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amongthe-insert-here · 1 month ago

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Yep, that's the end I wanted, no...needed

Part 2 of our boy Simon yearning for you.

The ache never eased. It just deepened, settled somewhere behind his ribs and made a home there, like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. Days turned into nights, and nights into days, and every moment he wasn’t hearing your voice or reading your texts was a slow torture.

It wasn’t just the casual meetups, the flirty messages, or the teasing that made his pulse race. It was the way you’d brush his arm when you were laughing, the way you’d lean into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way you’d say his name—not “Riley” like before, but “Simon.”

It killed him. It absolutely destroyed him.

He wanted to be better than this, to be cooler, to be calm, but he wasn’t. He was coming undone at the seams, unraveling every time you were near and aching when you were gone.

He’d find himself waking in the middle of the night, breathing hard, reaching for his phone to check if you’d messaged, to see if you’d thought of him in the quiet hours when the world was asleep. And when you hadn’t, he’d drop the phone on the pillow next to him and close his eyes, trying to swallow the bitterness that rose in his throat.

Sometimes he’d dream of you, and wake up with your name on his lips, the sheets tangled around his legs, his skin burning. He’d lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much longer he could take this. How much longer could he pretend he was fine, pretend he was just your friend, when every cell in his body screamed for more?

He started pulling away, just a little. Shorter replies. Fewer emojis. He’d leave your messages on read for a little too long, trying to convince himself that if he created a little space, the longing might ease. But it didn’t.

You noticed, of course. You weren’t oblivious. One night, after another one of those meetups where he’d smiled too tightly and laughed a little too late, you caught him outside the pub. The cold bit at his skin, but the look in your eyes made him feel like he was on fire.

“Simon,” you said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, as he looked away.

“Don’t give me that. You’ve been... distant. Did I do something?”

God, you sounded worried, and that just made it worse. Because the last thing he wanted was for you to think you’d done anything wrong. It was all him. All his fault.

“No,” he said roughly, running a hand over his face. “You didn’t do anything. I just... I’m trying to get my head straight.”

Your brows drew together, and you stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through the cold air. “Simon, you can talk to me.”

And for a moment, he almost did. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, thick and heavy—I miss you so much it hurts. I think about you all the damn time. I can’t stand being near you because I’m falling apart inside.

But he couldn’t. Because if he said it, if he let it all spill out, he didn’t know what you’d do. Didn’t know if you’d pull away, if you’d laugh it off, or if you’d tell him you didn’t feel the same.

So he just gave you a smile and said, “I’m fine. Really. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

And he left you there on the sidewalk, staring after him, while his heart cracked open in his chest...

It was unbearable.

Days passed. He told himself he was getting better at pretending, that if he ignored the ache long enough, it would go away, and that if he kept his distance from you, he’d get over this.

But of course, it didn’t work.

Every time he saw your name flash on his screen, his chest would tighten. Every time you laughed, it was like a fist closing around his throat. Every time you touched him, even casually, even just a brush of fingers as you passed him a drink or steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, he felt like his skin was going to tear open.

And then, one night, it was just too much.

You’d sent him a message—something stupid, really. A picture of your dinner with a comment like “Guess who forgot to buy pasta sauce? 😂” And he’d stared at it, thumb hovering over his screen, the ache in his chest unbearable.

He couldn’t do this anymore. So he called you.

You picked up on the second ring, your voice warm and a little breathless. “Hey, Simon. Everything okay?”

“No.” His voice was rough. “No, it’s not.”

There was a pause, a soft intake of breath on your end. “What’s wrong?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing his living room, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his skull. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can’t pretend everything’s fine. I can’t keep acting like I’m just your friend. I can’t... I can’t stand being near you and not—”

“Not what?” you whispered.

“Not have you,” he said hoarsely. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long it’s driving me insane. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”

“Simon,” you said softly, “why didn’t you say anything before?”

He let out a sharp, broken laugh, a sound like something cracking apart. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know if you felt the same. Because I thought maybe you’d laugh it off, or tell me I was reading too much into things. Because... because it’s you.”

You were quiet for a beat, then said, “Come over.”

“What?”

“Come over,” you repeated. “Right now.”

He didn’t even think, didn’t hesitate. He was out the door before he realized he hadn’t grabbed his keys.

The drive to your place was a blur, the streets smearing past in streaks of light and shadow. He didn’t remember turning off the engine or locking the door. He only remembered the way his hands trembled as he knocked, the way his breath caught when you opened the door, standing there barefoot in leggings and an old sweatshirt, your hair a little messy like you’d been running your hands through it.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping aside to let him in.

He stepped past you, and the second the door clicked shut behind him, it was like a dam breaking.

“I tried,” he said, his voice rough, breathless. “I tried so fucking hard to stay away. To act like I didn’t care. To tell myself this was enough. But it’s not. It’s not enough. I need you. I need to know you’re mine, that I can touch you, kiss you, be with you—”

You didn’t let him finish. You surged forward, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him down into a kiss so hard and desperate it made his head spin. He stumbled back a step, hands coming up to cradle your face, your jaw, your hair. You were warm and soft and real, and he felt himself falling, falling so fast it was like the world was tilting beneath him.

“Simon,” you gasped against his mouth, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve wanted this too. I was just... waiting for you to say something.”

A broken, breathless laugh escaped him, his forehead pressed to yours. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling, your lips brushing his.

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he’d been holding back into it—all the longing, all the frustration, all the desperation that had been eating him alive for months. His hands roamed, memorizing the curve of your hips, the softness of your waist, and the line of your spine. You were here, you were his, and for the first time in so long, he felt whole.

“Stay,” you whispered, lips against his throat. “Don’t go home tonight.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he murmured, and when he kissed you again, it wasn’t desperate—it was everything he’d been aching for.

---------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

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amongthe-insert-here · 1 month ago

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Ok, I needed this in my life. I need this Simon. Amazing work @sweetstrawberryys

“Doesn’t Fit”

— Simon “Ghost” Riley x Plus Size!Reader

Summary: Simon Riley finds his girl spiraling in front of the mirror. No matter the shape, no matter the self-doubt, he steps in like the unshakable, soft-hearted soldier he is, and proves just how perfect she is in his eyes. What follows is an emotional rollercoaster of deep reassurance, body worship, and a whole lot of deliciously filthy spice.

Rating: Fluff and Spicy. TW: Body image insecurity, negative self-talk, soft domination, smut with emotional intimacy, filthy praise, body worship, vulnerable reader, strong emotional themes

Masterlist

---

You’d already tried on three dresses. Each one tighter than the last. Each one crueler in the mirror. One hugged your stomach too much. Another refused to zip up. The last one? It fit—but looked like it wanted to give up.

You stood in front of the mirror, in your underwear, arms crossed over your stomach, lips pressed tight. You poked your hip with two fingers, then frowned. Turned sideways. Big thighs. Belly roll. The mirror didn’t lie.

You sighed.

“I hate this.”

Simon’s voice came from behind you. Low. Quiet. Dangerous.

“What did you just say?”

You gasped and turned around. He stood at the door, mask off, arms crossed over his chest like he’d been watching for a while. His jaw clenched. His brown eyes scanned your face, then dropped to your body, then back up. Slowly. Intentionally.

“I didn’t hear that right,” he said. “Say it again.”

“I—” You flushed. “It’s nothing. Just... I don’t look good. These dresses don’t fit. I feel gross.”

His jaw twitched. “Gross?” he repeated, voice sharp like a blade. “Gross, sweetheart?”

You tried to grab one of the discarded dresses from the bed, but Simon was on you in three long strides. His fingers caught your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But firm. “You’re not hiding from me.”

“Si—”

“You think that mirror tells you the truth?” He turned you back toward it. Pressed his chest to your back. His hands curled around your waist. “That mirror sees what I see?”

You swallowed. Your cheeks were burning. He slid his hand down your side, stopping at your hip. Gripping. Squeezing.

“This?” he murmured. “This drives me fuckin’ insane.”

He kissed your shoulder, then trailed lower, slow, reverent, his lips brushing every part of you you’d just hated on.

“These thighs? I think about them wrapped around me every time I leave for work. You in bed, breathless, moaning my name, tellin’ me not to stop.”

“Simon...”

He dropped to his knees.

“You look at yourself and see something broken,” he said, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “But I see everything that makes you mine. My perfect girl. Soft. Sweet. So full of fuckin’ fire when you let yourself feel.”

His hands slid up the back of your thighs, cupping your ass.

“You know what I see when I look at you?”

You shook your head, barely breathing.

“I see the woman who makes me weak. Who could ask me for anything—anything, love—and I’d give it. I see the only one who gets me out of bed in the morning. The only reason I still give a damn about making it back home.”

His hands roamed—slow, reverent. Worship, not groping. His lips followed, pressing to the softest parts of you like he was memorizing every curve, every roll, every inch you hated.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

You felt it—exactly what you do to him. He was hard against your leg, hips flush to yours as he stood again. His hand slid between your thighs, slow. Purposeful.

“You don’t need a dress to look good,” he rasped. “I prefer you like this. Mine. Bare. Real.”

You whined as he slid his fingers against you, teasing, then pushing. The shame started to fade, replaced by heat—by want.

And when he finally laid you out on the bed, whispering how perfect you were, how much he loved your softness, how good you felt around his fingers, his mouth, his cock—there wasn’t a single part of you left untouched or unloved.

He proved it to you. Over and over again.

Until the only thing you could see in the mirror…

was the look on your face when he made you fall apart.

---

For my curvy girls🥵. You look amazing in those curves🤭, none deserves you 😉.

But don't worry, I also got you my flat and skinny babes😻. Love yourselves no matter the shape. 💕

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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OMG new favorite Alex story! @oaksgrove you made my heart pitter patter

hi love! ty for writing these fics fo rus 🤗

i wonder if you write for alex keller? suddenly crushing on that man again lol

Steady as You

Pairing: Alex Keller x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Adjusting to life with a prosthetic isn’t just about learning how to move again—it’s about learning how to live again. Alex Keller isn’t sure he knows how. But his wife refuses to let him believe he’s anything less than the man she loves.

Warnings: adjusting to new prosthetic, self-disappointment, lovely married couple.

Word Count: 709

a/n: Check my masterlist for my other Alex work! Thanks for the request, dear! 🤎

The sound of the shower running was muffled behind the bathroom door, but you could still hear the occasional thump—the uneven rhythm of Alex shifting his weight, adjusting, trying to move the way he used to.

You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the fabric of his discarded hoodie in your hands.

He hated when you saw him struggle. So you didn’t go to him, even when you wanted to. Even when the silence stretched on too long, and you knew it meant he was pausing, frustrated.

When he finally emerged, a towel slung around his neck, his prosthetic was already in place—but his posture told you everything. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

He didn’t say anything as he moved past you, heading for the dresser.

He was still getting used to this.

Still learning how to move through his own home. How to find his balance. How to step onto the rug without it shifting under his foot, how to navigate around furniture that had never been an obstacle before.

And you hated how much he hated it.

Not that he would say it outright, but you knew. The way his jaw tensed when he moved, how he hesitated before taking a step, how he lingered at the bottom of the stairs as if they were a mountain. The once effortless movements of a seasoned soldier were now calculated, measured.

He never complained—not to you, at least. But you caught the frustration in the clench of his fists, the tightness in his shoulders, the way he exhaled slowly when he thought you weren’t looking.

You watched him pull a shirt over his head, his motions stiff. He was moving too fast—like he was trying to prove something, even now.

“Alex,” you said softly.

“I’m fine.”

It was the same answer he always gave.

You crossed the room, slipping your arms around his waist from behind. You felt the way he tensed at first, then slowly exhaled, allowing himself to lean into your touch.

“You don’t have to be fine,” you murmured.

He swallowed hard. “I should be past this by now.”

“Past what?”

“This. All of it. The hesitation. The frustration. I should just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It shouldn’t still be this hard.”

You moved to stand in front of him, your hands finding his.

“You’re learning to do everything again, Alex,” you said gently. “You’re allowed to struggle.”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled around yours, but his grip was tight—too tight.

“I hate needing help,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I hate that I can’t move like I used to. I hate that when I wake up in the morning, for half a second, I forget—and then I remember.”

Your throat tightened.

“Alex…”

His hands flexed against yours, his gaze dropping. “And I hate that you have to see me like this.”

That nearly broke you.

“Hey.” You reached up, gently cradling his face in your hands. “I love seeing you. Every part of you. None of this changes that, you’re still you, Alex. You’re still my husband, still the man I love.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, searching.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix me.”

“I don’t.” You smoothed your thumbs over his cheekbones. “I just want to love you.”

His breath hitched. His fingers tightened around yours like a lifeline.

So you kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was slow, deep—filled with everything you couldn’t put into words. You felt the way his shoulders eased, the way he exhaled against your lips, the way his hands found your waist, grounding himself in you.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was steadier, the tension in his body easing just a little.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured.

“I’m exactly as good to you as you deserve.”

“You make it easier,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his damp hair.

“That’s all I want.”

And when he kissed you again—when his grip on you softened, not because of weakness, but because he didn’t have to hold on so tightly—you knew he was starting to believe it.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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This was amazing

In the moment

The common room was lit by the soft glow of the TV, the volume low enough not to wake anyone, but loud enough to fill the room with background noise. Someone had tossed on a movie — one of those cheesy action comedies no one admitted to liking, but no one turned off either.

You were sandwiched between Gaz and Soap on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap that had long since been picked clean. The room smelled faintly of snacks, laundry detergent, and the kind of comfort that only came with rare stretches of downtime.

Soap’s arm was stretched lazily along the back of the couch, not quite touching you — but close. Close enough that when you shifted to get comfortable, your shoulder brushed against his chest. He didn’t move away.

It was late, the movie was dragging, and your eyes were growing heavier by the second. You didn’t mean to lean against him. Didn’t mean for your head to rest lightly against his shoulder, or for your hand to end up against his side. It just… happened.

Soap froze for a second, like a soldier surprised by a truce. Then slowly, carefully, he relaxed into it — as if the weight of you against him was something he didn’t realize he needed until it was there.

He tilted his head just enough to glance down.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low and thick with amusement, “ye pickin’ me over the couch, or’s that popcorn crash hittin’ ye hard?”

You didn’t answer — not really. Just a soft, sleepy sound as you nuzzled in slightly closer, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

Soap grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. He let his hand rest gently against your arm, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a breath, “ye’re trouble, ye ken that?”

You didn’t hear him.

But the way your fingers curled lightly into his shirt said maybe, just maybe… you felt it.

For once, everything was quiet — no gunfire, no missions, no yelling through comms. Just the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing and the subtle weight of you against his side.

Soap let his head tip back against the couch cushion, eyes flicking from the movie to the curve of your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm, now fully around you, held you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You trusted him. Enough to fall asleep on him like this — soft and warm and unguarded. And for the life of him, he didn’t know what to do with that.

He should’ve been teasing you already. Should’ve made some dumb comment, nudged you awake, passed it off like nothing.

But instead, he just sat there, holding you like something fragile and rare. Something he didn’t want to mess up by breathing too loud.

He looked down again, his voice a quiet murmur, almost like a confession.

“Christ… ye’re gonna wreck me, aren’t ye?”

“Aw, would you look at that,” Gaz’s voice cut through the quiet like a smirk made audible.

Soap startled slightly, just enough tae glare at him while trying not to jostle you. “Keep yer voice doon, she’s sleepin’.”

“No kidding,” Gaz replied, plopping down across from you with an obnoxiously smug grin. “On you, mate. That’s new.”

Price wandered in next, raising a brow at the sight before him. “Didn’t think I’d live to see Johnny ‘restless leg’ MacTavish sit still for more than five minutes.”

“She’s the exception,” Ghost said from the doorway, deadpan as ever — but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

Soap rolled his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around your shoulder protectively. “Ye lot finished?”

“Oh, not even close,” Gaz said, already pulling out his phone. “But don’t worry — I’ll only send this to everyone.”

“Ye send that and Ah swear tae God—”

“She’s got good taste, you know,” Ghost added dryly, ignoring the bickering. “Bit of a soft spot for idiots with accents.”

Soap flipped him off without looking away from you, who let out the softest sigh in your sleep and curled closer.

And suddenly, none of the teasing mattered. None of it ever did, not when you were in his arms like this.

He smirked, voice low but sure.

“Yeah, well… guess Ah’ve got good taste too.”

You woke slowly, blinking against the soft flicker of the TV light and the warmth that surrounded you.

At some point, someone had started another movie — something loud and full of explosions, the unmistakable sound of a Marvel fight scene playing out in the background. The screen lit the room in pulses of red and blue as Iron Man soared across it. The room smelled faintly of fresh popcorn again, another bowl passed around between the others. Soap must’ve snagged more during the switch.

The rest of the team was still there, scattered across the common room. Gaz and Ghost had taken the floor with a mess of blankets and pillows that hadn’t been there earlier. Price was half-dozing in one of the armchairs, his arms crossed and head tilted back. The atmosphere had shifted from casual hangout to full-blown sleepover.

And through all of it, you were still curled up against Soap — your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you. His fingers were carding gently through your hair, slow and absent, like he’d been doing it for a while without even thinking.

Your heart stuttered.

He was so warm. So solid. So... there.

You didn’t move — not yet. Just let yourself breathe him in, the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his shirt beneath your cheek grounding you. His hand was still gently combing through your hair, over and over in a rhythm that made you want to melt.

It felt dangerous — how easy it was to let yourself relax here, to sink into him like you belonged. Like you hadn’t spent weeks pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

God, when had it started?

Maybe it was that mission in Berlin — cold as hell, adrenaline high, and your gear soaked through after sprinting five blocks to cover a civilian. You’d barely caught your breath when Soap had dragged you behind a crumbling wall, shoved his vest off, and thrown it over you like a damn human furnace.

“Can’t have ye freezin’ tae death, love,” he said wi’ that grin that always hit a wee bit too deep. “Ah need my favourite teammate alive, yeah?”

You’d laughed, even as your fingers had gone numb. But something about the way he’d said it — like you mattered more than the mission, more than just being a name on his comms — had stuck with you ever since.

That was the moment.

Right then, in the middle of that busted street with his ridiculous warmth and stupid perfect smile, you’d started falling. Slowly. Quietly.

And now… now you were lying on his chest while he played with your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stayed still for a moment, pretending to still be asleep, because... god, this was nice. His fingers combed through your hair with such care, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, like touching you this way had already become second nature.

“Ye’re awake,” he murmured suddenly, voice quiet and low — that lilting Scottish brogue wrapping around the words like warmth.

You hesitated before answering, your voice still husky from sleep. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you…”

“Didnae mind. ,” he said quickly, and then softer, “Still don’t.”

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft and so uncharacteristically open it made your breath catch. One of his hands was still tangled lightly in your hair, the other resting along your back, grounding you.

“…You’re comfortable,” you offered, like that was a reasonable explanation for literally draping yourself over him in front of your entire team.

Soap’s grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Comfortable, huh? High praise, that.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but didn’t move away. If anything, you let your head drop back to his chest, cheeks warm.

“Ah mean it,” he said after a beat, quiet again. “Could get used tae this.”

Your breath caught, heart fluttering in a way you really hoped he couldn’t feel.

“…You already have,” you whispered before you could think better of it.

Soap froze for half a second — and then his chest rumbled beneath you with a low, surprised chuckle. His fingers brushed back a loose strand of hair from your cheek, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said, almost like it was a realization. “Reckon Ah have.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The movie played on in the background — another crash, more shouting — but it all faded beneath the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

His fingers kept moving through your hair like it was something sacred.

You weren’t sure you’d ever felt so safe and so exposed at the same time.

He exhaled softly, like he was working up to something.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to — not when his fingers lingered at your jaw, not when his thumb swept across your cheek like he was trying to memorize you by touch alone.

The others were still half-awake around the room, but none of it mattered. Not the movie, not the popcorn, not Gaz’s smug little grin or Ghost’s subtle glances. For once, it was quiet in your head. No adrenaline, no noise. Just you and him.

Soap let out a slow breath, like he was trying to steady himself. Then he shifted just a little, enough to tilt your chin up gently. Just enough that you had no choice but to look at him.

His eyes flicked down to your lips.

“Kin ah—?”

“Yeah,” you whispered before he even finished the question.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this as badly as he did — like he’d been holding back for a long, long time. His lips brushed yours once, twice, then deepened slowly, hand cradling the back of your neck like something precious.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself. There was a low sound in his throat, barely audible — something between a groan and a sigh, like relief and hunger tangled into one.

The kiss didn’t last long. Just enough to make your heart stutter and your thoughts spin. Just enough for him to pull back and rest his forehead against yours, breathing a little harder.

“Fuck,” he murmured, “been wantin’ tae do that for ages.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a breath. “You’re not the only one.”

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” he said low, his thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. “The way ye looked at me sometimes.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You weren’t,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I just… didn’t want to ruin anything.”

His chest rose and fell beneath you, slower now. More controlled.

“Ye wouldnae have ruined a thing,” he said after a pause, the words sounding rough — like he hated that you’d ever thought otherwise. “I’ve been tryin’ not tae scare ye off.”

“You couldn’t,” you murmured, and meant it.

You shifted just slightly, enough to look up at him again — your chin resting on his chest, eyes meeting his. His face was so close. Closer than it had ever been.

It wasn’t just warmth in his eyes now. It was something deeper. Something careful. Something real.

“Maybe we’re both just really bad at this,” you said with a small, nervous laugh.

Soap’s grin curved slow, a little crooked. “Aye. But at least we’re shite at it together.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, the knot in your chest finally starting to unwind. “Mm. Chaos with company doesn’t sound too bad.”

His hand slid to the back of your head again, fingers threading through your hair like it was second nature. “Then let’s no’ wait for another bloody mission tae screw it all up.”

You tilted your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Is that your way of asking me out, MacTavish?”

He smirked, thumb tracing an idle line along your spine. “It’s my way o’ sayin’ I like this. You. Us. And I’m no’ daft enough tae let it slip through my fingers.”

You bit your lip, heart skipping just a little. “So what you’re saying is… you’re hopelessly into me.”

“Completely buggered,” he said, deadpan — but his eyes were warm, gleaming with affection.

You grinned and nuzzled closer, your voice a little smug. “Good. You’re stuck with me.”

His arm tightened around you, hand spreading steady across your back. He dropped a kiss to the top of your head — slow and a little too soft to be casual.

“I’ll take stuck o’er lonely any day, love.”

From the floor, Gaz groaned just loud enough to be heard. “Bloody hell, finally.”

Soap didn’t even look over. “Jealousy doesnae suit ye, Kyle.”

“I’m just saying,” Gaz said with a smirk, “we’ve all had a betting pool going for weeks.”

“…Who won?”

“Ghost,” Gaz replied, shaking his head. “Guy bet on tonight. The exact day, Johnny.”

Soap looked toward the man in question, who merely gave a slow shrug from his spot near the door. “She looked at you different this morning,” Ghost said simply. “Figured you’d finally grow a pair.”

Soap gave a dramatic sigh, holding you tighter. “Yer all absolute nightmares, swear tae God.”

“You’re welcome,” Price added without opening his eyes.

You just smiled against Soap’s chest, letting the warmth of his arms and the ridiculousness of your team settle over you.

Home wasn’t always a place.

Sometimes… it was a person.

And right now? It was all of this.

It started subtly.

A slow shift here. A quiet adjustment there. One of his legs stretched out on the couch, and you instinctively curled closer, fitting against his side like you’d done it a hundred times. His arm stayed draped around you, but at some point, his hand had slipped under the hem of your hoodie — not in a bold way, just resting against the bare skin at your waist, thumb brushing tiny, lazy circles that made your stomach flip every time.

You’d long since given up pretending you weren’t melting into him.

“You alright there, love?” Soap murmured near your ear, his voice low and teasing as he leaned down a little, breath brushing your skin.

You tilted your head up just enough to meet his eyes. “Perfect.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Aye, ye are.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming, and nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re such a menace.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t already ken.”

A handful of popcorn flew across the room, smacking Soap right in the chest.

“Oi!” Gaz called from the floor without looking away from the screen. “Some of us are tryin’ to hear the plot, not listen to you two flirt like you’re in a bloody rom-com.”

“We’re watching a Marvel movie,” you said with a grin. “A little flirting is practically mandatory.”

“Yeah, well, save it for the post-credits scene,” Gaz grumbled, though his smirk betrayed him.

“Let ’em be,” Price said from his chair, voice thick with amusement. “We’ve all seen this one before.”

Ghost made a vague noise of agreement, more focused on the screen than anything else — but even he didn’t sound annoyed.

Soap chuckled low in his throat and shifted just slightly, guiding you so your head was back on his chest and his hand returned to its spot in your hair like it belonged there. You settled against him again with a quiet sigh, your fingers curling into the hem of his sleeve.

Eventually, the movie settled into a quieter scene — something with dialogue and swelling music — and for a while, everything just felt… still. Safe.

You could feel the way his heartbeat slowed under your cheek, the way his body relaxed completely around you. Like he wasn’t just letting you in — he was choosing to stay. And when his lips brushed the top of your head again, soft and unhurried, you didn’t need words to know what it meant.

You weren’t just teammates anymore.

Not really.

By the time the third movie started playing, the rest of the team had mostly gone quiet. The popcorn bowl sat half-finished on the coffee table, and someone had turned the lights down even lower, the room bathed in soft blue from the screen.

You didn’t remember shifting again, but now you were fully tucked against Soap’s side, one leg loosely draped over his, your fingers idly curled in the fabric of his shirt near his ribs. His arm was snug around your back, and his other hand had stilled in your hair, resting comfortably against your crown. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was hypnotic.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say.

The room was warm, the movie a low hum in the background, and Soap — Johnny — was still, quiet, content beneath you like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Already half-asleep, you felt Soap’s chin dip slightly as he rested it on top of your head, his breath slow and steady. You shifted just enough to press your face into his chest, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Just held you like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched.

As sleep pulled at the edges of your thoughts, you felt it — his lips pressing once, featherlight, against your hairline.

Then his voice, barely a whisper, rough and almost lost in the sounds of the movie.

“Night, bonnie.”

And then there was nothing but warmth, quiet breathing, and the steady thrum of two hearts beating in time.

The rest of the team took notice, but no one said anything. No need.

Price was the first to stand, quietly gathering empty bottles and snack wrappers with a tired sigh. Ghost nodded toward the pair on the couch, expression unreadable but gentler than usual.

Gaz grinned as he looked back at you, curled up against Soap like you belonged there. “Didn’t think he’d ever let someone that close.”

“Looks like she’s the exception,” Price murmured, flipping off the floor lamp as they quietly filed out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind them.

On the couch, the movie played softly, long past the point where either of you could follow the plot. Soap’s grip stayed firm around your waist, even in sleep, as if his body refused to let go of what it had finally found. Your hand was curled into his shirt, your breath feathering softly against his neck.

Neither of you stirred.

Wrapped in quiet warmth and each other, you slept on — tangled together in the soft hush of something just beginning.

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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OMG this is possibly one of my favorites of Soap

Can you do some Soap 🧼 x reader please. Absolutely loves the others. Just some cute or fun shenanegans with him. 😘😊

Feel free to ignore this

"Too Hot to Handle"

Summary: Soap wants to shower with his wife—until he realizes she bathes like she’s boiling demons. One shriek and a slippery disaster later, he’s banned. Now he has to earn his way back in, one ridiculous apology at a time.

Rating: suggestive chaos, implied nudity, steamy in both ways, Soap being dramatic

Masterlist

---

It starts with an innocent idea.

“Let me in, bonnie,” Soap hums through the cracked bathroom door. “C’mon, we can be efficient. Save water. Bond. Maybe you’ll even drop the soap—”

“Open the door and I’ll throw a loofah at you.”

He grins. “That a promise?”

You roll your eyes but leave the door unlocked. He whoops quietly to himself and steps in like a victorious raccoon.

Until—

“WHAT THE BLOODY—”

A horrible yelping shriek echoes off the tiles.

You don’t even flinch. “You okay there, babe?”

Soap flattens against the wall like he’s just been hit with a grenade. “What in the ever-living hellfire is this? Are you boiling yourself?!”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s the sun! It’s molten lava! My ancestors felt that!”

He peeks a toe toward the stream and instantly recoils like a vampire at dawn. “I’m Scottish, not salamander.”

“You wanted to shower with me, Johnny.”

“I didn’t want to die, sweetheart!”

---

Fifteen minutes later…

Price is in the hallway, holding a cup of tea as the bathroom door swings open.

A soaking wet Soap stumbles out, towel slung low, hair plastered to his forehead, and steam billowing around him like he walked out of Mount Doom.

“She burns for me,” he says faintly. “Literally.”

“You’re banned from the shower,” you call behind him.

“I accept my punishment,” he wheezes.

---

That night…

You find a sad little offering by your pillow:

A rubber duck.

Two bath bombs.

And a handwritten note: “Let me back in. I’ll bring ice cubes and aloe.”

You snort.

Then feel arms wrap around your waist.

“I’m sorry for bein’ dramatic,” he murmurs. “But my skin did sizzle, love.”

“I told you it was hot.”

“I thought that was a flirt, not a hazard warning!”

You sigh, already forgiving him, because he’s warm and still smells like your shampoo.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But next time, you run the water.”

He grins. “Together?”

You lift a brow. “You sure you can handle it, salamander?”

“…Only if you hold me.”

---

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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50 MORE prompts to request!

hi! i’m alive! i’m sorry for never posting after like february... imagines will be back up soon! in the meantime, i’m reopening requests and feel free to use these prompts (please include operator & additional information in your request)!

•••••

MASTERLIST

50 prompts to request #1

•••••

“why are you upside down?”

“have you got cotton in your ears? i said DO IT!”

“i’ve been doing this for years, yet nothing prepared me for this.”

“do not test me. i will bark at you.”

“no no no, i can’t die. i won’t die.”

“we did this... all for nothing...?”

“i thought i meant something to you.”

“it’s all fun and games until...”

“hold my beer.”

“get this damn pop-up off my computer!”

“wanna see a magic trick?”

“am i a himbo?”

“can’t you just pretend you like me for five minutes?”

“you’re a grown adult doing that?”

“let’s make purple.”

“you’re just copying my whole thing!”

“halloween is for children.”

“are you hot, or am i drunk?”

“you’re covered in marks.”

“...is it my fault?”

“i shouldn’t have said that.”

“i should have said that sooner.”

“this entire time...?”

“say that again, i dare you.”

“you belong here.”

“i see it now. how couldn’t i have seen it before?”

“of course the gun isn’t loaded!”

“watch your words around me.”

“good girl.”

“your presence offends me.”

“i don’t want my parents to meet you.”

“you have far too much free time.”

“i’m your partner, not your babysitter.”

“i suppose danger loves me.”

“you’re cooler than i thought.”

“this is a borderline addiction.”

“it has a NAME!”

“fuck me gently with a chainsaw.”

“it can’t be THAT hard.”

“if you didn’t love me, why’d you waste my time?”

“how can you look yourself in the mirror?”

“don’t play dumb with me.”

“i didn’t tell you to stop.”

“there really isn’t that much blood, right?”

“oh god, that’s a lot of blood.”

“just dance with me, you idiot.”

“you’re freezing.”

“you’re on fire.”

“i’m not gonna make it out alive.”

“tell my story.”

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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This is relatable but also funny as hell

Simon’s girl name would be Simone.

Why? Because my phone keeps autocorrecting his name as such.

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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MW, Bioshock, The Sims, Rainbow 6, Syberia

Minecraft, DDLC, Yandere Sim, FNAF, and Animal Jam 🫡

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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This is totally Canon in my head

I know for a fact that John Price doesn’t talk in the morning, he grumbles. He’ll push out the word “morning” and the rest of his speech is just unintelligible mumbling.

He pulls you close to him one morning, kissing your cheek and greeting you with a “good morning, sweet.” You giggle quietly in the early morning sun, until he whips out the most confusing sentence ever.

You stare at him confused, thinking that he’d fallen asleep again. “John?” You question, leaning towards him.

“Hm?”

“Oh.” A pause. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“Hm.”

You look around the room, frazzled. Is he sleep talking? You push yourself up onto one elbow and lean over him, resting on his chest, peering down at his face. His eyes opened when he felt you above him, squinting from the sun glaring through the blinds behind you.

“It sounds like you’re sleep talking,” you giggle.

“Hmm,” is all he replied with, a light smile touching his features. He moved his hand up to rest on your back, tracing around to rub your waist under his t-shirt that you had stolen. “M’, loo’ so pri’ in his ligh’,” he mumbled, not pronouncing a single letter t… and a lot of other letters.

You slapped his chest lightly with a giggle. “John, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Hm.”

“You’re just doing it to bother me now.”

“Hm.”

“I’m just talking to myself.”

“Hm,” he said one last time with a smirk, laughing at your pouty expression.

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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This is, so good

Damocles - Sleep Token

What if I can't get up and stand tall? What if the diamond days are all gone And who will I be when thе empire falls? Wake up alonе and I'll be forgotten

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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I love this so much

Y/N has caused trouble for Ghost again

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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This is pure fluff and I love it

Simon Riley with a wife that loves to cook him lunches. I like to think this is in the same universe as this blurb. CW : None. Pure fluff

Simon loves waking up, having a shower, and then coming downstairs to see a plate of breakfast on the kitchen island, and you, in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts as your pyjamas.

Simon loves wrapping his arms around your waist as you cook whatever you're making for him.

And it's not as though he demands it, or expects it. Ever since the two of you got married and you got to work from home instead of in the office, you would make Simon lunch.

It wasn't always in the morning, either. Sometimes you would just show up to the 141 base, greeting everyone with a sweet smile. Before handing Simon a still warm container of food.

Simon loved your cooking, but something he loved even more was the ego boost he received from his mates. Johnny especially.

Johnny always commented on what Simon had for lunch. Expressing how good it was and how he wishes he had a 'bonnie lass' at home that would make lunch for him.

Then, Simon made the mistake of telling you about Johnny's words.

Simon had said it in passing while the two of you were cuddling in bed. Chuckling to himself, not even noticing the pout on your lips.

He shouldn't have been surprised when in the morning, he saw two containers, instead of one. One labeled "Simon ‪‪❤︎‬", the other labeled "Johnny ‪‪❤︎‬".

Simon slid the container across the table as he sat across from Johnny. The scotsman looking confused before his eyes lit up.

"She cook this for me, did she?" Johnny smiled brightly.

"Aye. But don't get a big head about it" Simon glared.

"How can I no' get a big head aboot it? sweet lass she is. Migh' have tae steal her from ye"

"don't even think about it"

"She e'en put a heart nex' tae ma name, Simon. She must fancy me"

"I'm telling her you hated the food"

"No! dinnae dae that ye big brute! she'll think A'm a bastard!"

"You are one"

Simon brought home two empty containers that night. Telling you about how Johnny groaned with every mouthful and nearly licked the container clean.

You also started receiving sloppy kisses on the cheek from Johnny whenever you brought lunch in during the day for your husband and his best friend.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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This is such a great Gaz dribble, probably now one of my favorites

I need you all to know...that Kyle "Pretty Boy" Garrick would make love to his girl with Love by Kendrick Lamar playing the background after he spontaneously proposed to her after getting home from a particularly rough mission where he almost died.

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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These are beautiful

Sooo I made some Task Force 141 boys Aesthetic collage, hope you guys like it. Los vaqueros coming up next...I kinda slipped Phillip Graves in too.

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amongthe-insert-here · 2 months ago

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Yeah I'm gonna need more of this @oaksgrove

Where Loneliness Ends

Pairing: Nikto x Reader

Synopsis: An arranged marriage born out of strategy, not affection, leaves you and Nikto sharing a cold, crumbling apartment—and colder silences. At first, there’s only duty and distance. But somewhere between shared tea, soft conversations, and tentative touches, something warmer begins to bloom.

Warnings: Slow-burn romance, emotional vulnerability, strangers-to-lovers, mutual loneliness, soft hurt/comfort, minor depictions of nightmares/anxiety, arranged marriage setup, gentle physical affection.

Word Count: 1055

The apartment was cold. Not freezing, but cold in the kind of way that settled into your bones and made your breath come out in faint clouds for the first ten minutes after entering.

It was a wedding gift—if it could be called that. A thin, government-issued flat in one of the concrete apartment blocks along the gray veins of a Russian city you didn’t know well enough to call home. The wallpaper was cracked in places, faded rose-colored floral print peeling at the edges. The kitchen smelled faintly of mildew. The living room was barely large enough for the two-person couch that had likely been there since the ‘80s. The bed was... singular. One. In the only bedroom. A twin mattress wouldn’t have surprised you, but it was a queen—generous, given the space.

You stood at the threshold of the room, suitcase in hand, your new husband already dropping his bag with a quiet grunt. He didn’t say much. Never did. You barely knew him, just his name and that he was efficient, distant, and painfully precise. Cold, even.

The marriage was arranged. Strategic, signed with pens that left heavy ink stains on long-winded contracts. A merger, not of hearts, but of usefulness.

You hadn’t spoken a full paragraph to him since the ceremony.

He wore a black turtleneck and fingerless gloves, even indoors. His mask—the one that covered the lower half of his face, not the full one from work—remained on. You wondered if he ever took it off. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know yet.

“…Do you want the left side or right?” you asked eventually, nodding to the bed as you finally wheeled your suitcase in.

He glanced up from unzipping his duffel. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” You took the right. It felt like defeat somehow.

The first week passed with minimal conversation.

You cooked. He washed the dishes. You picked up groceries. He took out the trash. The division of labor was more out of politeness than partnership. You sometimes passed each other in the hallway, too close, your shoulders brushing slightly. He never flinched, but he never looked you in the eye either.

At night, the bed was a minefield of boundaries.

The silence became louder as the days crept by. You didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he should.

One evening, you stood at the window with a cup of tea clutched to your chest, staring out at the snowfall. The radiator barely worked.

“It’s very quiet here,” you murmured. Not expecting a reply. Just needing to hear something.

Nikto was at the table, cleaning his sidearm with mechanical precision. The soft clicks of metal on metal were the only music of the flat.

“We like quiet,” he said simply.

You turned, gaze softening. “I used to think I did, too.”

He looked up then, eyes meeting yours for just a beat too long. It wasn't warmth, not yet—but it was something softer than before.

The turning point was a nightmare.

You woke up with a sharp gasp, sweat slick across your spine, the blankets tangled around your legs. The room was pitch dark, and your chest ached from the tight knot of panic still coiled inside it.

Nikto sat up slowly, not saying a word. You felt him shift beside you, and when you turned to look, his face was bare—only the dim light from the hallway lit his sharp features.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower than usual. Almost gentle.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t let yourself be since you arrived.

“Bad dream,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t expect this to feel so lonely.”

The words slipped out before you could swallow them down. You braced for his usual silence.

Instead, you heard the rustle of sheets. And then: the tentative brush of fingers over yours under the blanket.

“It is lonely,” he said. “For us, too.”

You blinked. Let that truth settle into your skin like warm water.

You didn’t say anything else. Just let his fingers stay wrapped with yours, both of you pretending that it was only for comfort. Just for tonight.

Over the next few weeks, things began to shift.

He started cooking breakfast sometimes. He brought home flowers once—muted, wintery ones with grey-blue petals and icy stems. You didn’t ask why. He didn’t offer a reason.

He still rarely smiled, but you learned how to read the way his eyes softened when you passed him a cup of tea without asking. Or how he stood a little too close in the kitchen when he didn’t need to.

You found out he liked old books. Russian literature. Pushkin and Tolstoy and the smell of libraries. You told him about the time you built a plane model with your dad when you were twelve. He listened.

One night, you came home with snow dusted on your coat and found him on the couch, blanket thrown haphazardly over his lap. He looked up, and for the first time, smiled.

Not a full one. Barely there. But it was real.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Sorry.” You kicked off your boots. “Train stopped working again.”

He stood, walked over, and without thinking, pulled the scarf from your neck. His fingers brushed your jaw. Deliberate. Careful.

You froze.

“Your face is red,” he said quietly. “From the cold.”

You stared at him, throat tight. Then, slowly, deliberately, reached up and placed your hand on his.

“I don’t mind the cold,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

“Can we?” he asked, leaning his face, voice like crushed velvet.

You nodded.

And he kissed you, gently, almost reverent. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

He still didn’t smile.

But you felt it in the kiss. In the way he held your face after, forehead pressed to yours.

In the way he whispered, “You make this feel like home.”

And by the end of the month, the flat didn’t feel so cold. You’d hung a photo or two. A mug collection had started by the sink. The bed stayed warm at night—not from the radiator, but because of his arms.

You’d both stopped pretending.

It was inconvenient, strange, uncomfortable at first.

But somehow… love had moved in quietly and no contract could have prepared you for that.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

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