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darklordofthesimp · 2 years

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Anything III (König x Reader)

Summary: A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

Requested by: Literally fucking everyone.

A/N: I was really fighting for my life with this chapter y'all. It's more to set up for the next coming chapters.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Forced Proximity || Enemies to ?

Warnings: Graphic language, graphic description of PTSD, graphic violence, graphic description of gun violence, graphic description of injury.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

"That fucker needs to go."

"He's not going anywhere, Simon."

The Lieutenant spun on his heel, reeling on Price with startling speed. He didn’t budge, though. Not when Ghost stopped only inches away and not when a finger rested on his chest- a warning. A threat.

“Birdy’s my responsibility,” his voice was dangerously low and the Captain’s eyes narrowed.

“And you’re all my responsibility,” Price’s words were slow and enunciated, spoken through gritted teeth. The heat rolling off his body was tangible, he was fucking furious. He was torn. “You think this was my fucking idea? I get orders from up top just like you do, Riley. They got their own plans in mind.”

Ghost inhaled sharply, dropping his hand to his side. Up top. If the rank has been anything, it’s been consistently shit.

“When someone tears their own fuckin’ face-off, the plan needs to change,” Simon murmured, the images of the incident drifting across his vision. The man was no stranger to intrusive thoughts but these were particularly vivid, they splattered across the carefully cleaned plains of his mind- taunting him.

“I know.” Price lit a cigar, his gaze trailing across the rooftops. “Been working on it.”

“And?”

“Baby steps, Simon. Baby steps.”

_________

Inhale, exhale. Again.

Bang

Then again.

Bang

And again.

Bang

One, two, three, the hole never widened; not even by a millimetre. The target stood strong and unwavering, and you were doused in hot anger. You’d selected the biggest one you could find, it wasn’t as tall as you wanted, but you supposed the chances of finding a nearly seven foot soldier on the battlefield were slim.

You were grateful that the one thing that hadn’t changed over the recent horrors of your life, was your aim. You were still a sniper.

Bang

You were still the best.

“We got another unit comin’ in for their assessments, Birdy.” The range supervisor’s voice was loud over the speaker and you forced yourself not to jump. “You gotta clear out or pick another lane, mate.”

Your eyes trailed over the aisles beside you. The rear of their booths were all open, designed for trainees to have an instructor standing over them. Those days of needing direction were over, as were the days of leaving your back vulnerable.

The lane you had chosen was at the very end of the range, a locked booth designed for soldier’s shooting assessments. It was a bi-annual event, where your marksmanship was tested in order to deem you competent and qualified. No instructor, no target indications, just you in a locked booth with a rifle and a target.

Now, it was the only place you felt safe enough to shoot.

You heaved your body up, clearing your weapon before slinging it over your shoulder. It seemed that your time was up.

As you stepped out of your haven and into the aisle, you tried to settle the anxiety in your chest. It was a burdensome feeling that only faded when you were looking down the sight of your rifle, plaguing your every move and every thought. It was all-consuming.

A shot rang a few lanes ahead and you flicked your gaze up to the screen as you walked. They were half a centimetre or so off from the central aiming mark but the next shot was dead on. You snorted.

As you moved to pass, you spared a curious glance at the shooter.

Your body locked up.

Right in front of you, lying on his stomach with those long legs sprawled out, was König.

You seethed. You were suddenly overcome by a rage that, for once, did not wash over you with a flush of heat. Instead, you were cold. Ice trickled the length of your spine and your fingers went numb, pins and needles pricking at your nails.

Your face stung at the sight of him.

He was the reason you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror anymore, he was the reason you looked like a fucking abomination. Your face was deformed and mutilated and here this fucker lay, his back turned to the world because he was not the one that got destroyed.

König ruined you and got away unscathed.

You waited for him to take another shot, using the cover of the resounding gunfire to put down your rifle. He had no idea that you were there, he was entirely unsuspecting. He was vulnerable.

Before you could comprehend what you were doing, your body had moved to stand over his prone figure. You could hear his breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest.

In, bang, out.

They had chosen this fucking imbecile to replace you? He couldn’t even breathe right, everything was wrong. His form was wrong, his breathing pattern was wrong, his shooting was wrong, and he was not built to be a sniper. He was built to destroy with his hands, with no finesse, no pinpoint accuracy- just a bludgeon.

There was no honour in what König was.

Again, your face stung beneath the gauze. A reminder. Encouragement.

You reached for the Glock strapped to your belt, cold sweat trickling down your neck. König took a breath in and you flicked open the buckle. But he didn’t take a shot as you had predicted, and he’d heard the noise from above him.

When König turned, you let him see you, just as he’d given you that mercy.

Then you struck.

Unlike before, König hadn’t been given the chance to kick the weapon from your hands before you descended upon him. A startled rasp ripped from his mouth as you dropped onto his body, bringing the butt of your firearm to strike his temple.

His head knocked back, bouncing off the mat beneath him.

How merciful, that it was not concrete? How gracious, that you didn’t grab his head and crush it?

König groaned, his hands flying up to defend himself, stunned by the sudden impact. You knew that his vision would be spinning, a loud buzz ringing in his ears. You knew too well.

But it wasn’t enough.

You pushed his hands away, bringing the gun down again. You felt his skin render from beneath the metal, a wet thud echoing through the booth as you split the skin of his cheek. The blood made your eyes widen. It wasn’t enough.

You would give him your scars. You would peel his skin from his bone. You would shatter him until he was unrecognisable.

This wasn’t enough.

König’s eyes flickered open, hard and betrayed.

You knew that the element of surprise had run out, but you were not finished. You’d just gotten started, the purple of his cheek and the red dripping down his temple only marked the beginning. But you couldn’t overpower the man below you.

When his hands gripped your biceps and he opened his mouth to yell, you pushed the barrel of your handgun past his lips until his teeth scraped the steel.

Everything fell still, his hands frozen on your body and his eyes wide. You hoped that he could taste the gunpowder, you hoped that he could taste his death. The sound of the safety flicking off resounded in the booth and the man beneath you flinched.

His fingers shook against your skin, his breath rattling in his chest.

König was afraid.

And at that realization, for the first time in over a year, a genuine smile twisted your lips. The soldier’s eyes widened, his body twitching beneath yours, groaning around the barrel in his mouth.

“How do you like it?” You whispered, the words a snarl as you leaned down close.

König’s emerald gaze was steady on yours and you could visibly see him attempt to calm his breathing. In, out, in, out. He was breathing wrong, everything was still just wrong, wrong, wrong. You pressed harder on the gun.

This wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t bruised enough, he wasn’t bleeding enough. You moved your left hand to cup his cheek and his eyes flickered. König wanted to buck you off, he wanted to disable you, maybe he even wanted to murder you. You hoped he did, you wanted to see the same hatred in his eyes that you saw that damned fucking night.

You wanted him to look into your soul and know that you were going to ruin him.

That you were going to kill him.

“You feel guilty?” You hissed, your fingers slowly digging into the skin of his cheek. “You feel bad for what you did?”

König’s eyes softened.

Don’t want your pity.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

Finally, he hummed his affirmation around the barrel in his mouth. Your nails dug into the flesh of his face, dragging a jagged scratch inch by inch across his features. The man didn’t flinch, he didn’t move, and he didn’t make a sound- he only watched you.

When you leaned in to brush your lips against his ear, he knew what was coming.

Satisfaction flooded your senses, righteous anger gripping you by the throat and forcing the words that you’ve wanted to say for so long from your lips.

“Your fight is finished.”

König took in a sharp breath.

You pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening and for a sweet, beautiful moment, you felt vindication. You’d won. You’d bested him. The man that had ruined your life had gotten what he deserved and he needed to die, die, die. That was the only thing that would settle his debt, the only thing that would serve the justice you felt owed.

With the simplest pull of the trigger, you had been avenged.

Then, you realised that the blood that had sprayed aross the space between your bodies wasn’t his. It was yours.

König was on top of you. The gun was gone, his mask was on, and your face was crushed. You couldn’t breathe you couldn’t think and the only thing you could feel was the searing pain of the knife twisting in your chest.

No, no, no, no.

This was wrong, this wasn’t what was meant to happen. Why were you back here? His hand was on your face before you could protest and you felt your head lift from the ground.

“Even in victory, you are nothing.”

Crack

“You will always be nothing.”

Crack

You were screaming, you could hear yourself doing it but your mouth wasn’t moving. Your teeth were caved in, your jaw had collapsed, you felt as though your face had melted from the bone. Yet you could hear the shrieks, hear the wailing.

The back of your head was wet, your skull felt like it was falling apart at the seams. The breeze tickled against your brain and your nerves were on fire.

You were broken, broken, broken.

“Birdy!”

This time you could feel every crack of your head into the concrete. This time you felt your brain matter smear across the floor.

“Wake up!”

Wake up.

You sat up with the gasp of someone who’d been drowning, clawing at your throat for air. Sweat trickled down your spine, the room was hot and the blankets were tangled between your legs but you were in your bedroom- you recognised it instantly.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” a rough voice murmured from beside you. There was a hand pressed flat against your chest, firm and grounding. “Breathe.”

“Simon,” you sobbed. The man hummed in response, his other hand rubbing your back with enough force to rock your body. He was trying to keep you rooted in reality, give you something physical, something tangible to hold on to.

“I’m losing my mind,” you gasped, your chest caving at the realisation. You didn’t know what was real or not, fact or fiction, tangible or imaginary- you lived on a plain of uncertainty. You were lost, you were broken and you were unreliable.

Price was right. You had become a liability.

“You’re late to the party,” Simon loosed a soft chuckle, pulling you close against his body. “I lost mine years ago, kid.”

You relished in his touch as you tried to regroup. You were in your room, you were in your bed, it was the middle of the night and you’d had a nightmare. Your clothes were soaked, sticking to your skin uncomfortably; and you had the horrid realization that maybe it wasn’t all sweat. You sucked in a breath, scrambling to push the blankets from your body.

“What-”

You ignored anything that the Lieutenant might of said, scrubbing your hands over your limbs, neck and face. The sweat threw you off and you checked your fingers in the dim light for crimson stains. You couldn’t deal with it again, you couldn’t cope with more damage. You were already disgusting, you were already mutilated and scarred. Unloveable, untouchable, irreparable, irevevocable, irremediable-

No more, no more, no more no more no more-

Simon gripped your hands, tugging them towards his chest and jerking your body forward. You dragged in a sharp breath, eyes wide and frantic.

“You didn’t hurt yourself,” the words were urgent and low, his gaze holding you still just as well as his grip. “You’re alright, Birdy.”

You took in a rattling breath and his grip tightened.

“You’re alright, kid,” Simon reinforced, that ocean gaze compelling you to calm your heart rate. He left no room for discussion with the way that he looked at you, there was no option to disobey. You pushed air into your lungs, following the pattern he’d set for you. “It was just a nightmare.”

You frowned. “Only at the very end.”

Not when you had been shooting, not when you’d been atop of your enemy with a gun in his mouth; that was not the nightmare. You’d felt vindicated, you’d felt insane but satisfied. During those moments in the dream, you were not afraid of König. You were not shaking, you were not whimpering or begging for your life.

You were strong.

Stronger than him.

“How’d you know I was–” You cleared your throat. “How’d you get in here?”

The silence that followed had you on edge, as Simon’s hand worked methodically across your back. He didn’t answer for a long while and your thoughts began to sober. Why was he in your room? How had he gotten there? How did he know you were having a night terror? His quarters were nowhere near yours, he was in the hallway over, divided by thick concrete walls; he most definitely couldn’t have heard your screams.

“Someone tipped me off,” the words were spoken through clenched teeth and his minsitrations against your back faltered. Your chest tightened at the implication. “They thought I’d be better suited to come help you.”

“How-”

“He’s down the hall, Birdy.” Simon interrupted and you could feel his fingers curl into a fist against your spine. “Everyone in this fuckin’ corridor could hear you.”

Your breathing began to pick up and heat flushed against your skin, the blood boiling from beneath the surface.

“That doesn’t explain how you got in,” you rasped, gripping the blankets at your side. You needed to ground yourself, you needed to be calm.

“He thought you were being attacked or somethin’ with the way you were yellin’,” Simon sighed. It wasn’t a direct answer but it was a good enough indication as to what had happened.

You let your gaze drift to the door, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight before you. The hinges had been ripped from the wall, the frame torn straight from the brick. The door itself was missing completely, and as you slowly leaned over to get a look at the floor, your heart dropped to your stomach.

Your bedroom door lay in pieces, the splintered remnants splayed across the floor like shattered glass.

NEXT CHAPTER

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diejager · 4 months

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Hello this would be the very first time id make a request if you still take them. Omegaverse taskforce 141 with an isekai reader who could pass as a bèta with a twist, if you heard about the pheromone perfume then yeah. Reader as a beta but snells like an omega🙂

🐼anon

Cw: pheromone perfume, omegaverse, spy, inaccurate facts, tell me if I missed any.

For something you’d once thought fictional, an imaginary creation to spend one’s time on and lose themselves when they wanted to escape the hardships of their world, it was scarily realistic. You were a fan, someone who’d followed the franchises from it’s earliest days to the most recent - and unsightingly disappointing - installment of a remake of a remastered version of a game you played as a kid. You’d even dreamed of it being a reality, living the lives and adventures besides the men and women in Modern Warfare and even Ghosts and Black Ops despite knowing that their universe was a mirror of your own, simply built and reconstructed differently than the one you were born in.

It was a fantasy, even your strange interest in works tagged with omegaverse. To see a big man like Ghost shudder and kneel for another, to see Gaz being tenderly dominating and affectionate, to see Price reluctantly soft and grumpy, and to see Soap teasingly sly and mischievously headstrong. Sometimes, they would draw one as an omega and the other as an alpha, or as an beta and alpha couple. It was a whole roller coaster of emotions and intrigue, but a fantasy all the same.

And yet… and yet, here you were, in a body that was and wasn’t your own. It was a carbon copy of yours, but you weren’t you in it, like wearing a mask or another’s skin. That’s how you felt, especially with the scars that painted your skin like a stray sky and tense muscles that felt too hard to be fake. Perhaps it was the sudden sensitivity of your nose, the cloying in your mind and annoyance that suddenly filled you. Or perhaps it was the clean and elegant clothes you wore, a harsh dichotomy to the dark gear the others beside you wore, vests and padded body suits, weapons latched to their hips, chests, thighs and even in their hands, and the hard and cold gleam in their eyes, hidden under the darkness of the vehicle you rode.

Any confusion you once had was washed away when time seemed to stall, the world blurring as clear and loud words were spoken in your mind. Instructions, you understood, guidance towards your goal and advice to complete it. It was a ball, you were sent to conclude a transaction under… Kate Laswell’s order, a favour you had agreed to do for her as someone who worked in intelligence and assasinations rather than brawn and breaches. She’d called you a silent killer, neither a mercenary nor an employee, you were a panther in stalk, an owl in flight, deathly silent and tenaciously lethal.

It seemed like an out-of-body experience. You were somehow a spectator to your body, and somehow the master of it. Every act was practiced, ever word spoken with a charming smile and every smile particularly persuasive. It was so simple —so easy. With their emotions flashing in your face through smell alone, your nose twitching at the scent of arousal and pleasure, the flattered and the excited. They were so - too - easy to read and control, to have them curled around your finger like fine silk. You chalked their attraction towards you to your charms and the smell that clung to your skin, a sweetness that made both men and women turn their heads to gaze at you for a lick f your scent. Pheromones. An omega’s pheromones mixed with sweet perfume.

It helped, truly, making your work vastly easier than you’d once thought. It eased the nerve and anxiety that brewed inside of you, having done nothing but speak out loud the words that popped in your head and act out the motions that were advised to you. Your brain - mind or conscience - was a machine, a computer giving out orders and guiding you through this without any trouble. That, you were thankful for, you would have been a mess of tears and panic if not for it. It made you work quick and efficient.

And you were out within the hour, striding across the street and down the corner, walking as if you weren’t in a hurry or on a mission, nothing better than hiding in plain sight —the best of hiding spots. Within the minutes, down a few streets, turning left and right, walking circles to make sure you weren’t followed, you crossed the threshold of a textile shop, nodding at the lady working at the counter and headed to the back rooms, the employees only rooms. There, you met four men huddled around a table with Laswell at the head, all familiar figures you once fantasied about.

“An omega?” Price sounded much deeper in person, his done low and somehow soft despite the rasp that smoking caused.

“Beta,” you corrected, your name following as a greeting, a beast greeting another beast, head bowed in respect and acknowledgment that they returned.

“You don’t smell it.”

It was curt and to the point, nothing you hadn’t expected from Ghost.

“Pheromone perfume,” you grinned, patting your pocket, “Neat trick, hmm?”

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communicationthroughlyrics · 3 months

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I Gambled On Red And The Price Was Paid

Your best friend, unable to bear your post-breakup malaise, decides to take action. Despite your deep emotional pain following the betrayal by your ex-girlfriend, and your subsequent withdrawal from life, she believes it's time for you to move on. She suggests a night out to reinvigorate your social life. At the bar, your attention is drawn to a redhead and her brunette partner, whose infectious laughter and captivating dance moves stir feelings of attraction.

TW: smut, intersex r, wandanat, mommy/daddy kink... uhhh yeah

A/N: Definitely my first time writning a threesome, let alone an intersex threesome. Let me know what you think!

Word Count: 5.8k

The evening had settled into a quiet rhythm, the city's heartbeat a distant murmur beyond the condominium's thick windows. Inside, the living room was a tableau of shadows and stale air, punctuated by the flicker of a TV playing to an empty couch. You hadn't moved from your spot in days, a testament to the relentless grip of heartache. Your eyes were glued to the screen, but the images dancing across it were as indiscernible as the path ahead of you. The area around you was littered with wrappers, empty dishes, and take-out containers, as you continued to wallow in what once was.

But you should know better. Your best friend won't let this continue. You deserve better. Sarah always told you that your ex, Ali was trouble walking. There had been signs, signs you had ignored for years. But finally, walking into her apartment when you were supposed to have a dinner date, to find her fucking some random chick- that was the final straw. You'd been together since college, so it's no wonder you felt like your soul had been ripped out. You had been planning on proposing that night, after being together for the better part of 7 years. But seeing the lack of remorse in her eyes sent you into a spiral.

Sarah enters the room, her footsteps firm and deliberate. She's carrying something that smells faintly of mint and leather. It's a freshly ironed shirt. "You're coming out with me tonight," she says, her voice brooking no argument. She's been worried about you, her best friend since childhood, and she knows that sitting around isn't going to fix you. "You're going to shower, change, and we're going to hit the town. No more of this fucking nonsense." She holds out the shirt like a banner of hope, a symbol of your impending return to the land of the living.

"But," you start, and she quickly shushes you.

"You've moped around long enough," she says firmly, placing the shirt on your lap. "It's time to get out, clear your head, and maybe, just maybe, find someone who deserves you."

Her words hit like a slap to the face but in a good way. With a heavy sigh, you sit up, the shirt's fabric feeling foreign against your skin. You hadn't realized how much you've missed the feeling of being clean and dressed. You bumble your way to your bedroom, tossing the shirt to the side.

"I'll be waiting. Don't you dare think about trying to lock yourself in here. I'll kick your damn door down." Sarah's voice echoes through the hallway as you enter the bathroom. You turn on the shower, the sound of the water gradually increasing from a whisper to a roar. You stand there for a moment, the heat beckoning, before you step in, letting the water wash over you, carrying the grime of the past few days down the drain along with your despair.

As you scrub away the layers of defeat clinging to your body, you begin to feel a glimmer of something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, she's right. Maybe you do need to get out of here, breathe in some fresh air, and remind yourself that there's more to life than the woman who so callously tossed you aside. You let the woody, fresh scent of the body wash fill your nostrils, a stark contrast to the stale scent of the room you've been living in. The warm water cascades down your back as you let the shampoo lather in your hair, a sensation that feels both cleansing and cathartic. As you rinse, you can almost feel the weight of the past week sluicing away with the soapy water, swirling down the drain and leaving you feeling lighter than you have in days.

Slipping into a black lace bra, the black button-up, and a pair of slim black jeans, you get yourself as ready as you can be for a night out. The shirt fits like a glove, the fabric brushing against your skin as you move. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and for a brief moment, the reflection staring back at you seems like a stranger. But then your eyes harden, and you nod. You're ready. You need to get over her. And what better way, than to try and get someone under you?

When you emerge from your bedroom, Sarah's smile is immediate. "Look at you," she says, clapping her hands together. "I knew there was a woman in there, somewhere." She's dressed to kill, her hair curled and makeup on point. "Let's go," she says, grabbing her purse and opening the door. You both stood at the curb, waiting for your Uber to arrive, Sarah chatting animatedly about the vacation her and her boyfriend just went on. You nod along, your thoughts still cloudy and depressed, but you're starting to feel the beginnings of excitement.

The car pulls up, and you slide into the cool leather seats, the scent of pine air freshener filling the cabin. You let the city lights play across your face as you drive, the music playing softly in the background. It's a stark contrast to the dark, claustrophobic atmosphere you've been living in, and you feel your shoulders relaxing.

The bar is bustling with life, a cacophony of laughter and chatter that fills your ears like a symphony. Sarah guides you through the crowd, her hand firm in yours until you reach the bar. The bartender, a burly man with a twinkle in his eye, greets you with a nod. "What can I get you?"

Sarah immediately pipes up, ordering her usual vodka soda, and turning to you. "You can get whatever, tonight babe. It's on me." You mull over the drinks menu, your eyes scanning over the rows of bottles lined up like soldiers ready for battle, their colorful labels glinting under the bar lights. You decide on a double whiskey neat, something to burn away the last remnants of the day's melancholy.

As the drinks are placed in front of you, the smoothness of the whiskey glass feels surprisingly good in your hand. You take a sip, letting the liquid warmth spread through your chest. The burn is comforting, a reminder that you're alive and feeling. You look around the bar, taking in the faces of the people around you. The air is thick with the scent of cologne and perfume, the hum of flirtation, and the occasional shout of a sports fan. It's a world you've been absent from for too long, and it's both overwhelming and invigorating.

"Now, we need to find you someone to dance with," Sarah starts. You send her a warning glance, trying to convey to her that she needs to take it easy tonight. You're not ready to jump into the dating pool just yet. But she's on a mission, and nothing is going to stop her. She grabs your hand and pulls you to the dance floor, the strobe lights painting the room in a disco-infused haze. The music is a pulsing bass line that you can feel in your chest, the kind that makes you want to move even when you're feeling your lowest.

Sarah started dancing with you before she was whisked away by someone she worked with, leaving you to fend for yourself for a while. You knocked back the rest of your drink, beginning to worm your way back through the crowd towards the bar. Standing at the bartop, you order another whiskey neat, feeling a familiar burn of eyes on the back of your head. Assuming it was probably Sarah, you ignored the feeling, patiently waiting for your drink. The barkeep slid the drink your way, winking as he turned to tend to some more people, and you turned, leaning back against the bar to observe the throng of people on the dance floor.

That's when you saw her. A woman with fiery red hair, dressed in a green dress that shimmered like emeralds under the disco lights. She was laughing with her friends, her eyes lighting up with every beat of the music. You couldn't help but stare. It had been so long since you had felt that kind of attraction, the kind that made your heart flutter and your stomach drop. You watched her for a moment longer, sipping your whiskey, before you felt a gentle nudge.

"What are you waiting for?" Sarah asked, grinning mischievously. "Go talk to her. I would even tap that, she's hot as hell." You shake your head and laugh at her antics, but as you look over at the redhead, you notice her dancing with a stunning brunette. They both looked amazing, and your stomach was definitely tumbling at the vision they created. You sat yourself at the bar to watch this power couple move with the music, seemingly in thier own little world.

The brunette looked over at you and for a second, your eyes locked. She had the most amazing green eyes, a piercing emerald that stood out even in the flashing lights. You felt a pull, something that hadn't happened since the first time you had seen Ali. She looked away and back at her partner, but not before giving you a coy smile that made your heart skip a beat. You downed your drink, and the bartender slid you another, leaning over the counter toward you.

"I wouldn't stare too much if I were you."

"It's kinda hard not to if I'm being honest," you respond, keeping your eyes locked on the dance floor, tilting your head back as you spoke to the man.

"That's what Wanda wants," he started. This was beyond confusing to you, you wheeled around on your barstool.

"What do you mean? You know them?" You ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden spike in your interest. You simply wanted to know who this power couple was. The pair were both so attractive separately, that being together should be illegal. He laughed at your enthusiasm.

"You could say that," he began. "They're my bosses. They own this place. The brunette is Wanda Maximoff, the redhead is Natasha Romanoff." he finished as he was quickly called to the other end of the bar.

Turning back around, you quickly found the couple on the floor, Wanda dressed to the nines in an all-black suit, towering over Natasha. Natasha pressed her back against Wanda, as they danced to the sultry beat emanating throughout the club.

The whiskey had loosened your nerves, so you took a deep breath and approached the dance floor. The strobe lights painted you in a frenetic pattern of color, each flash revealing Natasha's eyes on you. She leaned in to whisper something to Wanda, and Wanda looked over her shoulder, catching your gaze. You felt like you'd been caught in the headlights of a car, frozen in place.

But instead of looking away, Wanda smirked and nodded slightly, as if giving you an unspoken invitation. You felt a strange mix of excitement and terror. This wasn't like you at all, but something propelled you forward. Before you knew it, you were standing in front of them, the bass thumping in your chest like a second heartbeat. Wanda stepped aside, and Natasha moved closer, her hands reaching out to lock around your neck.

"We've had our eyes on you all night, detka," Natasha leaned in, whispering into the shell of your ear. Her Russian accent was thick and alluring, sending shivers down your spine. Wanda's eyes gleamed with amusement, her hand resting possessively on Natasha's hip as she watched you try to compose yourself. The three of you swayed to the beat, your eyes darting between both the pairs of green eyes before you.

The song switched to something slower, and Natasha's grip tightened, pulling you closer. Your hands found their way to her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin even through the fabric of her dress. You could smell the faint scent of jasmine on her, mingling with the sweetness of her perfume. Wanda stepped up behind Natasha, her hands grasping firmly around her waist, pressing Natasha closer to you, creating a sandwich of passion and power that was hard to resist.

"You've been staring all night, krasotka," Wanda chimed in, her chin coming to rest on the shoulder of the woman before you. "Would you like to dance with Natasha, or do you just enjoy watching?" Her words were playful, but you could sense the challenge beneath the surface. You took a deep breath and stepped closer, your hand sliding around Natasha's waist.

Natasha's smile grew wider as you led the dance, moving in a way that had her captivated. Her hips swayed to the rhythm, and her eyes never left yours. It was as if you were in a trance, the world around you fading into the background as the music played on. You felt a hand on your shoulder, and suddenly Wanda was there, spinning Natasha away and taking her place. "Let's see if you can keep up," she said, her voice low and sultry.

Wanda's moves were more aggressive, her hands stronger, and her gaze more intense. You found yourself matching her step for step, the whiskey buzz enhancing the thrill of the moment. The air was electric, and you could feel the heat from her body as she leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "You're doing well," she murmured, a hint of approval in her voice. You weren't sure if she was talking about your dancing or something else entirely.

Her hand slid down to the small of your back, guiding you closer until your bodies were almost touching. You felt your heart racing, and it wasn't just from the exertion of the dance. This was uncharted territory for you, and yet it felt surprisingly natural. You could feel Natasha's eyes on you, watching from the sidelines with a knowing smile. Natasha soon rejoined you both on the dance floor, her hand dragging across your shoulders before she looped around and stood next to Wanda.

The music grew slower, the lights dimming as the two of them moved in perfect synchrony around you. Their movements were fluid, almost predatory, and you found yourself unable to look away. They whispered to each other, their eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a thrill run down your spine. You didn't know what was happening, but you were definitely into it.

Wanda leaned in closer, her breath hot on your neck as she whispered, "You have our attention, detka, not many can say that." Her words were a challenge, a promise, and a question all rolled into one. Natasha stepped in front of you, her hands framing your face as she searched your eyes for an answer. The intimacy of the moment was stifling, but you found yourself nodding.

The two of them shared a knowing glance, and Natasha's hand slid down to your wrist, guiding you towards a roped-off VIP section of the bar. You felt like you were being led into a lion's den, but instead of fear, all you felt was a thrilling rush of excitement. As you approached, the bouncer nodded, the velvet rope parting like the Red Sea for Moses at their unspoken command.

Suddenly, Natasha pushed you back, the backs of your knees hitting the booth and causing you to fall backward. She climbed up, straddling your waist as Wanda slid in the other side, a wry smile on her face.

"So, tell us, what's a beautiful woman like you doing out here all alone?" Wanda's voice was like velvet, her fingers tracing patterns on your forearm as you both leaned closer. You stuttered out something about a breakup, and Sarah bringing you while trying to keep your cool while Natasha's thighs tightened around yours.

Natasha leaned in, her breath a sweet whisper against your cheek. "A breakup, hmm? Maybe we can help you forget all about her." Her fingers played with the buttons of your shirt, and your breath hitched as one popped open, revealing a sliver of skin. You felt your body responding, a heat building that had nothing to do with the crowded dance floor. You hear Wanda hum behind you as she leans down to your level.

"Well, someone who would break up with someone like you... they must be stupid," she said, her voice a seductive purr. "It just so happens to be your lucky night." Wanda's hand trailed down your neck, sending a shiver through your body. Her touch was firm, yet gentle, and the way she spoke made it clear that she was in charge. "We have been wanting to add to our mix if you will." you groaned as Wanda slid her hand underneath your shirt, dragging her fingernails up your chest. Natasha was a wiggling mess on your lap, your buddy downstairs definitely waking up to the stimulation.

"Wands," Natasha mewled, and confirming your suspicion, when the redhead directed the brunette’s attention to the area below your waist, they both saw the now present erection straining in your pants.

"Looks like someone's eager to join the party," Natasha teased, her voice dropping to a sultry growl. Her hand trailed down your stomach and caressed the bulge in your jeans, making you squirm with pleasure. Wanda's eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in to kiss you, her lips warm and insistent. You tasted whiskey and the promise of something wild as your mouths melded together.

Your skin felt like it was on fire, the feeling of both women running thier hands all over your body, Natasha teasing your member while Wanda took your breath away. Your hands found their way to Natasha's hips, guiding her movements, and she responded with a low, throaty growl. You felt like you were in a dream, one that you never wanted to wake up from. You whined as Wanda pulled away, stopping your movements and Natashas.

"Lyubov," Wanda directed to her partner. "I need her to answer us first, be a good girl and mommy will give you what you need." Natasha's hand stilled, but her eyes never left yours, hunger burning in them that mirrored the one building in your core. "Are you interested," she hesitated as she realized they still didn't know your name.

"Y/N," you gasped out, nodding your head vehemently. You weren't sure if it was the lust-filled state you were in, or the two women raking thier hands all over you, but you couldn't put together a coherent sentence. "Words, Y/N," she growled in your ear, causing your eyes to roll back in your head.

"Fuck yes."

"Good," Wanda smirked.

Her hand slid down to the base of your neck, her grip firm and reassuring. "But you must be clear about what you want, krasotka," she said, her eyes searching yours. "We don't play games."Wanda pulled away, done with the teasing as she pulled the curtain to the room back, signaling to the bouncer at the entrance. "Now, let's get home." Wanda stood, straightening her suit as she stuck her hand back for Natasha to grab. You sat there, bewildered at what just happened.

Natasha smirked as she saw your expression, hopping off your lap. "You're coming with us, yes?" she asked, her hand outstretched. You nodded, unable to find your voice, and took Natasha's hand, allowing her to pull you to your feet. The walk to the exit was a blur, your senses overwhelmed by the smells of sweat and perfume from the other patrons, the lights flashing by in a dizzying array of color. The cool night air hit you like a slap in the face, and you realized you hadn't even asked where 'home' was.

Wanda and Natasha led you to a sleek black car parked out front, the engine purring like a contented cat. The driver opened the back door, and Natasha's eyes never left yours as you slid in. The leather seats were cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered from the dance floor. Wanda got in after you two, her eyes meeting yours with a knowing smile. Natasha climbed on your lap, her hand immediately finding its way back to your neck, sending sparks of desire shooting through your body.

The drive was short, but it felt like an eternity. The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. Natasha's mouth grazed your jawline, her teeth nipping at your earlobe. You could feel her breath, hot and erratic, and your body responded in kind. You didn't know what was waiting for you at their place, but you were eager to find out. The car pulled up to a modern townhouse, the lights inside casting a warm glow onto the sidewalk.

As you entered the townhouse, the vibe was immediately different from the chaotic energy of the bar. The walls were adorned with abstract art, the floorboards gleaming in the soft light of the pendant lights hanging above. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood filled the air, a comforting aroma that somehow made you feel both at ease and incredibly aroused. Wanda led the way upstairs, her hips swaying with purpose, and Natasha followed closely behind, her hand never leaving your neck.

You were guided into a dimly lit room, the centerpiece being a king-sized bed draped in dark red satin sheets. The sight alone was enough to make your heart race faster. Wanda took Natasha's hand, pulling her close for a deep, passionate kiss. The raw desire between them was palpable, and you couldn't help but feel like you were about to witness something incredibly intimate.

Wanda stuck her hand out, beckoning you to come closer. You couldn't resist the magnetic pull, stepping towards them as they broke their kiss. Natasha's eyes never left yours, the fire in them growing with each step you took. Wanda wrapped her hand around the back of your neck, drawing you in for an equally passionate kiss. Your body responded on instinct, your hands finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss was demanding, a declaration of intent that left no room for doubt. You pulled away, grabbing hold of Natasha and pulling her in for a searing kiss, causing Wanda to moan beside you.

"There she is," Wanda mumbled, sliding behind Natasha and kissing the woman's neck. The silk of Natasha's dress slid against your skin, her hands already working to remove your shirt. Wanda's lips trailed down your neck, her teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt Natasha's fingers deftly unbuckling your belt, her eyes never leaving yours as she slid your jeans down. You were now in your boxers, and she was dressed to kill, her dress riding up to reveal the lacy black thong she wore underneath.

The room was a whirlwind of sensations: the soft kisses from Natasha, the possessive grip of Wanda's hand, the scent of their combined desire. You had never felt so alive, so desired, so...needed. Natasha's mouth found yours again, her tongue demanding entry as she began to grind against you, her own need evident. Wanda's hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of your bare chest, her nails scraping along your abs. Finally, you couldn't bear the tension any more, your dominant side suddenly awake to the desire that was so palpable around you.

With a growl, you pushed Natasha onto the bed, her legs spreading in invitation. She was the picture of temptation, her eyes hooded and her lips swollen from your kisses. Wanda took this as a cue to move closer, her hands sliding down to cup your ass as she whispered sweet nothings in your ear, urging you on. You could feel Natasha's eyes on you, watching, waiting. You leaned down, capturing one of her nipples in your mouth, feeling it harden beneath your tongue. Her moan was music to your ears, and you knew you had to give her more.

You slid Natasha's dress up over her hips, revealing the damp fabric of her thong. You could feel the heat emanating from her, and you knew she was ready. Wanda's hands were now at the back of your neck, her nails digging in as she pushed you down further. You slipped Natasha's thong to the side, feeling the slickness of her arousal against your fingertips. You slid one digit inside her, and she arched her back, her nails digging into the bed. Wanda stepped back, watching you with a predatory gaze, her own desire clear as she began to undo the buttons of her shirt.

Watching Wanda out of the corner of your eye, you reached out, and grabbed the collar of her shirt with your free hand pulling her towards you. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as the fabric fell open, revealing her matching black lace bra. You kissed Wanda deeply, your tongue dancing with hers as your finger continued to explore Natasha's wetness. Wanda stepped closer as she undid the clasp of her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts were perfect, the pale skin a stark contrast to Natasha's olive complexion.

Natasha's legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as you slid another finger inside her. She was so wet, her walls clenching around you, begging for more. You felt Wanda's hand at the back of your neck, her thumb brushing against your earlobe as she whispered sweet nothings in Russian. The sound of the fabric tearing was almost as erotic as the moment itself as Natasha tore your boxers off. You felt the warmth of her skin against yours, and it was all you could do not to explode right then and there.

You wrapped your arm around Wanda's waist, throwing her to the bed next to her wife. You continued to pound your fingers into Natasha's heat, using your other hand to deftly undo the button on Wanda's slacks, pulling them down with a swift tug. She gasped at the sudden exposure, her eyes flashing with desire. Natasha's hips were moving in rhythm with your hand, her breathing shallow and erratic. You began to tease Wanda, her arousal ever present in her lace panties. You began to slowly rub her clit through the fabric, her mewls becoming more fervent as she continued to kiss Natasha.

Wanda's hand snaked down, sliding them aside to reveal her glistening pussy. She guided your hand to her, her hips bucking against your palm. You felt Natasha's orgasm building, her muscles tightening around your fingers. You leaned down, capturing Natasha's mouth with yours as she broke away from Wanda, her cries muffled by your kiss as she came.

Wanda's body quivered next to you, the view before her almost too much to bear. Natasha recovered slowly, climbing down onto the floor as she got on her knees before you, you watching with bated breath as your other hand was knuckle-deep in Wanda's pussy.

"Take me," Natasha whispered, her eyes locked onto yours, a hunger in them that was almost feral. "Take us both." You groaned, and Natasha began to stroke your length, gathering the precum that was running down your shaft before taking your entire length in her mouth. You carded your fingers through the red locks, gripping her hair tightly as your other hand worked Wanda open, the brunette squirming and moaning on the bed before you.

Wanda watched intently, her hand gliding over her own breasts, her eyes never leaving yours. The sight was too much for her to handle, so she adjusted, and straddled your hand, grinding against your knuckles as Natasha's mouth worked you to the edge. The two of them were a symphony of pleasure, each movement, each gasp and moan a note that played in perfect harmony.

With Natasha still worshipping your cock, Wanda leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "I want you inside me," she whispered, her Sokovian accent thick with desire. You nodded, the need to claim her was too intense to ignore. You gripped Natasha's hair, pulling her back away from your throbbing member. She looked up at you with her doe eyes, yelping as you pulled her up by her chin and directed her back to the bed.

"Be a good girl for me, princess," you whispered in the redhead's ear, kissing her deeply before directing your attention to the waiting brunette.

Wanda slithered closer, her legs straddling yours, her wetness coating your thighs. She reached down and guided you inside her, her warmth enveloping you like a glove. You groaned, leaning your head back and exposing your throat to the brunette beneath you. The tightness was too much to bear, and so you firmly grasped the milky thighs of the woman before you, leaning down and kissing Wanda with such passion and lust that it made her head spin. You pulled away, growling in her ear. "You ready to find out who is really in charge here, baby?" your voice was thick with desire, your hands gripping her hips. Her piercing green eyes shot open, a challenging stare being shot your way. "Daddy is about to put you in your place." you purr into her ear, a deep moan coming from her as her back arched towards you. You leaned back, pushing yourself as deep as you could within the Sokovian, wiggling just enough to cause her to mewl. "Isn't that right, princess? Daddy is about to make Mommy feel so, so good."

Natasha, not one to be left out, positioned herself at the side of the bed, her breasts heaving as she watched the scene unfold. Her hand slipped down her, her eyes glazed over as she began to touch herself. The sight was almost too much, and you had to fight the urge to abandon Wanda and take Natasha's mouth again. But you had promised to make Wanda feel good. You began to thrust, slow and deep at first, feeling Wanda's walls tighten around you with each stroke. She began to move with you, her hips rising to meet yours, her nails digging into your shoulders. You could feel Natasha's eyes on you, her breathing growing heavier as she watched. Suddenly, Wanda gasped as you changed your pace, thrusting into her hard and fast, the sinful sound of her and Natasha's moans combining with your skin slapping Wanda's wetness, her eyes rolling back into her head as she ran her fingernails down your back.

Wanda's legs began to quiver, her orgasm approaching like a storm on the horizon. Natasha reached out, her hand sliding up Wanda's thigh, her thumb circling the brunette's clit. Wanda's eyes shot open, meeting Natasha's as she felt the pressure building. With a final, powerful thrust, she came, her body tightening around you like a vice, her cries echoing through the room. You leaned down, kissing her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, feeling her pulse race beneath your lips.

Natasha, now standing beside the bed, her hand a blur between her legs, was close to the edge. She looked at you with a wildness in her eyes that was intoxicating. You pulled out of Wanda and stood, your cock still rock-hard and gleaming with her juices. Wanda's breathing was ragged, her body limp with satisfaction, but she managed to give Natasha a knowing smile, urging her to continue. You grabbed the redhead's ankles, pulling her towards you, she squeaked at the shift as you batted her hand away from her glistening heat.

With a smirk, Natasha wiggled closer, her hand moving for yours. She wrapped her hand around your length, stroking you with the same hunger she had shown earlier. You groaned, the pleasure intense as she worked you with the perfect amount of pressure. Wanda's eyes followed the movement, her desire rekindling as she watched Natasha's hand glide up and down your shaft. "It's your turn," Wanda murmured, her voice thick with lust. You snapped out of the daze Natasha had worked you into, and pushed her back, positioning yourself between her toned thighs, your head prodding her entrance.

Natasha's eyes widened with excitement as you began to push inside her, her walls stretching around your cock. She was so wet, so ready, and the feeling was indescribable. You watched as her breasts bounced with every thrust, her red hair a fiery halo around her flushed face. Her eyes never left yours, the connection between you two electric. Wanda leaned in, her tongue tracing Natasha's collarbone, her teeth biting down gently as she watched your bodies come together. Natasha's moans grew louder, her breath coming in gasps as she reached for Wanda's hand, lacing their fingers together.

The room was a symphony of desire, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls, the scent of sex filling the air. You felt Natasha's muscles tighten around you, her back arching as she came, her cry of pleasure music to your ears. Wanda leaned down, capturing Natasha's mouth in a kiss, sharing in her wife's climax. Your own orgasm was building, the pressure in your balls becoming unbearable. You pulled Natasha's legs over your shoulders, going deeper, the feeling of her coming around you too much to handle.

Natasha's moans grew louder, her nails scratching at the bed as she reached for Wanda's breasts, her own nipples hard and sensitive. Wanda's hand slid down Natasha's body, her fingers finding Natasha's clit, rubbing it in tight circles. You watched, entranced, as Natasha's eyes rolled back in her head, her body shuddering with another orgasm. You couldn't hold back any longer, and with a roar, you went to pull out, but Natasha wrapped her legs around you tightly. You buried yourself deep within her, painting her walls white with your cum, the intensity of your release leaving you momentarily blind.

The three of you collapsed onto the bed, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. Wanda chuckled softly, her hand caressing Natasha's cheek. "Looks like you enjoyed yourself," she said, her voice filled with satisfaction. Natasha giggled, her eyes shining with mischief. "I think we all did," she murmured, looking between you and Wanda. You couldn't help but smile, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. For the first time since Ali, you felt alive again.

Wanda looked over at you, a knowing smile on her features. "I think we found ourselves a keeper, Nat."

Natasha, still trying to catch her breath, nodded her head. "Oh, yes," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed as you pulled out of her. She was deliciously messy, your cum spilling out of her as she lay there, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

This breakup wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

READ PT 2 HERE

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cmncisspnandmore · 9 months

Text

One Night Stand; Part 6

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley X Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Shower smut, Slight breeding kink if you squint, Simon Riley being a literal angel, basically all smut with a little bit of plot.

A/N: Hi loves, imma be real, i wrote this entire part in a day. I spent pretty much my entire afternoon writing this after i scrapped about 4 different versions. This is the best i got at the moment. Im still working on this series and requests. Just life is kinda busy. So please bear with me and enjoy the brain rot. This is also not proofread at all so RIP to any grammar police.

Word Count: 3012... This seemed longer.. sowwie, its smol.

New to the Series? Catch up here: Part 5

You sleepily make your way towards the bathroom door, hand closing over the knob as the incessant need to pee urges you forward. It was a little after 2am, you had fallen asleep rather early having spent most of the day lounging around the apartment.

Simon was on base for the day, running training exercises with Soap, Gaz and Captain Price. During the 3 months you have been living with Simon, you have come to learn his patterns. Training days meant that 9 times out of 10 he would spend the night on base. The days before a deployment he would make sure to stock the fridge and pantry with your favorites. On Sundays he did laundry, every 3rd wednesday he would get his haircut. Saturdays after returning for deployment were reserved for going out to Soap’s bar and having a well deserved drink. You also learnt his day to day routine, every morning he was home Simon rose at exactly 5:00am, went on a 12 mile run, when he returned if you weren't already awake he would prepare you a healthy breakfast and leave it out for you before heading to work.

On days when you were awake when he got back from his run he would shower, and you both would spend some time preparing breakfast together. Although those mornings instead of the nutritionally packed meals he usually prepared you often convinced him to make some sort of carb and sugar filled breakfast. Those mornings he would often leave the flat grumbling about how he should’ve run extra. Those mornings were your favorite.

Since you moved in your relationship with Simon had not progressed further than friends, sure there was still the burning desire that he ignited within you from just looking at you. And you would often linger just a little bit too long in his arms when he would give you a hug. But there hadn't been any kissing, and you haven't managed to end up naked in between his sheets. But that wasn't for lack of wanting.

As you shove open the bathroom door, you fail to realize that not only was the light on but the sound of running water was coming from the shower. As you quickly beeline for the enclosed toilet space, you don't feel a set of brown eyes watching your every move from behind the foggy glass. It isn't until you wash your hands in the sink and glance up into the large mirror on the wall that you realize you aren't alone. Through the fogged glass of the mirror you can make out Simon’s large silhouette, his tanned skin reduced to nothing more than a tan blob.

“Oh my god!” You squeak, whirling around, your chest heaving as you finally face Simon. He's mostly obscured by the fogged glass door of the walk-in shower, but his bemused smile is clear. “I didn't think you would be coming home!” You mutter out, your cheeks turning pink as he runs his hand across the glass cleaning away some of the fog. Now you can clearly see his face, although distorted by the water droplets on the glass.

“I should’ve texted you, I'm sorry.. I just didn't want to be late for the appointment in the morning..” Simon says as he reaches up, running his hand through his wet blonde hair.

“No, no! I'm sorry, I should've paid more attention. I'm such an airhead sometimes I didn't realize that there was someone in here..” you rush out as you try to desperately keep your eyes from straying from Simon's face. You aren’t sure if it's the heat from the shower or the pregnancy hormones but it takes all your willpower to keep your eyes from trailing down his toned body.

Simon pauses for a moment, his dark brown eyes trailing over you, from the adorable flush of your cheeks to the swell of your stomach under the sleep shirt you have on. “It’s alright. Love," Simon smiles. One of his panty dropping smiles that you swear he reserves for only you. It's the smile that sends shivers straight to your core. That leaves you a hot panting mess behind closed doors. Living with Simon and not jumping his bones at every opportunity was damn near torture during your second trimester. You were able to take care of things yourself, but now that your bump had grown substantially, you hadn’t been able to find relief.

Without thinking, you walk towards the shower and yank open the door, the hot steam pouring out. Little splashes of water hit your skin as you step into the small space. Your sleep shirt and shorts quickly drenched, as Simon stares at you wide eyed.

“Sweetheart…” Simon warns as your hands come to rest on his wet cheeks, your thumb catching on his bottom lip as he looks down at you, his pupils blown wide. You quickly close the space between you two, your bump pressing against the firm plains of his abs, your arms snaking around his neck as you sharply tug him down to your height. Your lips capture his in a sloppy, wet kiss. Simon groans low in his throat, his chest vibrating against your overly sensitive breasts. A new wave of need pluses through you as you try to get closer, Simon's cock jumping to life as it presses against your lower stomach. Simon's large hands land on your hips squeezing slightly as he turns you, pressing your back against the cold tile wall of the shower.

A startled gasp rushes past your lips as your back makes contact with the cold tile. A shiver running through you as your wet shirt makes it feel colder. Simon smiles against your lips, one hand coming up to graze over your pebbled nipples through the sopping wet fabric of your shirt. A breathy moan slips from you as Simon peppers kisses down the side of your jaw to your neck. The spray from the showerhead now sprays off his shoulders as he leans lower.

“Fuck.. Please,” you whine, nails scratching along the tops of his shoulders Simon wraps his lips around one of your nipples, over the fabric of your shirt. The friction from the wet fabric sends waves of pleasure through you straight to your core, your legs starting to shake with need and Simon has barely touched you.

“Such a needy girl…” Simon murmurs against your skin, as he flicks his tongue across your nipple. Your cheeks flush pink at his words but you’re hanging on to each one like they’re your life line. “Why didn't you just come to me if you needed some help baby?” Simon whispers softly, as his fingers trace the bottom of your bump, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt as he pushes it up.

“I…I don't know,” You mumble your head tipping back against the cold shower wall.

Simon hums, his lips once again brushing across one of your nipples, pulling another moan from you. “God, your tits are amazing. It’s been hell walking around trying not to stare at them. Knowing that my child is the reason, knowing that they are growing to provide milk for our baby,” Simon whispers against your skin, and you swear you could cum just from the sounds of his voice.

“Simon… Please…” you whine, it's small and breathy, in any other circumstance you would be ashamed for sounding so weak, but right now you couldn't give two shits if the damn queen of England was standing here witnessing your plea.

“Tell me what you need baby, I don't want to hurt you..” Simon stands back to his full height, his hand coming to cup the side of your face. You force your eyes open, Simon's beautiful brown eyes staring at you. Simon is a large man, in all aspects of his life and the last thing he would ever want to do is hurt you unintentionally. Especially now, as you carry his child within you, he would rather be buried alive again than accidentally do something to hurt you or the baby.

“I need you to bend me over and fuck me senseless. I feel like I'm going to explode,” you whine, your needy hands coming to rake down his bare chest, sending a shiver through Simon's entire body.

“Whatever you need, Love,” Simon grunts before he bends down and picks you up, nudging open the shower door with his shoulder as he cradles you against his wet chest. He doesn’t stop to turn off the shower or even dry himself off as he brings you into his room. He sets you down on your feet and quickly drops to his knees in front of you. His still warm hands catching the waistband of your wet sleep shorts. He pulls them down your legs, goosebumps erupting across your skin from the sudden change in temperature.

Simon presses a series of soft kisses to the stretched skin of your stomach, his hands briefly cupping your belly/ “Hi Lovie,” he whispers softly to your bump and if you weren’t so ravishingly horny you could cry. The sight of probably one of the scariest men you know on his knees in front of you talking to his unborn child makes you want to scream in the best way. But your mind quickly goes blank as Simon's fingers trace the smooth skin of your inner thigh.

“Turn around, elbows on the bed, pet,” Simon stands again, his hands on your shoulders as he gently turns you. As if on autopilot you lean forwards, resting your elbows on the bed, giving Simon a perfect view of your ass. A deep groan hits your ears as Simon's hand comes to massage the puffy flesh of your ass. Your skin prickles with anticipation as his fingers dip lower, gathering the slick wetness from between your thighs. The breath wooshed from your lungs as he thrusts one finger into your slick cunt.

“You’re so wet for me, such a good girl aren't you?” Simon hums, lazily thrusting his finger before he adds a second. You tip your hips back, trying to make him go faster, this slow languid pace he was setting was driving you mad. You needed to be fucked, and god damn if you didn't get it right now you were going to cry.

“Si…” you whine, pushing your hips back into his hand as he curls his fingers within you.

“Hmm?”

“I’m pregnant, not made of fucking glass. I swear if you don't fu-” Your voice cuts off as Simon slams into you in one quick thrust. Your world spins for a moment and if you hadn't been holding onto the bed for support you would’ve fallen over. A startled gasp passes your lips and Simon all but freezes. “No please don't stop, it just feels different but not in a bad way…” You quickly mumble reaching back haphazardly with one hand to try and grab Simon's hip to force him to move.

“You sure?” Simon mumbles, his hands coming to rest on your hips, as he slowly pulls out before sinking back in.

“Oh god, yes, please,” you moan, your face now pressed into the mattress. That was all it took for Simon to continue, his hips thrust into you at a rapid pace, obscene moans leaving your lips as he slams home each time. Sex felt different this time, there was no slight burn from how big Simon was but you felt full, so deliciously full. You had been worried about having sex at any point during your pregnancy, having read that some women have no sex drive during pregnancy, especially the 3rd trimester. But thank the lord above it was not the case for you. Your thoughts turn to nothing as Simon lets out a harsh moan, your walls fluttering around him.

“Fuck baby, you’re squeezing me so tight,” Simon grunts as he adjusts his grip on your hip bones,his fingertips digging into your skin.

“Feels so good Simon.. I'm gonna cum..” You whimper as the familiar coil in your stomach tightens, teetering on the edge of release as he pounds into you. Your skin slapping against each other so loud you're sure the neighbors know what's going on.

“Cum for me baby,” Simon leans forward, one hand wrapping around your shoulder as he pulls you up slightly, your elbows no longer resting on the bed as he pulls you up against his chest. His hips still pistoning into you as he uses the new position to fuck into your harder. You reach up and grab the back of his neck with your hand, anchoring yourself to him, your other hand coming to find the hand still on your waistline. You guide his hand up to your throat where he gives it a gentle squeeze.

That small squeeze was all you needed to go tumbling over the edge into oblivion. Stars dance in front of your vision as the world goes quiet for a moment. Simon finds his own release moments after yours, his entire body tensing behind you. As you turn to putty in his arms, “Woah, I’ve got you,” Simon whispers into your sweaty hairline as his arms carefully wrap around you and he manages to slip out of you and hold you up.

“Sorry,” you mumble, fully sated as you lean against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, one arm firmly around you, right under your breasts the other resting lightly on your bump. His fingers softly rubbing along your soft skin.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Simon grunts, maneuvering you to the edge of the bed where he helps lower you into it.

“I just basically jumped you in the shower… “ you mutter, your eyes heavy as exhaustion hits you like a freight train hitting a brick wall.

Simon pauses as he gathers your wet pj’s from the floor and shoves them into his laundry basket. “You think I would be upset by you jumping me in the shower?” He asks, a small smile on his face.

You lift your head, watching as he shoves the clothes into the basket and grabs a black long sleeve shirt from the closet. He walks over, standing in front of you still in all his naked glory, the shirt in his hands. “Well.. I mean.. we haven’t exactly expressed wanting more than friendship..”

“Love, I’ve been taking it slow because I thought you only wanted to be friends… not because I wanted to. God, watching you walk around the apartment, your stomach growing with my child drives me insane, I’ve wanted to bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you sensless every morning since the first day you got here.” Simon pulls the shirt over your head, and you put your arms through, the shirt still fits loosely even over your baby bump.

“Oh…” you freeze for a moment, you and Simon had gotten closer over the time you’ve lived with him. You had learnt about his past, about his mother and brother. About his nephew. You held him when he cried one night, his words a broken mess of how he was afraid he would turn out to be his dad. How he wished he could talk to his brother one last time, so he could ask him how he got past the fear of turning into his dad. How he handled the fear of being a dad when he had Joseph.

But the entire time you had lived together Simon had always treated you with respect, he never touched your stomach without asking. He always made sure to keep a respectable distance from you when you were on the couch. He never entered your room without permission and never asked about your life before coming to London.

But it wasn’t to say you didn’t share things with Simon, he knew your favorite color, your worst fear (unrelated to your family’s passing) , your greatest wish, he knew what you used to dream about being as a little kid. He knew that your favorite food could make you smile on your worst days, and that you liked to watch old sitcoms when it rained. If someone was to look into your conversations they would probably think you were already together. That you probably didn’t flaunt the physical aspects of your relationship. Simon had quickly broken down the walls you had put up around yourself, and had comfortably made his own spot in your heart.

Simon sits next to you, now dressed in a pair of black sweatpants, his large hand covering yours. You slowly look up at him, his brow furrowed as he studies your face. The small scar in his eyebrow evident this close, you reach out running a finger across it. The skin is slightly raised and water drips from his hair onto your finger.

“Then you should stop fighting the urge…” you finally whisper, your hand cupping the rough skin of Simon’s face.

“Would you be okay with that? With me touching you whenever I wanted… holding you.. kissing you?” Simon whispers, his eyes closing for a moment as he leans into your hand.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, your forehead coming to rest against his, your eyes closed. For a moment you just sit there. Your foreheads pressed together, your breath mingling.

Could you be okay with that?

Could you let someone in that way?

Let someone get close enough that they could see all the broken and jagged edges of you?

Could you open yourself up to losing someone again?

The thought of Simon being gone suddenly, ripped away from you by some unknown, the same person who ripped your siblings and mother away from you makes you want to vomit.

But a small part of you chimes in, the part that knows Simon isn’t defenseless like your family was. Simon was a trained military man, a man who single handedly killed an entire crew for crossing him. He could handle himself. He had proved that time and time again in the field. He also had the rest of 141, the team who would go to the ends of the earth to find him.

You open your eyes, and look at Simon, the answer on the tip of your tongue as you stare at his beautiful face. His light blonde stubble, the small scars, the crook in his nose, the slightly uneven line of his lower lip. “Yes… I-I want that.. I want all of it.”

Next Part: 7

Taglist: @coffeeandtealol, @natashamea18

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thegnomelord · 10 months

Note

#23 with male reader and soap. After a mission m!reader helps him clean himself in the shower maybe because soap got injured on the field or just really sore. And he washes off the blood/dust/dirt and helps dry him off and it turns into something kinda fluffy. I just wanna play with this man's stupid mohawk so bad.

Honestly me too, I just see that strip of hair and get the urge to tug on it, completely forgetting the man's fictional 😅 Ended up writing washing his hair and showering together because hyperfixation lol Play the game HERE.

Prompt: Washing their hair

CW: NSFW but no sex, non sexual nudity, M reader, showering together, hair washing, just fluffy fluffy fluff.

As much as you care about Soap, you've got to admit he's a bit of a dumbass, a reckless dumbass to boot. You tell him to be careful and what does he do? End up falling out of a second story window and rolling down a good 60 feet down a muddy hill while chasing after a target. You hear him swear the entire way down from where you're tucked away safely behind the sight of your sniper rifle.

By the time you get back to base Johnny feels as miserable as he looks, covered in so much mud you can't see his skin and his entire back wreathed in dull throbbing pain, not to mention the numerous cuts and scraps. And that's on top of Price chewing him out about safety and Ghost and Gaz teasing him the entire flight back to base.

"Not a word lad," He growls, giving you the stink eye. "Price already yapped me ear off." Soap turns to his heel in an attempt to head to the communal showers, biting his lip to stop himself from swearing out god, king, and country when his muscles scream at him.

"Wasn't going to." You stop him, one firm hand tugging on his bulletproof vest so you don't jostle him too much, though even that has drops of mud splashing on your clothes. "Come on, you can shower in my room."

He looks at you skeptically, but it doesn't take much to sway his mind when you offer him simple comforts; privacy, warm hands to wash away the days pains, a warmer body to remind him he's alive. He follows you without a word, neither one of you caring about the mud you track— tomorrow's problems.

"Foooock." The groan comes deep from his bones, perfectly encapsulating all he feels as you methodically unclip his gear, taking the world's weight off his shoulders and dropping it haphazardly on the bathroom's tiled floor. "Feel like a fockin' hog," He frowns.

"Look like you rolled in a pig sty." You helpfully supplement, receiving a few words in Gaelic which you don't even attempt to understand, though the humor in his tone is crystal clear even when you take hold of the bottom of his shirt; the mud and grime had gone through every layer of clothing, leaving not a single inch of skin clean.

He attempts to raise his arms to help you, only to suddenly yell out a "Oh ye fockin' cunt!" when pain flares from his shoulder down the entire length of his spine. You swear you hear his spine crack at least a dozen times by the time you pull his shirt off his mud wet skin.

"You sound like an old geezer." You chuckle to lighten the mood, dropping to your knees to untie his shoelaces and take off his boots, then the rest of his clothes.

"Says the bloke who's left knee tells the weather." He bites back, a bit of teeth on display as he grimaces, another few curses leaving his lips when he has to lower his arm. "Or tries to, yer got as much accuracy as the bloody reporters on the telly."

"Starting to complain like one too," You add, not at all surprised when Soap proceeds to brush his muddy hand across your face. "Of you fucker," Your words gain a childish little giggle from him, and he lets you guide him into the shower.

Your bathroom's one of the few that has a tub in it —a relic of past tenants before the army remodeled the base into an actual military installation— you had to bribe Price with a lot of high quality cigars to get it, but every penny was worth it. There's a tap as well as a detachable showerhead up top that Johnny eagerly uses, turning the water hot and just standing under the stream while you disrobe.

The clean water turns muddy the second it hits his skin, brown muck swirling around your feet as you step into the tub behind him. "How's that sweetheart?" You ask, taking the soap bottle and squirting a heavy amount onto your hands, not bothering with a sponge and instead using your fingers to wash away the dirt on his skin.

"Heaven." Johnny sighs, his muscles fluttering beneath your hands, mud and blood washing away to reveal deep blooming bruises across his back. "Shite, that hits the spot." He leans against you, the slow but firm pressure of your fingers massaging the sore muscles around the blotchy bruises making him groan. You lean in to place gentle kisses on the darkest bruises, "So good fer me bonnie," he hums, using his arms the best he can to at least wash the mud off his face.

You two float in a sort of mindless space where nothing outside the shower matters, the sound of water running and Soap's occasional groan filling your ears, all your focus on the way your hands rub him down; from shoulders to his back, down to his feet and then back up to his face when he turns around.

Once the water runs clear again you turn off the shower and start the tap so the tub fills with enough water to keep him warm, maneuvering him to sit in the tub while you step out to dry yourself off and put on boxers.

"Don't need ta be pampered like a show mutt," He grumbles, the hot water easing the soreness in his frame and making his exhaustion prominent, Johnny's eyelids starting to droop despite his best efforts to stay awake.

"I know, but you hair's a damn crow's nest." You snort, running your fingers through the mess on his head and showing the gunk stuck on your fingers, hell, you even pull a damn twig out.

His eyes widen, "Well fock me," Soap grimaces, gives a bone deep sigh as you settle behind him, sitting partially on the tub. Cupping water in your palms you rub your fingers down the length of his mohawk, loosening the dirt sticking to the strands until rivulets of watery mud run down his neck.

"Maybe later." You both chuckle, squirting the shampoo Soap always loves to smell on you in your hand and lathering your palms up before bringing them back to his hair. Soap mumbles something, leaning his head into your hands whenever you scratch a particularly itchy spot on his scalp.

His head tips back as much as his aching shoulders let him, his eyes settling on your face. I got it made, he thinks to himself, desperately trying to keep his eyelids open so he can see how you focus on even a simple task like washing his hair. Every brush of your fingers across his dirty strands fills his chest with lingering warmth, every scratch of your nails across his scalp making his eyes droop just a bit more.

Johnny doesn't even notice the slight sting when you occasionally tug on a knot, your touch making his mind buzz pleasantly like the low background static of a TV on late nights, and Soap doesn't realize he's dosing off.

You notice how he leans against your leg, leaning over to see his eyes closed and chest steadily rising and falling. You let him sleep for a bit while you finish up cleaning his hair and then use the detachable shower head to wash the bubbly shampoo off.

"What is'it?" He mumbles when you gently shake him awake, eyelids fluttering open and shut.

"Need you to get up Johnny." You hum and it's laughable how easily he follows your instructions, needing a bit of help to stand up when his back still aches like hell, a shiver racing down his spine as the cold air of your bathroom nips at his skin. "Fock, do'ah look like a snowman?" He grumbles at the cold.

You chuckle instead of saying anything, silencing any other complaints with sweet kisses on his lips as you towel him dry.

Soon after you two are huddled under the covers, his body draped over yours and using your chest as a pillow. Your fingers card through his slightly damp hair, the soft brown strands like feathers against your skin and your touch making him sigh and melt against you.

"Hey lad?" He suddenly says, voice a gentle whisper; like he's about to reveal a secret kept from the world — something only meant for you.

"Yeah Johnny?" You ask, a few stars reflecting in his blue eyes from your window.

Your heart melts at the soft and goody smile he gives you, "Love you." he says, leaning his head into your hand that's in his hair.

You smile and lean your head to kiss him, "Love you too," You mutter against his lips, and when you pull away he's already drifted off to sleep like a babe, soft breath tickling your skin and arms possessively wrapped around your waist like you'll disappear.

But you catch the way he smiles in his sleep.

#Gnome's prompt game #gnome correspondence #cod mw2 #x reader #trinkets from the hoard #top male reader #male reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x male reader #john soap mactavish x reader #sub character #sub john soap mactavish #fluff #so much fluff

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flowerfreya · 25 days

Text

Weaponized Incompetence

“Do you know how to clean”

Part 1

Pairing : John Price x Reader

John and you are going through a rough patch , one that may not be solvable

John is going to win his wife back. How? He doesn’t know but it will be done. He loves you with all his heart and he hasn’t been showing it in the best way. He put you on the back burning , a constant always in his life that he didn’t nurture or pet. Never stimulated. Didn’t think he needed too. Thinking paying the bills, having money, and not cheating was enough to be a good husband. (It wasn’t).

Price has been cleaning all day, trying to make things right. He brought flowers for the house. Vacuumed every room , mopped the kitchen and bathroom and started laundry.

He thought he had a great day, so he decided to take leave for the next three weeks. He hasn’t told you yet but he thinks that you will be excited.

That’s not the case.

When you step into the house, Price is standing at the door waiting for your reaction, if you have any at all.

Looking around and then seeing his face and looking likes he’s waiting for something, “What’s going on ?” , you say with a little chuckle.

“I cleaned up” , he says, lifting his arms up and turning his body in a look around motion.

“Oh…what did you clean up?” , you ask, starting to walk around the house.

“I vacuumed, mopped and started the laundry”.

“Did you put down carpet freshener?”

“No”

“What did you use to mop?”.

“Just water”.

“Did you separate the clothes by light and dark?”.

“No”.

John looks up and sees you just exasperated and shaking your head.

“I honestly don’t know why I’m surprised”, you walk over to the washing machine and stop it, pulling out a light pink shirt that you know is for sure supposed to be white.

“John, you basically just pushed dirt around when you mop with just soap you know that right”, you start getting the mop bucket out with soap.

He thinks that’s found a solution , “maybe if you write me a l-”, he stops talking when you whip your neck and stare at him.

“Are you a child or an adult?”, you ask.

“An adult”, he answers.

“I’m not making you a list to clean, you're in the military, you should know how to clean…do you know how to clean?”, you turn off the water and turn your whole body towards him., “are you going to answer the question?”

John clears his throat,”yes, I know how to clean”, he doesn’t understand why you are so angry. He thinks that he did a lot for you today, shit almost everyday he does a lot for you and you being angry at him and not telling him why is starting to grate his nerves.

“What did I do to you”, he snaps, “because you are angry at me and I don’t understand why”

“I guess it’s because you act like a child and I’m tired of it”, you snap back.

“I heard what you said to your friend over the phone, do you actually feel like that?”, he ask, moving closer to you. He doesn’t want to argue with you. He wants to be better for you. He wants you to want him not because of convenience , but because you love him.

“Am I tired of cleaning of your shit, shit that I have AKSED you multiple times to clean up….?”, you answer him.

You start to cry, an angry frustrated cry , “I work too you know , I’m tired all the time, and when I get home from work and see nasty dip bottles on the floor I get frustrated.” , you start to mop , like you don’t want him to see you cry.

“I remember asking you to clean up the bottle, to not leave it just laying around, you said okay, do you remember that”, you look up at him with raised eyebrows. He nods his head because he does remember that, actually he remembers all the times you’ve asked to not leave the dip bottles everywhere.

“In my head, I told myself that this would be the last time I ask you to clean up after yourself, and the next week a fucking dip bottle sitting right along side the couch”, you let a self deprecating chuckle.

“I’m done”, you say with such finality. It scares him that he won’t be able to get you back.

#john price x reader #task force 141 #men are stupid and I don’t respect them

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spectres-n-soap · 9 months

Text

Soap x reader x Ghost Let's Walk in The Grass

Content Warnings - Angst, grief, unplanned pregnancy, mentions of a pregnant afab body, slow burn, MW3 is canon

"Alright." Price responds. "Light duty until maternity leave." You nod and exit the office once he dismisses you. Closing the door behind you, you gulp down the salvia that had built in your throat. You rest your head against the cool brick for just a moment and steady your shaking hands before you began to walk to your own office. You open the door, your mind too muddled to recognize that it was unlocked.

You turn on the light and jump back when you see Ghost sitting in your chair. The sight might had made you laugh in a different time. A time when Soap was alive to laugh with you at the sight of Ghost dwarfing the desk chair. You clutch at your heart or the part of your shirt that it was under. "You scared me Lieutenant." You mutter and lean against the door after closing it. "Can I help you?"

Ghost pulls a plastic, clear baggie from his pocket that held the three at home pregnancy tests that you had taken in the girls bathroom. He places the baggie onto your desk. You look between him and the tests, disgust washing through you when you realize he had to dig through a trash can to find these. Then horror settles into your gut when you meet his hazel eyes, something angry stirring behind a thin layer of indifference.

"How long?" He asks, voice gruff and grating. Maybe it was his natural voice or from years of smoking and yelling.

"None of your business." You reply sharply, matching his own narrowing eyes with your own. "If thats all." You step aside and motion towards the door.

" 'M not goin' anywhere."

"This is my office."

"And I'm your superior officer."

You clench your jaw. You know that Ghost was a hard-ass. You had worked with him for easily two years, more if you counted the times before the task force. "Five weeks." You finally concede, "Satisfied?"

"No."

You throw up your hands in exasperation with a huff, "I gave you the answer. What else could you want?"

"The full story." Ghost leans ack in the chair. Your chair.

You can't help the laugh that comes from you; harsh and bitter. "With no respect sir, that's none of your business." It was hard to deny the chemistry that Ghost and Soap had. The banter and subtle shows of affection. Ghost, the bastard, was a smart as much as he was a hard-ass. Had he figured it out? Or had Soap blabbed about that night? You purse your lips at the thought and the silence that filled the office.

That night hadn't happened on base, you had sworn Soap to secrecy. He might had loved to talk but you trusted that he had taken that secret to his grave among many others. Eventually Ghost stands from the chair and leaves. You don't waste a second before locking the door behind him.

You sit at your desk and touch nothing. You stare at the small pile of paperwork, listen to the tick-tock of the clock and close your eyes. You could almost hear the laughter that used to bounce off the walls of this office and flow through the halls.

"Don't say it." You warned, narrowed eyes met Soaps gleaming ones. "One more joke and you're banned from my office."

"As come off it lassie." His scottish accent warmed the room, "Just one more."

"MacTavish." You grumbled and his smile only grew.

"What do ya call a solider who survived mustard gas and pepper spray?" He asked and chuckled when you groaned. "A seasoned veteran."

"I hate you."

"Ye wound me," A devilish smile grew on his face, he had another joke to tell.

You wipe at the tears that run down your face with a shaky breath. You felt like a fool, a fool for not holding onto every moment Soap gave you. You had suspected Soap had gotten those jokes from Ghost but you never asked, simply because you didn't care. Soap was spent time with you, told stupid jokes and you loved him. You glance at the wall to your right. His office had already been cleaned out but the spot he would sit on your desk was still empty.Patiently awaiting something that would never happen again. You still love him.

You couldn't help but think about how Soap would've reacted if he was here now. Once, while the both of you were a couple drinks in, he had told you that he wanted a family. The memory was fuzzy on the details, how the topic had come up wasn't something you remembered. Still, you wondered if he would have jumped for joy at the news.

It must have been a funny sight to see, a member of the task force waddling around base. Thats what you thought to keep your sanity at least. You had to waddle, you lost the ability to see your feet a month ago. Price of course did approve the leave request you had put in. Gaz held you steady as you walked up the steps towards the offices. You couldn't believe today was the last day and then you were off for 52 weeks.

Unprompted, Gaz had stuck by your side since the second trimester. Of course he didn't push your boundaries but he helped you climb stairs and keep the rookies you were training from causing too much trouble. "I'm fucking massive." You mutter, huffing and puffing when you finally arrive at your office door. Gaz gives you a empathic smile because you both knew who waited inside your office. Fucking Ghost.

Ghost hadn't given up and at this point you knew he knew the truth. That the baby was Soap's, you suspected Ghost just wanted to hear you admit it. You push the door open and stare right into Ghost's hazel eyes. Gaz, smartly, walks away after closing the door. "What?" You snap, too tired and pregnant to deal with Ghost.

"Just say it." His voice overflows with raw grief, the voice of a man who was at the end of his rope. He was begging you. "Please."

"Why do you care so much?" You ask, tone cold as you tilt your chin up.

"Because its all we have left of him." At least he was right about you only having this piece of Soap. When his office and bunk had been cleaned out, it seemed everyone had gotten something of his. Everyone but you. This baby, this piece of John MacTavish was all you had now. "He drew you." Ghost whispers, pulling you from your building rage. "Pages and pages of sketches of you."

"Ghost-"

"Let me hear it. I'll step in because he can't."

"I don't understand." You mutter and wipe away the tears that had begun to build on your waterline. "You don't need to anything for me."

Ghost shook his head, "This is all we have left of him. I loved him." HIs voice cracks under the weight of his pain, "I want to do right by him. I've had 38 weeks to think about this. 38 weeks of watching this piece of Johnny grow with the knowledge he never knew. And the knowledge that he wouldn't have wanted you and the baby to be alone." Ghost stands up from the chair only to walk over and kneel down, he doesn't touch your belly. He seems to hesitate before grabbing your hand, "Please let me do right by him."

---

Ghost- Simon, whatever he wanted you call him, looks at you with disbelief when he sees your flat building. It was old, not in the best neighborhood but it wasn't like you spend a ton of time at your flat. "No." He states, like it would change reality.

"Yes." You grumble and twist the keys in the ignition of his truck off before getting out, ignoring his protests and cursing. "You said you wanted to help, so you're gonna help but on my own terms." You say as you move just about as fast as your body would let you. You had 11 weeks to set up the spare room in your flat for the baby.

Ghost pulls your duffel bag from the bed of his truck and follows you into the apartment, noting how there was no doorman or security. He also noticed the dirty carpet in the halls, the peeling paint and the water damage. He bit his tongue to keep from saying anything.

You waddle up the stairs to your flat, stopping at the top for a second to catch your breath. You swat away Ghost's hand before walking to your apartment door. You begin with the top deadbolt and work your way down to the doorknob lock. Finally, you open the door to your reasonably sized flat. Despite the state of the outside hallway, the flat was rather nice looking. Which didn't say much. Its paint wasn't peeling at least. Ghost sets the duffel bag onto your table and walks around the flat. Two bedrooms, the couch was clearly not new, perhaps a hand-me-down. Kitchen only had non-perishables inside but was stocked with pots, pans and the other needs for a human.

For an adult human. Not a baby. There was a lot of work to do in these last 11 weeks.

#john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #soap #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #john soap mctavish x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley

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suddencolds · 2 months

Text

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction.

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time.

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful.

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite.

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.”

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?”

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have.

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries.

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to france to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached.

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?”

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves.

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard.

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely.

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew.

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch.

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod.

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully. He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head.

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color.

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did i—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead. It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds.

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly.

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place.

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the original car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?”

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh… hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.”

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight.

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours.

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously.

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.”

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -#- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - (adding in my a/n under the cut)#i have a lot of thoughts about this chapter as a whole #just editing + finishing off the last 2k of this took me 12 hours T.T #(maybe unsurprisingly) emotional intimacy and caretaking are very hard for me to write;#of the fics i've posted to this blog not many of them focus on the c portion of the h/c just in general?#so this was somewhat uncharted territory for me #i hope it's not too niche to resonate w anyone else 😭🙏#yvverse #my fic #also on a lighter note. i have been looking forward to writing yves caretaking for so long 😭😭😭😭😭

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newyork-institute · 4 months

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Imagining a fantasy/supernatural!au where Laswell has sent TF141 into Italy to deal with mafia vampires, resurgences of domovoi in Russia.

Imagining Soap rising from the ashes after his death, not understanding why he was alone in the middle of nowhere, naked, his skin sensitive like it had been burned. Turns out he had phoenix blood in him, much to the relief of the others.

I like to imagine them working for their country and trying to root out the bad creatures that stalk and hunt in the dark. Werewolves in London turned out to be a rabied dog, a Cujo looking motherfucker who was weighed in at 250 pounds after he nearly tore Gaz's leg apart. He underwent a month of rabies treatment before being cleared for work.

I like to imagine them deciding to retire after watching an innocent creature be hauled away in handcuffs, begging, screaming, to just kill her, a shrill cry sounding in the night as Laswell had to calm the boys down.

"It's outside of our jurisdiction, John! Familiars aren't allowed in-" "That's bullshit, Kate, and you know it." "Our hands are tied."

I like to imagine Price retiring to a decent-sized coastal town, buying himself a serious fixer-upper quite a ways from town that in a little secluded part of the beach, private property allowing himself a perfect, unobstructed view of the blue waves crashing onto the white beach.

(This idea has been living in my head-rent free for months now)

Months later, after the front part of the house is renovated, Price looks out his kitchen window one morning, seeing something washed up on shore.

Imagine the shock on Price's face when he realized a mermaid was unconscious on his beach, blood surrounding a massive wound in their side from something big.

Imagine him bending down, checking to find a pulse, and feeling relieved when he found one.

Imagine him carrying them to his house, not being able to leave them there to die. He places them gently in his tub, grabs his first aid kit, and goes to work on cleaning, stitching, and bandaging the massive gash.

Imagine him hauling up gallons of ocean water to pour into the tub, noticing how dry and gray their skin was as they lay unconscious in his tub.

Imagine him sitting vigil in his bathroom, trying to keep his eyes on the creature in his tub while he did as much research as he could on mermaids. (They were thought extinct by that point, the last recorded sighting of one being in 1933.)

Imagine him doing everything he could to make sure they survived, hoping and praying they would wake up.

Imagine him waiting weeks for them to wake up, their wound seeming unable to heal, even if Price kept checking on it every couple of hours.

Imagine one night, he's unable to stand the cold, hard linoleum of the bathroom floor, deciding then to sit on the couch and keep up his research, taking notes until midnight, passing out not too long after he started a video he found on some website.

Imagine him going into the bathroom the next morning to check on the mermaid in his tub, but being met with sharp, wide eyes staring him down, their frame tense and spikes and fins covering their flesh.

Imagine them trying to figure each other out while they heals in his tub.

Imagine mermaids adoring being doted on, being bestowed gifts and being complimented.

Imagine Price, who is absolutely fascinated by their beauty as color kept creeping back into their skin as time passed, their side healing and their strength returning.

Imagine him being unable to help himself one night as they swapped stories, his hand grabbing theirs and kissing their knuckles.

Imagine the blush that rises on their face, unable to stop themself from staring openly at Price, their breath caught in their throat as he kissed up their arm, reaching their shoulder and neck.

Imagine Price nipping and biting their neck, a moan slipping past their lips.

"You are the most breath-taking thing I've ever seen in my life, love."

Imagine them pulling Price's face up, looking into his eyes and feeling their very soul quivery at the look in his eyes.

Imagine him nearly falling into the tub with how hard they pull him down into a kiss.

#cod #captain price #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #kate laswell #imagine #fantasy/supernatural!au #cod x gn!reader #task force 141 #john price x reader #mermaids #soap is a phoenix #brainrot #mermaid!reader #john price x gender neutral reader #john price x you #john price x mermaid!reader

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femmefatalevibe · 2 years

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Femme Fatale Playbook: How To Look More Expensive & Elevate Your Aura

Looking expensive or 'rich' is all about investing in yourself, your appearance, how you carry yourself, and not shying away from signature details or indulgences. Here are some tips to level up your look and demeanor to feel high-class in your daily life – no matter how much money you want to spend in these life arenas.

Appearance:

Prioritize Proper Grooming: Always looking clean and put-together is the ultimate sign of class. Shower daily. Brush, and take care of your teeth. Wash your hair on a regular schedule. Never allow your hair to look greasy – brush and blow dry it regularly. Cleanse, exfoliate, and moisturize every inch of your face and body. Perform your skincare routine religiously. Apply sunscreen daily.

Tailor & Steam Your Clothes: Freshly-pressed and well-fitting clothes always look infinitely more expensive – no matter their price point. Looking rich and expensive is about high self-regard and paying attention to the little details. Ensure your garments look crisp and clean – no wrinkles, pet hairs, loose threads, lint pieces, or fabric bulges highlighting an improper fit.

Create A Classic & Streamlined Capsule Wardrobe: Simplicity radiates a chic sophistication. Go back to the basics with timeless pieces – like a button-down blouse, a classic crewneck sweater, black trousers or straight-leg jeans, leather pants, a leather jacket, a trench or wool coat, a well-fitting cami or tee shirt, a simple slip dress, or a knit set. Focus on a neutral color palette – black, champagne, dark grey, chocolate brown, camel, or crisp white shades. Seek out elevated fabrics – such as Pima cotton, cashmere, washable silk, and buttery vegan or recycled leather.

Invest In Signature Pieces: Spend on "outer shell' items – coats, jackets, heavyweight knits, handbags, and shoes – that directly interact with the outside world and can be worn repeatedly with almost every outfit. Save on items like tee shirts or more simple jewelry pieces that can be found for less while still being fairly high-quality. I recommend Everlane, Lilysilk, and Naadam for affordable basics (Frankie Shop, Skims, and Norma Kamali for moderately priced pieces) and Catbird and Oma The Label for well-priced accessories. Here are all the everyday essentials you need to build the ultimate Femme Fatale Wardrobe.

Simplify Your Beauty Routine: Fresh, clear, and glowy skin radiates rich girl energy. A well-curated skincare routine should do half the heavy lifting. However, you will probably want to include a shade-matched foundation, concealer, and powder into your makeup routine along with a bronze contour, a rosy blush, and a subtle highlighter. Shape and fill in your brows for a polished look. Apply a deep black mascara to your lashes and luscious black eyeliner to your top lid, waterline, and tight line – keep the strokes thin and crisp (create a subtle wing if desired). Finish your face with a deep pink nude, red, or deep wine lipstick/gloss/lip tint. Here's a guide to the ultimate Femme Fatale Beauty Routine for a completely elevated (and sensual) look.

Eat Healthfully & Workout: Health is wealth. Taking care of your body shows self-respect – your most priceless asset. So, incorporate whole, plant-based foods into your daily diet and make it a priority to find movement you love that you can incorporate into your routine multiple times a week.

Lifestyle:

Streamline The Details: The rich girl aesthetic is all about refinement and looking put together at all times. Always have a set of matching pens with coordinating notepads on your desk, a uniform set of coffee mugs on the counter, coasters, glassware, sheets, pillowcases, cold-weather accessories, etc. This attention to detail instant makes your environment look more expensive.

Have Personalized Stationery: A high-value woman isn't shy about leaving her signature touch. Have personalized stationery (thank you notes, greeting cards, business cards, etc.) monogrammed and on hand for anytime you need to send a note or gift to a friend, coworker, boss, client, etc. This addition shows your attention to detail, leaves the recipient something small to remember you by, and adds a human touch to any gift or gesture. Try gold lettering on cream cards for an elegant, expensive look.

Keep Prosecco & Sparkling Water On Hand: Bubbly on a budget feels just as expensive as champagne (and tastes great too). Sparkling water elevates your daily H20 – add some lemon, lime, orange wedges, or frozen berries for a fancy, fruity twist.

Have Proper Place Settings: Neat, thoughtful presentation exudes class and rich energy. Whenever hosting any type of sit-down event or cocktail party, have the plates stacked, glasses and cutlery arranged correctly. Have all of the appropriate utensils readily available. Again, it's all about the details.

Stay Informed & Well-Read: A thirst for knowledge, learning and having the ability to engage in thoughtful, informed, and intellectual imbues a high-class radiance into any room. Read books, learn about different cultures and current events, and invest in studying different industries, and interests. Explore your hobbies. A rich mindset translates and generates an overall elevated aura.

Demeanor:

Learn Proper Etiquette: Address people by name, and offer a firm handshake. Maintain eye contact. Say "please" and "thank you." RSVP promptly. Communicate clearly and compassionately.

Maintain Good Posture: Shoulders back and relaxed. Open your chest. Keep your back straight and your head held high. Take up space. Command presence.

Master The Art of Engaging Conversation: Prioritizing self-presentation, learning how to listen, holding your own, and encouraging others to feel relaxed are the secrets to becoming magnetic in any social situation. Read more of my tips HERE.

Embrace An Abundant Mindset: Free your mind of limiting beliefs and notions of scarcity. There are plenty of opportunities, experiences, and emotions to go around. Another person's success doesn't take away from your potential. Focus on expansion, not envy.

Remain Confident & Unbothered: Believe in yourself. Invest in your well-being. Prioritize your goals and block out the noise from anyone trying to tear you down or criticize you for your ambition, goals, or desires. Stay in your own lane. Allow others to do the same. This is how you level up to elevate into your queen energy to create a rich life and design your dream reality.

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chin-chilla-7 · 2 years

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Obey Me Brothers: Falling Asleep with MC

This is a little headcanons post about what a normal night would look like between you and each brother.I was thinking about it last night while trying to fall asleep and thought it was really cute. So here you go!

Not spicy - just about sleep.

Lucifer

You find that his bed is rather firm. Probably the most firm out of all the brothers’.

It’s not something that really bothers you, though, because his pillows are high quality softness.

You are often the little spoon when you are in bed together: though, he does enjoy it when you face him, too.

Either way, he likes to be the one to hold you.

Though, sometimes you get away with holding him once in a while (he likes it, not that he’d admit it).

He is a little scary to sleep with. What I mean by that is that he doesn’t really move at all. Like you can barely notice his breathing and that’s the only thing he does while he’s asleep that indicates to you that he’s still alive.

It’s a little unnerving, but overall not a dealbreaker since you’re usually asleep, too, so you don’t notice.

But, because he doesn’t really move, good luck trying to get up to go pee.

He is both a heavy and a light sleeper and you don’t understand the rules.

Because he’s a heavy sleeper when you have to pee, but not when fucking Mammon is outside his room, trying to break in for some reason or another.

Mammon wasn’t even making any noise!! How did Lucifer wake up to that!?

Not being able to pee is a small price you have to pay for sleeping with him.

Mammon

This guy tosses and turns, which can make sleeping with him difficult on your end.

He’s also the type to sprawl out in his sleep, which leaves you little room on his bed even though he has one of the biggest beds out of the brothers.

The best options for you are to koala him while you sleep, or to match his sprawling tendencies and be a mig mess of limbs in the morning.

There will be nights where you cuddle before you fall asleep, but that position doesn’t usually last.

Mammon’s not comfortable like that - well, with how much he tosses and turns, you’d be surprised if he was comfortable in any position - so he doesn’t like to hold you when he tries to sleep.

Sometimes you resort to going back to sleep in your room, which makes him sad :^(

But you want a good night’s rest once in a while, and that means going to your room for the night.

I’m not saying he’s a bad bed buddy, but he is definitely not my first choice.

Leviathan

I don’t know about you, but personally I don’t trust his bathtub.

I don’t think he cleans his sheets that much, if at all.

So personally, it’d take some convincing (namely me seeing him wash/replace his sheets) before I agree to spend the night with him.

But, when you are in the tub with him, you’re surprised by how comfy cozy it is.

He’s tentative about holding you, nervous.

But you cuddle up against his chest and he folds.

His arms wrap around your upper torso as your head is nuzzled into his neck.

His hold is firm, like holding a possession he doesn’t want to lose.

Not to say that’s how he sees you, but being the Avatar of Envy, he’s got tendencies.

Satan

Often you are in bed before Satan. Him still awake, reading one of his many books, having some late night tea.

You may have to whine a bit before you pull him away from his reading.

You find that he’s more gentle when he’s sleepy. It’s hard to believe in those moments he’s the Avatar of Wrath at all

But let me be clear: when he’s sleepy, he’s gentle. When he’s tired, then we get where he gets the title Avatar of Wrath.

Lucky for you, though, he is more often sleepy when you encourage him to bed.

He’s very cat-like in bed in the way he curls up against you.

It feels and looks very much like how cats sleep together in their little cat beds.

He prefers it when you face him while you two sleep, but is not picky one way or the other.

Is one of the brothers most lenient about how you like to sleep in bed.

Like, if you’re someone who doesn’t really like being close to someone else while sleeping, he’s cool with it.

Though, his bed is kinda small, so there’s gonna have to be some compromise.

Always seems like he’s awake before you. Every morning, he’s already out of bed, offering you some tea or water or something and you’re just like “how long have you been awake???”

You appreciate the gesture, though.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus’ bed is very comfortable, and very lush.

It feels heavenly to lay in his bed, so falling asleep is no trouble for you.

Asmodeus doesn’t have many preferences on what position to sleep in. He’s flexible, and always up for variety.

Though, he does like it when the two of you are holding each other. It makes him feel close to you in a way that makes him giddy.

I will say that his bedtime routine takes a while.

Sometimes you join him, other times you’re asleep well before he’s finished.

He doesn’t mind either way! He thinks it’s cute if you want to join him in his routine, and he also thinks it’s cute if you passed about before he was done.

He just thinks you’re cute.

He’s also not one to try something if you’re really just looking to go to sleep, so that’s something you’ve always appreciated about him.

Beelzebub

You feel the safest in bed with Beelzebub.

There’s something about the sheer size of him that makes you feel so secure.

He’s warm, and cuddling with him is softer than you expected it to be.

Often you sleep with a majority of yourself on top of him - he’s your own personal pillow.

Also his size had always made Beelzebub nervous to share a bed with you, so this made him feel better about it.

And he’s comfy. With your head on his chest and his arm holding you against him, you feel at home. Like you were made to fit there.

Belphegor

Belphegor’s bed is the comfiest out of the brother’s.

You expected nothing less from the Avatar of Sloth.

You are often the little spoon in this arrangement, not that you mind.

Belphegor’s arms are often around your waist as you two sleep together.

His hold is looser than some of the other brothers’, but you still feel secure in the hold.

You also find that you get your best sleeps with Belphegor - it must be an Avatar of Sloth perk.

What does surprise you is how Belphegor really can fall asleep anywhere. Now this is where the perk of him being Sloth ends because you can’t fall asleep anywhere, so sometimes you’re just being cuddled while he naps.

You wouldn’t move though, you wouldn’t dare.

It’s like when a cat falls asleep on your lap: you don’t move until they do.

#obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me shall we date x reader #obey me x reader #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #leviathan x reader #satan x reader #asmodeus x reader #beelzebub x reader #belphegor x reader #my writing #headcanons

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samuelsdean · 3 months

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There Would Be No Us

pairing: sam winchester x reader

summary: demon blood, and the power it granted people, but also the terrible price it exacted. you knew—sam knew firsthand—about it. you wouldn't be here today hunting those sons of bitches if sam wasn't fed that stupid thing all those years ago. sam knew the consequences, and yet. sam, fueled by grief and a desperate needto exact revenge for dean, wasn't immune to its allure.

genre: angst

word count: 1.5k

author's notes: i hope y'all have your tissues ready because this one hurts. that's it.

THE RHYTHMIC PATTER OF RAIN AGAINST THE MOTEL ROOF WAS A FAMILIAR LULL, ONE YOU'D GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO OVER THE PAST FEW MONTHS. But tonight, it felt more like a funeral march. Sat on the threadbare bed, you stared at the chipped paint on the wall, the stillness amplifying the gnawing emptiness in your chest. It had been hours since Sam left, hours filled with the echo of him slamming the motel door shut and the roar of the Impala starting and driving into the rain. You had watched him your concern growing with each passing moment. It had been what? Two? Three months, going on four, passed since Dean had been dragged to Hell, and the toll on Sam was clear.

Another lead, another dead end. You knew the routine by heart now, the crushing disappointment that followed every failed attempt to get revenge for Dean. Tonight, though, the weight felt heavier. It's been months since that fateful night Dean died, and you'd seen the flicker of desperation in Sam's eyes before he left, a desperation that morphed into something colder, harder.

Sam had become increasingly reticent lately, spending more and more time huddled over his phone in hushed conversations with Ruby. Out of all the people—if you could even call her that—Sam chose to trust her over you. You who have been by his side forever. You who have loved him ever since. He’d brushed off your questions about her, your comments, claiming that if anything she knew more about Lilith and hell, more than you ever could. But the way his demeanor shifted whenever he ended those calls, a mixture of guarded hope and grim determination, made you doubt his explanation, made you doubt him.

Today’s lead was different. There was a frantic edge to Sam’s voice when Ruby called, a rawness that had you rushing to the motel window as soon as the Impala’s roar faded into the night. Now, you paced the tiny room, Dean's worn leather jacket slung at the foot of the bed, his scent clinging to it a faint comfort in the harsh silence of the room, a constant reminder of your fruitless search to avenge the older brother. A choked sob escaped your lips, the sound echoing through the empty room.

Where was Sam? What was going on? Could you really trust Ruby? A million questions swirled in your mind, threatening to drown out the faint hope that flitted within you. Your eyes settled on Sam's unmade bed, his blanket unkempt and his pillows askew. But before you could reach for it, to fix it—the man deserved a clean bed to lay down on—the door creaked open, and Sam walked in, his hair dripping from the rain.

Relief washed over you, momentarily erasing the apprehensions that had been churning in your stomach. "Sam!" you exclaimed, rushing to his side. "Did you find something? Anything?" you finally asked, the silence pressing down heavy.

He looked at you, his face etched with weariness, but there was a speck in his eyes that hadn't been there before. A hint of something you couldn't quite define. "Maybe," he said, a tight smile playing on his lips. "We might be closer than we think to killing Lilith."

His words were a ray of light in the darkness, but you couldn't shake off the unease that lingered. As Sam pulled you into a hug, the damp chill of his clothes did little to dispel the coldness that had settled around your heart. There was something more to this story, a secret Sam was keeping from you. And you knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that whatever it was, it had the potential to change everything.

You clung to Sam, desperately trying to ignore the unsettling chill radiating from his body. His embrace felt different, tighter, almost frantic. You pulled back, searching his eyes for answers, for the warmth you used to find there.

"Sam," you started, your voice a modicum of a whisper, "what happened?"

He nodded, avoiding your gaze. "We… I think I might have a lead this time, a good one." He rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulling out the half-empty vial you had just noticed stuffed in his pocket. Your breath caught in your throat.

"What's that?" you managed, your voice trembling.

"It's… something Ruby gave me," he mumbled, his eyes flickering back and forth between you and the vial. "It helps me do things, you know, fight demons." He offered you a strained smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"What?" you continued, holding your breath. "What do you mean? Does it work like holy water? I-I don't... I don't understand."

A wave of nausea washed over you. It's not what you think it is—you hoped it wasn't what you think it is.

Demon blood.

Demon blood, and the power it granted people, but also the terrible price it exacted. You knew—Sam knew firsthand—about it. You wouldn't be here today hunting those sons of bitches if Sam wasn't fed that stupid thing all those years ago. Sam knew the consequences, and yet.

Sam, fueled by grief and a desperate need to to exact revenge for Dean, wasn't immune to its allure.

"Sam," you pleaded, your voice heavy with concern. "Are you sure about this? Ruby… I think you should stop this. Stop this madness."

He wavered, then set the vial down with a sigh. "Look, I know you're worried," he said, his voice softening a touch. "But this is the only way. We can't just sit here doing nothing."

"There has to be another way, Sam," you insisted, reaching for his hand. You could feel the tremor in his fingers, a cold confirmation of your suspicions.

"There isn't," he said, his voice hardening. "This is what it takes. I have to avenge Dean, I promise. We just have to…" his voice trailed off, his eyes flicking to the vial again, a flicker of desperation crossing his face.

"Sam," your voice sounded shaky. "Stop this. You're scaring me."

He finally looked up, his eyes resolute. "I need to do this. I can't just sit here."

"And you think demon blood is the answer?" Your anger flared, hot and sharp. You knew the stories, the dangers. He knew himself and both of you knew Dean wouldn't want this.

"It helps," he muttered, his voice flat. "It keeps me focused, keeps me going. It makes me strong"

You knew that wasn't entirely true. You'd seen the way his eyes gleamed after he was with Ruby, a feverish energy replacing his usual stoicism. You'd seen the way he flinched from touch, the dark circles under his eyes deepening. It was more than focus, it was dependence.

Anger turned to a deep well of sorrow. You loved Sam, a life tangled with his amidst the chaos of their hunter's life. Now, that love felt choked by his descent into this dangerous territory.

"Sam, if we lose you too…" your voice cracked. You reached for his hand, but he pulled away, his eyes filled with a cold, angered flicker you didn't recognize.

"You won't," he said, his voice infused with a dangerous power. "We can't give up on this. Not now, not ever."

The venom in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. "Isn't this giving up?" you challenged, your voice barely a whisper. "You're literally taking something from the monsters you've been fighting your whole life! To do what? Fight them? You're sacrificing yourself on a gamble!"

He looked away, jaw hardening, staring daggers at the wall behind you.

"Have I ever given up on you, Sam?" You broke down.

He shook his head, but wouldn't meet your gaze.

"No, never," you pressed on, sniffling. "Then don't force me to do it now. Don't make me watch you do this."

The silence that followed was heavy with a finality neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You reached for him again, but this time, he didn't flinch. His hand was cold and foreign in yours, devoid of the warmth you used to know. His eyes, once filled with love and pain, were now blank and unfriendly.

"We'll find Dean," he said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "But it won't be us."

A single tear escaped your eye, tracing a warm path down your cheek. You nodded slowly, stunned at how easy it was for the man you loved to choose someone else, to choose Ruby—demon blood—over you.

You watched as Sam grabbed the vial, a chilling smile dancing on his lips. As he tipped back his head, the love you held for him turned to a hollow ache. You were losing him, piece by agonizing piece, to the very thing both of you hunted on almost a daily basis.

There would be no fight for Dean together.

There would be no us.

You were left alone, a solitary figure in the flickering motel room, the only witness to the anomaly Sam was becoming.

#supernatural #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #supernatural fluff #supernatural angst #supernatural smut #sam winchester #sam winchester fandom #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester angst #sam winchester smut #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x oc #sam winchester x you

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brokenpieces-72 · 2 months

Text

Lasting Moments

Navigation | COD Gangster AU

There was a sharp pain and a cry followed by yelling and more shots. You couldn’t see anything still but you heard voices. Your ears were still ringing though. While the entire chaos outside the bag on your head goes underway, you remain still. You feel your consciousness slipping. The shouting fades and relief washes over you as you put together who it is. You wince as you hear a man trying to get your attention to check if you’re conscious. You move and let out a groan from the pain.

“I’m gonna pick you up now.” You hear. You don’t bother with fighting, when you feel to arms dig underneath your back and legs. Now you’re being carried and fighting to stay awake, the broken bones and bruise keeping your body from relaxing. The ringing has died down by the time you’re sat down on a softer surface. The man reaches behind you to cut your wrists free and then your legs. The bag is taken off.

Alex assesses your damage, seeing bruises on your face and lays you down. He grimaces with you when you wince from the pain.

“Keep your eyes open kid. You’re doing great.” Alex says as he continues working. You hear shouting somewhere else in the building, Russian and Scottish. You can guess who it is.

“Are they still in prison?” You ask. Alex nods.

“How long have I been gone?” You ask, gathering as much information, trying to focus. If you could get yourself to focus, you could keep your eyes open.

“A couple days. Went to your apartment, Charly found me there, and then-“ Alex’s explain action is cut off seeing you flinch and hearing your cry after an audible crack in your wrist. He thinks quickly, making a small splint for you from the first aid kit. After wrapping your wrist he wraps it again with your red scarf. “Then we found your scarf. Kept going in that direction, did some map checking and found this shitty hideout.”

“Phone. I need to call Laswell.” You say, trying to stand up, still shaken, the bullet still inside your shoulder.

“Don’t move. Let me get it out first.” Alex says carefully unzipping your hoodie. You shiver, having only your torn shirt underneath. Eyes stay looking up as Alex carefully shifts your sweater off your shoulder where the bullet hit. There are no words as you just hear sounds of items shuffling in the kit. At first he tried pulling it out, but your cursing made it clear it doing ti that way would just be painful. He cut the wound open a little more and tried a second time. This time you bit down on the sleeve of your hoodie, your teeth getting a vice grip on the material. He got to cleaning it and then patching it up.

"Alright that will have to do for now." He says. As you tug your hoodie sleeve back on you hear some hard Scottish cursing from the other room. If that was how Charly interrogated and you had first hand experience with Alejandro's methods, you could only imagine what it Price would be like. Hopefully Charly would be successful.

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

The men of the 141 were getting anxious in their cells. You were missing and they had no updates from Graves. Not that they wanted him to talk. They were getting impatient.

“You think Graves was telling the truth?” Kyle asks aloud. It was a question they had all been considering but couldn’t my be sure of. Graves had tried to get them arrested before, and they understood why. It didn’t mean he hadn’t been on a few witch hunts.

“Possible. Not bloody likely but possible.” Ghost says. Kyle looks at Price who isn’t saying much.

“Boss?” Price doesn’t look up at Kyle, but spoke volumes. Kyle isn’t expecting much from Price to respond. Enough has been said. Graves was 30/70 when it came to the truth. You were a 50/50. You were smart, bold, and hardworking. You didn’t shirk responsibilities. Even for the small things you offered to help. Was it all just to get close or had Graves pulled a fast one to keep you safe? Fuck.

Then there was the sound of a can being tossed. The group looks down trying to inspect it through the bars. Then it combusts.

…..

You have everything you need. You’re ready to turn it all in, exonerating the 141 and Los Vacqueros. You could get them out. With a bit of help from Graves you could get the 141 to look innocent. They were there seeking out drugs, undercover. You can disprove the officers that claimed to be undercover. Nolan had been difficult to crack, but Charly had some brutal tactics. He’d coughed up what they wanted. You need to work fast now.

You had been taken back to the safe house where all the files were. You gathered it all and hurried with Alex to the precinct. Makarov was back in town by now, you needed to get there quickly. Except you're not so fortunate. There are alarms going off, and the building has smoke coming out of it, a gas of some kind. Officers were being evacuated. No. Fuck, no!

You get out of the vehicle, leaving the files in the car. You rush towards the building but Graves is there. He grabs you and holds you back.

"Let go! Let go!" You yell at him.

"Kid stop it! You can't go in there!" Graves tells you, dragging you back. No, you couldn't lose them. You were so close. You had finally fixed everything, righted your wrongs. You had to get to them. Graves pulls you back to Alex who helps you get back into the car. There is an exchange between Graves and Alex that you can't hear as you watch helplessly. Suddenly you're back home again, and you're sitting on the steps. Graves had just told you to head upstairs while he spoke with the babysitter. You knew what was going on, even then. Alex gets back in the car, pissed.

Graves was dealing with damage control right now. He knew where to go next and he really didn't want to drag you back there. Nolan needed another damned talking to and he was about to give it personally. Makarov hadn't shown up to work yet, it was his last day of leave. He was preparing to come back tomorrow, his promise to rid the city of some of the worst gangsters fulfilled.

You have to stop it.

Alejandro and Price wake up in the same room. The two leaders propped themselves against opposing walls, looking around the room. There was a light, four walls, a door and a floor. The gas made their heads sore, taking some time to clear it from their systems. Both men have their wrists zip tied behind them.

“Should’ve seen this coming.” Price admits. Alejandro shakes his head, eyes closed, but head facing the ceiling.

“Don’t blame yourself. We were sitting ducks from the start.” Alejandro sighs. “Something tells me this isn’t death row.”

“What tipped you off?” Price asks, sarcastically. There was silence between them. This may not be death row… but it is. It’s Makarov’s court house, where he’s judge, jury and executioner. The judge and jury have completed their duties, now the executioner is preparing. It sinks in, it’s not a fate they will take lightly, and will fight tooth and nail against. Alejandro lets out a light chuckle, catching Price’s attention.

“You know… back in the day there was a saying about me.” Alejandro says.

“Yeah?” Price asks. The two men were mainly business, with the occasional heart to heart. If they were going to be executed in a room by themselves, without their brothers, it’s only right they get to know each other better.

“El unico que puede matar a Alejandro es Alejandro...” Alejandro says, grinning.

“Meaning?”

“The only one who can kill Alejandro…is Alejandro.”

Price chuckles at that. The sheer gusto of the man. Their end is near and Alejandro still considers himself invincible. Price starts to think for a bit. He’d come close to death before but it was too quick. Now it was approaching slowly, and he thinks about everything that will happen.

“Who will take over?” He asks Alejandro. Alejandro drops his head looking at John.

“Rodolfo. That was the plan.” Alejandro admits. “There’s one other but she’ll likely go the wrong way. Maybe it will disband.”

“I have someone for the pub, a couple actually. There should be a letter for Kilo, since she’s safe.” Price says. “Simon’s cat will be okay, Kyle’s shop is freelance, Johnny… just has us.”

“What about the tagger?” Alejandro asks. The two men’s expressions say a lot. Alejandro wasn’t sure whether you could still be trusted after Graves came to the cells. Price isn’t sure himself, but after Farah was released he imagines you were trying to do the same for them. But you were missing. Vargas trusts Price, and Price trusts you. It didn’t change the weight of not seeing you before his time came or the fear you were somewhere in a similar room to this one.

Before John can answer, the door opens. Makarov steps in. The two men position themselves to stand. “I wouldn’t bother. The gas is still your system, you mobility is still reduced. But if you want to entertain me with your stumbling then be my guest.”

“Vete a la mierda.” Alejandro spat.

“You’re a coward.” Price adds.

“The rest of the world won’t see that. In their eyes, you’ll be cowards for refusing to stand trial, facing your sentence. Nothing but ghosts that once roamed these streets, hiding in alleys like rats.” Makarov says. “History books are written by the winners, the victorious. I’m sure someone will give you a footnote, but it won’t change the full picture.”

“So you killed L/N and then ran away?” Price questions. “Instead of facing your crimes, you make an innocent man guilty, put a dog on a long leash, and orphan a child. Deep down everyone in this building, wherever they are, know who the real coward is. All this just to throw away your scapegoats.”

“I won’t need them anymore.”

“Those murals will certainly make it difficult.” Alejandro comments. Price smirked until Makarov gives a fond smile, as if those murals were a happy memory.

“Oh yes…” Makarov chuckles, making the other two men tense. “L/N asked you to look after his child. Well… I’ll be sure to provide for them, after all they did such a good job bringing you here.”

“You keep your puppet strings off of them.” Price warns.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll fucking hang you by them!” Price threatens. Makarov gives him another chuckle. A man about to meet his death and still threatening the man in control of it.

“Your little tagger won’t be in any trouble if they give me what I’m looking for. So far they’ve been a disobedient brat, so they’ll need some discipline. Don’t fret, they’ll be taken care of still.” Makarov says, and then walks out of the room. Price tried to ease himself to his feet quickly, but stumbles, shouting obscenities at Makarov.

Makarov finds joy in hearing the empty, fruitless threats of his scapegoat. Until he checks his phone for an update. Nolan should hopefully have the file by now, but then again, you were your father’s kid. So who knows how long it would take to break you down. His face changes upon seeing his phone screen. He storms down the hall, dialling Nolan’s number. When he hears the voice on the other end he freezes.

“Hey there, love. Was wondering how long it would take for you to call.” A female Scottish voice says. No fucking way. He hung up immediately.

You couldn’t help but snicker when Charly put the phone on speaker and it hung up as soon as she finished her sentence.

“Just fuckin rude.” She says, tossing the phone away. She looks back at Nolan who certainly looked worse than you, bound in the chair. Charly cracks her knuckles. “Well since we can’t trace that call, you’ll have to start talking.”

Nolan groans, as you fold your arms. You need a location first and foremost. This is a hostage exchange now. One with high value on both sides. Except your buyer has everything you want.

"Why did ya give it to 'em?" Johnny asks, after sitting in silence next to Simon. "Last ditch effort?"

"It was their father's. Not mine." Simon says simply. "No sense keeping it for sentimental reasons."

"Ya got that right." Johnny responds. "Ya not the sentimental type though. Are ya?"

"You're annoyingly observant." Simon comments. Johnny chuckles, pleased with the small jab. Simon was tight lipped with everyone, but you had opened him up. Opened him up about as much as a clam used for farming pearls, but you'd peaked the quiet Ghost's interest faster than Soap had when the two had met.

"Not a priest, but ya may swell confess." Johnny says, moving around a little to keep his ass from falling asleep. "I'll go first if ya want."

"... I killed my own father." Simon says, throwing Johnny for a loop. He certainly wasn't expecting that.

"Shit boss." Johnny breathes. He figured Ghost had a shitty past, you don't get scars like his from nothing. Didn't realize it was that bad though.

"I don't regret it either. Not much point in confessing when that remains with me." Simon explains.

"Didna answer my question." Johnny points out.

"Yes. It was a chance, but a small one. L/N didn't tell me what it was for only to give it to his kid. Could just as easily bury us, but like it or not Soap, Graves was covering for Y/N. That's the truth." Simon says a little quieter. Johnny sighs, dropping his gaze from the wall to the floor.

"I didna wan Y/N to stay with us." Johnny confesses. "First because it put us at risk with em being a cop, but then they started coming around more and more..."

"Be careful who you trust. Those you know can hurt you the most." Simon warns him.

"No shit." Johnny sighs. "They just wanted a chance though. All I wanted myself when I was younger. Would have kept all of us out of trouble if I never talked to em."

"You gave em what you were given. No shame in that." Simon assures him. Johnny still has that pinch of guilt. His memories of you will stay with him, and he tells himself makes it all worth it. "Gonna miss em."

"We all will." Simon says. Simon wouldn't tell Johnny, but the image of you curled up with the stray cat continues to occupy his mind. The cat would be taken care of, so he wouldn't worry about that. Who would take care of you though?

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving

#alex keller #charlotte charly johnstone #cod au #cod gangsters au #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #rodolfo parra #alejandro vargas #task force 141 x reader #phillip graves #vladmir nabokov #angst

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tokyo-terror · 1 year

Note

YOO IM IN LOVE WITH UR HCS THEY TASTE LIKE CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES AND FRUIT TEA :3

Request here 🙏🙏🙏

Could you possibly.. *leans on Bugatti with graves wrap on it + an inflatable eagle and American flag flying from the bonnet* write some hcs for 141 + König with a gn s/o that has had a really bad day and just needs some comfort? So eg, just being pampered and having their hair washed, being told they’ve done well, that people are proud of them and love them, etc?

Ive been having a really shitty past few months with my depression and anxiety and it’s really overwhelmed me so I’m kinda projecting.. 🧍🏼🧍🏼

If you can’t do it, that’s ok!!! No pressure <33

But if you can, may your skin be clear and may your crops flourish 🙏🙏🙏 (with america rizz) (im british)

i hate brits but ill make an exception for u 🫶 /lh i hope ur day gets a littol bit better for u pookie :< ik how hard it gets fr <3 we r in this together :)

cw: depression (not delved into !!)

simon "ghost" riley:

☆ this guy getss it !!! he doesn't open up much about his feelings directly but let's all be fr and agree he's not the most mentally stable

☆ your self care day is hiss self care day, thrives on cuddling and using you as weighted blanket while he rubs your back

☆ has himself a tea while you both cuddle, and trust me it's good tea. the night might turn into a cuddle and see how many teas simon can make before you run out

☆ before you fall asleep fully he kisses the crown of your head and says that he's proud of how far you've come

john "soap" mactavish:

☆ tries to be more lowkey w how he comforts you because he doesn't want to come off as overbearing

☆ has mastered the perfect balance of praise and touch, he holds your hand while you tell him about your day and he makes comments trying to sympathize w you

☆ lets you scritch his mohawk while he tells you how much he loves you and how glad he is that you're around and here with him

☆ lays his head on your chest when you both go to sleep so he can listen to your heartbeat and tap your arms to the beat of it, has both of you asleep within 5 minutes

john price:

☆ kinda awkward with comforting but he tries his best, he's always a little bit confused about how somebody like you could be so upset about anything

☆ he knows that it's not his place to fully understand though, so he sticks to doing what he does best: being an old ass man

☆ showers with you and washes your hair while you vent (or not) about how you've been feeling, he stays mostly silently except for humming to let you know he's listening

☆ towel dries your hair and changes the bedsheets to clean ones so you can be fully clean because he's a firm believer in being a little more tidy can greatly improve somebody's feelings

kyle "gaz" garrick:

☆ king of pampering in general, he's waiting on you hand and foot constantly. honestly he probably knows it's going to be a bad day before you even start your day

☆ he's always making you food to eat throughout the day, little snacks that aren't too big but are just enough to keep you energized and full

☆ ditches his military soaps for your nice ones when you take a shower, secretly (not rlly) loves when you laugh at him building bubble beards on himself and doing price impressions

☆ making you laugh is his goal in life tbh he's constantly cracking jokes while you both cuddle, some of them are so bad it's funny

könig:

☆ another guy that genuinely understands everything you're talking abt, his anxiety also makes him have awfulll days and due to being the military around lots of people he's learned coping mechanisms

☆ takes hot showers with you a lot in general, but even more when you're having one of those days. he's already washing your hair and face as soon as you get in

☆ lets you braid his hair while he talks idly about how missions are and how he adores you, though he says that in german. you've picked up on him saying cheesy stuff in german though so it's fine :)

☆ lets you sprawl out on him like a starfish when you both finally go to sleep, around 2am because of how many shows he wanted to watch with you

#THE GRAVES BUGATTI MADE ME WHEEZE BTW #I NEED THAT CAR EVEN THO I CANT DRIVE FR #mw2 x reader #mwii x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #könig x reader #asks #wolfe.req

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the-froschamethyst4 · 11 months

Text

My Gym Rat Husband

𖤐Pairing: Gym Rat! Soap x Wife! Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: Fluff, kissing/making out, some smut, slight arguing, language, fingering, eating out, P in V, make up sex, blowjob, quick face sitting

𖤐Summary: Soap likes the gym a little more than coming home, he thinks he needs to keep being buff for his wife Y/n, but Y/n doesn't need him to be buff, he needs him to be home with her.

——————

Soap woke up at his usual time at 4 in the morning to get ready for the gym, this is his morning routine, wake up at 4 in the morning, get his gym clothes on, make a pre-workout smoothy, and then leave the house by 4:30 to get to the gym and he sometimes doesn't come home till 12 in the afternoon.

Y/n always wakes up to an empty bed instead of looking at her husband. She liked seeing him asleep in the bed but when he got a gym membership, he's gone in the morning.

Y/n woke up to the birds singing and the sun coming into the bedroom, she rubbed her eyes and looked to her right not seeing her husband like usual.

She moved the covers off her body and went to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

Once she was out, she grabbed some sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt. She headed downstairs to make herself some coffee, grabbing her favorite mug and pouring in the good morning mud in her mug.

As she grabbed her creamer from the fridge her hand touched something powdery, she rubbed her fingers knowing it was Soap's pre-workout powder.

"Every time," she says. It's true Soap will sometimes spill his workout powder on the counter and not clean it up and Y/n will have to do it.

She grabbed a towel and placed her hand just under the counter making sure to catch the powder, so it doesn't land on the floor causing more of a mess.

She tosses her rag in the laundry room and washed her hands, she went to the living room and turned on the TV and watched the News, as she placed her mug down, she also tripped over Soap's other workout shoes.

She groans and kicks them away from her feet and the couch.

"Come on, Soap," she groans.

---------

Soap was bench pressing and Ghost and Price were spotting him.

"So, how's the married life treating you, Soap?" Price asked.

"Great," he said, through huffs.

"Really?" Ghost said.

"Yeah...why?"

"No reason," Soap placed the weights on the bars and sat up.

"Is marriage supposed to be tough?"

"It can be," Price said.

"I think it's easy."

"Does Y/n do all the work?" Ghost said.

"A bit-"

"Ahh~ there it is," Price said.

"What?" Soap asked.

"Help her Soap...she can't be doing all the work around the house; I know you two don't have kids or anything...but help her out, Soap, that poor woman probably does the most in that house," Price said as Soap rubbed the back of his neck.

"I guess, I should help her."

"Should? You need to, happy wife happy life," Ghost said, crossing his arms and looking at his friend.

"When was the last time you helped her?"

"Umm-"

"If you are having to think, it's been a while then," Price said.

"Why are you two bring this up?" Soap asked.

----------

12:00PM

Y/n cleaned the hard wooden floors, there were so many scratches and dirt on the floor, she cleaned around and even cleaned the marble counter tops and even the stainless-steel fridge and dishwasher.

She wiped the sweat from her brow as popped her neck from looking down for so long. She cleared her throat and continued cleaning around the house.

She stopped when she heard the front door shut and keys drop on the ceramic bowl by the front door.

"BABY!" Soap called for his wife. Y/n stood up from behind the counter making Soap turn to her. "Oh, hey, whatcha doing?" He asked.

"Cleaning," she huffs. "The house is a fucking wreck," she said, going back down and cleaning the dishwasher.

"Are you stressed?"

"Huh?"

"You clean when you're stressed, so, are you?" He asked, putting his water bottle in the sink.

"No, I'm not, it's just a mess," she said, scrubbing at the steel.

"Love," Soap looked down at her.

"What?" She asked.

He grabs her wrist making her stop. "Let me help you clean."

"I don't need help right now."

"Love-"

"I'm fine, Soap, let me clean up," she said, jerking her hand away.

"Baby, let me help you," Soap's voice was a little louder.

"I don't need help, I don't need your help," she raised her voice like him.

She tossed down the rag on the counter and walked away holding her head. Soap groaned and took the rag to pick up where she left off. Y/n went to the bathroom to calm her nerves. She never really got mad at Soap and didn't want to say anything she could possibly regret.

Y/n later went back out and looked for Soap seeing him clean, she grabbed a rag and went to the guest bathroom to clean. Soap could feel the energy had changed shifting from an anxious wife to an annoyed wife.

He stops cleaning and tosses the dirty rag in the laundry room and put the cleaning spray back under the sink. He changed out of his gym clothes and took a quick shower.

After the shower and getting better, clean and comfortable clothes on, he saw her in the guest bedroom and then went to go get some tea.

Y/n was fixing the bed and didn't hear her husband come in, she was done and bumped into Soap spilling the tea all over him.

"Soap!"

"Don't you fucking Soap me, I was trying to bring you something to drink."

"Why were you quiet?!"

"I WAS TRYING TO DO SOMETHING NICE!"

"WELL, I'M TRYING TO CLEAN, STAY OUT OF MY WAY, GO BACK TO THE GYM OR GO SIT ON THE COUCH AND WATCH TV, JUST STAY OUT OF MY WAY, PLEASE!" Y/n yelled as Soap rolled his eyes and took off his shirt.

He got a new shirt on and then headed downstairs to watch TV like his wife asked him to do as Y/n scrubbed the rug to get the tea out of the carpet.

Y/n felt her blood boil, but she knows Soap was just trying to be nice, Soap was usually at the gym so much that he hardly ever done anything nice for her.

She sat on her knees after getting the tea out of the carpet, rubbing her neck again and getting up off the floor.

"Soap-"

"What?!" He sounded annoyed.

She stood in front of the TV and looked at him, he tried to move around trying to stare at the TV, but she was in the way. She grabbed the helm of her shirt and lifted it over her head and exposed her bare breasts to him and her nipples were perked.

"W-What are you doing?" Soap asked.

"I..." she tossed her shirt and started to untie the jaw strings of her sweatpants and pulled them down exposed her cute lace underwear.

"Y/n," he said.

"I'm sorry for yelling."

"And this is how you are going to repay me-no, no, I need to repay you," he quickly was following Y/n's suit stripping from his clothes except for his boxers and standing up.

He made his way towards Y/n kissing her lips and his hands going to her ass and squeezing her.

She moans into the kiss as his hands kneaded her butt, her hands were trapped between both of their chests, her eyes were closed taking in this moment as Soap picks her up.

Her legs and arms instinctively wrap around him as he walks to the bedroom, shutting the door with his foot and plopping his small wife on the soft King-Sized bed.

"S-Soap."

"Let me...take care of you..." he says crawling above her kissing her lips, her hands cupping his face, his fingers touched her wet folds, his fingers hooked on her panties and pulled them down.

He then shoved two fingers inside of her. She moans and grips his hair and the sheets beneath her. He moves his mouth from her lips, and he looked down at his fingers moving fast inside of her lower half.

"Ahh~ S-Soap," she moans catching his attention to look at her.

"Does it f-feel good, my love?"

"Y-Y-Yes," she moans.

He smirks and kisses her lips; his fingers were removed from her wet clit, and he goes down kissing her chest, stomach and her inner thighs, he smirks and licks between her folds.

"Ahh~ h-holy shit," she moans, he pulls her up, he sits up her legs on his shoulders and her back was on the bed. His tongue glides over her wet folds and shoves her tongue inside of her, she moans and grips the bedsheets under her.

Her thighs squeeze on his head, and he moans loving the feeling of her thighs wanting to pop his head.

"Ahh~ Ahhh~" she moans.

He moves his tongue and then drops her butt back on their shared bed and he pulled his boxers off his lower half, his dick sprung out hitting his lower stomach, she smiled at his dick and crawled towards him.

She touched his toned lower stomach and then his hardened dick she touched his tip and smiled up at him before taking his dick into her mouth. She started to bob her head up and down moaning and he gripped her hair pulling her off him.

"No, no, my love...this is your day, not mine," he said, pushing her back on the bed and pushing himself inside of her.

"Ahh~ b-but why?"

"Because you've d-done so much for me t-that I don't treat you like a Queen...you're not happy..." he said, cupping her chin to get her to look up at him.

"I-I am happy, S-Soap."

"How? I don't show it," he said.

"You do...you come...come home to...m-me," she said through moans.

"But...we've...we've almost g-grow apart," he said, lowing his head to hers.

"Just a b-bit..." she admitted. "But we...we are...in the m-middle of sex and...and...I'm just glad that you are h-here," she said, kissing his lips.

"Love?"

"Y-Yes?"

"I love you...I know I haven't said that in a while," Soap said as Y/n leaned up and kissed his lips again, he thrusted balls deep inside of her as their tongues fought.

"I love you too," she said, kissing his lips again.

"Oh my god," he moans, he looked down seeing his dick poking her stomach from the inside. Y/n's head went back as she moaned at the feeling.

She felt him twitch inside of her and then something hot rush inside of her. She moans and throws her head back and she came on his dick.

He pulls out and then laid on his back, Y/n looked at him and he motioned for her to come to him. She crawled towards him.

"Come on," he said.

"What?"

"Sit on my face, baby," he said.

"Sit on your face?"

"You've sat on it before, come on," he said as she crawled on top of him, and she lowered herself on his face. His hands went to her thighs and his tongue went between her folds again.

She grips his hair again, her hips bucked against his head, she rode his face as he cleaned up her cum.

"Ahhh~ S-Soap," she moans.

She could feel him smirking as he licked her clean. She felt herself close again and then came in his mouth, she moved down a little bit seeing him just swallow her cum.

"Soap?"

"Jesus, you taste so good, baby."

After a while Soap had run a hot bath for Y/n. She was in it cleaning herself up and just taking a nice, hot and relaxing bath, the bath was hot and had a bath bomb in it and she moved down deeper into the tub.

Soap had cleaned up around the place as Y/n relaxed, his sweatpants hung low on his hips and went back upstairs to the bathroom. He looked at Y/n he could see the top of her head, her eyes and nose.

"Love?" She looked up hearing her nickname.

"Yes?" She said as she sat up looking up at him. She rested on the side of the tub looking up at him, he bends down cupping her face.

"I love you," he said again.

"I love you too," she said, kissing his lips.

He sits down next to the tub and was admiring his wife, Soap was always at the gym to keep for his wife, he feels like if he doesn't look a certain way then she won't want to be with him anymore but that could not be farther from the truth. Y/n loves Soap, hell she married him for fucks sake.

His hand went to her head as she talked about what she should do tomorrow. Soap smiled at his wife and kissed her forehead.

"I forgot to go to the store, I'll go tomorrow," she said.

"I'll go with you after the gym."

"That's fine...Soap, why do you go to the gym?"

"Because I have this fear...you may leave me if I...if I don't look a certain way, the fear of you leaving has played in my head too many times that it scares me every time..."

"Soap," she cups his face. "I will never ever leave you, we are just like every other married couple, we fight, we argue, and we make up, shit happens, but I will never leave you because you don't look a certain way...I don't look like a certain way but you leaving me has never enters my brain because I know you love me too much to leave...like I love you too much," she kissed his lips.

"You are my husband...and I will never leave you over something so silly," she said, kissing his lips again.

"Goddamn, I love you," he said. She giggled and he started to attack her face with kisses.

---------

3:40AM

Y/n was asleep next to Soap. Soap was still awake, and he looked at his phone, he's never missed a day of working out with Ghost and Price but today, he wanted to skip it and spend time with his wife.

His phone went off with Ghost and Price texting each other as Soap put his phone on 'do not disturb' and went to asleep holding Y/n close to his chest, playing with his hair and kissing her cheek.

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