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keys-hellscape-1020 · 5 months
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"I'm not gonna see him."
hi yes i'm aware that this happens during the 'alone' mission but... what if ghost crept up on these two lol
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 7 months
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Oh my gods this is the best thing ever and you cannot convince me this didn’t happen
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price regrets everything, gaz is trying not to laugh and/or cry he doesn't know which, ghost is in his cryptid phase, soap is in his influencer phase, and roach is making sure everyone is covered in pasta sauce by the end of the day
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 7 months
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Hhhhhhh he’s so fucking pretty-
which one of the boys fits this scenario?
play fighting but things get kinda heated so now they’re fucking you from behind while having you in a headlock 😭🥹
a/n: hm... my mind immediately went to gaz ;) anon u have a big brain, this awakened something... though I only see this happening if you two were in some kind of relationship other than platonic.
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☾𓂃❛🍰❜┊ training in progress
warning(s): explicit content (18+), established relationship, p^rn w/ little plot, p in v sex, primal play??, size kink if you squint, breath play, degradation + praise, unsafe sex, fem!reader, no use of y/n
word count: 900 ♡ masterlist // requests // ask box
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bf!gaz who always took his time with you, but wasn't afraid to give newer, more rash things a try. he thought about it before, though it seemed he was waiting for you to pitch the idea first. or more so... an opportunity.
bf!gaz who for once, wasn't thinking of those desires tonight. the two of you were "sparring" on the living room floor. well, more like; kyle pinning you with ease, taunting you, and then giving you seconds to flee.
bf!gaz who gave you a few seconds to crawl away and attempt to restrict his arms in any way. you kicked your legs into his toned abdomen, earning merely a grunt that only plunged him closer. ❝no, you don't!❞ gaz grunted, giving your legs a whack while twisting your torso; forcing you onto your stomach.
bf!gaz who snaked an arm around you, your neck pinned by the strength of his arm; a successful headlock. he had just now figured out he had his golden opportunity. what could you do, besides voice an actual refusal? which of course, hadn't happened yet. kyle grimaced to himself, other hand slithering down your stomach, soon finding the inside of your panties.
bf!gaz who both degraded and praised you for being aroused, ❝so fuckin' wet for me, good girl.❞ all he had done was wrestle with you and you had soaked your panties. perhaps it was all the grunting, the taunting, or how your legs found their way around his waist after each relentless pin he had you in. in other words, twenty minutes of pent-up sexual tension, disguised by a playful sparring session.
bf!gaz who wasted no time practically yanking your bottoms off you, all while your back has been against his chest, a helpless squirm to get out of the hold — yet no refusing the idea of him fucking you like this. his clothed erection, pressing against your rear, it only remained clothed for seconds, before kyle sprung it from his boxers.
bf!gaz who gave you no time to adjust to him, because he knew you would be good for him. his cock, dripping with pre-cum — guided with force into you slick core, before he began to thrust like it was the last time he'd ever be inside you. ❝such a slag, i bet you're enjoyin' this, aren't you?❞
bf!gaz who couldn't accept moans or whines as an answer. at least not tonight. the headlock you were in tightened, until you could barely suck in oxygen, ❝asked you a question.❞ he hissed into your ear, thrusting even rougher, as if to enhance his taunts.
bf!gaz who loosened his grip once he heard your attempt at a formal answer, smirking at every stammer in your sentence. though, despite you doing so well, this headlock was too enhancing to remove you from. kyle's full length, bottomed out inside you with each rut into your cunt, rasps growing in frequency and volume.
bf!gaz who was using his strength to his advantage, using you as if you were his own personal toy tonight — to be manipulated into whatever position he desired until he finished. ❝don't whine, you asked for this. christ... can't believe this is all mine.❞ his forearm dug into your neck again, like a python had slithered around your throat. he was close, seconds from spilling his seed inside you.
bf!gaz whose groans were insignificant compared to the sounds of skin slapping echoing through the living room, combined with your incoherent babbling and gasps for air.
bf!gaz who knew he would cum in seconds, using his pressing weight to pin you against the floor, head raised from the hold. ❝gonna cum inside this cunt, make it mine, hm?❞ you were seeing ebony spots, but so deep in pleasure that it didn't matter. if anything, the constriction was only tightening the sensation of his pounding thrusts.
bf!gaz who came so hard he had to slow down, muscles tensing to the max — probably the last squeeze you could handle without passing out. his thrusts halted as he spurted his seed deep inside you, draining every last drop, a drawn-out curse right into your ear as his climax concluded.
bf!gaz who pulled out of you to watch the semen drip out of your cunt, down your legs, and some on the hardwood. you were out of the headlock, catching the breath you had lost while on your hands and knees. the act dropped when he asked if you were alright, earning a nod of approval from your fucked-out self — all you could muster. unlike earlier, a silent answer was more than acceptable.
... bf!gaz who wasn't done yet. he stroked himself for a few moments, then guided his cock into you again, re-inserting all the evidence of his last climax right back into you. it was near overstimulation, being rutted into all over again.
bf!gaz who went gradually this time; moderately paced thrusts into your cunt during the second round, holding your waist tenderly. this time no restriction on your airflow or your replies to his traunts and praises.
bf!gaz who kissed your clothed shoulder blades, sinking into the fabric of your shirt to hold his pace accountable. kyle felt the pool of wetness forming around his length — some slick from before, some from now, and some lubricant being his own seed. each agonizing thrust met with a wettened squelch from your soaked and core.
bf!gaz who knew you must be filled to the brim by now, literally and figuratively, but needed to cum again. this time, with less brute force. ❝so fuckin' good, sweetheart,❞ his methodical rutting continued, enough to make your eyes half-lidded. kyle's rhetocial question, answered by himself, and only himself; ❝should i make you cum this time? i think you've earned it.❞
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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Don’t get me wrong this was literally So hot but I’m pet sitting right now and the dog is sleeping by feet snoring SO loudly 😭😭😭
If you're still taking requests for your followers celebration, would you please do #14 for Kix :3
➼ ɴᴏᴜʀ'ꜱ 500 ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
⋆ ★ ᴀʜʜʜ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ɪ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴋɪx! ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ɪ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ 😂 ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ!
➼ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ☆ “ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ɪ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏᴍᴏʀʀᴏᴡ”
➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴋɪx x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ ꜱᴇx, ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴘʟᴀʏꜰᴜʟɴᴇꜱꜱ, ꜱᴘᴀʀɪɴɢʟʏ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ
➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 527
➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ
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Despite the sweet, intimate familiarity that’s grown between you and Kix, you swear that every time he has you like this is better than the last.
“Oh, Kix…” You whine a soft gasp leaving your chest as he practically pushes it out of you with a particularly hard thrust. He glances down with a smile, tilting your head to get a better look at your face.
“Feeling good, pretty girl?”
There’s no hesitation in your veins as you nod erratically.
“Mm, yeah…” The scratchiness of your voice surprises you, but he doesn’t seem as fazed. This man knows how he affects you.
“Thanks.”
With a lighthearted scoff, you slap his chest gently and beam helplessly enamored with this lovely man.
Kix grunts into your ear as he leans down, pressing his body to yours with his hand on your thigh in a vice grip, thrusting into you with a determined notion in his veins. You scramble to grip onto something, but he trails his free hand up your arm before pinning your wrist beside your head, letting your fingers twitch and spasm in abandon. He gives you a wicked smile, yet something tender threatens to break through once he steals a kiss from your parted lips.
He fucks his cock into you once, twice, a third time with a quick snap of his hips before the filthiest groan you’ve ever heard is practically forced out of him by the Maker itself. Kix’s forehead presses to your shoulder as he lets it all out into your skin, seeping into you in a way only he can.
“Oh, kriff I’m close.”
You sigh helplessly, your free hand digging into his back.
“Please, please,” You beg. “Ruin me.” He mutters something, you’re not exactly sure what he says, but it’s something along the lines of ‘okay, okay,’ as he begins moving again. “Make sure I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
Once again, his movements still as he grunts; he sounds stagnated, like a broken record as a sound vibrates through you. It’s difficult to discern what noise it is. You realize he’s groaning, low and feral, as he softly runs the tops of his teeth over your skin. 
He bites. You gasp, then moan, and you can feel him break away to smile.
“Fuck, you can’t say things like that!” A laugh creeps up as he lifts his head. “Gonna make this way too quick, then I won’t be able to do that.”
He’s too infectious not to indulge with; you giggle incessantly, quiet and lovesick, your eyes fluttering close in split moments.
“Sorry.” Kix finally lets go of your wrist, and both of your hands meet behind his head, resting on his shoulders and slowly interlocking your fingers. You bite your lip, a squeamish attempt to contain your joy as you look at your boyfriend, and lift your hips up to meet his. “Carry on, baby.”
Kix flashes you a sneaky wink, then does exactly that; not before holding your leg up by the back of your knee and bringing it to your chest, rocking his body against yours to make you squeeze around him one more time.
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tags: @starstofillmydream @pb-jellybeans @corrieguards @ladytano420 @sleepycreativewriter @shinyshayminflower @secondaryrealm @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @dukeoftheblackstar @meshlaxbunny @followthepurrgil @wolffegirlsunite @starrylothcat @blueink-bluesoul @aconstructofamind @padawancat97 @littlemissmanga @starqueensthings @anxiouspineapple99 @freesia-writes @wings-and-beskar @clio3kantarella
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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Soaps a real one for that shit 😔🙏
Y/N: *Sniffling* G-Ghost... theres a bug on my shooeee...
Ghost: are.. are you scared of a bug, soldier?...
Soap: *Getting down and flicking the beetle off Y/N's shoe* I've seen 'er clear a whole room full of enemies, she can be scared of bugs if she pleases.
Y/N: *whimper of relief*
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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THATS MY BOY THATS MY BABY BOY
HE LOOKS SO INNOCENT IN THIS WTF
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Another silly doodle
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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YES the idea that Price was part of punk culture when he was younger?? And he was forced into the military by his father as a result- fast forward to modern day he still holds punk beliefs he’s just toned down how loud he is about them and he doesn’t dress punk anymore because he has a reputation to uphold.
Meanwhile Ghost is just sitting there in all black like “if I could get away with a battle jacket I would be wearing one right now.” He would shout ACAB in a cops face while wearing a military hoodie I have no doubt. He just does not give a shit anymore and I love that for him.
choosing to think that price had a rebellious streak in his teenage years (and being forced to join the military by his father after) and maybe he thinks he understands ghost's own attitude.
but whereas price rebelled purely because a well-timed plasmatics videoclip on late night tv made him want to raze his suburban middle-class life to the ground, ghost rebelled because of the dire situation he was raised in.
and it is a rude awakening to price when he realizes that he doesn't really have that much common ground with simon's experiences, so they both decide that the best course of action is just... discussing punk music. simon's favorite band is the dwarves, price's is x-ray spex. to price it's about as close as he can relate to ghost when it comes to upbringing, but they're still meaningful moments to him.
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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Oh this shit is so good. It’s so good. It’s so fucking good. This raises SO many questions regarding König but I’m too enthralled with watching Witch finally just fall headfirst into the cocoon of safety that is Price to care right now.
Seriously I don’t really care if they fuck what I want is for them to lie together in bed and wake up together in the early morning to soft little beams of light on their faces while cuddled up close together and Love turning around to hide her face in Price’s chest because it’s to damn early-
Anyways sorry I’ll shut up now excellent work as always Ghoul-
I want something to spook witch really bad to the point where Price finds her curled up in a corner and just fucking picks her up and holds her and soothes her. And she just melts into him and has a moment where she feels safe in his arms but then has to deal with the fact that that goes against everything she believes. I love this slow burn, I don’t want them to fuck I just want them to cuddle a little bit, or for price to just cup her face in his big hands and look into her eyes and realize he doesn’t even care about getting tethers in her, he just wants to be near her. I’m so normal about them.
I'm so normal about them and I absolutely haven't read this one hundred times just thinking about Price and Witch being soft with each other. Sorry to the anons that want them to fuck, I want them to be unendingly tender with each other.
I want Price to be so familiar with Witch and her workings that he can pluck out her herbs before she even asks for them. Price sitting at the kitchen table and watching her work because he loves seeing his Witch in her element. I want him to loop an arm around her shoulders without thinking when she sits down next to him. So that Witch never worries if she's being too clingy when she leans against his side and drapes her legs over his lap. I want them to look at each other and know that's their person. Anyway I love you here's some words from further in their relationship:
There aren't many things that scare you. Witchcraft sort of necessitates that you maintain a healthy respect for the things that should make you cry in terror. So when you do get scared, you're never quite sure how to handle it. You know the basics of the responses: fight, flight, freeze, fawn, it's the execution you're never sure of.
You're actually glad you don't have the sight when you feel it walk past you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up at the daunting pressure the creature exudes. Your eyes dart up as if it might be walking by undisguised. You step to the side, to let it pass, your hand flying to grip one of Price's tethers. The man that passes you is only slightly smaller than your first glance, his face covered with what you assume is Mal's work the way your perception slides off of it. You can feel the danger of him, the predatory sweep of his eyes, you feel like a hapless civilian in Jurassic park watching a t-res walk by you.
His head tilts curiously at you, his walk only paused to assess whatever danger your attention might hold. The tether buzzes warm and insistent against your hold, you drop it quickly when the creature's eyes move to see what you'd been gripping so tightly. You think that might have been a mistake, drawing attention to your magic when fae are around is always a mistake.
The teeth on this thing, you hardly need your hagstone to see them. The hungry aggression in its eyes is enough to let you glimpse the dangerous spines that run down its back, to feel the swing of its tail and hear the crack of its claws. You're pulled back against the familiar tobacco scent of Price as a voice asks,
"König? What's wrong?"
Price's arm wraps around your shoulders, and you turn into his grip, not proud of the way you hide from this monster. It doesn't matter, Price doesn't care if you hide, you know that. That's why you can turn your back to such an overpowering threat, and how you know with absolute surety that you're safe in Price's hold.
"So this is where you've been hiding," You can feel the suppressed growl in Price's chest where you press close, the feigned politeness.
"Price," The fae, König you suppose, greets. You don't know if the voice really fits the monster, that helps to soften some of your fear. "I know your shadow is in the city, I should have assumed you would be too."
"Just for business." Price tells him.
"Business," König sounds out the word, like he doesn't believe him, "what business?"
"Are you scaring people again?" The same voice from before, closer now, "Goddammit." The overpowering presence seems to rush out of the air, intimidation melting away to give room for something softer. Now it's Price's turn to tense. You turn your head to peak at the overgrown fae, and the woman chastising him. König seems much less scary when he's got his shoulders scrunched up and his head hung low.
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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Ghoul I love poly Ghost/Soap and I love you’re writing so this was just the fucking best thing ever for me.
just imagining soap and love being close and like those bsfs that are attached at the hip or very affectionate, just imagining making soap catch her and acting like shes gonna kiss his cheek but just takes a hugeass CHOMP at his cheek
You are feeding into my Ghost/Love/Soap trio thoughts in an unhealthy way but God Ghost deserves all the love in the world he deserves them. Here's the biting part of Ghost's "No kissing, no biting, no bitching" rule.
Ghost honestly didn't know what he was expecting when he introduced you and Soap. Honestly he hadn't really planned on introducing you to anyone but certain stabbings made that a little tricky. This was good though, you two got along well. Maybe too well. Your excitement for seeing Soap was almost rivaling the excitement you showed upon seeing him. Although maybe that was partially a reflection of his own feelings.
Whatever the reason was, he could feel you light up when you spotted Soap. Ghost himself didn't bother stifling his smile, letting you drop his hand to run at the poor guy. At least Soap seemed to have the good sense to hold his arms out when you jumped. Your arms wrap around his shoulders as he lifts you into a more comfortable hold. Ghost shakes his head, watching him pat your back amicably.
"Price says we gotta- Hey," Ghost grabs the back of your head and pulls it back just as your teeth replace your lips against Soap's cheek, "No, no biting." You whine, for some reason Soap whines.
"But look how sad he is," You tell Ghost, Soap nods.
"Yeah, look how sad I am."
"Jesus Christ." Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose, "He's not sad, he's half charmed, now no biting, either of you."
"Just right now or-"
"The whole time," Ghost glares at you, you shut your mouth quickly.
"The whole time what?" Soap frowns, finally catching on that there this might not be a courtesy call.
"Price wants us keeping an eye on you while he and Gaz talk to the witch." There's a long moment where Ghost thinks Soap might object, before a smile spreads over his face. His growing excitement does not bode well for Ghost's sanity.
Later Ghost finds himself on the couch at the bottom of a dog pile. Soap's thrown a leg over his, head on his shoulder while his fingers lace between Ghost's. Your legs are similarly settled across his lap, arms wrapped around him to cuddle close, at least Ghost managed to get an arm around your shoulders before it was pinned by your koala hugging. Your fingers just graze Soap's arm, soft contact acknowledging his presence.
"I can't believe you've never seen this movie," You mumble, tucking your head under Ghost's chin.
"'Scuse my for not seein' every movie of the last 40 years." Soap rolls his eyes, cuddles a little closer.
"Dude it's fucking Jaws."
"Ghost hasn't seen it either," Soap counters.
"Yeah but Simon was living under a rock, you were out doing-" You wave your hand, "-whatever it is you do." Soap hums, catches your waving hand with his free one.
"I wasn't under a rock, I-" Ghost stops, eyes wide watching the screen, "Bloody hell, it's eatin' that poor fuck."
"You know the actual jaws animatronic was in the shop for most of the filming? That's why you don't see it until you see it." Ghost doesn't know who you're talking to, if you're talking to either of them. He's never been this warm before. Soap's internal sunshine and your tethers blazing on either side of him, tangling over him, it feels like all the tension in his body is trying to unwind.
He's not sure what will happen if it does? Will he fall apart if his bindings come loose? He doesn't think so. Not with how tightly he's held right now. New bindings from people that would happily put him back together.
"I forgot you're a horror junkie," Soap grumbles, earning a quiet laugh from you.
"Don't tell Simon that, he'll think I only like him for the mask."
"It's a nice mask." Soap agrees.
"Would you two stop talking and watch the damn movie," Ghost cuts in, the cuddling is enough, he doesn't think he could handle the lead up to both of you talking about him.
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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YOOOOOOOO THIS SHIT IS SO GOODDDD MY BABY
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I Drew Miles w dreads
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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Respectfully NO NO I WILL NOT LOOK AT THE DOOR YOU COULD NOT FORCE ME TO LOOK AT THE DOOR I SHALL NOT PRY MY EYES OFF OF THAT MAN
but seriously op you’re style is just so fucking good? I mean this in the best way when I say I wanna squish it. It looks so squishable. But that might just be cause I wanna squeeze Simon’s titties. I mean can you really blame me?- look at him-
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i,, i don't know what possessed me,,
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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WAAAAAAA THIS IS SOOOOOO GOOD OH MY GODSSSSS
Dead Disco / Chapter 6
Dead Disco masterlist
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Ghost/Soap/female reader 5.2k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI. Explicit sex. Top Simon Riley. Bottom Johnny MacTavish. Praise kink. Darling is her own tag/warning. Angst, anxiety, relationship issues, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff. Lots of feelings. Established throuple. Pov switch. The guys propose a field trip.
The rain tonight is fitting. 
It’s dreary, and sad, and if it was the middle of the day, the sky would be a soggy grey color, clouds full and punchy, waiting to burst open with their weight. 
The drops against the window are the only sound outside of Simon’s voice in the flat, his affirms and negatives bouncing around the room wildly, looking for somewhere, anywhere to land. 
He stares at his feet while he listens to his captain, counting the number of speckled flecks of dark wood in the floor. You won’t look at him, your eyes staring dully out the window, watching the rain drops. Holding your breath. 
Johnny watches him like a hawk though, those sharp, too keen eyes honing in on every syllable, every variance of inflection. He keeps one arm around you, tethering you to his body, like a leash, a landline, a connection unbreakable. 
“-not exactly sure yet, wanted to talk to ya first.” Simon nods. This may, quite possibly, be the absolute worst timing of their lives right now, but he’s unsure how to communicate that to the captain so he’ll understand. Price may not be entirely aware of their current predicament, but he does know about you, and he knows what it’s like to have someone at home, waiting. Wondering. Watching. 
“We’re moving this comin’ week.” He grits out, teeth gnashed so tightly he thinks they might break. Johnny’s hand moves up and down your arm, his pace anxious, and quick, instead of something slow and soothing that may be more appropriate, or helpful, in this moment. He’s panicking. He’s panicking, and you’re staring out the window like you can see the future through the glass. Price says something, a remark about them getting a new place and Simon nods robotically. “Can I call you back, sir?” 
“In the morning.” He answers, and Simon flexes his wrist before giving him another affirm and hanging up. 
He folds himself next to you on the couch, one hand reaching for Johnny’s, the other pulling your focus by lightly tracing a line down your jaw. 
“Darling.” He says and you face him fully, fresh tears in your eyes. 
“So.” You rub your cheek, and inhale deeply. “When do you leave?” 
“Yer thinkin’ about her.” Johnny grins, teeth split to reveal the flashes of pink and red inside his mouth. A delectable, delicious mouth that Simon wants nothing more to feel on him right now. On his own. On his skin. On his cock. “You been thinkin’ about ‘er?” He’s not wrong. Simon is thinking about you. He’s thinking about how he does wish you were here right now, in their bed, with them. He’s thinking about how you’re doing, if you’re feeling okay, if you’re thinking about them too. He’s thinking about how it would be, if he had both you and Johnny naked beneath him in this moment, your body wet and ready for them, your eyes wide with anticipation. But he’s not only thinking about you, too. He’s thinking about Johnny. He’s thinking about the way Johnny collapsed into bed this morning after they got home, but still couldn’t fall asleep until Simon was wrapped around him, pinning his body beneath his weight, safe. Secure. He’s thinking about Johnny earlier in the shower, his fingernails in Simon’s scalp, the warmth and shelter of his touch. He’s thinking about Johnny in the kitchen afterwards, naked save for a towel, water droplets streaking a course down his stomach that Simon followed with his tongue. 
“I’m thinkin’ about you, MacTavish.” He paws at Johnny on the bed, rotating him by his hips so he lays belly down. “And I’m thinking about her.” 
“We could call her.” He says dreamily, and Simon presses a thumb behind his knee, knocking his one leg out and to the side. 
“We could.” He doesn’t say he wants to. He doesn’t know if he wants to. He doesn’t know how to handle this… thing, that has happened. To both of them. Doesn’t know what to do with you, the girl that suddenly appeared in their lives so easily, like you’ve always fit there. 
It’s not like this would be easy. It’s not like it’s something they have experience with, either. Sure, they’ve brought additional partners to their bed in the past, but usually in passing, almost always to never be seen again. 
Until you. Until you became a “second time thing” and then a third, and then a fourth. Until they were calling you last month, home from an op and wondering about you, thinking about you, talking about you, like they are now. 
You… you would be, you are, different. Something new. Something fragile. Something theirs. 
Simon shoves it all down, packs it away for another time. 
They could get hurt. You could get hurt. Everything could go wrong. 
Johnny wiggles in front of him, rising up on his knees, back arched while he watches over his shoulder. The curve of his spine, swell of his ass sitting just so, right and perfect, ready for the taking. Ready for Simon. He ghosts his touch across his skin, smirking when Johnny draws a hot, sharp breath. His cock swells, already heavy with desire, desperate for Johnny. 
He presses a finger against his already slick rim, prepped with lube moments ago, and feels how Johnny twitches for him before pushing through, crooking it just so, just right that Johnny sputters, all logical thoughts emptying from his brain. 
“There it is.” Simon’s voice is low, dangerous, and it drives Johnny farther into a different headspace, the one that he desperately needs every now and then, the one that only Simon can give him. He strokes along the spot, and Johnny pulses with electricity, fully trembling beneath him. It’s a lovely sight for Simon, truly one of the sweetest things he’s seen, and he runs a thumbnail down the center of Johnny’s cock, just to tease him that much more. 
“Simon.” He whines, voice breathy and full of need, sitting on the cusp of shattering. 
“Hush. Need you ta be a good boy for me.” He admonishes, but reassures him with his touch, rubbing a hand up and down his spine before tracing a finger back down to his arse, where the tight ring of muscle waits. His Johnny, smart, gorgeous, deadly, perfect Johnny. His sweet, good boy. He strokes his cock languidly, watching his Sergeant squirm before he presses the crown of his cock to where he waits, his body worked open in the last hour while Johnny drooled on his cock, and Simon stretched him around his fingers. 
Johnny chokes when he pushes into him, his chest heaving for air and Simon smiles, taking his time, enjoying the thrum of Johnny’s muscles around his cock, grinding deep once he’s fully seated. 
“Fuck!” he yelps, and Simon folds himself forward, hand knotting into the mohawk, mouth kissing along the skin of his shoulder. 
“That’s it.” He croons, flexing his hips, thrusting in tiny, micro movements that makes Johnny’s skin slick with sweat. “That’s good, Johnny, so, so good. Openin’ up so nice for me.” His cock throbs, an involuntary shiver working its way up and down his spine while Johnny moans into the pillow. He’s beautiful, and Simon can’t not stare him, the flush of his skin, the color of his eyes, the way his tongue darts forward to lick his lips. So, so beautiful. And so, so utterly Simon’s. He thrusts harder, faster, skin slapping against skin until Johnny is crying so beautifully, groans falling from his lips while Simon splits him open on his cock. "My sweet, good boy. Takin' me like you were made for it." He grunts between thrusts, and Johnny keens.
Johnny’s hand flails wildly at his side, seeking purchase across the sheets, and Simon grabs it, snaking his own under his chest and pulling him upwards until his back is nearly pressed against his chest, spine curved and jaw slack. 
“I love you.” Simon murmurs in his ear, holding both of them completely still. “I love you, MacTavish. You’re mine.” He finds Johnny’s cock and strokes, hand already slick, and Johnny practically purrs in response, clenching around Simon, his body trying to draw Simon’s orgasm from him while Simon pulls Johnny towards his. 
“Yours.” He gasps in response. “All- shite- you, Si. You.” 
“Come for me, Johnny. Come on.” The encouragement is all it takes before Johnny’s tensing and then spilling all over Simon’s fist, his voice pitching deeper when he shouts his name. 
Simon pushes him back down onto the bed, arcing up over his body, fucking into him wildly, chasing his own end, his burning desire to fill him up with his come, mark him with everything he has, drowning him in his own orgasm. His Johnny. His, his, his- it’s all he thinks about when he pushes deep, the angle causing Johnny to cry out, and then he comes, sealing his hips to the swell of Johnny’s while he lets his cock leak every drop into his body. 
He cuddles Johnny close, breath fawning over his ear, one hand intertwined with his while he strokes his hair from his face, palm smoothing over his forehead and back in a repeated motion. He’s sweet, and sated, and limp in Simon’s arms, mouth gapped open while he slips in and out of twilight sleep. Simon’s nearly there too, brain carefully shutting down piece by piece until Johnny tenses, the muscles in his arms and back going rigid, signaling that he’s awake, and he’s thinking. Or worrying.
“What is it?” He whispers, eyes still closed.
“What if she misses us too?” Johnny whispers. “What if she needs us?” Simon sighs. 
“I don’t know, love.” He kisses his shoulder and holds him tight. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s not think about it until the morning.” You mumble, voice fatigued with exhaustion. “I don’t want to think about it… right now.” He can feel Johnny’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t return his gaze, instead keeping his own on you in this moment. You’re too aware, too observant, and you’d pick up on it. You always know when they’re exchanging glances, glances that communicate so much, and it never surprises, or frustrates him, when you grow exasperated with it, with them. They should be better about it, for you. He should be better. 
“You sure?” Johnny hums, his fingertips lightly caressing your belly before stroking across your ribs and up to cradle your face. His eyes catalogue you, noticing and tallying the same things Simon has. Your exhaustion. Your anxiety. The toll the past few weeks have taken on you. Their fault, the toll that this relationship has taken on you is completely their fault. He suddenly feels like he’s swallowed a stone’s worth of hot rocks. “You’re so tired, darling girl.”  Johnny fusses, and you nod sleepily, turning onto your side, waggling your fingers behind your back, the signal that you want your preferred sleeping position; Johnny curled behind you, his chest pressed to your back, and Simon partially underneath you, your ear pressed to his heart. You always hold Johnny’s hand, resting it across Simon’s abdomen, where he folds his own atop the two of yours. Your legs tangle together, and Johnny normally scratches Simon’s head before he falls asleep, something he’s carried home from ops, a self-soothing mechanism for both of them. It works differently, in the field, because they don’t normally sleep together and they’re always missing you, the lost puzzle piece in their mess of a life, but Johnny always somehow finds the time to sit or stand or lay near Simon at night, sneakily running his hands through his hair for a few moments before disappearing off to bed. 
They always have each other, even when they’re across the world. 
And you’re always the one left behind. 
Every time. You’re left here alone. It’s not like they call, or text, or even email. It’s not like you even know when to expect them back half the time. 
His chest feels tight. His body feels cold. You never asked for this. How is this fair to you?
A chilling thought creeps into his mind. Would you have been better off, if they had left you alone? Would you be happier? 
“Simon?” you whisper, and he shifts, tilting his chin downwards to where you’re peering up at him. “You… okay? Your heart is beating really fast.” Johnny moves, just slightly so he can look over, and Simon swallows. It’s dry, but he does it anyway. Doesn’t know what else to do. 
“I’m alright, knackered though.” You sigh, pressing a kiss to his chest, just above the jagged line of a scar, and he pulls you in tighter, shifting so that his body cages you in against Johnny’s. 
“Goodnight… I love you.” You mumble sleepily, the words meant for both of them, and Johnny kisses you tenderly behind the ear, while Simon leans down to brush his lips across the top of your head. 
“Love you.” Johnny whispers, eyes slipping shut. 
“Love you.” Simon is the last, as always, selfishly collecting both admissions and holding them close to his heart, where he replays them over and over, hands flexing against both of your bodies until he’s falling asleep, the two of you safe in his arms. 
“We’ll be fine.”  “Ah know, but...” Johnny trails off, eyes tracking to the closed bathroom door where the shower is running. “You’re recovering, and she’s… something’s goin on, Si.” He shifts his weight onto the crutch and leans forward, wrapping Johnny up with his free arm as well as he can before pressing their foreheads together. 
“I’m fine. Price needs ya.” 
“Dinnae like leaving either of you.” He snaps, pulling away, while Simon rubs an exasperated hand over his face. “I’ll miss ya two, too bloody much.”  He’s being reluctantly pulled away while Simon’s on medical leave, still healing from his last brutal bout of injuries that landed him on a med-evac and emergency surgery nearly a month ago, and he’s less than pleased.
But when the 141 calls, they answer. And since Simon can’t, Johnny must.
“We’ll miss you too.” 
“And ah am worried, ‘bout her.”  
“I know.” Simon doesn’t say it, because he doesn’t need too, but he’s worried too. You’ve been off kilter since he came home, quiet and more to yourself than usual. You spend a lot of time fussing over him, making sure he’s comfortable, asking if he needs pain meds, worrying about how he’s feeling, but he’s fairly sure you’re using it to cover up something else that’s going on with you, something murky that’s brewing in your mind. 
Johnny frowns, like he’s had a thought, and then motions to the bathroom. Simon counts the minutes in his head. 
It's been a bit too long. 
They push the door open, expecting to find it full of steam, the room usually too warm and fogged over from your showers, the scalding temperature that you prefer your water to be enough to peel the skin from their bones if they stood beneath it too long. 
Instead, the bathroom is cold. Clinical. Unwelcoming. 
They can see you, beyond the blur of the glass shower door, sitting on the ground, knees to your chin. Your hair is wet, even though it’s not close to being a wash day, that fact alone sending unease prickling up his spine, and he rips the shower door open as soon as he crosses, hobbles, across the room on the crutch. 
“Darling?” He calls, looking down at where you sit against the tile. 
You sigh. Long, loud. Heavy. 
“Yeah.” You whisper and Johnny reaches inside, hand under the water as he chokes on his breath, the temperature cold enough to startle him.
“Bleedin’ christ.” He hisses and reaches past Simon to twist the knobs to off. When you don’t move, don’t look up at them, Simon feels his heart crack. What is going on with you? 
“Get a towel.” He instructs, while leaning over, still supporting his weight on the crutch, and grabbing you by your upper arm. “Come on darling, up you get.” You don’t fight, your body near lifeless as he pulls you to stand, and then drags you closer, nestling you against his chest. 
“Your stitches.” You mumble a protest into his skin, while Johnny drapes a towel around your shoulders. “We’re not worried about my stitches right now, love.” He strokes your cheek, smoothing a thumb under your eye while you avoid looking at either of them. “What’s going on?” 
“Nothing.” You mutter. 
“You were sitting in an ice-cold shower.” Johnny counters, and you shrug. 
Avoidance. Nerves tighten in Simon’s gut. 
“And yer hair is wet.” He murmurs, rubbing behind your neck, soft little circles meant to relax you, while Johnny works another towel on your ends, before drying you off below the waist. When you don’t say anything, he feels his composure start to fall apart. “Darling, please, tell us what’s going on. You’ve been like this for over a week. We’re worried, we’re-“ 
“Married?” you cut him off and he jerks back in surprise. 
“Who told you that?” He keeps his voice very even, very calm. No wonder you’ve been so shut down. He’s going to kill Price. He’s going to kill Gaz. 
He’s momentarily distracted by his anger, it’s gnawing rage building in the back of his throat, that he almost doesn’t recognize Johnny’s voice when he croaks; 
“I did.”
“Should ‘ave told me, darling.” They’ve finally convinced you to lay down with them, mid conversation, so they can hold you while they talk. It helps quiet some of the shrieking in Simon’s head, some of the panic and fear that’s running under the surface of the river that rips through him in this moment. 
“It felt… wrong. To be so worried about it, when Simon was in the hospital.” You sniffle, and Johnny shushes you, trying to soothe the frazzled tears that leak from your eyes. Simon watches warily from the opposite side. 
“We’re not married.” He tells you, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, where it certainly will not stay. “But the 141, and it’s bosses, thinks we are. We don’t correct them.” Your face twists up in confusion, and he sighs. “The base, that we fly in and out of… we have a room there. Sometimes we have to stay a day, or two, for after action reports. We don’t like to be separated so Price has worked it out so we can share.” 
“The only way that can happen is if we’re married…” Johnny supplies, trying to be helpful, but Simon can see how your face clouds. How it darkens, and the anxiety, the confusion mars it. 
“Which we’re not. But Price helps us, has made it so his boss, and others, think we’re married, so we can stay together.” 
“We’re next of kin, on each other’s papers as well. It all allows us privileges, like at hospital.” Johnny tries to explain, bringing it back to the earlier admission, when he explained how he had told the surgeon they were married, and he was next of kin if any decisions needed to be made. 
“So, pretty much you are married. Just without the certificate.” Simon winces. 
“No, love. It’s not like that, it’s-“ 
“Everyone thinks you’re married. Their perception is reality when you’re at work. Or anywhere else... and you’re each other’s next of kin.” 
“No.” Simon vows, but it doesn’t matter, you’re already pushing away, working yourself free from the tangle of them, shimmying off the bed. “Wait, listen-“ 
“No.” you repeat his denial back to him, and they both watch wordlessly as you yank a t shirt over your head, before sliding on a pair of leggings and slipping into sandals. 
“Where are you going?” 
“I don’t know. Out. For a walk… I can’t be here right now.” 
“Stop.” Johnny pleads. “Stop, please. Just let us explain.” 
“I think you have.” You quip over your shoulder. Simon’s out of bed now too, hot on your heels but you’re too fast for him on the crutch, and you’re already at the front door by the time he’s reaching for you. 
“Darling.” He breathes, and when you turn, he sees the pain in your eyes, the fractured sense of security, the shattering of your heart, that one thing that they were supposed to keep whole. The thing they were supposed to protect.
Johnny calls your name from a few meters behind him, pleading. "Darling, please, don't run from us."
“I need some air.” You whisper it to your feet, and then before either of them can say anything else, the front door is slamming in his face. 
“Fuck!” He shouts, at nothing. At the ceiling. At their own stupidity. “Fuck.” 
It’s the twitching, that has Simon’s eyes opening wide in the middle of the night. He can feel your body, restless, rocking against him, your breathing sharp and hurried. He knows what it is within a second, knows what monster has crawled into their bed and invaded your dreams. A nightmare. A symbol of the true state of your mind slipping through the cracks of your subconscious. It’s a barometer, and his heart sinks a little while he shakes his sleepy eyes open.  “Darling.” He whispers, smoothing a hand past your cheek to stroke some of your hair. Johnny sleeps soundly, still cradling you from behind, unmoved by your shuddering. He sleeps like a rock when home, safe and sound, comforted by the knowledge that all three of you are together. Simon usually gets close to that sense of safety, that feeling of security, but the vigilance, the undercurrent of fear, still simmers in his blood. It always will, if you and Johnny are around. It is the price of being in love, he supposes. 
The price of having it all, comes with the fear of losing everything. 
However, it comes in handy, in moments like these, when you’re trapped in your own dreams, trapped inside your own head. 
You whimper, the noise twisted and scared, and he tightens his grip, not firm enough to hurt, but enough to hold you still while you lurch. 
“Wake up, love. C’mon.” He speaks a little louder now, enough to wake Johnny, who flinches in his sleep before blinking his eyes wide. Simon watches how his free arm tenses, like he means to swing, before relaxing his muscles and meeting Simon’s gaze. 
You cry, a dismayed sob reverberating through the two of them, and Johnny wraps his arm around Simon’s back, sandwiching you beneath them tightly. You pant against Simon’s skin, and he uses the hand that’s snug between your spine and Johnny’s chest to rub your back, easing you as gently as possible, while Johnny whispers above your ear. 
“You’re alright, darling. You’re okay. You’re home, with us. Right here.” You’re still crying, still asleep, and Johnny frowns. Usually once you’re pressed between them, your nervous system soothes itself, and you wake easily. A little distressed at times, but not crying or thrashing like you are when the nightmares begin. 
“Shhh.” Simon tries, and he squeezes the nape of your neck, not hard, but firmly, enough to apply pressure at the base of your skull. It’s worked in the past, when you’ve been lost in a night terror, or awake but too deep in your mind, entrenched in your own horrors, stuck in the dark cycles of your own brain. The pressure is effective, and he’s not sure why, but it settles you easily in most moments, grounding you, bringing you back to them. Where you belong.
It does the trick. You’re blinking awake in the next moment, face foggy with sleep, eyes heavy and confused.  
“There she is.” Johnny hums, and you take a deep breath, trying to fill your lungs with as much air as possible. “That’s it. Just breathe.” 
“S-sorry.” You weep, voice wet and syrupy, sticky with your pain, with whatever hell was filling your dreams. 
“It’s alright.” Simon assures you Johnny shifts, moving to sit up, and your hand grasps for him wildly, seeking his touch. When he grabs it, you settle, and he rubs a thumb across your knuckles.
“Chamomile?” He asks you gently, and you nod into Simon. “Be right back.” He brushes a sweet kiss across your cheek, and then onto Simon’s before sliding out of the bed while you sigh forcefully. 
“Want to tell me?” Simon tries to probe, without pushing you too hard. You’re still half asleep, so when you give him a wispy no, he doesn’t push. There’ll be plenty of time later. “Okay darling, that’s alright.” He assures, and your eyes slowly slip closed while he lays there, not moving a single muscle. 
The kitchen light flicks on, and Simon blinks to adjust before the dimmer switch is lowered, the light echo of your tip toes sliding across the floor to where he sits at the counter, hunched over a lukewarm cup of tea. 
“Can’t sleep?” you hoist yourself onto the stool next to him, Johnny’s t shirt just coving your hips, hair twirled up like you’ve been in a wind tunnel. “Or bad dream?” 
“Can’t sleep.” He answers, and you make a sympathetic noise in your throat while you touch his mug. 
“Want me to make you a fresh one?” 
“No, that’s alright darling. You can go back to bed.” He knows you must be bone tired, between the last few days since they’ve been home and the two weeks before that, when they were gone, you haven’t been getting much sleep. 
“Can’t sleep either.” You whisper in the dark, words glum. He glances at the clock. 0207. 
“You need your rest.” He tries to encourage, and can make out the squint of glare on your face. 
“So do you.” 
“Aye, the two of ‘e need your rest.” Johnny quips from the hall, and you turn to see him padding towards the kitchen, pajama pants slung low on his hips. He settles between your bodies, pressing against each outward thigh, before sighing, and resting his head on Simon’s shoulder. “Just leaving me in bed all alone then?” He pulls your hand into his, brushing his lips across your skin and clucking his tongue with sympathy. “How about we all lay on the couch?” Simon perks up a bit at that, knowing that having something on the television will ultimately lull him back to sleep, and probably you as well. 
“Okay.” You agree, hopping off the stool and practically into Johnny before dragging him towards the living room. “But, I pick.” 
“You picked earlier.” Johnny huffs and Simon rolls his eyes. 
“’s true love, you did pick earlier.” You grumble something under your breath while you get situated on the couch, flexing yourself between him and Johnny, bending and stretching until you’re comfortable, and sandwiched, against them as always. Your face nestles in Johnny’s neck while he flick through the options, and Simon strokes a hand lovingly over your hip. 
“This is nice.” You whisper, and he’s not sure if you’re speaking to him, or Johnny, or just yourself. He’s not sure if you’re talking about being together on the couch, or being together after they’ve returned home, or just being together as the three of you are, in life. In everything. 
He agrees anyway. 
“Yes, darling. It is.” 
It’s still raining, when the morning comes. It’s something you note, miserably, when your eyes blink open and you realize the bed is empty, nearly cold on both sides. 
It’s still raining, and the bed is empty.
 Your head feels heavy, tired, from your restless sleep, exasperated from the nightmare, a small headache beginning to bloom and spread behind your eyes. Great.
You roll, burrowing into a pillow, breathing the scent left on the sheets as deeply as possible before the smell of coffee hits your nose, it's caramel, roasted flavor wafting under the door from the kitchen, and your toes practically curl against the sheets. 
When the door swings open, you prop yourself up on your elbows to see them both, standing hesitantly near the end of the bed. 
“Good… morning?” You leave the end with a question, a wondering, while Johnny steps onto the mattress with his knees and snakes an arm around your waist. He pulls you backwards, into his chest, safe and secure, but still sitting up, and Simon perches on the edge, cup of coffee waiting in his outstretched hand. “Thanks.” He presses it into your grip, and you smile at them, a little anxious. “What uh. What’s up?” 
“We wanted to ask you, if you’d be keen on a little field trip.” Johnny nuzzles your neck, mumbling the words into your skin. A field trip?
"We were hoping to bring you on base with us, during this next op.” Simon tries to explain when you frown. Your eyes widen, lips hovering above the coffee. 
“To base?” You take a sip and immediately wince, drawing away from the steaming liquid. Simon takes it from you, depositing it on the bed side table before taking your hands in his. 
“Yes. We’ve spoke to Price this morning, and he’s agreed to allow you to stay on base, in our room, if you'd like to come along.” On base. Go… on base. And stay in their room. A million emotions circle your heart in a quick pattern. But a few thoughts stand out the most.
They want to bring you with them. They don’t want to leave you behind.
“Okay.” You don’t need to think about it, your answer was already known by everyone in the bedroom. This is the first time they’ve ever offered to bring you to base, to include you in this way, and your heart trills in your chest. “Yeah.” You reaffirm, before a small, hopeful smile tugs at your lips. Simon cups a hand around your knee. 
“Unfortunately, this won’t be like a vacation. You’ll have to stay close, and when we’re not with you, you won't be able to leave base.” 
“That’s okay… I have my kindle. And I’m sure I’ll have work to do.” Your boss has been pushing you to take more time off anyway, right? You could totally swing this. 
“And you can wait, for us to get back if you want.” Johnny follows up, gently. You know he doesn’t really want to talk about how they’re leaving again, and you still haven’t gotten the details. 
“Yeah… how long-“ 
“It will be short.” Simon answers tersely. “Three, four days at the most, that’s why you can stay.” Four days? That’s like, more than short. That’s almost nothing. But Johnny nods against you, and you don’t question it. It’s not really your place, and you try not to pry regarding the ops. 
“It’ll be nice, havin’ you in the hangar when we land.” Johnny murmurs and your skin heats, realizing you’ll get to be there to say goodbye and welcome back. 
You’re silent, while you consider it, and the implications, something about this invitation soothing the wildness in your heart, like a balm to the wound that’s been bleeding out inside of you. 
“Darling?” Simon finally rumbles, after you sat in silence for probably too long, and you nod. 
“I’m here.”
953 notes · View notes
keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
Text
I want him in a way that is concerning to feminism but I just know that if he ever talked to me I would probably end up crying
The meeting is supposed to begin in four minutes, and you’re late again. With a box full of papers in your arms, you sprint towards the elevator, but its doors are slowly closing.
There’s someone inside, though. He is dressed in camo and wears a mask, which doesn’t surprise you since such apparel is a common sight in this building.
He tilts his head to the side, peeking to see the maniac shouting at him to “hold the door.” He jams his foot between the doors to keep them from closing, and steps to the side as you burst in.
You’re panting, trying to catch your breath, but you thank him. He nods.
The doors close, and the elevator starts its ascent.
He asks which floor you’re going so he can push the button since your hands are full. You swallow and tell him you’re going to the “seventeenth, please.”
You both turn to look at the panel; your floor is already selected.
He points at the box in your hands. He says that it looks heavy and offers to hold it for you. You politely decline, explaining that the files are confidential and you shouldn’t let anybody else touch them.
He side-eyes the files and states that he can clearly see what’s written at the top. Maybe he’s trying to diminish your credibility. Perhaps it’s just his dry sense of humour and a way of making small talk.
You joke back, telling him you’d have to kill him now that he’s read what’s on the file. He looks down, huffs, and turns his attention to the numbers panel.
The elevator stops, and the doors open.
You prepare to step out first, but he puts his hand in front of the box and stops you. He leans in between the doors and takes a look at the corridor. He turns his head to the left, then to the right. He looks back at you and motions with his head that it’s okay for you to go out. You look at him, confused, and explain that nobody will attempt to harm you inside the CIA premises. He chuckles, reminding you that you just threatened to do that to him a few seconds ago, and assumed that “It was a thing in here”.
You roll your eyes and exit, walking towards your meeting room. He’s following you.
You tell him that you “don’t need his services anymore,” and he explains that that’s not why he’s behind you; he, too, is looking for a room.
You both stop in front of a door. A sign with the words “meeting in progress” is hanged on it.
You look at him. He returns your gaze.
“Y-you must be...”
He stops you and points to the file at the top of your box that bears a name: Simon “Ghost” Riley.
“Your file didn’t have a picture of you,” you explain, “so I didn’t recognise you.”
He places his hand on the door’s handle and rotates it.
“Well,” he says, swinging the door open, “how about we get to know each other now?”
3K notes · View notes
keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
Note
Holy shit this is so good! It’s honestly the best hurt/comfort one-shot that I’ve ever read. Seriously this is fucking amazing. Great job Op!!
Can please get fic where young reader almost gets r-word.. like! What happened to ellie on 'the last of us' like make it into that situation, reader kills the rapist and flees away and runs into the 141 team, and their like in this state of like panic, but they calm them down and they explain what happened they are beyond livid so they just reck hell on the people who was with the man who tried to r-word reader.
(this a platonic relationship between reader and the team)
Me and the Devil
rating: mature
pairing(s): platonic 141 x gn!reader
warning(s): no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, non-explicit attempted r*pe, emotional and physical trauma, sexual physical and mental violence, canon-typical graphic violence, comfort
wordcount: ~3.8k
a/n: i'm not exactly sure what anon meant by young, but for context, reader is probably 20-22, I'm just not comfortable writing this kinda stuff for teen or child reader, I hope you don't mind. also, huge, HUGE emphasis on the warnings. though nothing is explicit and there are no sexual graphic terms, the descriptions and actions alone are still very disturbing and uncomfortable! and the violence is a little uncomfy for those not used to it, too. title is from 'Me and the Devil' - Soap&Skin
synopsis: You can see it. The devil. It laughs, and laughs, and laughs, mocks you for your childish stupidity and naivete. To think the angels would come marching in, that you'd make it out with any semblance of sanity. You can't fight it, you can't even hide from it. All you can do is lie in your grave.
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Just hours ago, you were alongside the 141, cleaning up and wiping out an enemy base, a typical Tuesday on a summer afternoon. You should've known things would go downhill with how smoothly it was all going. Even Price commented on it with an air of wariness and suspicion. After all, it was a saying that if the fight starts getting too easy, then it's an ambush. And an ambush it was. You want to tell yourself that it was nothing, easy as pie compared to what you've been through. You wanted to say that it was a success and you turned the tables on your enemies. You wanted to say that it ended within a matter of minutes and that you were on your way back to base with your boys, ready for a night of banter at the pub. You'd join Ghost in watching Soap and Gaz try their hand at poker, taking a shot each time Soap's dogshit luck lost him another couple of euros while Price would pry Roach from having another cocktail and piss himself ('it was one time!' he slurs).
But instead, you're here. Locked in a room, bag over your head, tied to a chair, a stereotypical hostage situation but that didn't make it any less tolerable. Though having a potato sack over your head was nowhere near as embarrassing as the reason why you were captured. You tried your best to hold onto the jeep, honestly, you did. Until some ankle-biter decided to latch onto you and sink his teeth into your flesh, causing your grip to loosen and send you tumbling into the dirt. Your bodies slammed into the ground, kicking up dust and your opponent taking most of the fall damage for you. How thoughtful.
Seething at the audacity he had to chomp on your leg like some feral mutt, you gave him a piece of your mind and made sure he'd never bite another ankle again. His friends caught up the moment you were done. They dragged you back down to the coarse dirt and sand of the earth, making you taste and choke on dust. You looked at the lifeless figure in the sand, briefly wondering if you'd be wishing you were him before a bag was slipped over your head and tied like a collar. It didn't help that the sand on the roof of your mouth combined with your ineffective attempts to ration your breathing made for a burn worse than any hard liquor down your throat. Thrashing and shouting like a madman, you cursed them like some teenager who discovered swearing as they tossed you into the back of a truck, rolling you forth with the heels of their boots. Not your finest moment.
Once you were loaded and the rest of them climbed on, the truck shot forward without slowing down for a second, taking you to your own personal hell for the next few days. Knowing the 141, they were probably at the safehouse, planning their next move to retrieve you. In the time between interrogations and routine attempts to break you, you could imagine Soap and Roach pacing around the room, Ghost brandishing a knife with a dark look in his eyes, and Price looming over a map and pulling up contacts with Gaz at his side. While you hated to burden them with your own mistakes, thinking about them all gnawing their teeth in comical anger at your expense brought you momentary comfort, eliciting a small chuckle.
"Something funny?" Much to your ire, all your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of several people shuffling into the room. You could only expect so much privacy in a place like this. The man who spoke up seemed to carry himself like a leader, considering how he spoke above all others and you could hear him carrying out demands every now and then, checking up on you as if he actually gave a shit. And currently, he was on the top of your "to kill" list, along with every other cunt in this prison.
"What'll it be today, more screaming or more silence? You know, you can only stay quiet for so long." He sighed. Judging by the sound of metal screeching on concrete, he pulled up a front-row seat. With a single yank, you were again temporarily freed of the confines of the bag on your face, glaring at the man with a look of ferocity that seemed as if it were etched on your face permanently. His clothes were disturbingly clean-cut and polished despite the blood he spilled for the past few days. Your blood he spilled. "Come now... you know you'll only make things more difficult. Face it, kid, they're not coming, it's been days."
When you felt gloved fingers touch your jaw you snapped, pulling away like an animal restrained by a leash. Your captor let out a taunting "Oooh", and your skin crawled at how he heckled and laughed like some adolescent boy poking a rabid animal with a stick through its cage. "So it bites."
"Fuck you." You rasped.
"And it talks." The humiliation of their nonchalant attitudes made you seethe, you knew it was a tactic to get under your skin and you just wouldn't have it, turning your head away from the men.
"Uh-uh, eyes on me. How is such a fresh thing like you out fighting wars with men like them?" He hummed, gripping your jaw with a strength that took you by surprise and had you wincing. Even though his hands were gloved, it felt as if he were trying to dig into your skin. With no other choice, you were forced to look into his eyes, the pyres of unimaginable anger burning in yours.
However, it was then that you felt it. Something was off. Something was horribly off about him. The several times he'd come in here to either coax you with gentle words or have his men beat you within an inch of your life, he either had some faux kindness or gleeful malice painted across his face. But this time, his eyes were alight with slimy delight. You hated it, Hated how it made you feel small, cornered, pulling on your leash so that you couldn't be yanked from the one place that made you feel safe. You hated how it didn't feel like he was trying to get under your skin, or sink into your bones but instead your mind as if to violate it. You hated how it seemed like he had something more in mind, something that you couldn't predict like a kick to the ribs or a carefully worded reassurance that you'd be in "good hands". It was the one thing you felt like you had control over, knowing what was next, and now you didn't.
With a wave of his hand, his men all filed out of the room, leaving just him and you alone. One came back with a bowl in their hands and you felt yourself doubt your worries. Were you already beginning to lose it in here? "Hungry?" He smiled, taking the bowl and dismissing the soldier. It looked and smelled like a stew, potatoes, and beef, not scraps of stale bread or lukewarm, half-empty beer cans.
"I asked them to make something special today for you, isn't that nice? I suppose even someone like you has a taste for the finer things in life and wouldn't say yes to leftovers." No answer came but it was to be expected as he mixed the stew with a spoon. Your eyes were trained on his face instead, expecting some kind of strings attached. He entertained that expectation by—to your disgust—spitting into the stew, mixing it more, and bringing up a spoonful to your face. "Consider that the cost of being so picky. Open wide, soldier. Surely you won't make a fuss again, now will you?"
There was a pause, you leaned forward, lips ghosting the tip of the spoon before you roughly shoved his chair away from you with your boot. The bowl fell from his hands onto the ground, pooling between the two of you. He could go to hell with his stupid fucking soup.
He let out a scowl of disapproval, his self-satisfied smirk replaced with disgust and irritation like a parent to their troublemaking child. Fine with you, you didn't need that asshole's approval. He stood, grabbing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his hands and the small splatters on his uniform. "Should've known better that the government's pets would act like such animals. I gave you a chance, I tried to make this easy for you." He snarled, tossing his handkerchief aside and grabbing you by the collar, "But no, you just had to be a fucking brat, huh? Fine, be one. I can work with that. Either way, you'll be put in your place soon enough."
Before you could comprehend what he was implying, he shoved you to the floor, your head throbbing as it hit concrete, along with the rest of your aching muscles. Vision blurred, you sat up and tried to make out what he was doing, falling back when he roughly grabbed your hair and shoved your head back down into the ground. Like an alarm, every single flight or fight response went off in your body and yet you couldn't figure out what he was trying, you just knew that this was something worse and that you were a fool to let your guard down for a single second.
A twisted smile broke across his lips, "You know, you have a very lovely voice. You sing the loveliest songs."
Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face until you let out a yelp of pain when he pressed into your stomach, already bruised from previous matters. He let out a sigh that made you shudder and you felt bile creep up your throat, moving your face to the side in fear that you'd choke on it.
"Eyes. On. Me." He snapped, his voice sounding so much louder than it actually was, his hand twisting your jaw back to look up at him while his fingers proceeded to dig themselves into whatever spots got you hissing and squirming away. That's all it took for your resolve to break, the blaze in your eyes fizzling out and replace with genuine fear and utter shock as you watched him straddle you and stare with a piercing gaze that trapped you. It forced your attention to stay on him, daring you to look anywhere else but him when that was all you could focus on. Him.
You couldn't even scream, paralyzed when you heard the sound of metal clinking against metal and the brushing of fabric, raw horror setting itself alight in your bones at how he loomed over you. At that moment, you swore you could see the devil itself laughing, cackling, mocking you in his eyes.
It was like you were seven again.
Scared, cornered in your room because you swore, you swore and sobbed and cried that you saw it, a monster in your closet. A dark, shadowy figure that'd taunt you merely with its existence and prayed on your downfall, drinking the fat tears you spilled and listening to your high-pitched cries as if they were music, eyes that you couldn't see but they could see you.
Others tried to convince you that it wasn't real, opened the doors, and closed them again, showing that there was nothing but cleanly folded clothes and hung-up jackets lined neatly along a rack. Every time, you'd feel a little more silly about your fears but anxious that they'd come back for more.
At some point, you nearly forgot about the monster altogether. It ceased to exist in your closet, but never your mind.
"Damn it, what now?!"
Pulled back into the present, you heard muffled speech with loud, obtrusive noises and more screaming and cursing from the man above you. He was faced with the still-closed door, talking to a soldier behind it. Instead of trying to catch up with what happened, your mind raced to its defensive instincts. Finding the spoon dropped from earlier, you reached for it with a strained grunt which caught his attention. Yet with a swift grab and thrust of your hand, you jammed the blunt handle of the spoon into his throat and screamed at him, your vocal cords ripping in deliriously satisfying pain.
Barely giving him a second to let out a final gasp for air, you flipped him over underneath you and yanked the spoon out, blood erupting out of the gash. Fire ignited in your veins and you balled your fists, giving him a taste of the rage of a caged beast with nothing left to lose, just the desperation to survive for more. It was a symphony of grotesque crunches of bone and ligament, and you yelled, screamed, and cursed with each impact at him, at the entire organization, at a godless world for making you live through hell. A pitiful yet gruesomely satisfying attempt to reclaim what sanity and control you lost in that room.
Blood and flesh coated your fingers like warm syrup, and you were sure your knuckles were split. Crimson red was a good look on a sterile uniform, you thought to yourself. The sight of your work made you realize it wasn't the devil in his eyes was laughing at you, but rather its reflection from over your shoulder, still gleefully singing and squealing with delight as it watched you indulge in pure, unadulterated wrath. Its tail wrapped around your neck, strangling you with delirium and bloodthirst, guiding you in your ear as you beat an already dead man to a pulp.
Taking a stand, its whispers remained in your ear, praising you and yet you felt sick looking at what was left of what you had done, of what was left of the man's face. His blood pooled around his shoulders, mixing with the stew into an unholy concoction, evidence that was a testimony to your suffering and to your sin. Without a second glance, you took his gun and left the room.
To this day, you tell yourself that you crawled out of hell that day.
"Any signs of the hostage?" Gaz shouted over comms, holding off a room of enemies alongside Price.
The moment they had all seen your fingers slip from the jeep and saw you tumble away that afternoon was the moment they knew they wouldn't be coming back to base for a long time. Roach had watched in despair as he was so damn close to grabbing your hand, swearing that had he'd been a little quicker, you wouldn't be here. Soap had yelled for Price to go back but Gaz and Ghost both knew his hand wasn't going to turn that wheel anytime soon. All of them knew. They couldn't turn back, and you wouldn't have wanted them to either, not unless the entire team and mission were to be jeopardized. However, that didn't stop them from doing whatever it takes to get you back safe again.
"Negative." Ghost answered over the line, standing with Soap in a hallway painted with the blood of the opposition, bodies scattered like lifeless bags of flesh with no greater purpose than to rot.
"I have eyes on them, they escaped from captivity. Currently pursuing them!" Roach responded. He'd seen your figure run down a hall at an alarming speed, and when he followed you, he had a glimpse of the room and the spectacle you left behind, "The leader is terminated, too. Jesus, can someone get over here?! They're gunning it for the west exit and I can barely keep up!"
You were in fact, bolting for the exits, panicking the more you got lost and running so fast that you probably could've broken a record on base. Distant gunfire and blasts snapped at your heels like a pack of dogs, reminding you that if you didn't keep running, you'd be dead, you'd be torn apart and beaten just like their leader and fed to the wolves. Boots trampled the ground behind you like drums of death, the yelling of men ringing in your ears, a requiem to the inevitable. Run, just run, it's all you could do in this frenzied state. If you didn't you'd be helpless, you'd be put down like a rabid fucking animal. Run, even if your bones shook from the pain, even if flames licked at your torn muscles, even if it meant dying of exhaustion because anything was better than dying at the hands of those animals.
At last, you found the light of an exit, finally an escape from this asylum. Your heart felt lighter when sunlight kissed your skin only to be weighed down by getting slammed into, grabbed into a relentless hold. You screeched, shrieked, snapped, and sneered while the voices seemed relieved, almost happy at your capture.
"Don't fucking touch me-!" You screamed with animosity, practically frothing at the mouth, "Don't fucking touch me I'll fucking kill you! I'll fucking—"
"Friendly, friendly!"
Still growling under your breath, confusion flickered over your eyes. Why did it sound like... like...
"Captain?"
"You're safe kid," Price panted, as if he'd been running to chase you. He was chasing you. In all your hysteria, you hadn't realized that the group had been running after you for past minute or so, trying to call for you, get you to slow down. The only thing that worked was to just grab to and hopefully knock some sense into you or knock you out. "It's just us, see?"
Your gaze softened, taking in the features of the man before you. Despite the crossfire and fighting, somehow he still had such a kind look on him, puppy eyes that pitied you and kept you grounded. Turning your head, you saw the rest of the men watching you in concern, all tired but overjoyed nonetheless that you were finally back.
You were safe.
It was like a weight finally lifted off your chest, a pile of restrained misery and relief washing over you, and you wept without a thought to pride. Price whispered your name in a way that felt so comfortingly familiar, tucking your head into his shoulder and letting you muffle your sobs into his uniform. It was painful to hear your wails, the relief and the instability shaking off of you in waves. A part of you expected to be scolded, to be teased for messing up so badly with a simple mistake as letting go of the jeep but they didn't.
"You're in good hands,"
"We've got them covered,"
"They can't hurt you anymore, love."
"Do you have any major injuries?" Gaz asked, but you couldn't say a thing, clinging onto Price's jacket and crying like you were four years old and found by your parents after getting lost. Slowly and gently, Price pulled you from him to examine you, and that's when he saw it. It didn't take long for the others to notice as well. Your clothes were torn and belt undone. While no physical harm was visible, knowing what happened was enough to make Price tick.
"Roach, get them to the car and give them some spares ASAP. Everyone else with me, we're cleaning out the place." Everyone else had the same dark look in their eyes, one that sent shivers down your spine but encouraged you once more you were secure now. While Roach escorted you away, you peeked back to see them disappear back into the building. After you changed in the car, you could hear the distant gunfire and screams, shutting your eyes closed tight, making an effort to drown out the thoughts.
"You okay?" Roach frowned. he had apologized to you a dozen times over on your way to the car and explained all that happened after you were taken, which you appreciated him for and insisted it wasn't his fault. But he was sweet and stubborn, bandaging your wounds and telling you he'd make it up by giving you his dessert for the next month, a gesture that made you smile for once in a while.
"Yeah, yeah just... hope they're safe." You breathed, sinking into your seat with the rest of your thoughts. Though you cried once more, quietly this time and on Roach's shoulder. He was cautious not to initiate too much physical contact, holding your hand only when you asked for it.
The building was silent, not a single soul left to be reaped by the 141. They all regrouped around a body that was beaten beyond belief, to the point where the face was unrecognizable. Regardless, they knew who it was.
Gaz broke the silence, "You think they did this?" They all looked at each other, not wanting to imagine what happened to lead to this point.
Ghost nodded, a confirmation of something they already knew but wanted to mutually agree on. "No one else could've made this much of a bloody mess. HQ's going to have a field day with this. Can't say that he didn't have it coming for him, though."
"And well deserved, too." Soap spat. Price continued to look down on the figure on the floor without any thought to it. Not anger, disappointment, or spite, just disregard. Headquarters would be interested to hear what happened, but he could care less about the report. All that mattered was that loose ends were tied.
Minutes later, the men all piled up in the car again, setting for the road back. You woke from your half-asleep state, rubbing your eyes. You were met with a soft smile from Soap, who ruffled your hair. "You alright there, sleepin' beauty?"
Humming in acknowledgment, you nodded and glanced out the window to see the road whizzing by, the building growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Some dingy warehouse. So that was the hellhole you were stuck in for a near week.
"Dinnae think 'bout it too much," He followed your gaze and nudged your boot with his, "When we said they can't hurt ye anymore, we meant it."
"Yeah," You quietly mumbled, leaning back on Roach, who had fallen asleep and leaned on Gaz for support. "Can smell it on you guys."
That got a rumbling laugh out of Soap and even a little headshake from Ghost who sat in the passenger seat. Looking at the rearview mirror, Price was looking right back at you, eyes flickering to the road occasionally, "Get some rest. It'll be a long ride home."
You nodded like a little kid with a mumbled "yessir" and drifted off once more. For the first time in forever, you feel like you can breathe and ground yourself, no punishment, no torture, nothing to haunt in this rare bit of calm. You didn't feel the pain of your sore muscles, you didn't feel that your body was filthy, you didn't feel small and scared, not anymore. Just surrounded by nothing but a familiar feeling of safety and lulled to sleep by the sound of the engine that took you home.
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a/n pt.2: had a tough time writing this one but hey, I think I managed! to be honest, though, I'm not super confident about the ending and proofread this while half-asleep, but I'd love to hear some thoughts about it. shoutout to the people who noticed any reoccurring themes.
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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This anon is a fucking genius and I love them to hell and back.
maybe because it’s late and i’m sleepy.. cod men sleeping habits with s/o ? a break from the agnst i saw 😭 (i loved it)
Gaz- he’s such a little spoon type in my head, but sometimes just HAS to be big spoon or he’ll go crazy; something about holding you after a bad day or just a need he feels overall. i think he’s got the softest breathing, mouth slightly parted open like a cutie.
Price- This man- on his back, an arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest. doesn’t move the whole fuckin’ night. or the complete opposite, when he’s super tired i can imagine him SPRAWLED out on the bed like he just fell there kinda tangled and went with it ?
Ghost- Unlike what i often see like ‘he barely sleeps’ i think he’d sleep good. of course he’d be up and alert even if a feather hit the floor- but besides that. snores, sleeping on his stomach, holding your hand under the pillows. Just give the guy a break ya? he’s at home, he’s safe.
Soap- look. HAS to hold you the whole night. squeezing you like you’re a heckin plushie, legs over you and all. drools on you and doesn’t CARE too. don’t be surprised if you hear some talking in the night, honestly can see him as a light sleep-talker. “no… i’m.. the favorite.. *loud inhale noise*”
-🍫 more ? less ? any other takes ? anyone else ? i’m off to sleep now sleep tight everyone. <3
these are so true, i just think that ghost has issues staying asleep, so every 2 hours he’s awake for about 10 minutes, and he uses those 10 minutes to watch you sleep peacefully <3
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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AHHHHHH I LOVE THIS SO MUCH GAZ IS MY FUCKING FAVORITE
I would gladly let him hold my entire life’s worth in debts. I’m not doing anything important with my life he can have it I don’t care.
Fae!Gaz meets his darling. I have a few other fae!Gaz darling asks that I might answer because he's another that's had a few. But this one is His Darling, y'know?
"Can I have your cherry?" You look over at the man next to you, his bored expression.
"Uh." He points at your drink.
"Your cherry, they didn't give me one and it's my favorite part." You glance down at his drink, realization hitting you.
"Oh," you laugh and fish the cherry off your ice, "Oh my god, sorry. I thought you were hitting on me."
He hums as you settle the bright red fruit in his waiting hand. He tosses it into his mouth stem and all, chews it for a moment then pulls the stem from his lips. Three neat knots tied in it as he sets it on the bar in front of you.
"No. This is me hitting on you." You stare at the stem in shock, you've never seen someone do that. You've heard enough people brag about tying one knot, but three? You look at him and he's smiling, it's dazzling. "I'm Gaz, I didn't get your name."
Like a stunned fool you give it to him, and he smiles a little brighter. It feels a little easier to talk to him, he taps his finger against the bar, you want to talk to him. You're sure your friends are having fun on the dance floor, you're sure they're waiting for you, but his eyes keep pulling you back every time you look away. Your conversation flows and wanders about nothing, about everything, you aren't sure what you're talking about. Just exchanging stories, you think.
"So," Gaz drags the word out, you hum, warm from your drinks, they seem to appear every time you finish one(not that you're complaining), "what do you want?"
"What do I want?" You fumble the question, leaning against the bar and rocking on your heels, "mozzarella sticks." You nod, yeah, you're starving. You wonder if your friends would want to find a McDonald's after this. Gaz chuckles.
"No, I mean really want?" His eyes narrow, smile dropping, it's the first time you've seen his amicable expression change, "I can't pin you down, you're too…"
"Too…?" You raise your brows, this is a weird direction for the conversation to take. You'd thought maybe it would go more along the lines of 'do you want to go home with me?'
"Doesn't matter."
"I guess I don't really want anything," you tell him with a frown. Gaz laughs.
"No, no that's not possible." You frown a little harder, not a fan of the way he says that. Like you're being childish by even implying you might be happy as you are. Your therapist is going to hear about this. You tug your wallet from your pocket and pull a few bills free, probably way overpaying when you toss them on the bar.
"It's been nice talking to you Gaz," you tell him, turning to leave. He says your name and shudder runs through you, like someone walked over your grave.
"Stay," he orders you like a dog, and you can't disobey. He turns your face with gentle fingers, so he can look in your eyes again. "Now," he raises his other hand and touches his finger to your forehead, "tell me what you really want."
Your brows furrow, your mouth opening to say something, you don't really know what. For so long all you've wanted was to be happy, and by God you put the work into it. You pulled yourself out of the pit, you dragged your ass to therapy, you did the stupid exercises, you are finally happy. What more could you want?
Gaz stares at you, watches your brows, your softly parted lips, your eyes searching his like he could find the answer for you. You say nothing. He taps you again, digs a little deeper. Your eyes go glassy, you say nothing. He goes to tap you again and something clicks into place, some internal defense forces words from your mouth to keep him out of the depths.
"I guess," you drawl, "it might be fun to fall in love." He blinks, waits for a hook to catch. Nothing. Jesus Christ what the actual fuck is wrong with you? Or right with you, he supposes.
"Give me your number," he tells you, handing you his phone.
"Kay," you sound so sweet, soft for him while you type your number into his phone. You hand it back, your contact name has a little heart next to it. Cute.
"Go on doll, back to your friends," he nods towards the dance floor. You nod and start to walk away from him. He can feel his influence loosening the further you get, the more people surround you, but that's just fine. You'll be hearing from him soon. Everyone wants something, he'll figure it out sooner or later.
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keys-hellscape-1020 · 8 months
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THIS IS SO CUTE AHHHHHHHH
carried currents | Rodolfo Parra x Reader
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He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.
⇾warnings: light, soft smut. worship. religious imagery in connection to sex. just pure Rudy bliss, y'all. ⇾notes: a very slight continuation of this. it is also just shameless self-indulgence. this man makes me so mushy, so soft. ⇾word count: 2,2K
It's dipped in adoration when his lips brush the inside of your thigh; a whispered gospel against your trembling flesh. Dark eyes—burnt caramel, wet cinnamon—gaze up at you. The dips and peaks in those smouldering depths promise nothing but absolution and reverence.
He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. It's too much sometimes—the pure love concentrate feels like it might one day swallow you whole, and you burn with the notion of being spat out on the opposite side, dazed and confused. Left bereft of his skin under your hands, his rapturous gaze on you. 
But he won't. 
He made it clear with the black box in his pocket, the one he has yet to present to you. It's been there since Alejandro whisked him away one afternoon, eyes burning fiercer than the scorching sun over the Cerro La Mota, and he came back, body buzzing and effervescent, limbs echoing with the clang of elation through his bones. He swept you in his arms, and you felt something in the canyon of his body. A change. 
You'd felt it in your marrow when he slung his jacket over the back of the couch, rolling his sleeves up as he made his way into the kitchen. 
Want some mole con Chile Guajillo y Ancho tonight, cariño? Alejandro and I went into town and got some fresh pollo y tomate. 
You hummed absently as he moved around the kitchen (no, no, go sit; I'll cook tonight—he says it every night, and you always acquiesce), and reached for his jacket. It fell, weighed down by something in his pocket. 
Your hands tangled in the hem, and you felt the outline of it tucked away. A secret for him to keep. You folded it back where it was, head spooling with molasses-thick love, a tangled web of cotton over your thoughts. It leaked down to your pericardium where it sits now, even still, congealed in the canyons of your chest. 
That was weeks ago. And now—
It's his birthday, and yet he treats the day as if it was yours. Something special for you. 
Alejandro made faces at him over the albondigas at dinner, and you pretended you couldn't infer the meaning in their wordless exchange. 
Steady, like everything else in his life. He commits wholly, entirely. He gives his all to something and leaves nothing spared. 
You don't rush him—the box is going nowhere, and neither are you. A ring on your finger is more so a symbolic object than it is anything tangible. It's not enough to qualify this. 
Rudy sits back, watching you—always, always watching you—and the fine dusting of pink on his cheeks makes your belly tingle with a new type of heat. A warmth that spreads from the capillaries in your heart all the way down to your toes. It's a basking warmth; a glow—like the dull, setting sun. 
"I—"
He shushes you softly, shaking his head. "No. This is about you, cariño. All for you."
You huff, the words it's your birthday stagnant on your tongue. It doesn't matter to him, not at all. He gives everything. Everything. And this is no different. 
His fingers slide under the curve of your knee, opening you up like an offering to Baal. 
The only time his eyes flicker away from yours is to stare, wide-eyed and wanting, at the apex of your thighs where he fits like a puzzle. 
"Eres tan Hermosa, cariño—," the words stuttered out of his chest; a whispered worble drenched in the tinge of worship. 
(Before him, you'd never known what it was like to be revered.)
You gasp his name out in a broken quiver, and he meets you in the middle, groaning your name in the same tone, the same hushed breath. His lips seal over yours, devouring the moans as if he was starved for them. 
Kissing him feels like pressing your lips to still water. Baptismal. You feel the filmed surface against your flesh, hot and heady, and open up for him, eager, wanting. His tongue slides over the seam, chasing the spice that lingers between your teeth. 
He tastes of bayberry and smells of incense. The elixir makes your head spin when he floods you with his potent miasma. You drink in the tang of heliotrope and mewl at the way he takes you apart with just his kisses—his tongue, his teeth. 
"Need you," he pants into your teeth, lips scraping across the ivory. "Need to be inside you."
Your legs spread, ankles locking over his thighs.
"I'm all yours."
And you are. Wholly. Completely. Always. Siempre. 
His cock nudges between your folds, slipping inside of you. Each inch feels like a blessing when it parts your flesh like it was made to fit. 
Your fingers curl into his firm biceps, your anchor amid a storm of pleasure, as he murmurs words spoken in broken English—chopped declarations of love, of completion, of finding serenity between your thighs. 
I was made for you, he says.
And you huff in response, a fractured gasp of pleasure, elation splintered at the seams because you were thinking the same thing. 
I was made for you, too. 
Two halves, joined. 
Rudy slots his hips to yours, bellies flush together, chest to chest, and his lips find yours once more. Interwoven limbs. Connected at all intervals. No gaps in the seams. 
(You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.)
It's a coalescence of pleasure. Silhouetted bliss. You syphon Nirvana from the blunt head that presses into your gummy walls, and suffuse it into his joints until he melts into you. Liquid. Pliant. Giving, always giving. 
Another first—you'd never known what making love was until Rudy. Until he split you apart like an old bible, hands running down the scripture of your flesh like it was meant to be followed earnestly and unequivocally. He slips inside genesis and finds Arcady in your pores. 
It's a lesson in completion. Devotion. 
Each brush of him inside of you feels like whispered matins in a hushed hall. The clang of the organ strummed through the dome of Sainte-Chapelle. It reverberates through you until your bones sing with the aftershock. 
You cling to him, echoing his vespers into the plush, warmth of his lips, etching your gospel into his marrow until his eyes darken with empyrean thunderclouds, drenched in his fervour. 
He's a slow, methodical lesson in piety. Soft rolls of his hips, cock filling you to the brim, until ichor leaks from the corners of your eyes, and your mouth falls open against his, voice ringing with the shrill song of your unfettered dulia. 
He leads you up a staircase into the aether where the cosmos seeps into your flesh, igniting you with stardust and clouds of nebula. It's a steep incline; a meshing of atoms and molecules until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases. Until you're joined together; an elliptical galaxy, a merger. 
Rudy sinks into you deeper, his eyes misting cosmic dust that coruscates like fine copper in the radiant ochre haze that leaks in from the open window. He's stunning in bronze, and you're starved for the sun. 
Your fingers thread through his damp hair as he ruts into you, pulling him closer into your embrace until he's glued to you. Every atom touches, sparks. He reeks of fougère accord, olibanum, when you breathe him in, gasping in pleasure as he burrows deep inside you, blunt head kissing the seal of your womb. 
He speaks hushed words, offerings to Hēdonē, as he splits you apart and makes you whole again with each cosseted roll of his hips. 
His name tumbles from the seal of your lips, whispered into the gaps between his teeth. He bites down on it, an answering call that lures you in. Closer. Closer. 
His palms are slick when they lift from your hips, catching your wrists in a loose, warm grip. Your fingers spread when his slot between the gaps, hands tugged, and dropped to the pillow above your head. 
"Ahhhh, cariño—," his words are a low hiss, a feverish whimper. You swallow it down, and bask in the tang of his surrender. His eyes peel open, gazing at you. Perfect creosote circles, cresting in bliss. "I need you to cum from me—I need you to—"
It brims in your veins, liquid nirvana. He takes you to the edge of the galaxy, and watches as the cosmic wonder flashes across your eyes, hands linked with his as you meet samsara together. 
The divot in his brow is drenched in pleasure. Your hands grip his tight as he moves—a gentle current, a cascade—and the valley of bliss carved out in the wrinkles of his forehead makes you ache, make you mould your body, pliant and liquid, into each crevasse carved from porphyry. 
He pulls you along, sweeping you through the motions with each steady rock of his body against yours. Full, and soft, and pleasure drunk on a heady elixir of this, of him, you mewl his name, an orison, and find yourself flowing through welkin clouds. 
Ecstasy bleeds, molten and liqueur-rich, from each gorge in his canyons, pouring over you, and filling in the gaps that remain. Sealed in euphoria, together in perfect symmetry, he drags you to the very brink until the waves crest, Seabreeze clings to your skin in glimmering droplets. 
The clench of you around him, the utterance of his name when it slips through the gap of your teeth, make him groan, make him call out to you in the same tone, the same taste of Elysian Fields on his tongue. 
Rudy cums with a bitten-off whimper. A moan, low and satiated, when he spends himself within you. Liquid heat, potent and brassbound in devotion. 
It's poetry when he cums, you think, dazed and edging into that precipice of madness and euphoria, hysterical on the slow simmer of fine wine coursing through your veins. 
It's scripture, gospel when his eyes drop, mouth pressed tight to the corner of your lips, panting your name in a hymnal chant over and over again as he ruts further and further inside the haven of your body. 
You drink him in, catching the fleeting taste of incense on his tongue when he presses his lips to yours, fervid and quivering. Each shudder of his large frame rattles through you like an echo through your hollow valleys, shaking your bones until you're humming with the same tune. 
"Cariño," it's a tumultuous quake, an aftershock of potent devotion.
He says nothing else—simply content to enjoy the moment lolling through you. 
You huff, tongue sweeping over the sweat beading beneath the curve of his lower lip. Salty-sweet. Lemon zest and cinnamon sugar. You drink him in, eyes heavy set and puddling with the warm ochre glow of his body glued, stuck, to yours. 
Your legs lock around his waist. He peppers you in messy, sweaty kisses that make you giggle at the way it tickles your flesh. 
It's sunkissed heat. Moments stolen on the veranda in the mid-morning dew. The weight of his hand on your shoulder, the soft ardour in his gaze when it flickers to you. Sipping coffee over a shared plate of huevos rancheros, and watching the sun break through the plume of clouds low over the distant mountains. It's his hand slipping into yours. His arm around your waist when you walk through the streets. His eyes on you, always.
Sneaking kisses just because he can. Touches and brushes of his fingers over your skin until you feel bereft of comfort without his fingerprints on your flesh. 
Its—
"Love you," you murmur into the crease of his nose. "So, so much—"
He presses his sweat-slicked forehead to you, eyes burning with the smouldering heat of his love, and says: will you—
You cut him off with a kiss, whispering always into his enamel. 
The cut of his grin is drenched in adulation. The sunset over empyreal blue, dusting the Cerro Potosí peaks in bronze. It's superlunary bliss in the palm of your hands, and you echo it with your own. 
(You think of cyclicity when he slips the ring on your finger, a perfect fit. His hand in yours, fingers spooled in red thread. You know, then, that soulmates really do exist.)
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Alejandro greets you with a tight hug around your middle, head tucked into your neck. 
"So, he finally grew some balls, eh?"
He pulls back, slaps Rudy on the shoulder, eyes glowing under the tinted glasses he wears. Rudy meets his gaze, a smile wider than you'd ever seen tugging on his lips. It wobbles. Both of theirs do. 
Alejandro sniffs, and turns his head, but it does nothing to stop the mist that gathers along his lash line. Rudy shakes his head, his wrist digging into his eyes. You turn, tucking the private moment into the folds of your heart when you see another wordless conversation play out between them. 
After a moment, Alejandro jerks his head around, grinning. "You'll finally be señorita Parra."
Rudy's cheeks dust vermillion. The tension in his shoulders ease as if this, too, was a moment he was savouring. 
Your smile is the first touch of sunshine after a monsoon. "I would have waited forever."
"I wouldn't have made you wait that long." His hands are reverent on your waist when he pulls you close, lips glued to your temple. "Aquí estoy, mi alma. Siempre."
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