#I finally C4 him

[swimminginwatercolors]

Okay.

Why tf does the Knights of Favonius in Genshin Let lil ol Albedo hang out in Dragonspine?

Like, He's found corrupted blood and stuff, and they need SOMEONE to research that stuff, but like-

THATS HIS BROTHER!?

WHO WAS CORRUPTED!?!?

WHY LET ALBEDO HANG AROUND THE STUFF THAT MESSED UP HIS BIG BRO!?!?!?!?!?

[theprincessandthepie]

LOOK AT HERRRRRRR <3333333

[glacialswordsman]

IT'S SO SAD THAT I GOT WAAAAAY MORE EXCITED OVER GETTING KAEYA THAN ANY FUCKING 5 STAR I'VE PULLED FOR

MY BABYYYYYYYYYYYY THANK U FOR COMING HOME TO ME AGAIN!!!

[pavlien]

me when i. open grindr. ignore the background :)

[syofrelief]

soap who's got a little crush in the intel office

Soap, who isn't processing a word out of your mouth as you explain the complicated geometrics of this base, how normal detonations wouldn't would because of something longwinded and boring but goddamn if you didn't have the cutest face he'd seen in a while.

Soap, who sheepishly had to walk his distracted ass back to your office to ask if you could please jus' explain it one more time, i wasnae payin' any attention last time, muttering an excuse about a migraine. You didn't say anything about the demolitions expert being distracted at a demolitions debrief, welcoming him in with an eye roll.

Soap, who'd get distracted every meeting going forward if you could pull him into your office, sit so close he could smell your shampoo, and explain to him patiently the objective and geography and the coordinates and hell, you could explain year 8 geometry and he'd hang on every word. Your office was nice, cool and cozy. He didn't like group debriefs; he needed to stand up and pace or fidget with his velcro vest, or ask too many questions than Price thought appropriate.

But you used better explanations, sat through his often stuttered questions, and let him play with the pencil holder on your desk while you spoke.

Ghost had taken to finding him there in moments of downtime, listening doe-eyed to you murmur about a mission that didn't even belong to them. He snorted. Soap darted to his feet, stumbling over the rug.

"I...I was..." he gestured vaguely, neck purpling with embarrassment. You swiveled in your chair, grinning.

"Hi, Lieutenant," you greeted Simon, waving pleasantly. "Johnny just wanted some alone time."

Soap gaped at you because that's how you decided to phrase that?? In front of his LT?

Not even addressing the elephant in Simon's mind - Johnny. You called him Johnny.

"Price needs ya," Ghost said gruffly, disappearing down the hall.

Your cackling echoed in Soap's ears as he followed grumpily. "Sweet boy," you murmured, going back to your notes.

It was another late night of Soap's pestering. Please, bonnie, jus' need ye to explain tha' again, my ears, ye ken, all screwy from the bombs n' shite. You raised your eyebrows, surprised that, again, a detonations expert needed review on C4 placement for a relatively low-stakes assignment.

He was sitting too close again, knee brushing yours. The low lamplight shone in his dilated eyes, baby blues wide with adoration. The overt affection in his gaze made your cheeks burn a bit, until you noticed the circles growing beneath them. Soap was exhausted; the lines of his stout shoulders sagging into your cushy armchair.

"Johnny," you said when he asked another frantically inane question. He clamped his mouth shut at your tone, hands yanking on the pockets of his pants. You chose your words carefully.

"Are you sleeping?"

He blinked. "Eh? I'm- what sorta question- Yeah. Course," he blustered, puffing up a bit.

Your chin tilted. "Y'sure?"

Johnny nodded, but you saw the falter in his gaze. The bags were prominent now. Deep purple beneath his dark lashes.

"Why don't you head off to bed," you said quietly. "It's late. You've got early rollout tomorrow." You handed him a manila folder of notes to review and a tired smile. He stood quietly, head heavy with a sorrow you hadn't seen before.

You didn't see him for a while after that. It made you a lot more productive without the nagging or constant whassat? whassat? whassat? aimed at every piece of intel you had spread on your desk. But the armchair looked lonely, and you missed his cheeky teasing.

A knock startled you from your pondering. Eyes flicking to the clock - 1:00 - you frowned, opening the door a sliver.

A mountain of grime and sweat pulled you into a hug, muffling your surprised squawk.

"Johnny?"

He sluggishly dragged you into your office, finally releasing you when the door was shut. You struggled to regain your footing. Head reeling, you scaned him for injury. But...he was in pajamas?

"What..."

"Went...running," he said hoarsely. You nodded slowly, piecing apart the lie. Barefoot, dirty hems. Night terrors, probably, coupled with an unlocked door. It made your heart ache.

"Sit...sit down, Soap," you whispered, coaxing him by the shoulder. A meaty hand clapped over yours and were alarmed by the intensity in his bloodshot eyes. Too crystal to be drunk but too crazed to be...here.

"Sit, Johnny," you said, firmer. He sank shakily, keeping his eyes on yours.

"Nay...nay, nay, I can explain, I jus'...had a question a-about tha last thingie you were...you were..." he trailed off, seeing the pity in your face. "Don' look a' me like that," he muttered.

A moment as your hand shifted down his arm, fingers still laced with his. A gentle motion, petting the gooseflesh rippling over his musculature.

"You wanna hear somethin' funny?"

His eyes shot to yours, pleading. Johnny scooted closer, almost falling into your lap. A reminiscent smile flitted over your face as you continued to stroke him.

"A few recruits, while you were gone, got ahold of one of those mop buckets. Big yellow one. Well," you cleared your throat, muffling a giggle. "Well, one of the pipes burst upstairs, and the whole hallway flooded. So one of them got the great idea to make a slip'n'slide..."

You giggled at your retelling, quietly imitating the characters in your little tale. Johnny had edged closer, head inches from your chest. Not pausing your whispering, you pulled him to you. He draped over you, absolutely massive over your tiny desk chair.

It was unbelievably uncomfortable. Your legs were numb in two seconds.

The story was over, but Soap squeezed your waist the moment you had the thought of moving. "Grabbin' a pencil," you soothed, patting his sweaty head. His heart was pattering slower now, breaths coming easier.

"Can...can ye explain it again?" His forearms tightened a bit, relaxing when you stroked his hair.

You grinned. "Yeah, Johnny. Sure I can."

not as good as i wanted it but it was cute in my head.

pt 2 ish

[lordsardine]

.

[goatgoesmbe]

Bluecollar!reader >O<

TF141 x reader

You're a construction supervisor, in charge of overseeing the building of a new barracks at the Taskforce 141 base.

John Price who greeted you with a smile and firm handshakes, hoping you wouldn't notice how his hands were a bit clammy and how he was feeling like some lovesick highschooler on the inside.

He was obvious about it, and everyone could see their captain be obvious about it, but they didn't dare to say anything. Meanwhile, you were too focused on your job, reporting to the captain about the progress with your eyes sharp, squinting from the blinding sun above. And John contemplated on lending you his hat.

Simon Riley who caught the sight of you talking to his captain and immediately whipped. And so here he was, being (not so) discreet watching you work as he hid in the shadows (it's high noon, the sun is hot, he's just under some tree in the yard, he looks silly). The sight of you commanding the construction workers woke something up in him.

Kyle Garrick being the gentleman he was, approached you when he saw you helping your workers to carry some sacks of cement. You didn't question it when he offered to help and simply gave him one of the sacks before walking away with two left in your arms. Kyle was taken aback for a bit because he expected you to let him carry them all, so he insisted on helping more. And that's how the sergeant spent the rest of the day helping with the construction under your supervision instead of helping the recruits train. But Kyle wasn't complaining and just smirked when his captain found out what he had been doing.

John Mactavish was a menace. When he first saw you, he immediately put on that infuriating smirk and laid it on thick with the flirting, making it harder for you to do your job. The sun was blazing above, you're sweaty, this uniform is uncomfortable and made your skin itchy, if you're not irritated before you sure are now. But Johnny didn't seem to mind having you yell at him in front of everyone, if anything he just seemed to be happy about having your attention on him. However, you were too annoyed to notice, but your workers truly did with how they exchanged glances with each other.

And when you finally put in the report after the construction was finished, John made a mental note to only hire your firm for future projects.

While Johnny was off planting C4 around the new shiny barracks so you would stay longer.

Fortunately, Kyle found out and yelled at Simon for help stop him.

I want hot girl summer where it's working under the sun, sweating and hissing at every little thing while some handsome military men are admiring uwu)

[amirasainz]

Hi, this is my first request, I liked your work so much and I thought maybe my idea would fit into your style, but if not, then it's okay. My idea: Pascal Leclair introduces his c4 to his new boyfriend (so many years after the death of her husband and her sons are glad that she is finally moving on) but he (her boyfriend) has a daughter who is 17 and she also gets to know everyone (she is very shy and a little afraid of them)

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💜

A New Chapter

Pascal stood in the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel as she waited for her sons to come home. Today was the day she had decided to tell them. It wasn’t easy—moving on after Hervé’s passing had taken years—but João had been kind, patient, and understanding. She wasn’t just happy; she felt like she could breathe again.

When Lorenzo, Charles, and Arthur arrived, their familiar chatter filled the house. They were always loud when they were together, their energy bouncing off the walls.

“Maman, we’re here!” Charles called out, setting down a bag of groceries on the counter.

“Why did you bring groceries?” Pascal asked, smiling.

“You always say we don’t help enough, so voilà,” Lorenzo replied with a dramatic shrug.

Arthur snorted. “It’s mostly Charles’s guilt buying.”

Before they could spiral into their usual playful arguments, Pascal cleared her throat. “Boys, sit down. I have something important to tell you.”

Their joking stopped immediately, replaced by curiosity and a hint of concern. They all sat at the dining table, their expressions attentive.

“I’ve met someone,” Pascal began, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “His name is João, and he’s from Brazil. We’ve been seeing each other for a while, and… I’m very happy.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Lorenzo broke it with a grin. “Finally! Maman, that’s amazing!”

Arthur leaned forward. “Wait, what’s he like? Is he nice? Does he know we’re very protective of you?”

Pascal chuckled. “Yes, he knows. He’s wonderful, boys. Kind, thoughtful, and he makes me laugh.”

“And…” She hesitated, then added, “He has a daughter. Her name is Yn. She’s seventeen, very sweet, but also quite shy.”

“Wait, we get a little sister too?” Charles asked, his eyes lighting up.

“She’s not replacing anyone,” Pascal clarified. “But yes, if things go well, she’ll be part of our lives too.”

“Does she like dogs?” Arthur asked, thinking of Leo, who was curled up at Charles’s feet.

“She loves animals,” Pascal said with a smile. “I’ve already met her, and I think you’ll all get along wonderfully. João and Yn are coming over for dinner tomorrow, so you’ll meet them then.”

Lorenzo clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s make it the best dinner ever. They’re going to love us.”

............................................................

The boys worked hard to make everything perfect. Lorenzo handled the main dish, Charles set the table with extra care, and Arthur made sure Leo was calm and clean.

When the doorbell rang, Pascal’s heart fluttered with excitement. She opened the door to João and Yn. João was tall and warm, his easy smile putting everyone at ease. Yn stood beside him, her brown eyes shy but curious.

“Come in, come in,” Pascal said, stepping aside.

João extended his hand to the boys. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all. Pascal talks about you constantly.”

Charles was the first to shake his hand. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” João joked, his Portuguese accent adding a musical quality to his words.

Yn stayed close to her father, her hands clasped in front of her. Charles noticed her hesitation and offered a gentle smile. “Hi, Yn. I’m Charles. This is Lorenzo and Arthur.”

“Hi,” Yn said softly, her accent thick but endearing.

Arthur crouched down to Leo, who was sniffing Yn curiously. “This is Leo. I think he likes you already.”

Leo wagged his tail and nudged Yn’s leg with his nose. She crouched down to pet him, her face lighting up with a small smile. “He’s beautiful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Charles nudged Lorenzo. “She passes the dog test.”

Lorenzo laughed. “That’s the most important one.”

João and Pascal exchanged a happy glance as the boys guided Yn into the living room. Arthur handed her a glass of juice. “So, Yn, do you like racing?”

Yn hesitated, glancing at her father. “A little. My dad loves it.”

“Well, you’re in the right family,” Lorenzo said, throwing an arm over Charles’s shoulder.

Charles smiled. “And don’t worry. We’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

As the evening went on, Yn began to relax. The boys were careful to include her in their conversations without overwhelming her.

During dinner, Charles noticed Yn struggling to find the right word in French. She switched to Portuguese, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

João translated, but Charles quickly said, “It’s okay, Yn. Take your time. We understand.”

Arthur added, “And if you want, you can teach us some Portuguese. I only know how to say ‘thank you.’”

Yn giggled. “Obrigado.”

“See? I’m learning already,” Arthur said proudly.

By the time dessert was served, Yn was laughing at Lorenzo’s stories, petting Leo, and even teasing Charles about how much food he ate.

As they said their goodbyes, Pascal hugged João tightly. “I think this went well,” she whispered.

“More than well,” João replied, glancing at the boys joking with Yn by the door.

Yn gave each of the boys a shy hug before leaving. “Thank you for being so nice to me,” she said.

“Nice? Yn, you’re family now,” Charles said, ruffling her hair.

As the door closed behind them, Pascal turned to her sons. “Well?”

Lorenzo grinned. “We like him. And we love Yn. Good choice, Maman.”

Pascal felt tears prick her eyes as she pulled them into a hug. For the first time in years, her family felt whole again.

[theorist-fox]

Compass

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: where Simon finally gets it.

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, fluff

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

Staring straight at the screen won’t make that form fill in, yet it’s all you’ve been doing. 

The office is cold. Freezing. Your fingers are stiff when you punch the keys, rough skin tight at each knuckle. 

Price has asked you to do it. He’s tired and needs to lean on you for a moment. You know how hard it must’ve been for such a proud man to ask for help, so you don’t have the heart to refuse him. Even if you’re just as exhausted, just as worried, because the op went tits up so quickly and suddenly that you’re still recovering from it.

Faulty intel. Ambush. Tactically placed C4 blew the place up into smithereens. Mayhem ensued—you all lost sight of each other and then met again. 

The ringing in your ear still sounds fresh. A new cut on your brow your new shiny scar, the crescent of speckled mauves under your eye yet another reason for the brass to come and shower you with meaningless praise so you’d keep up with this unforgiving job without rest.

Chest candy as a prize. As if you care.

Your eyes burn. They squint at the unforgivingly bright screen; bloodshot sclera and a healing bruise, cheekbone swollen and tender.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

The cursor on the document blinks right next to it. 

Write above the dotted line. Do it. It’s there. It’s not hard, it’s just a name—a name among thousands. You could be typing John Doe, and it should feel the same.

So do it, love.

Type it in.

Type “Simon Riley”.

You feel your eyes sting wet. 

Johnny is still out there, searching for his whereabouts. Kyle’s with him, probably trying to be the voice of reason—the only one with a head still on his shoulders. The one who grabbed you and handed you to Price so he could slam you in the helo for takeoff. It left without Gaz and Soap in it.

Without Simon.

Crystal clear is the memory of Price’s finger pointed at your face as you huddled your knees to your chest—glossy, bloodshot eyes seemingly lost as they looked back at him, trying to find a compass to guide you through this dreadful darkness, through ice cold fear.

Instead, you found a scowl that struggled to mask a quiet threat beneath it, something you knew he’d been almost impatient to tell you.

Something you knew he knew.

You should’ve known better than to bring feelings into the job. I trusted you and your judgment and you failed me. You failed us.

But now all that feels so unimportant. Price’s disappointment is only another notch to your belt of failures, and you know it’s gonna get even thicker and tangled if you don’t type that name into that form.

If you don't prove to him and everyone else, yourself included, that you’re still somewhat sane. That you didn't lose your marbles on that day, only a chunk of your heart.

Nails tap nervously on your desk. The clock ticks out of beat. Your eye twitches restlessly, but you punch the keys. 

Simon Riley — MIA

A weary breath escapes you. 

Good girl. 

And the leftovers of your heart crack something vicious, a perpetual hairline fracture that will not go away. Your molars grind until your head hurts. Your eyes water, because it’s all happened so rapidly, that you don’t think you’ve had the time to metabolize it.

S’alright. S’alright. You did right.

You sniffle. Wet your lips. Your face screws up to keep it all inside because you can’t have him see you like this—he’s not here, and yet he might as well be, with how clear his voice is echoing in your head. 

Why shouldn’t it be? Your last talk was barely a week ago. Your last kiss not even ten days prior. 

Softer than the ones he’d given you before. Wet lips stealing your breath, big hands holding you tight by the waist.

The slow, purposeful drag of his cock inside of you as he flattened his chest to yours. The wordless whispers tumbling out of his mouth—uncontrolled, reverent of you. 

His lips on your skin, both selfish and selfless: descending to your throat, where the taste of you intoxicated him—and where you shivered, moaned, sunk your fingernails into his back, painting it red.

Your brows pull tight, but you can’t stand it a moment more, as that name typed black on white looks at you expectantly, like you could pull it out of there and bring it in your arms.

Don’t, sergeant. Need you sharp.

You cry, because logic is knocked back into you, and there is no Simon Riley if not the memories rushing in your head.

If not the weariness with which he’d invited to his flat for the first time. Burnt the eggs he cooked for you the next morning, as you slept soundly in his bed. Asked you to stay, even if you were as cautious as can be—a gazelle in the lion’s den. 

“Not fuckin’ it up, this time,” he’d told you. 

And even in your caution, you could recognize that silent pleading—that almost a year without you has taught him the pains he would endure to not go through it again.

It didn’t soothe your worries, but it did smooth down the line carved between your brows. 

You slump back on the chair and think of the times he’s told you there were no strings attached between you two, and how those strings inevitably formed.

How he’s annealed them, as time passed, going against everything he’s ever vouched for.

How he watched you snoop around his bedroom, allowing you to study his home and his habits—voluntarily and without an ounce of reluctance in him.

Sobs wreck you as you recall that night: you hadn’t even bothered wearing something, just tiptoed around naked the way you left the bed. 

You tinkered with the few framed photos he had on the shelves, recognizing the people in them: the team, your face squinting at the sun while wearing khakis, and the family he told you about as the muscles of his jaw jumped with tension.

How you scoured through his books, giddy when you double-tapped those you’d read too. 

Or how you smiled when you found the wrinkly receipt of the drive-through he brought you to that night—an empty stomach and a bad date now something of the past—being used as a bookmark in the novel you’d recommended him ages ago. 

You glanced his way every once in a while, just to make sure he was still asleep. Instead, you found a man bathed in moonlight and lazily wrapped in wrinkled sheets—a knowing smirk on his lips, one that made warmth bloom on your chest, all the way to your cheeks. 

He’d patted the spot next to him on the bed, inviting you back beside him. 

That was the first night you held each other for no other reason than the pleasure of being close.

In the days that came after, there were countless nights just like it.

And now, drowning in your own tears and snot, you don’t know if there will be more.

If you’d feel his thumb run along your jaw again, his fingers brushing down your spine—or pinching your cheeks to make you take a breath when you rambled on. 

If you’d feel his lips on yours, tasting you and your voice, with the veiled excuse to make you quiet. 

Wondering if he’ll ever smear greasepaint on your brow, if he’ll ever fix the straps of your vest.

Each tear that falls now is chock full of memories, old and lost. The ones you could’ve had but you’re not sure they’ll ever be. You cry, as you hold yourself together—arms around your chest, nails digging into your biceps, painful enough to anchor you back to earth.

You cry until your throat burns, until your eyes yield, and you fall asleep; the document blank on the screen, only his name as the blatant proof of your failures.

A hand rests on your shoulder. 

It’s soft at first, a thumb brushing against your collarbone. When you only shift, the grip gently tightens in a brief shake.

“Sergeant,” you hear.

Your eyes blink open, then, struggle against the crust formed between your lashes. They focus on an equally as tired pair of blues, a mouth that breathes some relief in your weary bones.

“John,” you croak, stretching your limbs behind your head until you hear a sequence of pops in your spine. 

You look around to assess where you are. The sunlight, dimming behind the windowpane, tells you that you’ve slept on your chair for half of the day.

Your neck tingles as it wakes, aching from the awkward position in which you fell asleep.

Blinking away the drowsiness, your eyes land on the document plastered on the screen. 

Your stomach turns into a boulder once again.

“What is it?” You say, returning your focus to Price standing next to your chair. You press your thumb between your brows to dispel a migraine sure to fall upon you. “Almost done with the report, gimme a few more ho—”

“He’s back, darling.” 

Your body deflates pitifully. Dread clogs your throat with ice, because Simon being back doesn’t necessarily mean he’s back alive. 

Your hands tremble as they land limp on your thighs, and you don’t care if you’re giving too much away; John already knows, after all, doesn’t he?

And he senses it: the gnawing fear, the supplication in your eyes.

“He’s in the med bay, overall lookin’ fine.”

You stand up so quickly that the chair is knocked back. 

Your vision gets spotty, and suddenly the poor nutrition of the past days rears its ugly head in the form of low blood sugar.

John notices and places a hand on your bicep when you wobble on your feet.

“Bit dehydrated, few scraps here and there, but eh—" A tired smile stretches his lips as he squeezes your shoulder. “We both know it takes a lot more to bring down tha’ bastard.”

John can’t even finish his sentence that you’re curled on your laptop, typing something he can’t see. You stand upright, and with a rush of thank yous that barely make sense, you bolt out of the door.

The captain huffs and rubs his face in exhaustion, before his eyes swivel to the screen.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

Simon Riley — MIA & found

He sits there, hunched on the gurney like he’s too big to fit on it. His uniform has taken a lighter hue because of sunlight and dust from the unforgiving desert. A nurse is fumbling with a tube on his arm, a needle already inserted in the crook of his elbow for rapid hydration. There are two crumpled bottles of water on the shelf right next to the gurney, and even though Simon's still hiding under the mask, you're sure he's just finished chugging on both.

Johnny stands by his side, arms crossed and a lazy smile on his face. Sunburnt cheeks and a dusting of freckles on his nose. 

Kyle talks to a doctor, fiddling with his cap in hand—you catch words like “bruised ribs” and “sunstroke” and something about his ankle but you’re not sure. They get lost in the chatter surrounding you when Simon lifts his head and clocks you at the door.

You stare at each other for what feels like centuries, his eyes always sharp as those of a hawk—yet a little more tired, this time. A little more rough.

When the nurse moves away to tinker with the IV bag, Simon’s hand on his thigh twitches, and he subtly beckons two fingers at you. 

It’s all you need.

You beeline your way through passing doctors and nurses alike, until you come to stand in front of him, long legs dangling off the gurney. He’s subtly parted them for you, but Johnny has noticed it and he’s sporting a smarmy grin because of it.

You decide he can have it for today. 

Jaw clenched, you swallow before you speak. “Gave us a scare, yeah?” 

He doesn’t answer, because his eyes are locked to the thin white bandages taped to your brow. His focus shifts to your cheekbone, then, and the mauve shade it’s taken after the bombs went off out of the blue.

“Quite the shiner you got.” He drawls.

His voice is raspier from disuse, almost a croak. It makes your heart soar and your spine shiver, because it feels like years since he’s gone radio silent. 

You gesture vaguely at it, a slight shrug of your shoulder as you try to hide how tight your throat has gone at the realization that he’s alive and kicking, and not an unnamed corpse under some rubble.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Shrapnels—uh, something hit me when those things went off. Just a bruise.”

A sentence he’s heard more times than he cares to count, but he seems unfazed by it this time around. Maybe the relief of being safe has finally set his priorities straight.

You smile wearily, uncharacteristically quiet even as you try to make light of it. “Reckon purple’s my colour, eh?”

He nudges an admonishing foot to your knee. You lose your balance for a moment and blink back at him with a frown.

“Reckon it ain’t.” He grunts with a pointed look, as if you said something unbelievably stupid. But then his voice softens. “But it’s hard for things to look bad on ya, eh?” 

His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Simon smiles through them at you. “Still, tha’ bruise ain't it, if ya ask me.”

You huff.

“Flatterer.”

“Thought we’d established flattery worked jus’ fine with ya, mh?” 

You choke on a laugh, running the back of your fingers to your lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” You clear your throat, trying to dissipate the warmth in your cheeks. "Got it."

If you two weren’t so lost in this conversation, you wouldn’t have missed the baffled look Johnny was giving you both, talking like he wasn’t there to witness it all. 

But now Simon looks at you with such an intensity that Johnny’s behavior falls into the background.

There is no discovering Simon Riley, today; he’s taken the toll of discovering you, because while you’ve always cared and he’s always known, your eyes are telling him that there’s something he’s yet to find.

Or perhaps he’s found it already, ages back, when you called his name in his sheets, when you bit a promise on his fingers, when he coloured your skin with his own—kisses and sweat and grease.

When you left, and he inevitably drifted—a demagnetized compass that couldn’t find its north again, and you were just as lost.

Good luck, you’d said. And fucking hell he’s needed plenty of it—found it too, it seems, since he’s back where he’s safe. Where he’s home.

“You alrigh’, yeah?” You ask, causing his mind to flounder back to earth.

His throat bobs.

Simon nods stiffly but doesn’t speak. 

Johnny sighs heavily and takes the burden from his shoulder instead. 

“Aye, he’s a big lad, hen.” He rumbles from your side, and you turn your body to him to give him your attention—wide-eyed like you’d forgotten he was there at all. 

Johnny snorts.

He starts to ramble on, and you listen intently to how they found Simon crawling blindly towards them, as he and Kyle ran in his direction.

Simon’s eyes, however, are on you. 

And so are his fingers. 

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and starts tracing subtle patterns on the back of your thigh. Featherlight stroke that would normally make your knees jerk, but you push through and stay still—because what if he stops, then. What if he believes you don’t want him to touch you, after almost a week with no clue about his well-being.

God forbid he pulls away. 

God forbid he thinks you don’t want his hands all over once again, and from this day on.

As Johnny tries to fit some light in the gloom in your eyes, Simon discretely hooks one of his fingers in the pocket of your fatigues and doesn’t let go—holding onto you as much as you are to him. In fact, one of your hands lands on his knuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of his wrist.

“Doc said you can go rest in your room for tonight,” Kyle’s voice pitches in. “Just come back tomorrow for a checkup.”

Johnny beams at that. The world weighing on your shoulders suddenly lifts an inch, and you manage to take a breath. 

“No injuries, then?” You ask, turning between Simon’s parted legs. 

His forefinger stays hooked at the hem of your pocket even when you do.

“Nope.” Kyle smiles. “A concussion, maybe, since he’s not being chatty—oh, wait.”

Simon grunts. “Piss off.”

It’s only when he's done with the IV bag that you’re finally helping him carry his things to his quarters. 

Johnny and Kyle don’t bat an eye when you offer to take the lead, and you stop wondering whether they’re aware of your and Simon’s thing the moment Johnny gives you a glaringly obvious wink.

Simon tries to hide a limp as you walk through the hallways, and you’d love to keep his stupid pride intact for his sake, but yours has gone and drowned in the shitter the moment you broke down into sobs in front of Price. 

So, you don’t see why his can’t be a little bruised too, tonight.

You hook your arm around his waist, mindful of those eventual bruised ribs you heard the doctor talk about with Kyle. Simon only looks down to where your bodies touch but doesn’t put up a fight—instead, he leans into you and unexpectedly accepts your help.

When he hands you his key, you try to fit it in the keyhole and fail a few times. Eventually, you force your hand to stop shaking and the lock clicks. You two stumble inside. The heavy door closes behind you with a loud thud. 

His backpack is dropped carelessly, key on the floor next to it.

“Easy, there.” You whisper, noticing how he almost tumbles onto the mattress. 

A deep, drawn-out sigh escapes him as his whole body deflates now that he’s sitting somewhere comfortable.

You crouch in front of him. 

No words are exchanged as your fingers work with the straps of his vest on each side. Simon carefully lifts his arms to help you help him, and it’s the first time in years of camaraderie in which he’s actually cooperating. 

Vest on the floor. Gloves off. His tac belt is carelessly tossed behind you, as you unlace his boots with his eyes burning holes down at you.

“You need a shower,” you mumble as you slide one boot off his foot. “And then I’ll check those bruises myself, see if I can help somehow.”

Simon is deadly silent. Or maybe it’s you who can’t quite catch any sound, as the blood rushes in your ears, your heart a violent drum.

“Gonna take a look at your leg too.” You go on, relentless, as your voice cracks unbidden. “It’s probably just a sprained ankle, but it’s better to ma—”

His hand cups your jaw, then, stopping your endless ramble. 

You stain the cracked skin of his palm with tears you didn’t know were falling. Simon holds your face until you find it in yourself to look up at him. 

He peers down at you through the eyehole of the balaclava, ripped and singed in various spots as a testament to his survival.

He presses a thumb against the corner of your mouth, forcing it into a plastic smile. But those teardrops are still regrettably streaking your cheeks, your lips still trembling in a fruitless attempt to keep quiet.

His other hand comes to grab your bicep to help you up. 

You’re on shaky legs, probably worse than the stagger he had when walking down the hallways. You come to a stand right between his thighs nonetheless, pressing your palms on his shoulders for balance.

Simon doesn’t speak as he looks up at you—doesn’t have the strength to do it, nor does he know what to say when you look so vulnerably lost. 

He uses actions, instead. 

Languidly, he slides the balaclava off his head, showing the cuts on his skin that match the rips on his mask. His forehead is ruddy and chapped, flaky skin peels off the bridge of his nose right where it gets redder and inflamed. His lips look thinner and pale, like he hasn’t had a good gulp of water in a while.

Your brows pinch and you instinctively lean forward until your noses brush. 

Simon takes a generous look at you, taking note of all the things left unsaid that are so clearly carved into the fine lines of your face. 

He nods softly, like he knows you need him to give you the green light.

And so, you kiss him right then, not wasting a moment longer. You both don’t bother to pretend to build up the tension when the rubber band has obviously already snapped. He parts his mouth for you and tilts his head until you can do nothing but breathe him in.

You taste the salt of your own tears, and his acetone breath of days spent without having a bite. You reckon yours isn’t much different—fear and hunger your only companions in his absence. Similar desperation rankles his hands running up your spine, the panting of his breath, clogging your lungs already filled with a cocktail of dread and relief—poisonous, yet so comforting.

His arms are sore, muscles taut, but he wraps them around your thighs anyway, bringing you in. 

It’s then that you stop: when your knees dig into the mattress on each side of his hips. You softly press your hands to his chest to push him away. 

Longing eyes land on your lips, already swollen and glossy after he’s kissed them to bits. He watches them move when you speak, entranced, as tears trail into the corners of your mouth. You think he’s a bit lost in that moment, possibly not entirely listening to what you’re saying, yet that doesn’t stop you from rambling like time is running out.

“You have to shower and rest; we can’t be doing this now.” You’re stumbling over your words. “What if you got a broken rib that might puncture your lung, I gotta be careful.”

He blinks, snapping out of his head. Brows tight in a frown, he lifts his arm and grabs the nape of your neck, pulling you in.

“No, you gotta come 'ere.”

Your lips crash onto his. 

The salt of your tears stings your tongues, dancing together just because your mouth is already open, busy mumbling something under your breath.

“Simon,” you’re saying, but not in the way he likes. “Listen—”

He stops. Sighs like the world has been dropped on his shoulders, breath heavy in your mouth.

His eyes shut close, lips touching lips ready to ravage yet both stand still and anticipating. His fingers flex at the back of your neck, others dimple the fat of your thigh through your trousers. 

Anxiety has your stomach in a clutch, and you fear he knows because he can read you like a book, easy as anything, like he’s taken notes through your pages firsthand.

When Simon gazes back at you, his eyes are close enough for you to discern each red tendril in his bloodshot whites, the enlarged pupils eating at chestnut irises. You don’t look at his lips, but you feel with yours how he tentatively opens his mouth a few times, as if he wants to say something but thinks back on it every time.

Until he speaks.

“Please.” 

You want to give in. Have him show you he’s still alive in the only way he knows: with the touch of his hands, the flawless glide of his body with yours.

But you’re relentless, and you mimic him—if not even more desperately. “Please.”

He sighs, completely disarmed.

Both his hands come to cradle your jaw, then. He starts tracing a path with his lips—kisses so tender you can barely feel them, landing blindly on your cheeks.

“Just a few days out there, just—” he murmurs, voice low and breathy. “Fuckin’ sweltered all day, then soon as the sun fucked off—cold as a witch’s tit.”

He breathes a hoarse chuckle that brushes your ear. It's such a weak one that instead of stealing a smile from you, it pulls and knots at your heartstrings.

You gulp. It’s fruitless, there’s something lodged in your throat so thick you abandon any effort to identify it. Fear peaks, however. Arctic claws drawing blood.

You stay silent. You listen. No questions asked, no interjections of any kind. A dance you’ve learned over time, from past mistakes you promised to never make again.

“Been through worse, y’know?” he mutters to your skin, words interrupted only by his own kisses on your cheeks. “Much bloody worse—an' this? This was nothin’. Part an' parcel of the job, love, bound to happen sooner or later.”

He pulls back, his gaze meeting yours as though he could show you what he’s endured, like snapshots unfolding in a reel of film.

Your fingers lace through his hair, and specks of sand and grime settle under your nails as you scratch his scalp. Slowly, you lean in, and press a kiss to his forehead.

Simon imperceptibly softens against you, like his body wants to but his head won’t allow him. The muscles in his shoulder are taut and steeled, but the ones in his neck are loose and flaccid.

He bows his head to your lips.

“But fuck—” he breathes. “Never been so bloody scared.”

When he takes his hands away from your face to wrap his arms around your waist, you know better than to move—as if the ghost of his fingers still lingers at your jaw. 

He holds you closer. Fists your shirt between his fingers until it’s pulled tight around your middle. 

Seconds pass, in which you do nothing but wait with bated breath for him to elaborate further.

“But not f’ me.” He sighs. “Don’t care if I live or die, yeah?”

It’s not a surprising statement. It doesn’t leave you as floored as it should’ve. 

It’s one you’ve internalized so long ago, even before you two engaged with this nonsense of a thing that only ended up hurting you both.

When you first got to know him, it fell upon you not slowly like a setting sun, but more so like a comet crossing the sky—quick and sharp. Burnt itself into your bones, in the crevices of your heart: that in front of you was a man who didn’t care for his life. A ticking time bomb bound to blow up.

And this knowledge properly slapped you when he went MIA. 

A handful of days of nausea and shaking limbs.

Days in which you bit your nails until they bled, refusing to mourn a dead body you couldn’t see.  

“You listenin’?” He asks hoarsely.

Gingerly, you nod. Your lips brush his forehead. They’re wet. Tears are falling again, salt as needles puncturing the cracks of your lips. 

“You get it, yeah?” He murmurs, and this time it’s him who guides your eyes back to his. They’re dark and heavy with sorrow and, for once, not chained shut.

Days in which you didn’t know where he was—if he was at all. 

His eyes search for yours. Palms to your cheeks like you’re made of glass and might shatter if he holds you too tight.

“You get it?” He asks again, low and breathless.

Days in which he didn’t know where you were—if you were at all, too.

“I do,” you croak.

There's a sense of grounding, then; tectonic plaques settling back after the earthquake. The needle of your compass locks back into place, finally pointing North—no longer caught in an erratic, nauseating spin.

And it’s so quiet after that. 

Two words hang in the air and cut the tension in half, until it finally dissipates when he brushes the hair off your forehead.

Simon holds your eyes for a moment before he brings your lips to his own. 

He kisses you slowly like he doesn’t know the way you like it, like he’s doing it for the first time. 

And maybe, he is.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you. 

He’s naked, just out of the shower you helped him take. He sits at the edge of the bed, fists curled around the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, towel crumpled at his feet. 

His skin is damp, glistening under the low lights. Gently contoured are the scars you’ve traced and those you have yet to touch. The older knotted lines and the newer inflamed cuts. The pale stretches of skin interrupted by speckled purples, greens, yellows—entire galaxies blooming on his shoulder, on his ribs, on his abdomen and on his thighs. Freckles like stars, aimlessly sprinkled on the rugged canvas that's Simon.

If that isn’t enough to make your knees buckle, enough to make your heart crack, it’s his request that does it.

“Stay,” he croaks.

That’s just how he says it, blunt as ever—gritted through his teeth, still coarse in the attempt at tenderness. Trying to fit in a role he’s never thought he’d get the chance to play; where he's not a killer, only a man.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you, no.

Simon holds you to his side, deaf to your protests when he guides you to lean your cheek to his heart—all the be careful’s stumbling out of your lips tossed out the window by the very man they were meant for.

Still, he brushes your hair, fingers gently lacing through it. His hand faintly trembles—discomfort in the unfamiliar, you think. Or perhaps the realization of something bigger, something that digs deeper than he's ever reached.

However, even in their uncertainty, the gesture’s enough to make you fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of his body tucked under the duvet with you. Pine needles of the body wash, vestiges of tobacco, antiseptic you smeared on his cuts—the strange intimacy of it, the comfort you hope he's found too.

And maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s the delirium—the adrenaline crash, the hunger, the sleepless nights. Or maybe it’s just the overwhelming relief of having him here, real and warm, alive with blood that still runs.

You feel it rumble in his chest first, before it properly travels to your ears.

A curse. Drawn out, rouged with tender resignation, with honeyed surrender. A beautifully dreadful feeling, conveniently compacted into a single, wretched word. 

Wet lips touch your forehead. They brush left and right but never press in a proper kiss.

“You get it, uh?”

A sigh, then. Or a hoarse chuckle, maybe—you’re not sure. Warm breath grazes your forehead, tickles your scalp until shivers tiptoe down your spine and you unconsciously huddle closer.

Simon only holds you more thoroughly.

“Can't fuckin' believe it,” he whispers. 

There's something featherlight in his voice that betrays a hint of careful awe—jarring, misplaced, especially after he's spent days scraping by on the very edge of life.

Something akin to hope. A lot from a man who insists he doesn't care whether he lives or dies.

Still, Simon doesn’t bother to conceal it—perhaps because he thinks you're long asleep, perhaps because he doesn't care about hiding at all, not anymore. It curls into his vowels, bleeds golden into his tongue clicking at each t.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Kisses your forehead. “Now I get it too.”

[potatoplace]

Labyrinth: Nest

C3 | C4 : Nest | C5

Alpha!Feysand x Omega!Reader - A Backrooms AU

series masterlist | Poly!ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist | AO3 Link

Summary: Nothing feels quite right, until you're given everything you need to build the perfect nest. And even then, it can be a struggle.

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, light smut, dub-con cause Y/N is at the start of her heat

Words: ~3.1k

Author's Note: yaaaay I'm so happy to finally have another fun chapter of Labyrinth done!! This is pretty much just puuuure nesting fluff plus some smooching and uhhhh... well I'll just let you guys read 🤭 I hope you guys like this one!! Talk to me in the comments 😁

18+ only pls

🤍🩵💖💜🤍

You drifted in and out of sleep, snuggled in the arms of Feyre and Rhys. It was perfect somehow, with their scents and heartbeats filling your senses. One of their hands was running up and down your spine in a rhythmic motion, and you wanted to arch your back into it, but that would be so much work.

Every now and then your body went rigid when you felt like something was wrong, but that wonderful purr sounded in your ear and you would go limp once more.

You only woke up when you were shifted from being mostly on Rhys’s lap to entirely on Feyre’s, a long whine leaving you when you looked around, and he was nowhere to be found.

“Shh, omega, it’s okay. Rhys just went to grab some things for your nest,” Feyre whispered in your ear, and you went stiff in her hold.

Nest?

Feyre laughed fondly beneath you, pulling your against her more tightly. “That’s right, omega, your nest. You’re going to want to make it perfect soon, I’d imagine.”

You nuzzled your face against her neck, taking in a deep breath of her scent. “What’s a nest?”

“Ah, that’s right, you haven’t had a heat before, baby,” Feyre sighed. “A nest is what an omega builds for their heat, usually with a lot of blankets, pillows, furs - anything soft and comforting, really. And you’re so close to going into heat, I’m sure you must be dying for a safe nest to stay in.”

A contented sigh left you at the idea, of a safe, cushy nest to stay in with the two of them.

“With your alphas, of course we’ll join you in your nest, ‘mega.”

Turning your head to look at Feyre, you whispered, “Alpha?” A deep purr rumbled through Feyre and you collapsed against her, boneless from the wonderful noise. “Alpha,” you sighed.

Feyre stood from the couch a moment later, with you safely tucked in her arms, nose pressed to her neck. “That’s my omega, good girl,” she cooed as she brought you back into their bedroom, settling you on the large mound of furs. “So sweet for me.”

You hummed as you tugged her down, slotting your lips to hers.

What had gotten into you? You weren’t sure, but kissing Feyre, alpha, felt right.

Your lips parted, a breathy sigh leaving them when Feyre gently pushed you down, her body covering yours perfectly. Her soft lips met yours again, sure and confident as one of her hands cradled the back of your head. You melted into her hold, lips parting to let Feyre’s tongue dip inside.

“You got started without me, I see,” Rhys chuckled from the doorway, and you jerked away from Feyre as far as you could, her mouth finding its way to your neck instead. He dropped what he was holding on the ground, the large stack of pillows he’d been carrying falling on top of a pile of blankets, and next to it a pile of plush furs, similar to those you were laying on. “Oh, don’t stop because of me, omega,” he purred, violet eyes flicking to where Feyre’s mouth was latched to your neck, then back to your eyes.

Rhys turned, leaving the room, and you let out a loud keen at the sight, causing him to rush to your side a moment later.

“What is it, omega?” Feyre asked, her worried eyes trained on you as well.

A pout fell on your lips, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to answer, other than you didn’t want Rhys to leave, but…

That was ridiculous.

“No, it’s not, omega,” Rhys reassured you, a large palm cupping the right side of your face. “You’re nearly in heat, and you need your alphas nearby. But don’t worry, I’ll only be gone for a few minutes. Feyre will keep gladly keep you company, I’m sure, or you could start working on your nest.”

You bit your lip but nodded, doing your best to ignore the uneasy feeling in your gut as Rhys left the room, heading somewhere off to the right. The whine that left you was unintentional, but you couldn’t help it.

“Do you want to start on your nest, love?” Feyre asked as she turned your away from the door and towards her with a gentle hand. “You’ll regret it if you don’t, I think. And look, Rhys brought in so many pretty fabrics for you to choose from!” She said cheerily, turning your head now to look at said offerings.

They did look appealing… And it couldn’t hurt to at least pick through the pile, right?

Feyre grinned and moved off of you, standing and pulling you up with her. She gently pushed you towards the piles, and that was all the permission you needed to plunge your fingers into fabric, finding the pieces that felt nicest against your skin.

Soft plush throws and swathes of silk were gently placed on the edge of the existing mound of furs as you searched the pile further, pleased as a peach when you found a thick, down comforter in a sage green - perfect to cover the base of your nest.

You set to it, laying the comforter down over as much of the pile of furs as you could before grabbing pillows, arranging them in a circle around the border of the blanket. From there you added a layer of blankets, making sure the layer was smoothed out.

It was then that you noticed both of your alphas were gone, tears instantly welling in your eyes as you looked through the doorway for them without moving from the pile of furs that you had been rifling through.

“Alpha?” you asked quietly, the tone of your voice pitiful, even to you. When no one answered, you fell forward into the pile, tears leaking onto furs as you cried at being alone again.

You didn’t think you could handle it.

“Hey, what’s this?” Feyre asked from behind you, and you shot up, looking to the doorway, where she was standing, Rhys and his massive wings lurking behind her. You sniffled, wiping away stray tears as she came to you, setting down the armful of pillows she was carrying before pulling you into her arms. “I’m sorry we left, ‘mega, we just wanted to get more nesting materials for you,” she explained as she wiped away one last tear that had fallen.

You pouted at her, annoyed that they’d left without telling you. “Don’t leave again,” you whined when Rhys turned to leave, stopping him in his tracks.

“I only have one more trip of things to bring you, ‘mega, I’ll be back in five minutes, maximum,” Rhys promised you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Hey,” he chuckled when you threw your arms around one of his legs, clutching to him for dear life. “This is very cute, but I will be returning in just a moment, and the sooner you let me leave, the sooner I’ll be back.”

Feyre helped him pry your fingers from his legs, your arms crossing over your chest defiantly as you watched him leave the room. Feyre attempted to coax you into working on your nest again, but you sat, staring resolutely at the door, waiting for your alpha to return. She wrapped her arms around your shoulders, the soft kisses she pressed to your neck and shoulder almost having you closing your eyes…

But you resisted, waiting for the moment your alpha walked back in, so that you could relax again,

And finish your nest.

It took Rhys at least fifteen minutes, or that’s what it felt like to you, to return to the room the three of you share, an armful of decorative pillows and extra blankets that he immediately deposited on the floor, quickly kneeling in front of you and pulling you against him. The soothing scent of citrus and sea washed over you, wiping away the anxiety that had been plaguing you while he was gone.

You were only vaguely aware of Rhys speaking to Feyre, and Feyre answering before Rhys gently separated from you, tilting your chin up with a strong finger. “Do you want to finish your nest now, omega?" he asked you, his midnight voice managing to pierce through the trance you were in. A nod and Rhys was smiling at you, and you smiled back, so happy that your alpha was happy with you. “Good girl, go ahead and finish up. Feyre and I will wait outside of your nest until it’s perfect for you,” he said, turning your head to look at the piles of nesting materials left for you to sort through.

“Take your time, omega, you want it to be perfect for your heat, so you’re as comfortable as possible,” Feyre added when you tried sifting through the pile of furs quickly, a sheepish smile on your face at being caught.

You took their advice to make it perfect, taking what you thought was an hour to arrange the nest to your exact liking. It looked perfect by the end of it, layer after layer of blankets, each layer separated at the outside by a pillow, making a nice, safe wall to protect you and your alphas.

The last layer was made entirely of different swathes of silk, in all the pretty jewel tones you loved - sapphire, amethyst, and emerald, making your nest pretty - though you weren’t sure how important it  was for a nest to look nice.

But it made you happier, that was for sure.

You sat back, looking at your nest. The decorative pillows you quickly moved so rest against the back wall of the nest, with two normal, extra fluffy pillows propping them up. Next you pulled the furs you wanted to use as blankets into the nest, an absolutely massive, snow white pelt and a slightly smaller, charcoal grey one. Other blankets… You looked at them, your lip curling in disgust.

No, your nest didn’t need those anymore.

What else is missing?

Your teeth worried your lip as you slowly spun on your knees, looking everywhere for what you were missing, before landing on the obvious.

“Alphas,” you whined pitifully, reaching your hands out to grab for them, so far away, outside of your nest and standing against the wall. “Please.”

That was all the permission they needed to cross the boundary of your nest, careful not to ruin your hard work. Rhys had you cradled against his chest a moment later, your legs hitched over the sides of his, the ends of his wings draping over the side of your nest.

“Did I make it too small?” you asked shyly as you looked up at him through your lashes, heat already beginning to build in your eyes when you thought of it not being perfect - you not being perfect, for them.

“Not at all, darling,” Rhys reassured you, pressing a kiss to both of your cheeks. “And you are perfect, Y/N, just the way you are.”

“Our perfect little omega,” Feyre cooed as she pressed herself against your back, effectively sandwiching you between the two of them. “Your nest is perfect, I promise, darling. It’s so beautiful, just like you.” She punctuated the sentence with a light nibble on the base of your neck, your body going boneless between them.

You hummed happily, basking in the feeling of being so safe between them, like nothing in this place could hurt you.

This place…

And then you were crying, salty tears leaking onto Rhys’s bare chest as you thought about home, about your things.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Feyre asked softly. You shook your head, not able to say it. “Just think it then, sweetheart, and we can figure out what to do. Can you do that for me, omega?”

You sniffled, but nodded, conjuring up an image of your room in your head, missing your stuffed yellow duck that you’d had since childhood. Not that you knew how they could see it but… This place is strange.

“Oh, ‘mega, do you miss your old room?” Rhys asked, tilting your face so you would meet his eyes. You bit your lip and looked away, not wanting to sound ungrateful…

“It’s not ungrateful, baby girl,” Feyre said. “You’ve had a lot of big changes recently, it’s normal to miss your old things. Do you want us to try to find something similar for you?”

“Not now!” you said, slightly panicked, grabbing Feyre’s hands to keep her exactly where she was.

“Of course, omega, not now,” Feyre agreed, leaning into your more heavily.

You settled back down, relaxing against Rhys again until you thought of your old room, all your soft, pretty blankets and cute stuffed animals, and oh, the silky nightgowns you owned that you would love to be wearing right now. But rubbing your fingers against the soft silks beneath you satisfied that need well enough, and the heat Feyre and Rhys were both radiating was enough to keep you warm.

And as soon as those deep, rumbling purrs made their way through Rhys’s chest, then Feyre’s, you fell limp against him, quickly lulled to sleep.

🤍🩵❤️‍🔥💜🤍

You woke some time later, an aching need coursing through you, and you pressed your hips down automatically-

Oh, you sighed to yourself, rocking your hips again, catching pleasantly on something hard beneath you. You let out a soft breath before continuing, slowly rocking your hips against the hardness beneath you, a fire lighting in your belly when arms wrapped more tightly around you.

The arms kept you from moving as much as before, but you managed to move your hips, your upper body limp against a strong chest as you continued chasing the sparks of pleasure you were creating.

You’d nearly crested when the body beneath you went stiff, relaxing a moment later, a whispered “omega” passing from his lips to your ear, your hips jolting at the title. Hands met your hips a moment later, pressing you more firmly, finding just the right angle to press your clit to -

You came with a cry, muffled by the tattooed skin of Rhys’s chest as he kept moving your hips, seemingly as desperate as you to drag out your pleasure.

Whether it was seconds or minutes later, you came around to the sound of Rhys and Feyre speaking softly, their scents headier than normal, and you breathed in a few deep lungfuls before you managed to crack open your eyes.

“That was quite the show, omega,” Feyre said breathlessly, her blue eyes sparkling as she looked at you. “I think you need to sleep on me next.” She shot Rhys a jealous look, but the smile on her pretty pink lips told you she wasn’t angry.

You puckered your lips a few times, making a kissy noise to try and entice Feyre.

“You don’t need to try to entice me, darling, you do it naturally,” Feyre giggled before leaning in, pressing her lips firmly to yours, tilting your head to get better access as her tongue slipped past your lips. A large hand ran up your spine and you shivered, arching your back slightly, pressing you into Rhys. Feyre pulled away, leaving you breathless as you tried rocking your hips again, only for your movements to be stilled this time. She smiled wide when you whined, answering, “You need to eat something before you go fully into heat, baby, can you do that for us?”

You tried pressing your hips down again, much preferring your chosen course of action, only for your movements to be halted once more.

“For your alphas?” Rhys asked with a deep rumble in his chest, and you whined again, a resigned noise. “Good ‘mega, so good for us,” Rhys said, nodding to Feyre to get food for you before he tilted your head to look at him. Your eyes flicked down to his lips, then back to his starry violet ones, and you could almost swear that you saw actual stars in them.

You were so entranced by his eyes that his lips pressing to yours surprised you for a moment, only to have you melting against him in the next. You let him explore your mouth, felt his hands grip your hips before moving to grasp your rear, just slightly rocking you against him once, but it was enough to have you gasping.

Feyre tutted at Rhys, lightly slapping one of his hands after she’d sat down, a bowl of stew in her lap. “We said food, Rhys,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. When you turned to look at her, eyes glazed with pleasure, she couldn’t help but smile. “Though she does look very pretty like this. Open wide for me, ‘mega,” Feyre demanded, your mouth opening automatically for a spoonful of hearty stew.

“You’re being such a good omega, and do you know what good omegas get?” Rhys asked you once you’d eaten half the bowl, your bites slowing as you grew fuller with each one. You shook your head, looking up at him in confusion. “They get their alphas’ knots, sweet girl,” he purred, angling his hips into yours in just the right way.

“Knots?” you asked after your next bite, looking at the stew still in the bowl warily.

“That’s right, baby, you’ll get our knots to keep you nice and full, for as long as you need,” Rhys answered, and you clenched around nothing just at the thought of being filled. “Just finish your food, and you can have our knots whenever you want.”

You huffed out a breath but did as he asked, carefully chewing and swallowing each bite that Feyre fed you until she had scraped the bowl clean. When she got up to place the bowl on the counter, you keened softly at the loss of her, far too far away, just being across the room.

“I know, omega, it’s okay,” she murmured when she returned, laying on her side, with a slight gap between her and Rhys. Though when Rhys turned carefully, moving you to lay down, you were fit snugly between them, a contented sigh leaving you. “See? Isn’t this better? All snuggled up with your alphas in your nest, with a warm belly full of food.”

You nodded in agreement - it was perfect, especially once Rhys had pulled the two spare furs you’d brought into the nest over the three of you, cocooning you entirely.

The hunger you had felt earlier had subsided, leaving sleepy contentment in its place as your alphas stroked your hair, both of them emitting quiet purrs that drowned out any noises, any thoughts that could keep you awake.

🤍🩵💖💜🤍

General Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @meritxellao @twismare @wrenisrad @icey--stars

Series Taglist: @kissesfromnovalie @rosecobollway @loving-and-dreaming

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[lil-dragon-rawr]

FNaF x DC: the Aftons vs the Gotham Rogue Gallery

(a continuation of this post)

Part Three is now available :D (the brainrot has taken over)

Masterlist

Red Hood: hey, kids have been going missing lately. I haven't been able to find who dunnit yet so be sure to keep Gregory out of the streets

Michael: kids. Going missing?

Michael, thinking: this sounds like a job for a pyromaniac night guard!

Red Hood, finally tracking down the Dollmaker's lair: uhh hi Mike, whatcha doin?

Michael "Constantly Atoning For the Sins of His Past" Afton, messing with the wiring of the building while a group of missing kids huddle around him: making sure that freak goes up in flames

Red Hood: ...cool, want some C4 to go with that?

Michael:

Red Hood:

Michael, realizing there's a more efficient way to do this: you have C4?

Kiteman: *exists, minding his own business, enjoying a scenic flight over the park*

Gregory, dragging a wagon full of God knows what to the nearest roof: hey Freddy look away for a minute, okay?

Glamrock Freddy: Gregory, I cannot help but feel you are about to do something incredibly suspicious, if not outright illegal.

Gregory:

Glamrock Freddy:

Glamrock Freddy: I will remove power to my eyes for one minute.

Gregory: :)

(forty-five seconds later)

Kiteman: *screams, falls from the sky, crashes through a food cart on his way down*

Glamrock Freddy: ...Gregory, what did you do?

Gregory:

Gregory: so you know the saying two birds, one stone?

Glamrock Freddy:

Gregory:

Glamrock Freddy:

Gregory: ...I got you a wingsuit!

Glamrock Freddy, disappointed: Gregory.

Nightwing and Scrap Baby: *still arguing over clown etiquette*

Joker, thinking that Nightwing is distracted and that this is a good opportunity to pull a "shenanigan": hrnngnn hello Gotham citizens! I planted Joker venom in a school and a hospital! Whichever place evacuates first gets the other place gassed hehaugha!

Scrap Baby, staring at the Joker in a way that can only be described as judgemental:

Nightwing, breaking off his rant to also stare at the Joker:

Scrap Baby:

Nightwing:

Scrap Baby: so we can both agree that that's not a clown, right?

Nightwing, pulling out his escrima sticks: oh, absolutely

Red Hood, explaining how he died to Michael: -and that's why I hate clowns.

Michael: yikes

Michael, trying to figure out what kind of ghost/undead Red Hood is: do you want...revenge?

Red Hood: well yeah but B's super stingy about how many guys I can off per year

Michael: ...do you have to kill the clown for your revenge to be satiated?

Red Hood:

Red Hood: ...no

Michael: cool :)

Michael, checking his FazWatch as he waits outside the gates of Arkham: hm, this is taking longer than I thought

Red Robin: heyyy Mike whatcha doin out here

Michael: waiting on my brother and his friend :)

Batman, Concerned™: Michael, did you send Gregory into Arkham?

Michael: no of course not, I would never be so irresponsible!

Batman and Red Robin, thinking the situation isn't that bad: *breathing a sigh of relief*

Michael: Do you know how much physical and psychological damage he'd cause?

Batman and Red Robin: ...

Michael, not reading the room: maybe I should send him in there. For enrichment, if nothing else

Red Robin, putting pieces together: wait, what's Golden Freddy doing in Arkham?? Isn't it just an empty suit???

Batman, thinking: please don't make me explain this to Gordon. Please don't make me explain this to Gordon.

Michael: oh he's there for revenge! :D

Batman:

Batman: *deep, deep sigh*

Batman: explain.

Michael: well, there are different types of ghosts, right?

Michael: you met the Puppet, she's a protector

Michael: and I'm a mix of atonement and protection

Michael: but my brother's friend is a vengeful spirit!

Michael: ...and she kind of maybe imprinted on Red Hood pleasedon'tbemad

Batman: *very long sigh*

Batman: if anyone's dead, it's your fault.

Michael, knowing it'll only be the Joker: ...I can live with that

Golden Freddy: *appears* ITSME

Red Robin: *jumps four feet in the air*

Michael: well you sure decided to take your time!

Golden Freddy:

Michael: yeah yeah whatever

Michael: did you have fun?

Golden Freddy: :)

Gordon: so the Joker's dead because...?

Batman: ...it's complicated.

Gordon, eyeing him suspiciously: not that I'm complaining about the Joker being dead but whoever did it must've been an expert, they got in and out without being seen and distorted the cameras while they were in his cell

Batman, knowing it was a child:

Mr. Freeze, cornering Michael: tell me the secret to eternal life!

Michael: heh???

Mr. Freeze: you have discovered a way to live forever, now share it with me so I can save my wife!

Michael:

Michael: okay well first off I didn't do crap-

Michael, experiencing constant harassment from Mr. Freeze: can you get lost already?

Mr. Freeze: I think you know the answer to that.

Michael, increasingly fed up with Freeze's toddler mindset: fine, you wanna know?

Mr. Freeze, excited: finally!

Michael: eternal life is a curse, not a gift,

Mr. Freeze: heh?

Michael: I mean look at me I'm literally a walking corpse held together with duct tape,

Michael: and don't even get me started on how I got here,

Michael: all I did was trust someone close to me,

Michael: and you know what happened?

Mr. Freeze:

Michael: I died!

Michael: and then a pile of robot spaghetti violated my body!

Mr. Freeze, backing away slowly: what the [ERROR: REPLACE: OEDIPUS]

Michael, watching him go:

Michael: well that was easy

Michael: should've done that ages ago

Scrap Baby, meeting Harley for the first time: you're a clown too!!

Harley, trying to compliment her: aww no you're a clown!

Harley: love your hair btw

Nightwing, very pointedly: yeah Harley's an actual clown cause she went to clown school

Scrap Baby: !!! Clown school!!!

(Harley and Scrap Baby having a therapy session)

Scrap Baby, lamenting: it took me so long to realize I didn't need to do everything Father said

Harley: aw yeah the patriarchy is deeply ingrained in society, but you don't need a man to be evil! You can be a villain all on your own!

Harley, raising a glass: anyways cheers to recognizing the most important man in your life was a manipulative [£√√@√]!

Scrap Baby, clinking her own glass against Harley's: to female villain empowerment!

Red Robin, listening in and comprehending the chaos Nightwing unleashed: oh Jesus Christ

[captain-bubble-wrap]

Hello, babes. How was practice? I'm Maven, your tumblr hockey mom. Below you'll find a complete masterlist of imagines, series, and OC chapters as well as prompt requests!

One more thing before you go:

- I don't do hockey romance novel-type writings. I play by reality and the way of the sport.

- I won't write the reader as the Taylor Swift of the hockey world where she's in the limelight at every game she attends, caught on camera, noticed by fans, ect. The reader isn't a celebrity~

- I'm more confident with fluff/domestic slice-of-life things, but I'll dabble in the spicy stuff, just not as eagerly or as often as the other.

- Minors, DNI with the you-know-what, or I'll ground you!

Submit your requests with their corresponding order number with any added details you'd like! 🩷

🎀 Fluff prompt starters:

F1-- "Can we just stay in bed?"

F2-- "You're cute when you make that face."

F3-- "Have you had enough to eat today?"

F4-- "Don't get up, I'll do it."

F5-- "You don't get enough sleep."

F6-- "Could you play with my hair?"

F7-- "Are you okay? Your face looks a little red."

F8-- "You're cute when you're half asleep like this."

F9-- "Can we share the blanket?"

F10-- "Just one more hug before I go."

F11-- "Do you want anything while I'm up/out?"

F12-- "Teach me?"

💔 Hurt/Comfort prompt starters:

H/C1-- "How long have you felt like this?"

H/C2-- "I know you're mad at me, but would a kiss make it better?"

H/C3-- "Please don't shut me out right now."

H/C4-- "Shh, it was just a bad dream. Whatever happened wasn't real."

H/C5-- "It's okay to cry."

H/C6-- "You lied to me."

H/C7-- "I didn't know where else to go."

H/C8-- "Let me help you, please."

❤️ Romance prompt starters:

R1-- "I'd feel a lot better if you'd let me take you home."

R2-- "They don't compare to you. No one does."

R3-- "I've always wanted to walk home in the rain."

R4-- "You've never looked so beautiful."

R5-- "Let me tell you how much you mean to me."

R6-- "Will you dance with me?"

R7-- "I'm going to marry you one day."

🫦 Dark Quinn starters: (currently on a hiatus from these atm)

D1-- "Look at me or I'll stop."

D2-- "It kills me to think of you with anyone else but me."

D3-- "You're not leaving dressed like that."

D4-- "Are you trying to make me angry?"

D5-- "If you're on your best behaviour, I'll reward you."

D6-- "I don't care what your friends have planned, you're not leaving this apartment tonight."

D7-- "I crave your affections, but I crave your silence more. Quiet, princess."

Pretty Boy Blues | You notice Quinn dealing with some troublesome skin issues, and you ask to help him. | No content warnings apply

Last Call | You're late getting home from a night out with the girls. Quinn's pacing waiting for you. Where could you be? | Implied alcohol consumption

Sleeping Beauty | Quinn learns of you having fainting spells while he's been away on the road. | Implied depression-induced eating disorders

Post-practice Cuddles | Quinn returns from practice in pain and needs your to help to get his mind off of it. | No content warnings apply

Take Your Pick | You let Quinn pick your outfit for the day. | Suggestive themes; implied sexual interactions

Baby me | Quinn refuses to take his medicine. | No content warnings apply

Plague-bringer | Quinn tests positive for Covid. | No content warnings apply

Leave Me Where I Lie | You get sick in the middle of the night and Quinn comes looking for you. | No content warnings apply

Princess on Board | Quinn and yourself go on a short road-trip and you're well prepared, crown included. | Implied daddy dom/brat aesthetic

Partners in Crime | Quinn insists on helping you make breakfast. | Mild bratty-reader aesthetic

Kitchen Kisses | Quinn and yourself stay in on New Year's Eve and welcome the new year alongside a batch of cookies. | No content warnings apply

Detour | Quinn has other plans before you fly out of Vancouver for the holidays. The ring box in his pocket might be why. | No content warnings apply

From Me: With Love | You finally get to give Quinn his custom gift for Christmas | No content warnings apply

When it Rains it Pours | Your day goes from bad to worse while trying to get the apartment ready for Quinn's return. | Mild reader bodily injury, mentions of blood

A Night In | Quinn picks you up for your birthday but takes you to his apartment instead of a restaurant. | No content warnings apply

Two Lines | Your cycle is late. Are you pregnant? | Anxiety themes

Tease Me | Quinn is week-to-week with his hand injury and is getting bored of not being on the ice. | Mild adult themes

Just Because | Quinn brings you a surprise to apologize for something out of his control. | No content warnings apply

Knock, Knock | You rush to Quinn's apartment following the high-sticking during the Lightning game. | Brief descriptions of bodily injury, blood, and mild adult themes

Cold Sheets | You're struggling with insomnia when Quinn comes looking for you in the middle of the night. | No content warning apply

Broken Glass | Your car gets totaled en route to Rogers Arena. | Graphic descriptions of bodily injury, emotional distress, and reader in pain

Broken Glass Pt 2 | Weeks after your car wreck, Quinn gives you one simple rule to follow. | 18+, dominate partner, emotional manipulation

Coupons | You go grocery shopping with Quinn before he leaves to go back on the road. | Separation anxiety, and mild depressive thoughts

Bang-bang, Kiss-kiss | You break off your relationship with Quinn. | Emotional distress, anxiety, heartbreak, and blame

Damaged Goods | You attend a home game and all hell breaks loose. | Depictions of bodily injury, and blood

Imposter Syndrome | Med school woes weigh heavy on your heart, and Quinn is there to reassure you that everything is fine.

Chapter I | A Chance Meeting

Episode 1 | Season opener: Flames v. Canucks

Episode 2 | Thanksgiving

Chapter I | Red String of Fate

A Second Cup | You have an unfortunate run-in with Jeremy Swayman | No content warnings apply

A Casual Approach to Romance | Connor Bedard waits till the last minute on Valentine's Day.

Seeing Double | When Auston Matthews takes you and your best friend back to his house from a party, there's a decision to be made. [18+ 🫦]

An Honest Excuse | Auston's got to get to practice, but you have other plans. [18+ 🫦]

[sethrollinsxreader]

After post match

Backstage after WrestleMania 41 was a mess of movement and sound shouts, laughter, congratulations, and the occasional creak of gear cases being hauled off. But for you, everything felt quiet. Slowed. Because your eyes were locked on one man Seth Freakin’ Rollins is sitting shirtless and glowing in sweat-drenched victory, drinking from a bright yellow C4 bottle like it was his prize for surviving the war.

He looked like he belonged in a painting gold-accented ring gear clinging to him, wet hair falling messily over his shoulders, chest heaving with the aftershocks of adrenaline. He didn’t know you were watching, not yet. He was too caught in the moment, riding that high only a WrestleMania win could bring. And honestly? You couldn’t blame him.

This wasn’t just another match. This was the match. The culmination of everything the sacrifices, the injuries, the doubt. And now here he was: victorious, raw, electric.

Your heart swelled just looking at him. Because yes, you loved Seth the performer, the larger-than-life icon who could steal a stadium’s breath away with one stomp. But this version of him the man behind the glitter and chaos, gulping down an energy drink, still catching his breath that was the Seth you adored.

You made your way toward him, weaving through crew members and piles of props. As you approached, he looked up and caught your gaze. And suddenly, that cocky, lopsided grin you knew so well curled across his face.

“What?” he asked, his voice husky, roughened by hours of shouting and roaring in the ring. “You look like I just won the world title.”

“You might as well have,” you replied, biting back a grin. “That match? That wasn’t just wrestling, Seth. That was art.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, like the afterglow of fireworks. “I dunno about art. All I know is I can’t feel my knees, and this C4 tastes like pure life right now.”

You sat down on the bench beside him, gently brushing your hand over his. His fingers were warm, calloused, still trembling slightly from the comedown.

“You don’t see what I see,” you said, turning to face him. “Tonight wasn’t just another big match, Seth. It was the start of something new. The way the crowd moved with you… the way they believed in you. And teaming up with Paul Heyman? This new era? You’re about to change everything.”

He looked at you then, not as the performer who’d just burned down the ring, but as the man who trusted you more than anyone. His shoulders slumped just a little, as though he could finally relax. Like it was safe to let the exhaustion settle in now that you were here.

“You think so?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“I know so,” you said, brushing a stray curl away from his face. “You’ve evolved a hundred times in that ring, Seth. But this era? This is the one you’re going to own. You and Paul together? That’s something no one saw coming. But it makes perfect sense. He respects you. He believes in you. And so do I.”

He set the bottle down and turned toward you, placing a sweaty palm gently against your cheek. “I didn’t know if I could keep doing this. The grind, the pressure… Sometimes it gets too loud, even for me. But when I saw you in the crowd tonight, when I heard that pop when I walked out there… something clicked. Like—this is what it’s all been for.

Your heart stuttered. It was moments like these behind the chaos, behind the spotlight where Seth’s soul truly showed.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his. “This isn’t just your era, Seth. It’s our era. And no matter how loud it gets, how high the stakes go i’ll be right here. Every step.”

He pulled you in then, not with the flash of “The Visionary,” but with the quiet, grounding force of the man you loved. His arms wrapped around you, sweaty and warm and real.

And in that backstage corner, surrounded by empty coolers, glittery robes, and the leftover pulse of WrestleMania magic, you both sat in silence for a moment.

Not as wrestler and fan. Not as performer and manager. Just as two people who believed in something bigger in each other.

Seth broke the silence with a tired laugh. “You know, I should probably shower. But if I move now, I think my legs will just fall off.”

You snorted, resting your head on his shoulder. “Then don’t move. Just stay here a little longer. With me.”

He kissed the side of your head and leaned back with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “This… this is exactly where I want to be.”

And in that quiet, golden hour after the storm of WrestleMania 41, a new era began with love, with laughter, and with the promise of something unforgettable.

[angelsluva]

Just the two of us :: Hamzahthefantastic

hamzah x fem reader! wrd count; 1,200

NSFW [18+]

🌊| you, hamzah, mandy, and martin were going on a quick vacation to Curacao. Obviously it was a very warm and humid place which made you pack a bunch of sun dresses, bikins, and skimpy shorts.

you and your boyfriend Hamzah decided to have a start up and going a day earlier than Mandy and Martin. You wore sweats and hoodie for now during the flight to also beat the chilly-ness of Canada as well as your boyfriend. "Where in the world can we get something to eat?" he looked around the airport as you pulled his arm "C'mon we got to find C4!" you looked at your boarding passes as he smirked looking down at you "Y/n we have all the time of the world chill out babe" he wrapped his arm around you as you tried to not stress yourself either.

Finally you both were sitting inside of the airplane. You getting the window seat obviously as he got the isle seat. You both quickly fell asleep until the flight was eventually over.

You both made it out the plane and picked up your luggage's smoothly as you took your first step in the humid weather, "holy shit we were not made for this!" hamzah groaned as he took off his hoodie as you did as well but in your head you were already planning many outfits with the cute tops you had bought.

you both arrived to the beach house as you noticed how beautiful it looked on the outside, "Let's go inside asap!" you almost screamed taking out your luggage as you ran to the door almost busting the door down. the white marble floors complemented the whole house and you noticed the glass stair case next to you spirling to the next floor "hamzah it's beautiful!" you jumped up and down. Both of you picked the master bedroom and unpacked all your clothes as you realized how hungry you were as well as hamzah so you both quickly decided to put on appropriate clothes for the weather to go grab something to eat. you wore a black bikini set under a white small sundress.

hamzah knocked on the bathroom door and opening it after, he looked at your revealing dress as his jaw dropped “what?” You questioned fixing your hair as he was dazed by your dress “babe you can’t wear this- I- wear this when it’s just us” he said looking at how short the dress was. If you were to even pick something from the floor it would be a show for everyone “babe stop over reacting! Plus it’s so so hot” you pecked him on the lips walking out of the bathroom back to your luggage that was thrown on the bed grabbing a few pins for your hair as suddenly you felt his hands wrap around your waist as you smirked “your such a tease y/n” he groaned placing kisses behind your ear making you giggle “Hamzah!” You squirmed under him as you turned to look at him as his cheeks were red and hot “I’m not even hungry anymore baby I just want you” he whined kissing your neck as his hands were traveling down your ass lightly causing you to whine as well “Hamzah” you whimpered as he picked you up as you wrapped your legs around his waist as he threw you on to a free space on the bed kissing your neck down to your exposed chest “I need you so bad m’y/n please” he said in between kisses as you ran your hand through the curls of his hair as you nodded. His lips parted from you as he lifted up your dress as your black set was more visible which made him thirst over you even more, with out hesitation he took off his shirt throwing it somewhere else in the room as he finished planting hickies onto your neck making sure they're visible for anyone to notice. he smirked as he left a trail of kisses down to your bikini bottom, the way his begging eyes looked at you for permission made you heat up. you nodded your head once again. his lips kissed your clothed heat as you whimpered under him, his hands grasped onto your thighs as he laughed "m' your so precious" he teased as he hooked his finger under your panty sliding it over as your heat was now in front of his face "my god your so pretty y/n" he praised as he began kissing your clit making you squirm all over the place, he licked his lips as he licked along your slick as you moaned loudly gripping onto his hair much harder "fuck hamzah- please!" he began slipping his tongue into your wet cunt.

his mouth did magic on you as you bucked your hips every time he'd hit your spot. he'd work faster whenever he would hear your pornographic moans which was music to his ears "hamzah! I'm so fucking close!" you cried out as he parted from your wet cunt, he got up as he sat onto the board of the bed as you crawled on top of him "your so fucking sexy baby" he cursed as his hands gripped onto your waist, you began grinding your self on to his tent as he grew under you it hurt. your lips connected as he pulled his shorts down slightly. you got the hint as you pulled down his boxers as his shaft sprung up as you almost drooled, you aligned your self onto him as his tip rubbed against your dripping cunt "fuck oh my god!" he whimpered as you fully sat onto his length as you left scratches on his back from the amount of pleasure "feel so m'good" he whined as you began slowly moving back and fourth as his hands followed the motion from your waist

as you got used to his length you began slowly bouncing on his cock biting your lip in the process as he couldn't keep his eyes off you, how your face said it all. It drove him insane.

your bouncing became sloppier as you felt yourself reaching your climax, "fuck!" you hissed as one hand grabbed onto the low of your waist as the other pulled off the strings of your top as it fully fell onto the bed. he began going in and out of you as you saw stars, you dug your nails into his shoulder as he messaged your tits with one hand. "fuck Hamzah! Don't stop-" you screamed as you felt him reach your spot "come all over me baby" he groaned as you both reached your high "holy shit!" you flopped onto him as he wrapped his arms around you as you panted on top of him "You did so good princess, wanna take a bath and order food?" he questioned as you nodded.

You both walked over to your shared bathroom as you both got cleaned up in the huge tub, changing into clothes, and ordering food waiting for Mandy and Martin to arrive the next days and question the marks and scratches all over your bodies.

˚ · • . ° .

me when I’m ovulating 🎀 (I really wanted to keep this fic short bc I didn’t want yall to get bored LMFAO but pls lmk if yall want longer ones!)

[callalillywrites]

Their Scandalous Secret

Written for @stuckybingo. C4 - AU: Historical.

Stucky Masterlist | Stucky Bingo | Main Masterlist

Relationship: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 1347

Summary: You're the eldest daughter of a gentleman and have no intention of settling for anything less than love. You also have a deep secret you're carrying for two gentlemen that have recently come into your life. This secret could be just the key to changing yours and their lives forever.

Warnings: mostly acquaintances; reader is friendlier with Steve than Bucky; 1800s; Reader's POV; Bucky's POV; cliffhanger ending; kinda enemies to lovers (Bucky & Reader); friends to lovers (Steve & Reader); nothing graphic but lmk if I missed anything

A/N: This was absolutely inspired by Pride and Prejudice, specifically the scene between Charlotte and Elizabeth. One could absolutely say Bucky is Mr. Darcy while Steve's more Mr. Bingley in this story, just maybe not as gullible or naive but still very sweet. The stories' similarities end there though.

A/N2: I do have it planned to use another prompt to create a kinda part 2 to this because I do leave it on a cliffhanger. If there's enough interest, I might be persuaded to come back to this story at a later date.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

*****

"I'm twenty-seven years old. My choices are limited, and you know it," your best friend, Lottie, huffed at you. Tears glistened and threatened to fall even as she shook her head. "Besides, I know he'll take good care of me. I'll have a home of my own and possibly children. It's all I've ever wanted. I'm not like you. You're romantic while I'm practical. Neither are bad even if you think differently."

Before you could open your mouth, Lottie gave a final huff and turned her back towards you. Her feet quickly carried her out of the yard of your family's old home and down the lane back towards her parents' home.

You gaped at her retreating form, belatedly realizing you may have been a little harsh. Sure, it'd been a surprise to learn that Lottie had accepted Bruce Banner's proposal, but you could've handled it better. It just felt so odd when he'd proposed to you not so long ago, and you'd adamantly refused it.

He wasn't a bad prospect for someone. Not really. He had modest but not insubstantial means to provide for a wife and a family, including his own home and a profession that was worthy of a gentleman.

But he wasn't the one meant for you. He was too practical and a bit too scientific compared to what you saw for yourself. You didn't love him and knew you could never love him. Not the way you wanted to love someone and be loved in return.

You just hadn't thought Lottie would find him appealing. After all, she'd been right there with you in your gentle teasing and criticisms of his slightly off-kilter social skills.

Letting the swing you'd been spinning unwind itself, you carefully pushed to your feet and headed inside. It would seem you had some thinking to do, especially an apology for Lottie. The last thing you'd ever want was to have Lottie mad at you so much that it risked your lifelong friendship.

It was on your way to your room that Ellie, your younger sister, waylaid you.

"Mama wants you to put on your best dress," she said, a sly grin slipping into place. "We're having company over, and Mama is determined to see you married off to one of them."

Not quite understanding, you tapped your foot impatiently as you said, "Spit it out, Ellie. Who's coming to dinner?"

"Miss Romanoff and two of her companions, Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers."

A sigh escaped you before you could stop it.

While you didn't mind Miss Romanoff or even Mr. Rogers, you found yourself always a bit more tense around Mr. Barnes. He had an intensity about him that proved quite unnerving. It also didn't help that he'd always looked at you as though you were something he couldn't stand. As if you smelled bad or did something so horrendous that you should never be allowed in polite society.

Rumors about his time during the war weren't lost on you, having heard a fair number of them. More so, upon their arrival within your country town. Most of them didn't concern you, chalking most of them up to gossipy fantasy, but some of the others sounded a bit more chilling, especially since he kept one arm completely covered. The glove he wore was never removed even when social norms dictated.

The same rumors didn't tarnish or darken Mr. Rogers' reputation despite serving in the same war. No, he came out the country's veritable hero. Also quite the eligible bachelor, too, which made him all the more appealing to yours and other mamas, eager to wed off their daughters.

In some ways, you could see yourself falling for Mr. Rogers, but you also knew a secret many weren't privy to. It wasn't something you were supposed to know, either, but you'd stumbled upon it one evening at another social event. A dance, no less. The same dance where you'd been trying to avoid Mr. Banner and his hopeful wooing of you. To share this secret would mean condemning both men, and you couldn't do it. Even if Mr. Barnes insisted on putting you on edge with his very presence.

Ellie pulled you from your thoughts at her little scoff. "Mama is never going to marry you off if you keep making that face. Try and act like you have some sense. If you don't want either of them, then step aside. I'll take either. They're both so handsome and rich."

Rather than argue with her, you simply kept your mouth shut and headed towards your room.

You still had an apology to Lottie to figure out, so Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers would have to wait. If your mind traveled back to them more often than it should've, then that was no one's concern but yours.

*****

"I hope you two will behave yourselves tonight, and by two, I mean you, James," Natasha said, her signature smirk still in place despite the reprimand in her voice. "You're going to scare away all the eligible ladies away with that scowl of yours, including the one that's caught your eye."

Bucky's eyes widened even as he met Nat's gaze.

If anyone knew him as well as Steve did, it was Nat. Her smirk only confirmed it as it tilted the corner of her mouth. Smug woman that she was, she'd have no problem lording it over him if he did in fact make a mess of it where you were concerned.

And a mess had already been made, which was quite concerning.

No one had been meant to see that moment of weakness he and Steve had shared at that blasted party.

Especially not you.

Something about you intrigued him, sure, but he had no real interest in pretending to be interested in whatever young lady some mama threw into his path. No, all he wanted was to return to his estate and take care of his father's business. Well, his business now. It'd been hit with some hard times recently, and Bucky was determined to turn everything around. Any hint of scandal could undo all the work he'd already put in.

Both him and Steve could so easily be ruined.

Yet, that ruination hasn't happened.

It was most curious, too.

Bucky had been so sure you were exactly like your younger sister. You should've been telling anyone willing to listen what you'd witnessed.

But you hadn't.

The perfect weapon at your disposal, and yet you refused to use it.

That made him most uneasy. He didn't know you well enough, but he knew women in general. Most would be looking for some way to use this knowledge to their advantage. A marriage proposal from either him or Steve should be the minimum you'd be demanding.

But again, you hadn't gone near them.

You'd actually distanced yourself from them.

He had to know why.

Up until that party, Nat had been the only one to know their secret. No way would she ever spill it for fear of her own secrets coming to light. It was all a dangerous game, too, and he wished he had all the pieces he needed to play it so neither he nor Steve lost everything.

"It'll be okay," Steve mumbled beneath his breath so only Bucky could hear him. "She's someone we can trust. I know it."

"Your gut isn't always right," Bucky countered, his agitation coming through with the soft whirring of his mechanical arm. It'd been a top-of-the-line gift from Tony Stark after the war. The man was an annoyance most days, but Steve liked him. Bucky tolerated him for Steve's sake, but he preferred his company to be quieter most days. "She could ruin us."

"She won't."

"So, you have a plan?"

Steve grinned, his deep blue eyes meeting Bucky's icier ones. "Don't I always?"

"Hmm."

As the carriage carried them closer to your home, Bucky could only hope whatever plan Steve had worked. He didn't want to think about the consequences if they couldn't get you to continue your silence.