsewhere. Ghost could see the tiniest bit of himself in you everytime you did that, and an annoying voice in the back of his mind always asked, Was I always that much of a hardass? … Am I that much of a hardass?

“Ghost,” Price’s voice snaps Ghost out of his train of thought and he grunts, looking over at Price. The man in question nods his head towards the now clear path to the building they needed to get into, and Ghost nodded back, taking his SMG out of the sling and moving out of the small alleyway they’d camped in, following after Price. 

They quickly rush over to the building, the doors thankfully unlocked and the soldiers guarding it stupid enough to not be right beside the front doors, and lock the doors behind them once they’re in. 

“Are you guys in?” You ask, the wind no longer distorting your voice, the background of your audio now relatively silent except for your faint breathing. 

“Yeah,” Price replies, the darkness of the building making him squint as he scans the walls for some sort of light switch, “Anyone notice we got in?”

“Not that I can see, no,” You answer, your sigh audible through the comms, “They’re pretty far from the building, actually.” 

“Perfect,” Price hums, patting his hand along the wall for a moment before finding a large lever. He hesitates to pull it, and ultimately decides against it, deeming it too risky. Instead, he searches his tactical vest and goes through a few large pockets that sit around his lower midriff before finding a relatively small flashlight. 

He presses the button on the end of the handle with a small click, and the flashlight flickers for a moment before the light becomes consistent and a small buzz begins to sound. Price looks around for a second, scanning the area for any immediate threats, and motions for Ghost to follow him. 

“See anything?” You ask curiously, some rustling heard on your end. Ghost looks around for a second, footsteps echoing eerily through the building. 

“Nothing important,” He replies, voice quiet, “Just dust and old furniture.” 

“His office is just down there,” Price interjects, nodding towards the hall to their left, making Ghost look in that same direction, “I’ll head down there, you stay here, let me know if anyone’s coming.” 

The echo from Price talking to Ghost both through comms and being right beside him, as well as the echo from being in such a large room, starts to irritate Ghost. He rolls his shoulders and puts his gun back in the sling, looking back at Price.

“Turn off your comms,” His suggestion sounds more like a command, but he’s sure Price understands it’s more of a request than anything else, “You’re echoing. If anything happens, I can just talk to you without them.” 

Price pauses before nodding, and pressing the small button on his earpiece to turn off his mic, and the piece entirely. He trusts Ghost wholeheartedly, and it shows. He takes one last look around before walking towards the office he pointed out. 

The office belonged to the man who had stolen vital intel from the 141—not intelligence on the task force itself, but rather a separate team that had recently allied themselves with the task force. They couldn’t risk that data being taken, as it would not only expose the other team, but several other similar teams and task forces. 

Ghost waits until Price is actually in the hall before speaking again, “You still there, [c/n]?” 

“Yeah,” You answer almost immediately, “Need something?” 

“No,” Ghost hums, leaning against the wall behind him, “Just wanted to talk.” 

“Please don’t ask me about the weather again,” You sigh, almost exasperated, “Or about how my training is going, or about how my CO is, or—” 

“I’m not,” Ghost interrupts you, not sure whether to laugh or cry at your examples of past conversations. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise,” He says, before asking, “How long were you apart of the army, before joining here?” 

“Before the 141?” You pause, thinking for a moment, “Sounds kind of personal.” 

“You don’t have to answer,” Ghost offers, voice almost reassuring, “Just curious.” 

“Aren’t you always,” You mutter, a comment Ghost promptly ignores, before you properly answer, “Just a year. Maybe a year and a half.” 

“American army, right?”

“Mhm,” You hum, “Would you believe me if I said we sang Yankee Doodle before going on any missions?”

“Oh, sure I would,” Ghost chuckles, before countering, “Would you believe me if I said that song was made to mock Americans?” 

“I’m not sure if I should be offended that you believe that,” You say, a lighter lilt to your voice as you do compared to a few moments ago, “But yes, I believe you. I think that almost every American has reclaimed it as one of the most patriotic songs, though.” 

“Almost every American?” Ghost questions, growing more amused as the conversation goes on. It confuses him, making him wonder why he’s so easily drawn into conversations with you, no matter how small or dry. 

“I’m sure there’s some here and there that don’t like it,” You elaborate, “But I haven’t met any. Not yet.” 

“Alright,” Ghost nods even though you can’t see him, before asking another question, “What branch?” 

“The Navy,” You answer, now without questioning Ghost which brings him a strange sense of relief, “I flew planes around and stuff. Didn’t really like it, though.” 

“Oh yeah?” Ghost sounds more interested now, “Why not?” 

“The soldiers there aren’t the best people to be around,” You hum, the sounds of you moving audible, “One mention of any sort of mental issues, even if it’s just something like feeling anxious or being sleep deprived, and suddenly everyone’s on your ass pressuring you to be better or just�� being weird about it. It gets draining after a while.” 

“I bet,” Ghost murmurs, “Is that why you left?” 

“Partially,” You answer honestly, “Half of it was that, the other half was that I just didn’t like flying planes. I was also eighteen and couldn’t really control my impulsive thoughts, so a majority of the time I was fighting myself trying not to crash the plane on purpose.” 

“Makes sense,” Ghost considers what you said for a moment, before his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he asks, “Isn’t the enlistment age for the Navy nineteen?” 

“It is,” You assure him, “I was an exception, ‘cause I was a month or two away from turning nineteen.” 

“Hm,” Ghost hums, “And you’re twenty now?” 

“Twenty, almost twenty-one,” You confirm. 

“Did you wear the mask back then?” Ghost asks, praying that the question isn’t too personal to the point where you stop responding. He’s been dying to ask the question, always worrying whether or not it was too personal—it was pretty personal, to be fair, but he wasn’t used to worrying this much over another soldier, much less one he only met two months ago. Sure, you both wore a mask and remained somewhat anonymous, but that didn’t mean you two were automatically best friends who braided each other’s hair. 

“...” You don’t respond for a moment, making Ghost’s worry increase, before you reply, “No.”

Your simple answer makes Ghost more curious, and he can’t tell if he should ask why or not. He stays silent for a few seconds, weighing his options, before he ultimately says, “Alright.” 

He tries to leave it up to you whether or not you want to tell him about your own story, of if you’re comfortable with that, which you probably aren’t, considering that—again—the two of you only met a couple months ago.

“Did you wear the mask?” You ask quietly a moment later, catching Ghost off-guard, “Before this?” 

“Before the 141?” He echoes your question from earlier, nodding to himself, “Yeah. For some time before this, I had a different mask, but it was still a mask.” 

“Was the skull always there?” 

“Mhm.” 

“… For just aesthetic purposes, or?” Ghost feels the corners of his lips tug up in amusement at your question, and at how genuinely curious you sound. 

“Eh. Not really,” He answers, taking a deep breath in and out through his nose. He doesn’t say any more than that, not being able to as his mind takes him back to a time a while ago, when he was being held hostage and was in the same room as some kids who heard him spill his entire background to the men holding him hostage. 

He remembers one kid in particular, a little girl with blonde hair, who had listened to every detail that he’d said. When he was telling the story of why he has the call sign Ghost, in hopes of distracting the men so that the 141 could rescue him and the kids, she had clung to every detail and later asked him if what he had said was true, her tone of voice eerily similar to yours. 

He remembers when he was carrying her out of that room, the questions she’d bombarded him with, and how he answered every one with as neutral of an answer he could muster. He debates doing that now with any questions you ask, but decides against it almost instantly—something that shocks him, even though it was his own thought—considering that he wanted to ask you those same questions. Not about your call sign, only about the mask. 

“It’s a long story,” He says after you’ve been silent for a while, your curiosity somehow palpable even through just the comms, “But it has to do with some family members.” 

“Yeah?” You hum, “I know a thing or two about that.” 

“Do you?” Ghost asks, slightly ashamed at the small jolt of excitement he feels at the opportunity of hearing more about you. 

“Mhm,” You pause, staying quiet for a moment, before continuing, “About family members. Dead ones.” 

“Ah,” Ghost nods, the discomfort he originally felt sharing some of his own story starting to melt away, “Dead ones. I understand.” 

“Can’t tell if I should be glad or not,” You snort, “Like, I’m glad you understand, but also sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ghost grins under his mask, “I was wondering the same thing.” 

“So… dead ones,” You think out loud, before asking, “That’s why you have that call sign and mask?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost looks around for a moment, reminding himself to keep watch while talking to you, before cautiously asking, “Are yours the reason for your mask?” 

“Not really,” You answer honestly, with a little less resistance behind your answer to Ghost’s relief, “Well… I mean, kind of. But they’re not the reason-reason. I didn’t really like them, so I’m not gonna give them all the credit, but I’ll give them… maybe twenty-five percent of it.” 

“A quarter’s still a lot,” Ghost points out, “What’d they do to earn that?” 

“They died, and…” You’re doing more pausing and hesitating now, making Ghost wonder if he’s going to personal every second that you stay quiet, before you finally answer in a more guarded tone, “I almost got blamed for it. Almost.” 

Ghost gets hit with a pang of mixed emotions, like a weird sort of uncomfortable nostalgia. They almost got blamed for it. He lets out a breath that’s slightly shaky, and thinks for a moment before saying, “Almost?” 

“Almost,” You confirm, tone a little less guarded, presumably at Ghost’s more calm reaction, “Then I handled it the best I could, and the guy who killed them got what he deserved.” 

“Which was?” Ghost feels more of that uncomfortable nostalgia bubble up, giving him an uneasy feeling in his gut, as if he knows where this conversation is going. 

“Death,” You answer softly, “And the nameplate on his uniform stolen, which I replaced with mine. I would’ve taken his dog tags, but we didn’t really wear them on missions ‘cause our drill sergeant didn’t care too much.” 

Ghost can put a name to the feeling now. Déjà vu. He takes a deep breath and considers your words for a moment. 

“And the body?” His lips move before he can think. 

“Burnt.” You answer simply, “The whole house. It was mainly drywall, so it took a moment to actually completely catch on fire, but it was quick enough. It also smelled disgusting.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” Ghost swallows, vividly remembering the smell of his own house, before continuing, “He was a soldier for the Navy, too?” 

“Mhm. He was… a Private, I think,” You reply, “I wasn’t too close with him. I wasn’t with anyone.” 

“And so the reason you wear the mask is…?” 

“I didn’t really exist anymore after that,” You hum, “At least, not to them. I was dead in a burned down house, my own house, and was far gone. I like wearing the mask; it keeps me as just another soldier, not as the person who died in that house.” 

“But you didn’t,” Ghost points out, trying to ignore the eerie feeling that only grows stronger the more you talk, “You’re here.” 

“… Yeah, I am,” You say after a moment of thinking, smile evident in your voice, “Doesn’t mean I can take that back, though. ‘s not the best feeling, doing something like that.” 

“Trust me, I know,” Ghost chuckles, “If anyone here, I’d be the person to know, kid.” 

“Really?” You ask, voice more curious like it was before, “Why’s that?” 

“I’ve… weirdly been through almost everything you said,” Ghost admits, “Word for word with the house burning down, actually.” 

“… Huh,” You huff out a small laugh before saying, “I’m wondering if I should feel happy or sad again.” 

“Me too, again,” Ghost smiles, eyes flickering up at Price’s footsteps sound through the hallway, his silhouette slowly coming into view, “One last question.” 

“Shoot.” 

“How’s the weather?” 

“I’m not answering that, fuck you.”

[vonpeachy]

Livestock Guardian!Ghost x Sheep!Reader anyone???

The collar is thick and the iron spikes are mean. It’s the first thing he was ever given, first thing he ever belonged to. Feeling it dig into his throat was more comforting than the barn he slept in at night, brought him more courage than a kill made with his own teeth. It told those going for his throat that he’s protected and he would protect in turn, no matter the cost.

Big and scarred, the farmers that took him in washed him clean and showed him his new purpose: the soft and docile sheep hybrids that roam their fields. More importantly, you. Soft wool and velvety black ears that droop, twitching little tail over your rump. Peace oozed from you like violence poured from him, it was bred bone-deep in both of you.

The herding dogs stayed weary of him, eyeing him as he stood on the edge of the fields, watching and waiting. The little lambs and skittish sheep were even worse, keeping their distance from his yellowing teeth and shying away when he lumbers around them in silent vigil. It suited him just fine, content to listen to their gentle bleats and watch over them from a distance.

The wolves in the area are voracious and Ghost understands why they kept him despite his feral nature, to hunt the hunters that stalk his gentle herd. He smells them from leagues away and snaps at your heels to drive you and the herd to a far corner before he gives chase. They are skinny and starved and no match for Ghost and his mass. When it’s all said and done, one lies dead at his feet and he graciously accepts the head pat he gets from the farmers oldest daughter as a job well done. But nothing is as rewarding as seeing you break away from the herd, approaching with a bowed head and soft eyes.

Your steps are careful and Ghost stands very still for you. He’s rewarded with a shy smile and your soft head bumping into his, ears flickers nervously. When you pull away the blood of wolves paints your pretty plush fur. He can’t stand the sight. It’s your turn to stand still as he licks you clean, free from the gore still clinging to his own patchy fur.

That night you stay glued to his side, head drooping with sleep when the others from the herd join you. Ghost is only slightly alarmed when he’s become surrounded on all sides by happy snuffling sheep, the sleepy creatures crowding him until he’s buried in the middle of the herd.

Part two

[vonpeachy]

Ghost getting lowkey stressed one night because his mask and heavy gear aren't providing the comfort they usually would, but him and the team are stuck in a safe house.

And of course python shifter!reader notices, asks whats wrong. Ghost is pressed into a corner faux-casual, an attempt to squeeze himself more than his crossed arms are. He explains in short, tight sentences that he cant calm down without some sort of pressure on him. Usually he has weighted blankets, or his gear works fine.

But this op was horrible, and hes all over the place. Can't do much more than stare at doors and windows and try not to shake. You take a moment to really assess ghost, before quietly offering "...I could shift and squeeze you? Not enough to kill, yknow, but nice a firm?"

Which is how ghost ends up laying in one of the small beds, a python curled all around his body. Finally able to relax and just drift off to sleep.

[vonpeachy]

.。o○ [ simon riley after his marriage ]

ah this is no smut, total fluff probably hehehee (´▽｀*) and I wrote this in one sitting...

—

How long has it been? Ah, nearly seven months now and Simon wouldn't lie if he's been dying to return home. It's never been like this before, but ever since he married you, he never thought to be this attached. A grumpy big guy he is whenever he returned safely from the mission, Price never thought he'd deal with this side of him.

Meh, not that he'd argue, it's adorable, sure, but listening to those silent sighs whenever he talks, kind of annoying, you know?

"We will be back soon, Simon, behave," Price reminded him after the brief, mention about the last mission and the rest.

Simon didn't reply, but that look in his eyes tells every soul what expression he was making. He wouldn't disobey the captain, though. And the mission went smoothly, that sounds good right?

Shortly, after departing with others and spending nearly seven hours from the airport just to return to you, he made it. And the sight of your pretty eyes are more than just gift.

"Simon!" You scrambled to his arms like a baby, hugging him so tightly that if you're any stronger than him you'd probably suffocate the big guy. "I knew you'd keep it a secret."

Ah, fun fact, Johnny ruined Simon's surprise by telling you that he's on the way home. But none of that matters now, because Simon finally have you in his arms again. He's been missing you like crazy he felt like melting into your arms and won't wake up.

That sounds bad but not exactly what he meant.

After taking shower, having dinner with you, finally, bedroom. Nothing special, but when Simon saw you just sprawled on the bed, your tank top riding up just a little to reveal your tummy—Simon lost it. You gained weight! He thought you must be not eating well because you're worried about him, but you're not!

Without further ado, he just pounced on you and bury his unmasked face into your exposed tummy and hummed. That surprises you, obviously. "There's no baby in there, I promise... I won't lie."

Simon chuckles, feeling your legs on either side of his body. You're healthy, you've been taking care of yourself. It's good, he wouldn't expect he'd be more relieved knowing this. So, he looked up, and smile, kissing your tummy until you giggle.

Oh, you sounds sweet.

"Should we put one, then?"

Your eyes widened and snapped down at him. "Simon, no."

"Right," he replied, nodding seriously only to give your tummy a playful bite that makes you yelp. "It should be twins, right?"

"Simonn!"

—

kirayamee, 2025 ][ do not copy

[vonpeachy]

[vonpeachy]

Brain is not braining but what about Butcher!reader and Ghost?

He sees you smoking outside the local butcher, heavy boots, bloody apron, face too pretty for the work you do. That's what he thinks, that you shouldn't be surrounded by death, looking like this.

Then something happens, a fight outside the shop and Ghost hesitates to interfere, not his mission, not his town.

But you peek up, roll your eyes, go inside. And come back with a huge butcher's knife or axe, walking around the corner.

"You fuckers startin' shit in front of my shop again?" You are relaxed, absolutely sure in your authority here. "Leave my staff alone, she doesn't want either of you. Last warning."

When one of the men starts arguing you throw your axe/knife, the thud is loud in the shocked silence as the blade misses and is now stuck on the wooden door frame. You missed on purpose, Ghost knows a well trained soldier, when he sees one.

"Thought so. Fuck off."

And you don't even wait what they do, you just move back inside, leave the blade where it is.

[vonpeachy]

Shoutout to the fictional characters who live rent free in my head, paying for nothing but emotional damage.

[vonpeachy]

Organized Crime (Literally)

Summary: You are a librarian who somehow charms the most dangerous member of the family. The mobster tries to be threatening but keeps getting flustered when you correct his grammar or organize his illegal documents.

Fandom: ATEEZ

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader

Genre: Mafia AU, Romance, Fluff

Warnings: Mentions of illegal activities, Money laundering

A/N: Me writing a reader obsessed with grammatical errors while I make mistakes every few seconds is something...

Organized Standards: Down Bad Behavior

====================================

You’d always prided yourself on being predictable.

Monday through Friday, 7 AM sharp, you’d arrive at the Crescent City Public Library with your color coordinated planner, sensible flats, and a thermos of tea that was always, always Earl Grey. Your life ran on schedules, proper filing systems, and the Dewey Decimal Classification like clockwork.

Which is why finding a man bleeding on your library steps at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday was particularly inconvenient for you.

“Excuse me,” you said, adjusting your glasses as you approached the bleeding man in the expensive looking black coat. “The library doesn’t open until 9 AM. Also, you’re bleeding on municipal property.”

The man looked up, and you were struck by two things: first, he was devastatingly handsome in that dangerous, sharp featured way that belonged in noir films, not small town libraries. Second, his eyes held the kind of cold calculation that suggested he was used to people running away from him, not politely informing him of operating hours.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he began, his voice low and menacing as he struggled to his feet. “I don’t think you understand who you’re-”

“With whom! you’re dealing,” you corrected automatically, pulling out your keys. “The preposition ‘with’ can’t be omitted in formal speech. Are you having a medical emergency? Should I call 119?”

Seonghwa blinked. In his twenty eight years of existence, most of which had been spent in various states of criminal activity, no one had ever interrupted his intimidation tactics to correct his grammar.

“I… what?”

“Your sentence structure,” you explained patiently, unlocking the library door. “You said ‘who you’re dealing,’ but it should be ‘with whom you’re dealing.’ Although, in casual speech, ‘who you’re dealing with’ would also be acceptable, despite the dangling preposition.”

“Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?”

“Would you prefer to bleed out instead? Because those are really your only two options until the clinic opens at eight.” You held the door open. “Come on. I have a first aid kit in the reference section.”

And that’s how Park Seonghwa -heir to the most feared crime family in South Korea, the man who could make grown adults weep with a single glance- found himself getting bandaged by a librarian who hummed softly while she worked and smelled like vanilla and old books.

“So,” you said, carefully cleaning the cut on his forehead, “what’s your name? For the incident report.”

“You’re filing a report?”

“Well, yes. Municipal property, potential liability issues, and I need to document the use of library supplies for non library purposes.” You paused. “Don’t worry, I’ll categorize it under ‘community outreach.’”

Seonghwa stared at you. “Park Seonghwa.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Park. I’m Y/N.” You applied a neat bandage and stepped back to admire your work. “There. You should see a proper doctor, though. I’m only certified in basic first aid and children’s story time management.”

====================================

Three weeks later, Seonghwa found himself back at the library. Not because he was injured -though he’d taken a concerning number of hits lately- or because he kept getting distracted thinking about proper grammar, thinking about proper grammar, but because he figured you probably needed a proper first aid kit after using the last one on him.

He found you exactly where he’d expected: behind the reference desk, sorting through a stack of returned books with the focused intensity of a surgeon.

“Mr. Park,” you said without looking up. “Your books are overdue.”

“My what?”

You held up a copy of “Advanced Accounting Principles” and “The Art of War.” “Checked out on your library card three weeks ago. That’ll be ₩6.500 in late fees.”

“I don’t have a library card.”

“You do now.” You slid a laminated card across the desk. “I took the liberty of signing you up when you bled on my steps. Emergency contact information was needed for the incident report.”

Seonghwa picked up the card, noting his name printed in neat block letters. “You listed yourself as my emergency contact.”

“Well, I don’t know your family, and you seem like the type who might not have many close friends. Occupational hazard of being mysterious and intimidating.” You finally looked up, adjusting your glasses. “Although you’re not very good at the intimidating part.”

“Excuse me?”

“You apologized when you bumped into the biography section. Twice. And you’ve been standing there for five minutes without saying anything threatening. Very un-menacing behavior.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth, then closed it. You were right. He was probably the least intimidating he’d ever been in his life inside this library.

“I brought you a first aid kit,” he said instead.

“Keep it. You seem like you might need it again.” You stamped a returned book with unnecessary force. “Besides, I ordered a new one. Much more efficient.”

That’s when Seonghwa noticed your desk. Every pen was in its designated holder, arranged by color and tip size. Your staplers (you had three) were lined up in ascending size order. Even your paper clips were sorted by color in a small divided container.

“You’re very…” he searched for the word.

“Organized? Yes. It’s a professional requirement. And a personal preference. And possibly a mild compulsion, according to my sister, but I prefer ‘thorough.’”

“I was going to say ‘perfect,’” Seonghwa said, then immediately looked horrified that he’d said it out loud.

You blinked owlishly at him. “Oh. That’s… thank you?”

For a moment, you both stood there in awkward silence, the air filled with the soft sounds of the library; pages turning, the distant hum of the air conditioning, someone typing on the ancient computer in the corner.

“Would you like me to show you how to properly return books?” you asked finally. “Since you’re apparently a cardholder now.”

“I should probably mention,” Seonghwa said, because he was apparently having some sort of crisis of conscience, “that I’m not exactly a law abiding citizen.”

“I assumed as much. People who follow the law don’t usually show up bleeding.” You walked around the desk. “What kind of not law abiding are we talking about? Tax evasion? Jaywalking? Running a criminal empire built on fear and violence?”

“More the last one.”

“Hmm.” You considered this. “Do you sell drugs to children?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you return your library books on time?”

“I… didn’t know I had library books until five minutes ago.”

“Well, we’ll work on that.” You smiled at him, the first real smile he’d seen from you, and Seonghwa felt something dangerous happen in his chest. “Everyone deserves access to literature, Mr. Park. Even morally ambiguous individuals with dramatic tendencies.”

====================================

The next few months fell into an unlikely routine. Seonghwa would show up at the library every Tuesday and Thursday, apparently to fill out his paperworks or browse the business section, but really to watch you work. You’d greet him with the same polite professionalism you showed everyone, but you’d also started leaving books you thought he’d like on the reserved shelf- biographies of famous strategists, novels about complicated anti heroes, and, memorably, a cookbook titled “Meals That Don’t Require Alibis.”

“That’s not a real cookbook title,” he’d said.

“I know. I made a custom cover. The actual book is ‘30 Minute Meals for Busy Professionals.’” You’d looked pleased with yourself. “I thought the joke was appropriate.”

It was things like that; your dry humor, your thoughtful book recommendations, the way you’d started keeping bandages at the reference desk “just in case” that made Seonghwa realize he was in serious trouble.

The kind of trouble that had nothing to do with rival families or federal investigations and everything to do with the way you’d started smiling when you saw him, like his presence was something pleasant rather than threatening.

The crisis came on a rainy Thursday in November.

Seonghwa had been having a particularly difficult week. A territorial dispute had required his… intervention, and he’d spent most of Tuesday in meetings that were really negotiations that were really threats wrapped in polite language. He was tired, on edge, and probably should have gone home instead of to the library.

But he’d promised to return “The Prince” (which you’d recommended with the note “thought you might relate to the moral complexity”), and Seonghwa had never broken a promise to you.

He found you at your desk, but something was wrong. Your usually perfect organization was in chaos. Papers scattered, books in wrong piles, your pen holder knocked over.

“Y/N?” He approached carefully. “Everything okay?”

You looked up, and he saw how your eyes became red and puffy. “Oh. Hi, Seonghwa. I’m fine, just… budget cuts. The city’s closing the library.”

“What?”

“Lack of funding. Apparently, we’re not cost effective.” You gestured at the mess. “I’m trying to organize the collection transfer, but some books will just be… disposed of. Forty years of carefully curated literature, and they’re treating it like garbage.”

Seonghwa had seen you handle rude patrons, broken printers, and his own dramatic appearances with unflappable calm. But the thought of losing your library, your kingdom of organized knowledge and quiet sanctuary, had you falling apart.

Something protective and fierce rose in his chest.

“No,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“No. That’s not happening.” Seonghwa pulled out his phone. “Hongjoong? I need you to look into the Crescent City municipal budget. Specifically, library funding.”

“Hey! Seonghwa, you can’t just-”

He held up a hand while listening to his brother’s response. “Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I’m not having a breakdown. Just… do it. And see what it would take to make a significant anonymous donation to keep it open.”

You stared at him. “You can’t buy a library.”

“Watch me.” He ended the call and looked at you seriously. “How much do you need?”

“I… this isn’t how municipal funding works. There are protocols, procedures, approval processes-”

“Y/N.” He stepped closer, and for the first time since you’d met, his voice carried the edge that made other people afraid. “How much do you need?”

You told him. He made another phone call.

“It’s handled,” he said afterward.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He started helping you reorganize your scattered papers. “Though I should probably mention that you might want to be extra careful about following proper shelving procedures for the next few months. The donation is coming from a… let’s call it a ‘shell corporation,’ and we don’t want to attract unnecessary attention.”

You watched him sort your papers with unnecessary gentleness, and something clicked into place.

“You’re not just ‘not law-abiding,’” you said slowly. “You’re actually dangerous, aren’t you?”

Seonghwa’s hands stilled. “Yes.”

“Like, genuinely scary to most people.”

“Yes.”

“But you just saved my library because I was sad.”

“…Yes.”

You were quiet for a long moment, processing this. Then: “Your shell corporation has a grammatical error in its name.”

“What?”

“‘Mars Enterprises LLC.’ You can’t use ‘LLC’ with ‘Limited Liability Company’ because ‘LLC’ already stands for ‘Limited Liability Company.’ It’s redundant.” You pulled out a red pen. “Also, you’re missing a comma in your articles of incorporation, and your tax documentation is filed under the wrong fiscal year. I've seen the documents you've brought here.”

Seonghwa blinked. “You read my corporate filings?”

“I read everything you bring in here. Did you know you have 8 different shell companies, and all of them have minor clerical errors?” You started making neat corrections on the papers. “It’s like you’re trying to get audited.”

“I… no one’s ever mentioned that before.”

“Well, your accountant should be fired. This is sloppy work.” You handed him the corrected papers. “I took the liberty of fixing the most egregious errors, but you really should have someone detail oriented review your documentation process.”

Seonghwa looked at the papers, then at you, then back at the papers. Your corrections were neat, precise, and absolutely accurate. You’d identified problems that had somehow slipped past his very expensive legal team.

“Y/N,” he said carefully, “would you be interested in a consulting job?”

====================================

Which is how you found yourself, three weeks later, sitting in the back room of what was definitely a legitimate import/export business and absolutely not a front for organized crime, color coding financial documents while Park Seonghwa watched you with fascination.

“The red tabs are for quarterly reports, yellow for tax documents, and blue for… what did you call these? ‘Operational expenses’?” You held up a receipt. “Though I have to say, claiming a flamethrower as a business expense seems optimistic.”

“It was for a barbecue,” Seonghwa said.

“A barbecue that required a flamethrower?”

“It was a very large barbecue.”

You gave him a look that suggested you weren’t buying it, but you filed the receipt under blue anyway. “Your bookkeeping is atrocious, by the way. How have you not been arrested for tax evasion?”

“We have lawyers.”

“You need accountants. Possibly accountants who specialize in creative financial interpretation, but still.” You pulled out another stack of papers. “What’s this receipt for ‘duck food’? Fifty thousand dollars worth of duck food?”

“We own a duck pond.”

“Nobody owns a fifty thousand dollar duck pond, Seonghwa.”

“We have very expensive ducks.”

You stared at him. He stared back, his expression perfectly serious.

“I’m not going to ask,” you decided finally.

“Probably for the best.”

You went back to organizing, but Seonghwa noticed you were smiling. Somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped being shocked by his world and started being amused by it. You treated his criminal empire like an especially chaotic library collection. Something that just needed proper organization and systematic management.

“Seonghwa,” you said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“This document says you’re the ‘Regional Manager of Intimidation Services.’”

“That’s… accurate.”

“It’s also the most ridiculous job title I’ve ever seen. What does that even mean in practical terms?”

Seonghwa considered this. “I make people afraid so they’ll do what we want.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Usually I just stand there and look menacing. Sometimes I have to break things. Occasionally I threaten people.”

“Hmm.” You made a note on your tablet. “What’s your success rate?”

“Pretty high. Most people find me intimidating.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You looked up from your organizing. “Does that bother you?”

Seonghwa thought about it. Six months ago, the fact that someone wasn’t afraid of him would have been a professional problem requiring immediate correction. Now, the thought of you being afraid of him made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.

“No,” he said. “I like it.”

“Good. Because I have some suggestions for improving your operational efficiency, and they’re going to require you to be significantly less mysterious and dramatically brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Seonghwa, you spent twenty minutes yesterday staring pensively out that window while wearing all black and looking like you were contemplating the weight of your sins.”

“I was watching for surveillance.”

“While brooding.”

“I don’t-”

“You definitely brood. It’s very atmospheric, but probably not great for productivity.” You pulled out a color coded chart. “I’ve analyzed your workflow, and I think we can streamline your intimidation process significantly.”

Seonghwa looked at the chart. You’d somehow turned his methods of frightening people into a neat, organized system complete with decision trees and efficiency metrics.

“You made me a flowchart.”

“I made you several flowcharts. This one’s for standard intimidation scenarios, but I also have specialized charts for ‘dramatic reveals,’ ‘threatening negotiations,’ and ‘ominous warnings.’” You looked proud of yourself. “I even included a section on proper dramatic timing. Did you know you pause for an average of 4.7 seconds too long during threatening monologues? It’s affecting your impact.”

Seonghwa stared at the charts, then at you, then back at the charts. “You’ve been timing my monologues?”

“I time everything. It’s a habit.” You flipped to another page. “I also noticed you tend to over complicate your threats. For example, instead of saying ‘Cross me and you’ll discover what happens when someone forgets that actions have consequences in a world where power determines the difference between mercy and justice,’ you could just say ‘Cross me and you’ll regret it.’ Same message, 73% fewer words.”

“But the first version is more intimidating.”

“Is it, though? Because based on my observations, people stop listening after about fifteen words. You’re burying your actual threat under unnecessary philosophical commentary.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. You were probably right. You were usually right about these things.

“I’ve been doing this for ten years,” he said instead.

“And I’m sure you’re very good at it. But there’s always room for improvement.” You smiled at him, and Seonghwa felt that dangerous thing in his chest again. “Besides, think of how much more time you’ll have for other activities if you can resolve intimidation scenarios 23% faster.”

“What other activities?”

“Well, you still haven’t finished reading ‘Pride and Prejudice.’”

“That book is 400 pages long.”

“It’s a classic of English literature.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“It’s a brilliant examination of social class, personal growth, and the dangers of first impressions.” You gave him a pointed look. “I thought you might relate to Mr. Darcy.”

“The brooding rich guy everyone thinks is an asshole?”

“The brooding rich guy who turns out to have a good heart under all the dramatic posturing.”

Seonghwa stared at you. “Are you saying I have a good heart?”

“I’m saying you saved my library and you bring me coffee every Tuesday and Thursday.” You went back to your filing. “Also, you alphabetized my emergency contact list without being asked.”

“It was bothering me that it wasn’t in order.”

“See? Good heart. It was bothering me too.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, you organizing and labeling while Seonghwa watched and tried to figure out when exactly his life had become something he didn’t recognize. When had he started looking forward to Tuesday afternoons in a back room, watching you turn his chaotic criminal enterprise into neat, color coded files? When had your approval become more important than his reputation?

When had he fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a librarian who corrected his grammar and wasn’t afraid of him?

“Y/N,” he said suddenly.

“Mmm?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me? Somewhere that’s not a library or a legitimate business establishment that definitely isn’t a front for organized crime?”

You looked up, a slight smile playing at the corners of your mouth. “Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Regional Manager of Intimidation Services?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Will there be proper grammar involved?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And no dramatic brooding?”

“I make no promises about the brooding.”

You laughed, actually laughed, and Seonghwa felt something settle into place in his chest.

“Okay,” you said. “But I’m picking the restaurant. You have terrible taste in public venues.”

“How do you know that?”

“You chose a library for bleeding out in front of. A library, Seonghwa.”

“I didn't have lots of choices, and It worked out.”

“It worked out because I don’t intimidate easily and I have a thing for mysterious men with good bone structure and poor organizational skills.” You went back to your filing, but Seonghwa caught your smile. “Also, you’re paying. Saving libraries is expensive, and I assume your ‘duck food’ budget can handle dinner.”

“The ducks are very high maintenance,” Seonghwa said solemnly.

“I’m sure they are.”

And as he watched you organize his criminal empire with the same care and attention you gave to library books, Seonghwa realized that maybe being predictable wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe having someone who treated his dangerous world like a collection that just needed proper cataloging was exactly what he’d been missing.

Even if she did keep correcting his grammar.

Especially because she kept correcting his grammar.

THE END

====================================

BONUS PART:

“Seonghwa,” you called from the kitchen of his ridiculously secure apartment, “your tax documents came in, and I have concerns.”

“What kind of concerns?” he called back, not looking up from his laptop where he was reviewing what were definitely legitimate shipping manifests.

“The kind where you’ve apparently donated half a million dollars to ‘Literacy Programs for At Risk Youth’ and I’m wondering if that’s code for something illegal or if you’ve actually gone soft.”

Seonghwa smiled to himself. “Maybe I just think education is important.”

“Seonghwa Park, Regional Manager of Intimidation Services and secret supporter of childhood literacy programs.” You appeared in the doorway, wearing one of his shirts over your pajama pants and holding a cup of tea. “Who would have thought?”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Your reputation as what? The world’s most considerate criminal?” You settled next to him on the couch, automatically straightening the papers scattered across the coffee table. “Hongjoong called earlier, by the way. He wants to know why all your recent contracts include clauses about proper citation format.”

“You said it was important.”

“It is important. But I’m not sure your clients appreciate having their illegal agreements corrected for APA formatting.”

“They’ll learn to appreciate it.”

You laughed, and Seonghwa realized that this, you in his space, organizing his life and making everything make sense, was better than any reputation he’d ever had.

Even if you did still correct his grammar.

Especially, because you still corrected his grammar.

====================================

A/N: Reader has been copying and correcting Seonghwa's documents because she got annoyed and angry at all the stupid mistakes in it, so her heart dropped for a few seconds when she heard that they were illegal documents. Thank god our reader fears no one in this scenario and could finally get those documents in proper order.

[vonpeachy]

@Jeleynai

[vonpeachy]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you talk about your husband like he is a dream and, frankly, your coworkers think that you are making him up. that is until your husband shows up.

you talked about your husband all the time.

nanami this nanami that

“oh, my husband makes the best lunchboxes”

“he stayed up to help me with my report”

“he walks me to the station when i stay late”

you weren’t annoying about it. not really. just a little too consistent. always saying things like “he’ll pick me up after work today, we’re going to get pastries!” and showing off texts that made your coworkers tilt their heads and squint.

kento nanami sounded fake.

a little too nice. a little too attentive.

and when you tacked on the fact that he was hot — “blond, tall, glasses, kinda quiet but really handsome, you know?” — people at work started to think that maybe you were pulling everyone’s leg.

just a little.

not out of malice — no, never that — but maybe you were lonely. maybe you just needed a sweet little fantasy to get you through the day. who could blame you?

because no way someone like nanami existed. not the way you described him. it just didn’t sound real. not in this world. not in this economy.

but you never let up.

you beamed like a lovesick fool when your phone lit up with his name. you refused to make afterwork plans on fridays because that was “friday pasta night with kento.” you sighed wistfully every time someone so much as mentioned a bakery and then whispered, “kento always remembers my favorite,” like you were in some fairytale.

you weren’t smug about it either. it was just… relentless. like you were trying to manifest it into reality.

and maybe it would’ve stayed harmless water cooler gossip — “hey, what do you think her husband actually looks like?” or “maybe it’s just her roommate who makes all the food?” — if you hadn’t mentioned that he’d be picking you up from work one day soon.

“he’s on leave,” you’d said, head bent over a spreadsheet, smiling to yourself. “wants to take me out for dinner. he’ll be here early. maybe you’ll see him.”

you said it innocently. with that dreamy lilt you always got when his name was on your tongue.

but that set off everyone.

bets were placed. theories floated. some said he’d never show. others swore they’d catch you whispering to your reflection in the hallway like a crazy person. one guy from accounting said he saw you with a facetime open to a picture of a k-pop idol and he swore it was nanami. it was all harmless. mostly.

people just didn’t believe it.

until the elevator doors slid open.

and nanami stepped out.

he wore a tan wool coat, fitted slacks, button-up half undone at the throat — all that fine-tuned, elegant masculinity that seemed sculpted into place. hair slicked back, wristwatch glinting, and an expression that was all quiet restraint, the kind that turned heads on instinct.

and his eyes — sharp, deep, familiar — scanned the room once, then softened the moment he saw you.

“you ready, sweetheart?” he asked.

your coworkers went silent.

someone dropped their pen.

you lit up instantly. grinned, grabbed your bag, waved at everyone with a cheery, “see you tomorrow!” like this wasn’t the most monumental moment of vindication in the history of your office.

nanami took your coat from you before you even shrugged it off fully. guided you with a hand on the small of your back. leaned in and brushed a kiss to your temple so naturally that your coworker audibly gasped.

he glanced up then. noticed the sea of frozen faces.

“good evening,” he said politely, like he didn’t just obliterate the collective doubt of your entire floor with one gentle peck.

you left with him. smiling, chatting, looping your arm through his as he opened the door and held it for you.

and behind you — a stunned, stunned silence.

“…so,” someone whispered, finally. “that was nanami?”

“the nanami?” another croaked.

“that man’s real?”

“she wasn’t even exaggerating,” came the hollow, awe-struck reply. “she was under-selling him.”

and in the elevator, nanami turned to you and smiled, faint but amused. “you were right,” he murmured, “they really didn’t believe i existed.”

you snorted and leaned into his side. “i told you. now they’ll think i made you in a lab.”

“i wouldn’t be bothered by that,” he said, tugging you closer, kissing your knuckles as the doors closed. “you did a perfect job, if so.”

[vonpeachy]

Simon Riley who gets back from a deployment just as a new batch of recruits are doing their tap out ceremony.

He watches with mild interest, looking at all these newbies who are so hopeful and full of light, contemplating how long it's gonna take for that spirit to get crushed.

He feels a twinge of jealousy as he watches these recruits get tapped out by family and friends, has fleeting memories of standing for an hour after everyone else left before his drill sergeant took pity on him and tapped him out.

He watches idly as people start filing out, not needing ti get to his transport for another hour.

And then he spots you, standing straight in the middle of the crowd, clearly trying not to cry as you watch your fellow soldiers get lead away by family you don't have.

You clench your jaw, refusing to let the years fall. You're so focused on not crying that you don't notice the behemoth of a man coming up behind you until his hand is on your shoulder.

[vonpeachy]

PNGs of cat donuts from this post

[vonpeachy]

putaquepariu caralho, tô toda me tremendo! q delicinha de fic 🫦🫦🫦

(preciso de um seungcheol na minha vida 🙏🏼

( ✶. ) 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 ── “𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇.”

𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒆. “𝗦𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗹 não estava irritado com os arranhões, definitivamente não — concordava que o 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗵𝗼-𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗷𝗮 das suas unhas contrastava muito bem com os riscos 𝗿𝘂𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘀 na pele dele. Seu marido, na verdade, tinha outro 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗼 para o estresse .”

─── 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗼! 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶 𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗹 × 𝗹𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗮. 𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗚✷𝗥𝗜𝗔: smut. 𝗣𝗔𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗥𝗔𝗦: 6.116. 𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦✷𝗦: linguagem imprópria, bebida aliada a uma breve amnésia alcoólica, discussão curta, seungcheol dom, leitora mimada & manipuladora, masturbação (m), oral (m), spanking, penetração & creampie. ─── 𝗡✷𝗧𝗔𝗦: um dia eu prometo que paro de escrever com recém-casados, mas esse dia não é hoje.

A ardência na sua garganta foi a responsável por te fazer acordar num solavanco desconfortável, cogitava nunca mais beber na vida sempre que experimentava a desidratação que o álcool te fazia sentir. Alcançou a garrafinha na cabeceira, aspirando o líquido dentro dela sem pensar duas vezes. Não tinha discernimento suficiente para tê-la colocado tão perto da cama antes de dormir — considerando o estado no qual chegou no quarto, sequer sabe como conseguiu acertar onde ficava a cama. Porém aqui estava você: a maquiagem foi retirada, um frescor no fundo da boca indicava que seus dentes haviam sido escovados e a roupa de praia deu lugar ao babydoll de cetim que tanto gostava de vestir para dormir.

Obviamente, tudo feito pelas mãos de Seungcheol.

Foi respondida pelo reflexo da luz do banheiro antes que pudesse se perguntar onde ele estava. Sorriu de canto, o sonho confuso que teve com a chuva talvez fosse explicado pelo barulho do chuveiro. Oscilava entre abrir mão do quentinho do edredom para ir até o cômodo ou esperá-lo voltar por conta própria.

Admitia que ainda era meio esquisito dormir fora de casa, já estava habituada ao quarto de vocês dois, aos movéis de vocês dois, à cama de vocês dois… porém nunca conseguia espantar o vibrar gostoso no peito toda vez que colocava um “nosso” na frente de cada substantivo que pertencia a você e a Seungcheol.

A aliança na sua mão esquerda ainda era coisa relativamente nova, tão nova que chegavam a tratar a viagem como uma segunda lua de mel: era inevitável. Transar com o seu namorado era uma delícia. Mas transar com o seu marido? Deus, sequer sabe como descrever a sensação. Achava improvável que a vida sexual de vocês dois se tornasse mais intensa, Seungcheol já te tirava o chão muito antes do casamento se consumar, empenhado em arrancar de você todos os títulos que acompanhassem "primeiro". Parecia querer te dar todas as experiências possíveis, uma a uma — como se estivesse te construindo do zero.

O esforço deu abertura para a fase interessante na qual estavam, cheia de cobiça e voracidade. Incapaz de dizer se era coisa da sua cabeça, mas considerava existir uma liberdade maior dentro do novo status. Podiam arruinar um ao outro sem receio algum, se dar com toda a vontade que tinham, sem empecilhos. Podiam ser egoístas o suficiente sobre a companhia um do outro a ponto de parecer que eram fisiologicamente dependentes de estarem juntos.

E, pela razão anterior, estranhou o comportamento esquivo do homem quando inevitavelmente decidiu abrir mão do conforto dos lençóis só para estar perto dele. A atmosfera gélida do ambiente te colocou nas pontas dos pés, caminhando até ele, ainda que Seungcheol aparentasse preferir ficar sozinho.

“Por que tomou banho tão tarde?”, questionou ao notar o cabelo ainda úmido. Nem você e as suas tendências noturnas arriscariam um banho numa madrugada tão gelada. A hesitação em te responder não passou despercebida, assim como as sobrancelhas franzidas e o semblante fechado no reflexo também não — tudo extremamente esquisito.

“Minhas costas estavam ardendo.”, replicou e a resposta trocou alguma peça na sua mente de lugar.

A peça certa.

A responsável por despertar a memória e por te fazer recordar em quais termos você estava com o homem. Embora tivesse cogitado no início, sabia que Seungcheol não estava irritado com os arranhões, definitivamente não — concordava que o vermelho-cereja das suas unhas contrastava muito bem com os riscos rubros na pele dele. Seu marido, na verdade, tinha outro motivo para o estresse. E você só sabe disso porque lembrou…

Lembrou-se de Mingyu, lembrou-se de Mavie, lembrou-se da vista para o mar, lembrou-se de quatro copos de tequila e do calor da mão dele na sua coxa…

── ★ ˙ ̟ ──────── . ♡

Você e Seungcheol não eram o único casal que aparecia no cronograma de todas as atividades que planejaram fazer durante a estadia. Mingyu e Mavie também enfeitavam a lista junto com vocês dois, era um “quatro é par” meio incomum — a intenção é que fosse, de fato, uma viagem entre amigos íntimos. A proposta foi do filho favorito do seu marido (como você gostava de chamá-lo) e da namorada. Sentia a relação de vocês quatro se estreitando cada vez mais, Mingyu não foi padrinho de casamento à toa.

Eram companhia agradável, gostavam de estar juntos.

Os planos dessa vez foram: não ter plano algum. Após passarem os três primeiros dias turistando entre as ilhas do arquipélago como um grupo de desesperados, resolveram finalmente render-se ao privilégio de fazer o que qualquer jovem adulto no auge de sua energia faria: sentar e encher a cara. Encontraram-se só pela noitinha, ancorando-se num barzinho à beira mar — discreto o suficiente caso saíssem dali cambaleando até o hotel.

Serviram-se de conversa boa, frutos do mar e qualquer bebida que parecesse atrativa o suficiente no cardápio. Só esqueceram de servir-se de tempo, afinal ele passou voando por vocês.

“No mar não, mô. Tô quebrado.”, Mingyu resmungou do outro lado da mesa, alto o suficiente para recuperar a sua atenção que antes estava muito bem amarrada a um Seungcheol cada vez mais grudento. Mavie resmungou algo sobre a preguiça do namorado outra vez, estavam se bicando faz um tempo. A mulher insistia em tomar banho de mar logo agora, o que claramente não era uma boa ideia considerando o estado de vocês. Caso resolvessem juntar o raciocínio dos quatro, ainda custariam um pouco para soletrar a palavra “so-bri-e-da-de”.

“Quebrado por quê? Você nem fez nada hoje…”, Mavie franziu o rosto em tom de chacota, era caracteristicamente arisca — perfeita para o homem mais novo, Mingyu não escondia o quanto se amarrava no jeitinho mandão.

“Não fiz nada?”, soou contrariado.

“Não.”, retrucou.

Mingyu ajustou a postura de imediato, cruzou os braços, afiando o olhar para a namorada — que agora parecia questionar a própria convicção. Ele correu os olhos pelo corpo feminino de cima a baixo, o mesmo tom sarcástico que ela havia usado. Você mirou de canto para conferir se Seungcheol havia sacado, só para constatar que estava explícito que Mavie ainda era a única na mesa a não notar o que Mingyu insinuava. Finalmente, a percepção cresceu no corpo dela junto com um arregalar de olhos exagerado.

“Mas isso não conta!”, respondeu verbalmente à discussão mental que estava tendo com Mingyu e ninguém na mesa conseguiu segurar a gargalhada.

“Óbvio que conta!”, ele rebateu, finalmente relaxando na cadeira, um sorriso sacana entre os lábios. “E tá frio ‘pra caralho também...”

“Quando que ‘cê ficou mole assim, Kim Mingyu? Não aguenta uma brisinha.”, seu marido pôs os pés na conversa, caçoando do jeito caprichoso do homem mais novo. Ele largou sua coxa para levar o próprio copo à boca ao fim da frase, a fim de esconder um sorrisinho zombeteiro.

“Mole é você! Não tirou a camisa nem ‘pra entrar na água hoje.”

“É que ele também tá quebrado, Gyu.”, você respondeu antes que Seungcheol fosse capaz de engolir o líquido por completo, observando a reação dele pela visão periférica. “Dá um desconto que a idade não chegou só ‘pra você.”, a língua formigou com a provocação barata — admitia ter um pouco de “defensora dos fracos e oprimidos” em si mesma quando o assunto era Mingyu, nunca havia encontrado um homem tão coitadinho.

“A gente realmente se meteu com dois Matusaléns, _____.”, Mavie embarcou na brincadeira, ignorando a criatura bicuda ao lado dela.

“E não, é? Fim de carreira nessa idade já…”, você concordou num riso meio frouxo, já estava mais para lá do que para cá.

“E o que isso tem a ver com tirar a camisa?”, Mingyu — não negando que ele e Seungcheol agiam como dois idosos, que fique registrado — interferiu. Você lambeu os lábios, sentia o amargor do álcool contribuindo para ressecá-los, correndo as pontas das unhas pela nuca do homem ao seu lado. O carinho tinha aparência doce, porém vocês dois sabiam o quão provocativo ele era. Cabeça leve, sequer chegou a questionar se deveria filtrar a resposta:

“Eu acabei com as costas dele mais cedo.”, expôs como se o fato não tivesse relevância, o aperto na sua coxa ganhou mais pressão — previsível. Embriagada ou não, você tinha noção que não deveria olhar na direção de Seungcheol se quisesse completar o que queria dizer. E foi exatamente o que fez: “Se ele entrar na água o sal vai fazer arder e eu vou ter que aguentar ele de choro no hotel.”, o tom ácido que escolhera te fazia soar irritante e isso era proposital.

Honestamente? Não sabe o que deu em você.

“Pois é…”, o homem mais novo entoou baixinho, parecia ter sido pego desprevenido com a revelação. No entanto, sua chance de revidar estava bem ali. Ele não era louco de deixar passar: “Quando que você ficou mole assim? Não aguenta um arranhãozinho.”, a postura sarcástica te arrancou um risinho que você custou muito a tentar esconder. Mingyu riu junto.

Aparentavam estar na mesma sintonia. Disparando na mesma direção e Seungcheol, infelizmente, estava bem no centro do alvo.

“Se manca, porra.”, o timbre grave te fez engolir seco ainda que não fosse direcionado à você. Obrigou-se a fazer o que evitava desde que abriu a boca: olhar para o marido. Virando-se com passo lento, como quem teme ver a Medusa.

E antes que você fosse capaz de registrar, ele estava lá: o sorriso condescendente. Uma repreensão silenciosa, de quem não precisa dizer muito para conseguir te censurar. Pode-se mesmo dizer que Seungcheol pesou o clima da situação, afinal Mingyu, amigo de longa data, também era muito familiar àquela expressão — possuía seu próprio saldo de advertências.

“Ficou puto, _____. Você vai ter que aguentar choro do mesmo jeito.”, provocou, mas já soava distante.

“Para de ser chato!”, Mavie foi ligeira em intervir e um estalo roubou sua atenção por alguns segundos, achar Mingyu apalpando um dos braços te fez deduzir o tapa que ele provavelmente levou.

Retornou a Seungcheol. O modo como era observada fazia seu corpo ferver. Quis experimentar mais daquilo.

“Ele não é tão destemido assim, não.”, quem você queria que ouvisse estava à sua frente. A língua pesou ao fim da frase, brincar com ele te intoxicava mais que a bebida. “É que vocês nunca viram ele mansinho.”, mordeu um sorriso safado. O comentário era direcionado ao homem, porém você tinha certeza que foi audível o suficiente para ser escutado do outro lado da mesa e, sinceramente, não se importava. “Se eu…”

“Se você o quê?”, seu marido franziu a testa te desafiando a continuar, ainda que esse fosse um sinal claro para que você se calasse. Erro tolo, não deveria ter desafiado.

“Se eu usar a boca direitinho-”

“_____.”, soou austero e não deixou que você concluísse a frase — se é que teria mesmo a cara de pau em fazê-lo.

O silêncio que seguiu da interação foi desconfortável ou mesmo meio constrangedor. Você não sabe que tipo de reação o momento gerou no casal a frente de vocês e seu marido muito menos, afinal compartilhavam um olhar intenso que pareciam incapazes de romper. Presos numa batalha silenciosa por autoridade que, ambos sabiam, seria vencida por Seungcheol.

“Vocês… querem pedir outra garrafa?”

── ★ ˙ ̟ ──────── . ♡

Enfim, de volta ao banheiro e fora de suas memórias, não teve tempo de processar a vergonha que sentiu ao lembrar-se do que disse. Culparia a bebida, culparia Mingyu por te incitar a provocá-lo, droga, culparia até mesmo Seungcheol por ficar tão gostoso estressado… só precisava que a culpa não recaísse sobre você. No fundo, até sabia a resposta, mas ainda assim resolveu perguntar:

“Tá bravo comigo?”, baixinho, com receio. Ele nada disse, talvez considerasse melhor nem abrir a boca. Tudo que você recebeu foi uma encarada fria através do espelho. Resposta dada. “Você não pode ficar bravo comigo. Eu sou sua mulher.”, usou da razão mais insensata que havia em sua mente — e, bem, não era como se houvessem outras.

O homem riu de canto, sem humor algum.

“Por ser minha mulher você já deveria saber quando ficar quieta.”, alfinetou, trilhando as palavras devagar. Te intimidava genuinamente quando falava tão comedido assim.

“Não é ‘pra tanto, Cheol. Era só o Mingyu e Mavie…”, lamuriou, recusando-se a sair da defensiva. Mentalmente, se esquivava de Seungcheol como se ele fosse puxar o tapete a qualquer instante e te deixar totalmente sem argumentos. “Você tá agindo como se tivesse um monte de desconhecidos com a gente.”, acrescentou e não sabe como planejava ganhar a razão com desculpas tão rasas. “Tava todo mundo meio bêbado, amor. Amanhã ninguém vai lembrar disso.”, alongou o apelidinho com todo o dengo que conseguiu reunir — medida desesperada, sabia estar perdendo.

“A questão é de princípios, _____.”, soava impassível, como alguém que já teve tempo suficiente para processar a situação e concluir que estava do lado certo. Seungcheol passava longe de ser santo, era sacana a seu próprio nível. Porém até para ele haviam limites, coisas que ele envergonhava-se em expor e você claramente havia se esquecido disso.

Estava tão contrariada que sentia-se desconfortável dentro do cômodo, sem saber muito bem o que fazer consigo mesma. Aproximou-se meio cautelosa, sem certeza de como agir.

“Ainda tá ardendo?”, questionou ao ver a breve expressão de desconforto dele.

“Pra caralho.”

“Foi sem querer. De verdade.”, chegou mais perto, dedilhando a pele em volta dos arranhões — temia tocá-lo onde não deveria.

“Tá se desculpando pelos arranhões ou por falar besteira?”, indagou com firmeza. Você quase recolheu a mão, incerta se ainda podia tocar.

“Pelos arranhões…”, miou baixinho, nem sabe como ele ouviu.

“Então não quero suas desculpas.”

“Cheollie…”, lamentou-se em tom de quem queria carinho. Atreveu-se a ficar mais perto, escondendo-se atrás dele no reflexo. Selou a pele das costas dele timidamente.

Que se dane, apelaria sim para a parte física. Não iria fingir que se seu shortinho não estava ficando molhadinho desde que ele começou a soar tão mandão — precisava ganhar alguma coisa dessa situação.

Aprofundou os beijinhos ao não encontrar sinal de recusa, até mesmo correu a língua pela dorsal masculina, desviando de algumas das cicatrizes. Os dedinhos deslizaram de maneira igualmente fácil, indo da parte inferior das costas até o abdômen dele. Continuava a selar a pele com devoção quando alcançou a borda da toalha. Não desatou o enlace que a prendia no quadril do homem, no entanto. Raspou as unhas por ali, acompanhando o movimento quando Seungcheol respirou fundo.

“Amor…”, embora o termo doce estivesse ali, o chamado não era nada mais que um alerta.

“Não me manda parar…”, você suplicou baixinho, esticando-se para apalpar as coxas firmes por cima da toalha. “Por favor…”

Em outras ocasiões, não insistiria. Conhecia Seungcheol quando ele estava irritado com algo, porém, sua maior habilidade era, na verdade, reconhecer quando ele somente fingia estar. Admitia que parecia haver certo nível de atuação ou mesmo não houvesse uma carga de seriedade tão grande assim… só tinha noção de que essa era uma redoma fácil de quebrar — já havia tido discussões mais sérias com o homem, sabia bem o que era estar numa fria com ele.

Incapaz de ver muita coisa, precisava se guiar pelas sensações, por como o homem reagia sob o seu toque. Os dedinhos resvalaram sobre onde sabia estar o pau dele sem muito pudor, envolveu o que pode da extensão semi-ereta contra a palma da mão. Retornou com os beijinhos na dorsal dele, deixando a língua participar cada vez mais do carinho.

Seungcheol separou as pernas ainda mais, deixando o peso do próprio torso ser sustentado pelas mãos na borda da pia. Você tomou o movimento como pretexto para desfazer a toalha, deixá-la cair. O corpo imponente encheu seus olhos, ainda que pudesse ver pouco. Repetiu o processo: correu as unhas pelo abdômen macio até ser capaz de alcançar a piroca pesada. Livre do tecido, agora era capaz de sentir como ela pulsava em sua mão, as veias grossas parecendo cheias de tanta porra.

Retornou a destra para cuspir em sua palma, logo espalhando o líquido pela extensão inteirinha. Foi lamentável não conseguir ver quando passou a estimular do jeitinho que conseguia. Uma das mãos punhetando num cerco apertadinho enquanto a outra raspava as unhas pela barriga masculina.

“Assim, caralho.”, o homem envolveu a sua destra com a dele, tornando o aperto mais firme. O vai-e-vem se tornou errático, desesperado. Seungcheol se punhetava com gosto, sequer parecia sentir sua mão ali.

Registrou o exato momento no qual a canhota dele se esticou para trás do seu corpo, prendendo a carne da sua bunda entre os dedos. Viu-se completamente colada ao corpo do homem. O movimento errático fazia seu braço doer um pouquinho, só que tudo era remediado pelos grunhidos gostosos da voz dele.

Sentiu-o espasmar mais forte dentro do aperto e teve sua mão puxada de súbito. Seu marido se virou abrupto na sua direção, o rosto vermelho, meio perturbado.

“Ajoelha ‘pra se desculpar comigo de verdade.”, o comando foi inflexível, sem margem para que você sequer pensasse em reclamar. Obedeceu. Dócil como um animalzinho inútil. “Só com a boca.”, Seungcheol esclareceu, segurava o pau pela base na sua direção. “Me mama sem tocar.”

Receosa, as mãozinhas se apoiaram nas coxas dele para que tivesse algum tipo de suporte. Encarava a expressão fria de maneira quase compulsiva, mal piscava, afinal era ela que fazia a bucetinha gulosa se babar inteira, se oferecendo em silêncio para o homem acima de você.

Resvalou a pontinha da língua pela base da extensão, deixando um beijinho barulhento ali. O pau dele guinou num espasmo gostoso, você quase sorriu. Repetiu a ação vezes demais, os beijinhos se tornando cada vez mais babadinhos — demorando-se para deixar a saliva escorrer por ele. Roçou o narizinho pela lateral, o olhar afiado, sabia bem que estava testando a paciência dele.

“Para de ser filha da puta. Mama direito.”, ele ralhou baixinho, os dedos apertando a borda da pia ao ponto de ficarem esbranquiçados. Você resolveu ir de acordo com a vontade dele, mas não sem antes deixar escapar um sorrisinho.

Encheu a boquinha com habilidade. Mamava com deleite, babando ele inteirinho. Livrava-o da boca sempre que queria arrastar a língua atrevida pelas laterais. Definitivamente não precisava das mãos para fazer um bom trabalho. Perdia-se tanto no prazer em satisfazê-lo que acabava meio desnorteada. Deixava beijinhos meio carentes, esfregava o narizinho ali…

Tropeçava em si mesma toda vez que sorvia Seungcheol com tanta sede. Mesmo após tanto tempo, ainda parecia irracional se entregar tão intensamente, só que você sempre ignorava qualquer sinal de hesitação quando estava sob o olhar do homem. Rendia-se a ele, queria ser dele.

Sentia-se meio tonta, não sabia se pela incapacidade de respirar direito ou se pela vontade quase insuportável de brincar com a sua bucetinha. Gemeu carente, largando-o num estalinho meio alto para recobrar o ar. Descontou o próprio desespero nas coxas do marido, fincando as unhas ali sem pesar.

Abocanhou a cabecinha outra vez, droga, era tanta fome que se viu praticamente obrigada a levar tudo para a gargantinha. Precisou respirar pelo nariz, os olhinhos arderam, quase engasgou… mas ainda assim conseguiu o ro��ar gostoso no fundo da sua boca. O aperto fechava-se contra a sua vontade, isso quase te frustrou, só que ouviu Seungcheol gemer. Rouquinho, contido. Tudo fruto de sua mania estúpida de lutar contra os sonzinhos gostosos que a garganta produzia.

Você jurava que iria desbloquear essa parte dele permanentemente em algum momento do relacionamento, porém sempre se via precisando fazer o mesmo processo de quebrá-lo o bastante para ele ser capaz de gemer sem pudor todas as vezes que vocês transavam. Não era um defeito, exatamente. Gostava do desenrolar das coisas, de achar novos jeitos de soltar as amarras dele.

Cada vez mais submersa na sujeira na qual se afundava junto com Seungcheol, embebedava-se nos próprios pensamentos. Era engenhosa, a cabecinha em ruínas queimava com toda a sacanagem que poderiam fazer juntos. Confinada num estado de tesão que te tornava livre, desinibida. Não se importou mais com as restrições, agarrou a piroca gorda entre as mãos. Mostrou a linguinha, batendo a glande babona ali sem pudor algum.

O rostinho mostrava o quanto estava embriagada com aquilo. Queria lotar sua boquinha de porra, do gosto dele, de Cheol.

Encaixou as bolas pesadinhas dentro da boca como pôde, a saliva escorria pelo queixo a esse ponto. Os olhinhos se fecharam com o grunhido grave que ouviu-o deixar escapar. Esfregou a língua entre elas, mamando esfomeada, sugando-as para dentro da boquinha pequena. As mãos envolvendo-o numa punheta dengosa, cheia de vontades.

Seungcheol perdeu a mão. Foda-se, você estava pedindo por isso mesmo. Forçou sua cabeça ali sem nem pensar nas consequências, os dedos firmes no seu cabelo, as coxas prendendo sua cabeça — te sufocando. Você sentiu suas pernas fraquejando de tanto tesão, mas nada que te fizesse interromper o jeitinho de sugar o lugarzinho cheio de porra para dentro da boca.

“Filha da puta do caralho… mama vai…”, resmungou numa manha insuportavelmente gostosa de se ouvir. Seus olhinhos reviraram por trás das pálpebras, estava quase delirando e, dessa vez, era definitivamente por falta de ar. “Princesa, porra… isso…”, a voz grave soava como um ronronar quando ele estocou contra a sua mão — sequer se recordava que ainda estava batendo uma ‘pra ele, tão perdida no quão cheia estava sua boca.

Incapaz de se manter no estado de asfixia, bateu uma das mãos contra a perna dele. Seungcheol sacou e num solavanco te puxou pelo cabelo para ficar de pé novamente. Seu estado visivelmente desnorteado lhe rendeu um sorriso, ele te envolveu nos braços — tomando a responsabilidade de sustentar o seu corpo para si mesmo até que você fosse capaz de voltar a respirar normalmente.

“Devia te deixar engasgar com a minha porra só pela palhaçada de hoje.”, limpou o canto da sua boca com o polegar. “Mas nem isso você tá merecendo.”, a fala gerou um muxoxo aborrecido da sua parte. Dengosa, exigia que Seungcheol fosse carinhoso com você até em situações nas quais estava claramente errada — sem esse tom grosseiro.

O sonzinho pareceu não comover muito à primeira vista, ainda tinha a saliva que escorria no seu rostinho sendo recolhida sem muita atenção. Porém, o homem não sabia o que era não bajular a princesa bonita dele logo depois dela ter feito um trabalho tão gostoso. Ignorou o rostinho insatisfeito para arrancar um beijo quente de você.

Sabia que ficava mansinha com o encaixe da boca gostosa, o corpo enfraquecia, quase largava o próprio peso em cima de Seungcheol. Era a vez dele de te mamar com gosto, de chupar sua boquinha cheio de fome. As línguas se encontravam numa fricção lenta, deliciosa. Os estalinhos lançavam um arrepio gélido pelas suas costas, mas ele logo era afagado pelas mãos do homem, que apalpava seu corpo inteiro — te apertando, te tomando. Sentiu-o se afastar por um breve momento, te finalizando com uma série de selinhos cálidos.

“Mais…”, resmungou outra vez, abrindo mais a boca, oferecendo a linguinha quente como um pedido para que ele não parasse.

“Se eu tô te estragando e te deixando mimada, não é pra te dar a liberdade de sair por aí falando merda, princesa.”, o seu presentinho não havia acabado com o sermão, na verdade, só estava prestes a começar. “É pra mim. Só pra mim.”, encarou-lhe com certo tom de seriedade, as palmas das mãos dando suporte ao seu corpo na parte traseira das suas coxas.

“Mas eu só tava brincando com o Mingyu…”, franziu a testa, o tom de birra era nítido.

“Tudo tem limites.”, ele tentou te finalizar antes que sequer cogitasse insistir na teimosia. “Você me vê abrindo a boca pra falar de você desse jeito, porra?”, acabou por levantar a voz um pouquinho e isso fez você se encolher no abraço dele. “Eu falo, _____?”, voltou a dizer. “Falo assim na frente de alguém?”

“Não.”, negou a contragosto. Estava contra a parede, via-se obrigada a admitir sua posição de culpa na situação.

“E por quê você acha que pode?”

“Não sei.”, fez charminho, roçando o nariz contra o maxilar dele. “Só senti…”, selou a pele dele com adoração, só a presença de Seungcheol te tornava entregue. “... vontade.”, completou.

“E se eu começar a fazer as coisas só porque senti vontade também, amor?”, não parecia minimamente afetado, acostumado demais a lidar com seu jeitinho. “E se eu te largar aqui toda melada só porque senti vontade?”

“Não…”, alongou a palavra num gemidinho manhoso. “Dá beijo…”, forçou um biquinho. Era ridícula, patética até — e isso era mais do que suficiente para manter seu homem na coleira. Seungcheol até tentou lutar contra o desejo, mas acolheu o beicinho entre os lábios sem muito evitar. Chupando, mordendo… não deixou passar despercebido o seu risinho satisfeito.

“Eu sou bonzinho demais contigo. Devia parar.”

“Não para.”, negou com a cabeça.

“Tô criando uma menininha sonsa. Mimada pra caralho.”, simulou um tapinha leve na sua bunda, parecia agravar-se com as próprias palavras — estressando-se em admitir que era fraco com você. “Tá se virando contra o seu marido, amor?”

“Você gosta de mim assim. Só pra você…”, não negou que estava, admitiu de forma velada. Jogando com o jeitinho possessivo, porque sabia que era o elo mais frágil.

“Só pra mim?”

“Só sua.”

“Vou te ouvir falando merda de novo então?”, a questão foi incisiva. E era extremamente fácil mentir ou mesmo omitir suas intenções reais. Era fácil abrir a boca e fingir que nunca mais repetiria algo assim. Conhecia o efeito estupidamente prazeroso que existia em agradar as expectativas dele, bastava abaixar as orelhinhas como um animal indefeso que ele se veria forçado a dar tudo que você quisesse.

Dessa vez, no entanto, algo te encorajava a testar o quão próxima do limite poderia ficar. Algo que não foi capaz de controlar, algo que te fez sorrir da maneira mais traiçoeira que conseguiu. Mordeu a boquinha para conter-se, porém já era tarde demais: o olhar do homem já havia registrado a expressão mau-caráter.

“Não…”, a voz subiu alguns oitavos. Resposta certa, mas no tom errado. Seungcheol estava longe de se sentir convencido.

“Não, _____?”, o aperto nas suas bochechas se torna mais vigoroso, a pele escapando pelos dedos dele tamanha é a pressão. Jura que pode se conter, porém as pernas se remexem num tremor carente — queria poder apertar as coxas uma contra a outra. Não sabe se a demora para respondê-lo ou se o movimento é a razão, mas algo te faz ganhar um tapa dolorido, imprevisível. A ardência que deveria ter sido absorvida pelo cetim que cobria sua bunda acaba se espalhando pela coxa. Você geme baixinho, protestando num murmúrio alguma coisa sobre ter doído.

A postura prepotente parece recuar ao vislumbre do rostinho magoado. Seungcheol ainda faz você se submeter, só que o carinho reconfortante que ele deixa na área atingida é um indicador velado de que você tem seu próprio jeito de fazê-lo se submeter também. Seus olhinhos brilham, o “algo” estava ali novamente. Te fazendo olhar para a borda e te incitando a falar a coisa errada dessa vez:

“Tá com dó?”, sorriu, não houve reflexão que antecipasse o que fora dito. Nenhum pensamento sequer sobre as consequências cruzou sua mente.

A consequência veio.

No mesmo lugar, rápida e muito mais forte. Sente que o impacto só não te fez sair do lugar porque era vigorosamente segurada pelo rosto, senão se desequilibraria. Esse fez arder tanto que até os olhinhos esquentaram, jurou ter quase lacrimejado com o tapa. Não conseguiu nem reclamar tamanho era o choque, só produzindo um som esganiçado fruto da dor que inevitavelmente sentiu.

“Tô?”, ergue a sobrancelha em arrogância. Suas perninhas enfraquecem e quase deixa escapar mais um gemido — só que esse seria de puro tesão. “O próximo vai ser na cara.”, o aviso não era blefe, dava para perceber no rosto dele que não.

Você é incapaz de se desvencilhar do estado estúpido no qual se encontra, não tem reação ou um pensamento coerente sequer. Só sabe que o líquido pegajoso que quase goteja no meio das suas perninhas começa a soar muito como uma súplica — um pedido que diz que sim: queria um no rostinho também.

“Amor-”, balbucia, mas é ignorada e interrompida no mesmo segundo.

“Aprende a me responder direito: vai sair falando merda?”, insiste na pergunta. A mão que aperta seu rosto alivia a pressão — sinal que ele queria uma resposta clara, sem empecilhos — e se move para o seu cabelo, a folga faz seu rosto pinicar.

“Vou…”, não pensa, escolhe a resposta errada outra vez. Continua a testá-lo sem vergonha alguma, tentando descobrir se aquela era a maneira certa de conseguir o que queria.

O quadril é agarrado com tamanha força que sente os pés saírem do chão, o corpinho treme em meio aos passos pesados de Seungcheol te levando de volta ao quarto. Rápido demais, ao ponto de você sequer registrar quando é largada e moldada como uma bonequinha de pano em cima da cama, até que fosse colocada de bruços.

Seungcheol puxa a barra do seu shortinho com tamanho esforço que chega a mover seu corpo inteiro no processo, o tecido range e você se preocupa:

“Cheol, não rasga…”, queixa-se baixinho, ciente que teria sua lamúria ignorada por ele. A peça é passada pelas suas pernas com mais alguns chiados, sabe que não vai se impressionar ao encontrar o tecido totalmente dilacerado depois.

Não tem tempo de reclamar de novo.

Seungcheol monta em você sem medir força. As pernas prendendo as suas coxas, o quadril encaixadinho contra a sua bunda, a mão te forçando pela nuca contra o colchão — sentia a aliança fria ardendo contra a sua pele. Mesmo que tentasse, não conseguiria se mover, seu corpo não obedeceria. Nunca esteve tão vulnerável, chegava até a tremer um pouquinho numa convicção muito forte de que o homem te comeria viva ali mesmo.

Merda, vai gozar só com isso.

Sente ele erguer o quadril, a outra mão afastando um dos lados da sua bunda de um jeito degradante. Arrepia, o rosto esquenta. Por pouco não geme quando ouve uma cuspida ruidosa soar pelo cômodo. Atinge a fenda estreita, mas Seungcheol usa a pontinha do pau para arrastar o líquido até sua bucetinha. Ali ele brinca, espalha a saliva espessa, forçando como se estivesse prestes a entrar.

“Pede ‘pra eu te foder, pede.”, diz baixinho e seu estômago revira num anseio gostoso, aperta os olhinhos. Ele se debruça no seu corpo outra vez, a boca agora colada na sua orelha. “Implora pra mim, porra.”, forçou a cabecinha ao fim da frase, rindo de como seu corpinho ainda tremia sob o toque dele.

Não suportou um segundo sequer da provocação: ergueu o quadril o quanto conseguiu, empinando-se para acolher mais da extensão dentro da sua entradinha. Ficou tão tonta com a sensação que acabou obcecada no vai-e-vem vicioso. O barulhinho molhado enche sua audição, a boquinha se abre e todos os pensamentos coerentes se perdem enquanto você se fode nele. Sabe que não vai ser suficiente.

“Eu quero gozar… por favor…”, murmura baixinho, ainda incapaz de abrir os olhinhos. “Por favor…”, repetiu, movia-se num desespero penoso… era de dar dó.

Seungcheol ergueu-se outra vez.

Claramente não havia conquistado o que te pediu para fazer. Não do jeito que queria.

Retirou-se novamente, num movimento lento, torturante. Outra cuspida ruidosa te fez confundir as intenções do homem, mas tudo que ele fez foi abrigar a extensão pesada bem no meio da sua bunda, esfregando-o contra o vãozinho estreito.

“Assim não… eu quero mais…”, reclamou só para ser ignorada outra vez. Seu marido espalmou as mãos de cada lado, tornando o cerco em volta dele mais apertado, fodendo o lugar com maior avidez. “Não, Cheol!”

“Porra, cala a boca.”, rebateu enfim, só que soou preguiçoso demais, dengoso demais.

“Por favor…”

“Caralho de rabo gostoso, princesa.”, sussurrou entre gemidos, acelerando o rebolar da cintura. “Vou jogar minha porra toda aqui.”, a fricção molhada fazia sua pele arder em vontade. Não conseguia suportar ser usada assim, precisava sentir, precisava de prazer.

“Não, não, não, não…”, o tom puxadinho beirava o irritante, cheio de manha. “Dentro…”, soluçou baixinho, como se chorasse. “Amor, por favor…”, não conteve a frustração só nas palavras, balançando o quadril só para desequilibrar o homem. “Eu quero dentro…”

“Mandei você ficar quieta, porra!”, a mão firmou seu rosto contra ao fim da exclamação, só que pelo cabelo dessa vez. “Você acha que merece alguma coisa agindo desse jeito, ____?”, pergunta retórica.

“Desculpa…”

“Acha que é só dar essa bucetinha pra mim que eu vou esquecer do que você fez?”, empurrou seu rosto um pouquinho. “Acha?”

Não houve resposta e ele seria idiota se achava em algum momento haveria. Você era uma bagunça suja, arrastando a bucetinha melada contra o edredom na esperança de ganhar algum alívio. Seungcheol estalou a língua no céu da boca, enfadado de tanto ceder aos seus caprichos de putinha dengosa.

Ele se ergueu, usando os joelhos para afastar ainda mais suas pernas. Forçou entrada no buraquinho encharcado sem pestanejar, sequer encontrou resistência. Você engasgou um gemido, o cérebro derretendo em descontrole.

“Aqui, porra. É isso que ‘cê quer?”, o homem ralhou, a voz soando distante. “Ferrou com a merda da minha paciência só pra ganhar isso?”, libertou seus cabelos, enfim, as mãos agora te empurrando contra a cama pelos ombros — você achava que ia ser quebrada em partes a qualquer momento. “Porra, para de me apertar.”

Não podia parar. Sequer conseguia. Era o único recurso para o qual podia recorrer na tentativa de aliviar toda a sua vontade.

“Fode… Cheol, me dá mais…”, choramingou baixinho, a voz mal saia. Tentou mover o quadril, mas era impossível com o peso dele todo em cima de você. “Amor, eu quero você… porra, porra, tá tão gostoso…”, o estômago repuxava em vontade. Quase babando num tesão nojento que te fazia jurar estar prestes a gozar só por tê-lo ali.

Pulsava. Molhava Seungcheol inteiro. Ruía com o autocontrole dele cada vez que praticamente sugava a extensão para dentro de você. Apertando numa súplica silenciosa para se satisfazer.

Não deu para continuar negando.

O quadril desesperado do homem expulsou um gemido brusco dos seus pulmões. Era rude, beirava o violento. Mal deixava o buraquinho judiado e já enchia-o outra vez, expulsava lubrificação e saliva dali aos montes e fazia um barulho encharcado lotar o cômodo. Te molhava ‘pra cacete com a porra que vazava do próprio pau — ainda que não estivesse gozando de fato.

Você também contribuía para toda a cacofonia pornográfica que enchia o quarto. A boquinha suja unia o nome do marido a todos os palavrões que conhecia, gemendo, soluçando, tentando expulsar entre os chorinhos a sensação insuportável de tê-lo arrancando um orgasmo de você sem sequer conseguir impedir.

Mal teve como processar, se deu. Cedeu contra a própria vontade. A bucetinha apertou mais forte, encharcou tudo — era gostoso pra caralho, fazia seu estômago queimar. Apertou o suficiente para obrigá-lo a te encher ainda mais, só que dessa vez com a porra quente, espessa.

Ele veio praguejando alto, abrindo seu rabinho entre os dedos só para conseguir se ver esporrar — em vão, Seungcheol sequer conseguia abrir os olhos. Fodia o líquido pegajoso para dentro de você com avidez, ignorando a própria sensibilidade. Queria garantir que te deixaria recheadinha, cheia dele até a última gota.

[...]

Mantinha-se subjugada aos suspiros cheios de carência e ardor. Submissa e maleável ainda que fosse você a estar em cima do corpo grande dessa vez. Silenciosamente demandava mais um beijo faminto de um Seungcheol que sequer estava tendo tempo para respirar propriamente. Apoiou as palmas nos ombros dele, forçando o torso dele contra a cama em consequência.

Pressionou o próprio corpo no dele outra vez, porém escutou-o chiar. Um chiado que em nada se parecia com um de prazer. Afastando-se, não demorou a deduzir que as costas machucadas eram o motivo da reclamação.

“Desculpa.”

“Não tô chateado, amor.”, a voz tinha certa aspereza, te provocou um arrepio. “Passou, passou.”, as palmas correram pelas suas costas num gesto reconfortante. “E esse bico?”, um sorriso doce despontou nos lábios. Acariciava suas bochechas com o polegar, se deleitava com o jeitinho manhoso como se fosse viciado nele.

“Eu machuquei você…”, lamuriou baixinho, agravando a expressão chorosa. Inocente era a alma que supunha que essa era você realmente se sentindo arrependida com a situação. Não passava de mais uma exigência. Não queria outra coisa que não ter Seungcheol curvando-se aos seus caprichos — e ele sempre, sempre se curvaria:

“Você pode.”, tranquilizou-te, selando sua testa num gesto sereno. “Você pode tudo, princesinha.”

“Tem certeza?”, bateu os cílios, a voz fraquinha.

“Te deixo fazer de novo quantas vezes quiser.”, soou legítimo, um sorriso sacana escondido na curva dos lábios. “Só que dessa vez eu não vou ser o único a sair marcado…”

( ✶. ) © 2025 hansolsticio ── 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

[vonpeachy]

while you were sleeping

synopsis: Zayne can't sleep when you're next to him warnings: well it's me so...tooth rotting fluff pairing: Zayne x fem!reader wc: 1.2k an: this one feels a little different to me, idk but I hope you like it! It's very loosely inspired by something my friend once wrote

Zayne should really go to sleep.

The rational part of him is very aware of the time ticking away, each minute dragging him closer to the moment his alarm will scream at him to get up, throw on his work clothes, and face a long, draining shift. He knows he should be catching up on some much needed sleep. But he isn’t.

Because you’re here.

Because you’re sleeping next to him, soft and warm and tangled up in him like you always are when you’re too tired to notice how clingy you get. Not that he’s ever minded. Your cheek is smushed gently against his chest, your breath brushing slow and steady over his skin. One of your legs has wormed its way over both of his, and your arms are wrapped around him like you're afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He can feel the weight of you, the heat radiating off your skin. You always run hot when you sleep. It used to surprise him, how much you gravitate to his naturally cooler body temperature. Now it’s one of those little facts he tucks away and holds dear, like the knowledge of your favorite tea or the way you need a sweater whenever you’re reading, even in summer.

His hand rests lightly on your back, fingers tracing lazy circles against the curve of your spine, up and down, over and over. You make a little sound in your sleep, soft and muffled, and it makes his heart do that stupid thing where it trips over itself for you.

He remembers the very first time you’d ever slept next to each other. It wasn’t even supposed to happen.

You had fallen asleep on his couch after a movie night, face buried in a throw pillow and your feet tucked up awkwardly. He didn’t have the heart to wake you, though he did try. You just blinked up at him groggily, whispered something incoherent, and promptly collapsed against his chest. Somehow, that evolved into the two of you curled together under the thin blanket he kept on the back of the couch. His neck was sore for a week. But the memory of it had stayed warm in his chest for far longer.

The first night in an actual bed was even worse for his sleep. You’d curled into his side so naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Your arm flopped over his stomach, your knee nudged between his. He was too nervous to move a muscle. His body ached by morning, but he didn’t regret a second of it. That was the night he learned you talk in your sleep sometimes, mostly nonsense, but once you said his name and sighed like it was a prayer. He’d laid awake the rest of the night, hand over his heart like it could hold the feeling in place.

So many little things stick in his mind.

The time you fell asleep on his shoulder at the theatre after he had taken you to see a movie after a long mission. The time you dozed off mid-sentence while curled up on his lap and he just sat there, perfectly still, afraid to wake you. Even now, he remembers how your lashes fluttered against his shirt and how you mumbled something about “noodles” in your sleep.

He loves that you’re like this with him, unguarded and easy. He never realized how rare that was until he found it with you.

He shifts slightly, just enough to watch the rise and fall of your breathing. You’re wearing that worn-out shirt you stole from him, the one with the faded graphic and the tiny hole at the hem. It’s way too big, hanging off one shoulder, but you always choose it from the pile like it’s the only thing that feels right. It does feel right. His clothes always look better on you anyway.

Your hair is a mess, half fanned across the pillow, half sticking to his neck. He doesn’t care. He lifts one hand and gently brushes a few strands behind your ear. Your skin twitches at the contact, and you shift, nuzzling closer into his chest like you’re trying to climb inside him. He lets out a breathy, soundless laugh.

How is it that he feels more himself when you’re holding onto him like this?

Zayne remembers the time you both got caught in the rain on the walk home and he offered you his jacket, even though you insisted you were “tough.” You were soaked, cold, and grumpy when you finally made it inside, and he wrapped you in blankets and made you tea while you pouted at the window. Then you fell asleep with your wet socks still on and your head in his lap, and he didn’t dare move for over an hour.

He remembers the weekend you spent rearranging his living room, turning it into a strange little nest of pillows, books, and half-sipped mugs of cocoa. You’d declared it a “cozy zone,” and he had just nodded and let you do your thing. That night, you fell asleep with your head against his stomach, and he ran his fingers through your hair until he could barely keep his eyes open too.

And then there was that one morning when he woke up early and you were already curled into him, whispering sleepy, nonsense compliments while half-awake. He didn’t even bother moving. Just lay there and listened, letting the words soak into his skin. You said he felt safe. You said you liked how he always smelled like fresh laundry. You said his heartbeat made you feel calm.

No one had ever said things like that to him before. Not like that. Not like it mattered.

You mattered to him. More than anything.

He realizes now that there are entire chunks of his life that he doesn’t remember clearly anymore, the years without you, the weeks and months that blurred together. But in every memory with you, everything’s sharper. Brighter. Slower in the best way. You fill the room, even when you’re asleep. You change the way the air smells. It’s like being next to a fireplace when it’s snowing outside.

He doesn’t even notice his thumb is stroking slow arcs against your spine. He just knows he doesn’t want this to end. Doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss a second of this closeness.

He looks down at you, his whole chest close to bursting.

Your breath catches slightly, like you’re shifting into a new dream, and your hand flexes against his ribs. He holds you a little closer, presses a kiss to the crown of your head, light as a secret, and tucks you in tighter against him, like he can protect you even in sleep.

It’s late. It’s quiet. It’s perfect.

And for once, the words come easily.

He doesn’t say them loud, just a whisper into your hair, barely carried by the still air between them. But he says them.

“I love you.”

[vonpeachy]

stahp im gonna cry

Thinking abt ghost sharing food with you...

Hes a creature of survival before hes anything else. Childhood days spent hungry in the summer heat has made ghost protective of his food. He doesnt share, not even with his teammates. Ghost always eats alone, and he keeps his food on him at all times.

No one takes it personally, they just accept it was one of the many things ghost does. They know better to expect him to share.

That is, until you join the team and somehow rewire ghost brain after a few conversations. All his instincts telling him he has to keep you safe, and food means safety.

So now when ghost ears MREs on the field hes dragging you along with him. He never speaks more than a few jokes, and you never press. His hands are steady when he rolls up his mask enough to take a bite of food, slightly difficult with a good chunk of lip missing. The next bite goes to you, the same spoon that was just in his mouth now bringing food to yours.

His eyes crinkle in happiness when you take a bite. He doesnt know why his brain latched onto you. Maybe hes got a crush. Maybe you remind him of Tommy. Maybe ghost just feels guilty and hes looking for absolution in your mortal form.

Whatever the reason, it causes ghost to learn how to cook beyong frozen foods. Slowly improving just so he can feed you better on base. The increase in energy and hid improved mood surely have nothing to do with it. Even if hes gives you a big toothy grin when you slip into his office for lunch.

Its nice. Sharing food. It makes him feel a bit less like hes caught in a room with a tiger at all times.