#honest john the fix

[hannahhook7744]

Not So Ethical Adoptions;

Summary: Not So Ethical Adoptions... Or the story of how Honest John and Gideon became parents. Trigger warnings: child abandonment, unethical ways of paying off debts, angry mobs, etc.

For @casinotrio1965 .

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“Hey Gideon I'm home—is that a human baby?” Honest John asked, dumb struck. Nearly dropping the take out bag from Ursula’s fish and chips in his shock. 

Because yes, his cat companion was holding a tiny red headed human baby. 

One that was most certainly not there this morning when he left.

“Yes. I was thinking of naming her Julianna.” Gideon didn't look up from the cooing baby, as he continued to play with it's hands. 

Not noticing the look on his partner’s face. 

“No. No! Absolutely not. We are not keeping that thing!”

“But it's for us!” The cat whined. The baby mimicked him. 

“I seriously doubt that. Where did you get it?” The fox replied, rolling his eyes.

“Some man came by to pay off that Green Woman’s debet.”

John's eyes nearly jumped out of his head at that. 

“And you accepted it?! What happened to only taking trades and money?!”

“It was the baby or us being empty handed.”

“We wouldn't have been empty handed for long if you just waited! Now put your coat on! We're going to find that green woman and the man and return it so that we can get an actual payment.”

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“Daddy! Papa!” Little six year old Julianna cried, running to hide behind them. 

“What is it Julie?” Gideon asked, wrapping an arm around her. 

“There's an angry mob outside…”

Honest John groaned. “She's definitely your daughter.”

“How come she's always my daughter when she's in trouble?”

“You know why!”

“No I don't —”

“Daddy! Papa! The mob’s getting closer!”

[angelsdean]

the struggle of wanting to plop young dean down in new jersey like literally where i live for a fic but not wanting to say where i live sjkdfjsf 

[a-caterpillars-world]

reached recap 1. jesus christ

[auroralwriting]

clean 1

tfatws! bucky barnes x stark! reader (no use of y/n)

after the fight with john walker, you can tell bucky's arm was bothering him. so, you make a trip to see him.

word count: 1.6k | warnings: strong language, multiple parts, part two

Your suit was practically scarp metal after the fight with John Walker. He had tried his hardest to absolutely obliterate your suit. Thankfully, Tony had done a great job of designing it. With a few hours of repairs, it would be good as new.

The one thing you worried about was Bucky's arm, specifically the metal one. You saw how Walker had thrown Bucky across the room into wiring, causing it to shock Bucky's whole body. It made you uneasy to think about wether or wether not the arm was in tact, that and the fact that if it wasn't, it could very well lead to a lot of pain for Bucky.

So, using Friday, you found Bucky's new address. He'd taken residence in a small apartment in Brooklyn, thankfully, not too far from where you were reclaiming the Stark Tower. One car ride later, and you stood outside Bucky's apartment feeling more nervous than you thought you would be.

While Bucky and you weren't on bad terms, it was fair to say he was still uneasy around you. I mean, he had killed your parents, and your only living relative (minus the small Morgan) was also dead. You'd been a baby when The Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria, so how could there be any bad blood between you and Bucky? You didn't even know what you had lost. That and you were more down-to-earth than Tony, realizing quickly the guilt and shame Bucky felt for his mind-controlled actions.

Using up the last bit of confidence you had, you knocked on Bucky's door. It took less than a minute, and Bucky's surprised face was staring back at you.

"Uhm, hi," You said awkwardly.

"How'd you know where I live?" Bucky asked, confused.

You held up your phone, Friday's screen appearing. "Just a quick scan of all James Buchanan Barnes in the area. Not very many," Your joke fell flat as you stood awkwardly while Bucky processed what was happening.

"Why're you here?" He asked.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay after the fight with Walker." You replied. "I saw you get thrown into all those wires, I saw all the sparks."

Bucky gave a small shrug, "I'm alright."

You eyed his arm suspiciously, "That arm causing you any pain?"

Both eyes now fell on Bucky's arm. You looked back up to Bucky to see him staring at it still. "It's been better," He sighed, his reply honest.

"I can fix it if you'd like?" You suggested. Bucky's eyes nearly popped out of his head at your words, "Or not!" You quickly added. "I, uh, don't want to make you feel weird..er than you probably already do."

Bucky went to move his arm, and you saw the traces of pain etched into his features. "It'll be alright."

"Our fight isn't over yet, Bucky." You argued. "You should be at your best." You took a deep breath in, finding more confidence from deep within, "I promise I won't judge you if that's what you're worried about. I mean, Tony literally had a hunk of metal plunged in his chest, and he made me clean it out all the time, it was really gross and-"

"Alright, alright," Bucky held his hands up. "I don't wanna hear about Tony's gross chest-hole. Just, come on in." The door opened all the way as Bucky walked inside. You trailed behind, slowly shutting the door behind you as you observed the apartment. It was really empty, just a small couch and a coffee table in front of it. The kitchen looked rather bare, too.

You took a seat on the couch, Bucky sitting next to you. You set your toolbox down in between the both of you, putting some space between your bodies.

"I need to see the connection point, if you don't mind?" You said softly, looking to Bucky's covered shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," He muttered as he hesitantly slipped off his shirt. You quickly noticed the healing scars on his shoulder, all around the joint, but you made sure to pay no attention to them as you hovered your hand over his arm. "It's fine," He said, watching your hesitantcy.

The metal was cool on your hands as you felt around it, looking for the weak point. Once you found it, you grabbed your tools and began to work at it. You weren't used to working in silence, so you tried to make some conversation.

"Steve, uh, used to tell me a lot about you." You said. Bucky raised a brow at you as you continued. "You were his knight in shining armor, or something of the sorts."

"I guess I was," Bucky gave the smallest hint of a smile. "How'd you learn how to do this anyways?"

You shrugged as you grabbed a new tool, "Tony taught me everything I know. Engineering, chemistry, physics, you name it."

"It must've been hard, just you two." Bucky said softly.

Looking up, you shook your head, "Don't start that," You said.

"But it's my fault-"

"For the last time, Bucky, that was the Winter Soldier, not you. I do not blame you, there's no reason to keep hurting yourself over this." You cut Buck off, voice slightly sharp with intention. Bucky's eyes fell on the other side of the room as you sighed, "Tony would have forgiven you, too. He just needed time."

Bucky scoffed, "He had five years."

"Of which we were gone," You countered. "I forgive you for him and myself, okay?"

“Don’t say that,” Bucky shook his head. “Just.. don’t?”

You set down your tool, staring at him. “Do you want proof?”

This gained Bucky’s interest, “Proof?” He asked, voice laced with doubt. “What proof?”

“Who do you think protected your whereabouts in Wakanda?” You asked, “Steve and Sam were on the run. Of course Tony knew you were there. I remember when he got the call. He just sat there for a while, thinking. When we talked about it, he said he was glad you were getting help.”

“What else did he say?” Bucky said with a knowing look in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, “It’s Tony, Buck. He says anything and everything and means almost none of it.” Bucky didn’t expect you to use his nickname. He liked the sound of it coming from your voice.

“That doesn’t mean he forgave me.” Bucky said.

“Well I do, okay? So stop being such a grump. I’m trying to be your friend, just let me, would you?” You sighed as you began to work on his arm again.

The soldier gave a small sigh, “Stop wasting your time on me when you have a company to run.”

“Stop trying to push me away. Also, Pepper’s helping me run it, so I have all the time in the world.” You argued.

After a brief moment of silence, Bucky spoke again. “I’m still not sure I’m safe to be around,”

The honesty surprised you, making you glance up at him to observe his face. “I’m literally face to face with your arm, tool inside it, and you wanna say you aren’t safe?”

Your comment made Bucky give a small chuckle, “That’s not really what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” You asked.

Bucky gave a shaky breath, “In Madripoor, when I had to take down those guys when I was pretending to be.. him,” Bucky explained, “It’s like I could still feel him trying to break free.”

You set a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, making sure to avoid his scars. “Bucky, Wankanda said you’re a free man. The Winter Soldier’s gone.”

“Maybe I’m just so used to violence now.” Bucky offered, “Maybe it’s who I am.”

“No,” You replied quickly. “You are Bucky Barnes. You’re Steve’s best friend, Sergeant Barnes. You’re Sam’s friend, my friend, and you’re a survivor. You’re one hell of a fighter, you’re a victim who pushed through all his pain and suffering to become a better man, and that’s exactly who you are.” Your words left Bucky feeling like he could cry, but he just looked away. You didn’t know whether what you said was right or wrong.

“Thank you,” Bucky muttered as you began to work on his arm again.

“It’s no problem, Bucky.” You responded. You silently worked, trying to ignore the burning sensation of Bucky’s eyes poring holes into your head.

"This world doesn't deserve you," Bucky muttered as you worked. You simply hummed in reply, making Bucky's forehead crease. "I mean it, Stark. You're one of the best people in this world."

Rolling your eyes, you put away the last of your tools. "Bucky, I'm just being a decent person."

Bucky's eyes burned with a new passion, "No decent person would do all you've done for everyone you've ever come across." Before you could protest, Bucky's metal hand grabbed your chin softly. "Don't even try to argue, I know it can be hard for a Stark but can you hold your tongue?" When you didn't reply, Bucky continued. "You're so humble, so fuckin' sweet. I mean, you came all this way just to fix my arm."

"And to check on you," Your voice came out babbled as Bucky's hold on your chin was still present.

"I don't deserve your kindness," Bucky admitted, "But here you are, giving me all of it." His eyes bore into your own, his own actions betraying his mind as he slammed his lips tightly onto your own. It took you by surprise, but you happily returned the heated kiss as Bucky's hand slithered behind your neck.

"You deserve all of it, the whole world," You mumbled as you pulled away breathlessly. "The world did you dirty, and I'll be the one to wash you of it." With your words, Bucky felt his eyes water as he kissed you passionately again.

Once you pulled apart, Bucky wiped your lips with his thumb, a small smile on his lips. "Does that mean you're gonna stick around?"

"Yeah," you giggled, "I think it does."

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

࣪ ˖✧ Sweet Coffee

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: The morning after Sean's return party, a sheepish Arthur faces the consequences of his drinking excess. ✦ Warnings: None, this is as fluffy as the first part. ✦ Words: 3,9k ✦ a/n: This is a sequel of this one shot! Please, read it before this one :) Also, I've taken the liberty to write this as if Arthur still had Boadicea, to me it was the best way to make him have a canon horse. Gonna think about a better solution in the future.

You opened your eyes, slowly. The ceiling of your tent was turning a bit, your heart feeling like it was on the verge of leaking out of your chest. It was as if your bed was a boat, pitching with the winds and the waves; you had to prevent yourself from throwing up, a spinning sensation making your guts feel rancid.

Water. Coffee. Breakfast.

You thought to yourself while stretching in your cot, every fiber of muscles in your body feeling worn. Your brain was mushy, unable to form any complex reflection, your forehead hurting, your mouth dry. The consequence of every party; the goddamn hangover.

Water. Coffee. Breakfast.

You slowly sat at the edge of your bed, taking the time to move your tired members, realizing your throat was extremely sore. You probably sang a little too much last night. You get up and walk to the little cleaning area of your tent which consisted of only a simple table topped with a little mirror, a bucket of water, and a solitary towel. Nothing fancy, but at least you had your own tent, which was already a grand luxury at camp.

Water. Coffee. Breakfast.

You take long sips of water from the bucket before cleaning up your face, looking at it in the mirror. Of course, under your eyes, big shady circles, sickles of violet darkness under the sharp radiance of your pupils. It was part of the whole hangover package. You quickly fixed your hair and put on some fresh clothes, mindlessly.

Coffee, breakfast, Arthur.

Wait, what? You thought you were going on with your morning routine thoughtlessly, but here he was. Always following you, a shadow in the back of your mind; his stupid smile like imprinted on the obscure abyss of your psyche, shining, blazing, magnificent. Haunting.

You were thinking about him very often lately, maybe too often, you noted to yourself. John's word had sealed your opinion's fate on the matter: Arthur could have behaved that way with any other girl at camp.

And yet. Yet you longed for it, for last night to mean something, anything. For you to be more than just any girl to him. For the drunken honest words he had spoken before drifting away in the sweet caress of sleep to be true. You sighed. Too much false hope would lead your heart to be even more broken, you knew it.

And yet. The shadow of his smile. The sound of his deep, powerful laugh. Following you everywhere as you got out of your tent, eyes narrowing at the bright light of the day, almost as bright and vibrant as the subject of your thoughts; almost.

Your path led you more by habits than by an actual decision of yours to the campfire next to Pearson's wagon, and you were delighted to see one of your obsessive needs was already there: a hot coffee pot, releasing a small puff of smoke had been prepared. Blessed was the divine human being who made it. You took a cup and poured some of the holy providential liquid into it, the mere smell of it already waking you up a little bit. The taste was strong, bitter; rough like your life was as an outlaw in a gang, but at least it would help you clear your head and maybe get a certain someone out of it.

As you sipped on the warm beverage, you took a look around at your surroundings. The camp offered you a pitiful but quite amusing sight. It was a real mess, as if a tornado had passed by and turned everything upside down. The Ocean of empty bottles was still present, spilling everywhere between the different people's tents. People who were slowly emerging from them, with tired eyes and ruffled hair, some of them speaking more quietly than usual, rubbing their temples, navigating through shattered glass and chaos of debris, remnants of the agitation that had taken place the night before. You chuckled to yourself. One of the more feared gangs in the West? Certainly not after a party.

Abigail was already starting to clean the pieces of glass, getting angry about how this wasn't a proper place to raise her kid. Honestly, she was right, and you wanted to help her. Ms Grimshaw would probably force you to anyway, and this idea was reinforced when you noticed her from afar, already yelling at Karen to get up and start the cleaning.

Before getting attention from the strict woman, you took a step to go and do your part but stopped in your tracks. A familiar rugged face had appeared from his tent and was heading up in your direction.

Arthur was feeling too much. Too much sensations, too much feelings, just way too much of everything. His thoughts were trying to work as fast as he could considering his slowed brain, the aftermath of his excess from last night preventing him from being as efficient as normal.

The main focus of his reflection was you. He was obsessed to know what had happened, to understand why he had so many memories about you from last night, and quite intimate ones. He was praying he didn't do anything stupid with you; were you two even okay? Had he offended you? Had he been respectful? He needed to know, he needed to make sure he hadn't screwed everything up between you two. And at the same time, he was ashamed. So ashamed of having drunk so much he wasn't even able to remember what had happened. He was so anxious to confront you about it. To hear the truth, hear you say he had been a pig, and you'd never want to see him again, because that was probably what had happened. He was convinced of it.

As he saw you drinking your morning coffee by the fire from his cot, he quickly had changed, tried to clean up a bit, and made sure he had nothing stuck between his teeth or anything else of that type that could make him pass for an even bigger fool than he already was. He had chosen one of the less damaged shirts he had, a simple green but at least not holey flannel, all his clothes being more or less in a bad state anyway. Two leathered suspenders on, keeping black basic pants from falling. Damn, his reflection in the mirror looked even uglier than usual with his lack of sleep and post-party face. He sighed deeply, screw it. He needed to talk to you, at all costs, he knew he wouldn't be able to do anything else properly otherwise. He tried to actually brush his hair, a thing he never bothered to do normally; he even tried to use some hair pomade, combed them in all directions possible, anything to make them look less messy. Nothing was working. He sighed again, getting angry, and just decided to put his hat on to hide this disaster.

This was already too complicated and he hadn't spoken any words yet.

Now walking straight to you, every step he took was followed by a worried thought, his heart tightening more and more as he was getting closer to the campfire you were standing next to. What had he done? Were you mad at him? Would you even agree to speak to him? Did he look good enough? Shit, he probably still must reeks of whiskey, he should have gone to town and taken a bath, stupid moron! But it was too late. Your eyes had crossed his, you had seen him approaching. There was no going back.

Finally arriving at the campfire, the poor nervous man stood at a respectful distance from you and cleared his throat. He didn't even had taken the time to think about what to say. Moron.

"G'd mornin', Y/N." He greeted you, his tone almost a bit too formal, a trace of his troubled state. His voice sounded huskier and harsher than what he wanted to, you were the first person he actually talked to since waking up and you could hear it with how hoarse his vocal cords were.

Besides it, you couldn't have guessed how much was going on inside his head; his expression was as neutral as usual, his own way of defending himself against the flurry of feelings that was taking place inside of him. You smiled at him, a mischievous, playful smile. You had so much to tease him about. Before the party, you two would already messed with each other a lot, and now you had a whole night of details you could use for it.

"Good morning, Mister Morgan... Guess someone was a little thirsty last night, mmh?" You answered, looking at him. His eyes crossed yours, he cracked up a smile too. His shoulders seemed to go down a bit, less tensed. In reality, he was so relieved to hear you tease him and to see your smile. You weren't mad. He silently thanked the Lord for that.

"I, erm... Maybe I drank a little t'much..." He replied with an embarrassed grin, his eyes looking at his feet before planting them back right into yours. He decided to ask you right away. Arthur never beat around the bush, this time was no exception. "L'sten, I don't... I don't remember much 'bout last night and... I hope I didn't bother ya."

His bright blue pupils were looking intensely into yours as he waited for your answer. He always looked at people like this, always keeping eye contact, as if it was a quiet duel and he would lose it if he stopped; but God, it made your heart melt a little.

"Oh, Arthur." You started, smiling some more realizing he was actually worried about you. "Don't worry, you didn't do anything wrong. To me at least. I remember you losing your nerves and punching Micah in the face." You answered his question, chuckling in the end.

"Why, this bastard had it comin'..." Arthur replied, scratching the side of his jaw, the slight grin still present on his lips, telling himself that it was definitely something he was capable of.

"You sing pretty good when you're drunk..." You added, tone playful.

Arthur sighed, he was enjoying more and more of this conversation he had feared in the beginning.

"Oh stop it, I don't." He retorted, his fingers scratching one last time before falling to his belt, both his hands gripping it, a standing position he often had when talking and didn't know what to do with his arms. Honestly, you were quite fond of it.

"You want some coffee, songbird ?" You questioned with a teasing tone, already grabbing a new cup and the pot. You knew he would say yes.

"Yeah, thank you." He replied at first, before frowning. "Don't ya start calling me that!" He added with a firmer tone, but his small smile was still stuck on his face while grabbing the hot cup you were handing to him.

"You're also quite a dancer..." You teased him once more with your mischievous voice, knowing you were pushing his limits with your remarks.

"Damn it, woman! Can't believe I was worried 'bout ya, while ya're teasin' me like this..."

"Yeah, I'm such a nasty woman..."

"Nah, you're the sweetest." He corrected you, a bit too quickly for it to be innocent. A quick, subtle flicker in his eyes showed you he was surprised with himself; the words had come out on their own.

You smiled widely, cheeks turning a bit red. You were praying it wasn't too obvious to him. Arthur was still looking at you, two indigo miniature seas fixated on you, even while drinking his beverage. The more he was, the more those vivid memories he had were making their way back to his mind. While looking at your waist, he remembered having held it at some point during the party, which explained how he learned how your clothes felt underneath his fingers. His breath quietly hitched when he realized how he knew about the softness of your leg: he recalled having an arm curled up around it at the end of the night. Shit... He really had been unruly. After a short silence, Arthur spoke again. He wanted to make sure, he needed to make sure.

"Erm... Can I ask ya if we... Did anythin' happen b'tween us while I was drunk ?"

"No, you've just been a bit... Tactile. But nothing happened." You answered his question honestly, wanting him to know the truth. After all, Arthur was your friend, and there was a whole step between gently teasing and actually tormenting him. "Oh and, you said you loved me."

Arthur almost choked on his coffee, a short strangled sound escaping from his throat, some drops of the hot liquid falling on his shirt. The only decent shirt he had was ruined. But it was the least of his problems. What the actual Hell had gotten into him? He was an even worse fool than he thought, and the bar was already low.

"I... What ?" Were the only words he was able to form, one of his hands wiping the coffee from his chin.

"Don't worry, John told me you've made it a habit to tell women that when you're drunk, apparently. We don't have to make a bit deal out of this." You reassured him. He really looked ashamed of his behavior, and you didn't wanted to make him feel even worse.

But Oh Lord, if only you knew. If only you could have understood how much he wanted to make a big deal out of it; how much he had wanted to properly say those three words to you. He was almost disappointed in a way, that you were so quick to forget about it, as if it had been a simple joke to you, something amusing a drunkard had said in a moment of alcoholic eccentricity.

"Ah, alright. Well, I'm happy ya not mad at me." He simply added, honestly not knowing what to say or how to act anymore.

Tell her. Tell her she means the World to you. Tell her you have spoken the truth. This was the best chance you would have.

But the words were stuck, and as fast as a breeze would have swept away petals of flowers, Ms. Grimshaw asked for you with her usual severe call, and off you were gone, wishing him a good day and telling him he didn't have to worry about last night, even adding your typical teasing comments, advising him to join a choir were he could flourish his singing talent.

Looking at you walking off, he sighed again, calling himself a moron for at least the twentieth time since he had gotten up. Looking down at his cup of coffee, almost empty, just like the hurtful sensation he was experiencing right now inside his heart, he got angry again. This was enough. He threw the rest of the coffee on the ground, put the cup in his satchel out of habit, and walked straight to his horse.

The afternoon passed slowly and quietly. You basically spent it tidying up the camp, the number of dishes almost twice as big as usual, and the endless amount of bottles and garbage looking like it was only getting larger the more you were cleaning them up. Thankfully, Ms Grimshaw had put every girl in camp to work too, and you weren't alone on your impossible task while the men were back on their usual activities, whether it was lazying around for Uncle and the Reverand, guarding camp for Bill and Charles, or going back on jobs for the others. You hadn't seen Arthur since your morning discussion with him, and you had concluded he probably had gone somewhere to do his own work. As the sun was getting down, the camp had ultimately taken back its usual appearance, and you were finally free from your chores.

You decided to go to the edge of the camp, behind the wagons, where the cliff was starting and was offering a breathtaking view of the mountains in front of you. At this time of day, in the dusky sun, the landscape was painted with beautiful golden and bronze colors, dazzling blend of warm tones, ephemeral treasure from the last sunrays of the day before the settlement of the night's darkness.

Lost in your contemplation, you didn't hear footsteps approaching. The shrill and recognizable sound of spurs along with the heavy stomping of a horse's hooves made you turn your head from the literal work of art you had under your nose, and your gaze fell on another one from a different nature; Arthur was walking up to you, holding Boadicea's reins into his hands, his blue gaze already fixated on you, slight frown on his forehead, looking as determined as if he was going in for a fight.

He looked different from earlier, you swore he was wearing a brand new shirt you had never seen, a fresh white one, and a black jacket which must have gone with a fancy suit. As he was heading towards you, you noticed and could smell he had taken a bath, and trimmed his beard more than usual. He looked neat, refreshed, it was quite unusual for him. You could feel how your blood was rushing at the simple sight of all this: he was undoubtedly handsome, as breath-taking as the landscape around you.

"Y/N." He greeted you with a determined voice, once he had come close to you. He let go of the reigns, letting his mare free, but she stayed right where she was and started to graze happily. He took his hat off and held it in his hands, probably out of politeness. Such a gentleman, as always around women. You had always found it quite endearing how rough he was but at the same time how respectful towards girls, complying with conventions just like an honest man would. However you were a bit confused, he had never bothered to do that with you before, only with the women he didn't knew.

"Arthur, are you alright? Did Trelawny force you to get clean up ?" You joked a bit, genuinely surprised by his appearance and sudden polite behavior.

"What? N-no..." He stuttered. He never stuttered. You could feel it flowing into you like last night: this terrible, powerful feeling of hope. Your whole being was filled with it as your eyes were glued to him, like a moth to a flame, like a moon to its celestial body.

"I erm... I got somthin' for ya." He said almost shyly. Shyly. You couldn't believe what you were witnessing. It was nearly too good to be true.

Maybe... Maybe the words he had spoken to you... Maybe his tactile behavior... Your thoughts were going entirely crazy, spiraling around the deep feeling that something really important was on the verge of happening. You watched, in awe, as Arthur turned his back to you in order to pull off from Boadiccea's saddle a gorgeous flower bouquet.

"I know it ain't much but... I've picked 'em for you..." He said quietly, his voice slow and deep as usual, but also a bit more vulnerable. You could see just how flustered he was, how unusual it was for him to put himself in such a situation. And it made you more happy than anything for such a long time. Your eyes, traveling from his insanely cute bashful face to the flowers, were now stuck on it. The colors were vibrant and surprisingly well-matched, almost like a painting, the petals going from deep red to a warm golden yellow. You couldn't prevent a deep blush from flushing your cheeks; it really was warming your heart.

"They're beautiful! Thank you so much..." You marveled, vision attached to his gift, admiring every detail about it. After a short moment, as you realized he had felt silent, you spoke again, a wave of boldness crashing onto you. He had made a step towards you, now it was your turn.

"Arthur... The words you said to me last night..." You began, your eyes slowly ascending to look at his again. To your surprise, you found him looking away.

Another hint, another glimmer of the internal storm of emotions Arthur was feeling right now. Your own heart started to beat faster; the blood flooding so fast in your veins at this point you're wondering how the hell your body is keeping it all up together without collapsing under the pressure.

Arthur doesn't answer. Instead, he simply looks back at you, a flash of apprehension in his turquoise diamonds. He stays silent, unable to say anything more. His own heart must be on the verge of bursting cause you recognize the faintest of red on his own cheeks and a little vein on his temple. What a sight, to have this grown man, one of the stronger men in the gang, probably the fastest gunslinger of the State, blushing because of you.

"Those words were true, right?" You finish your sentence with an encouraging expression and the softest smile you had.

Arthur exhaled, closing his eyes for just a few seconds before planting them back into yours and nodding. Still silent, still stoic, still nervous. The slight blush was unhurriedly spreading on his face just like a flaming stain of watercolor on a canvas. Your very own art piece.

"I love you too, Arthur." You finally confided to him, voice soft and low, as if it was a confession you would have told him in the middle of the night, intimate as secrets you'd both tell each other in the ear while lying together in the same bed, arms interlaced, heart intertwined, as everything around you both would disappear. And in the moment, for Arthur, everything did.

He carefully brought a hand on the side of your face, never breaking his deep starring until the last second, and slowly bent over to put his lips on yours. Every move he was making was measured, contained; the exact opposite of his unleashed behavior at the party. You could feel just how cautious he was in that moment, as if he was scared to hurt you, or make you flee.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, never letting go of the bouquet that was now hanging behind his back in your thankful right hand. His own was still on your head, fingers gently caressing your skin as the kiss was dragging on. His lips, although chapped, felt good against yours, taking their rightful place there.

After what felt like an eternity of sweetness, he pulled back. If you thought he was blushing before, it was nothing compared to his cheeks right now, the deep crimson shade having completely recovered the canvas. Finally, his body's muscles relaxing, his features softening, a big, wide smile appeared on his face; the same that had been haunting you since the night before. The stupid smile. Just for you.

"I love you too, for real I mean." He let out in a soft drawling voice, once you had never heard coming from him. He brought his forehead to rest against yours, closing his eyes, not even processing this was really happening.

"I hope you'll sing again for me, Arthur." You couldn't help but add, a playful tone and a slight smirk on your lips.

"For ya, maybe, sweetheart. But don't ya come complainin' about the rainin' after."

[seventiesweetheart]

𓆩♱𓆪 party monster.

dark! ex bf! rafe x pogue! fem! reader

SUMMARY. in which y/n and the infamous rafe cameron once shared a secret relationship, one that she knew the pogues would be heavily against. and so eventually, after a series of events, y/n decided to break up with him and be done with his toxic behavior once and for all. but while sneaking into some kook’s house party with the pogues, she’s caught by the one person she was hoping not to find.

WARNING. smut, dubcon, a bit of violence, implied toxic relationship, oral (reader receiving), choking, manipulative behavior, jealousy, tons of swearing

A/N. this is the first ever fic i’m posting yaaaay >< just a note that this definitely ended up being way longer than i planned, so i might write a part two tomorrow since it also still feels kind of lacking :( but hope you enjoy!

it wasn’t easy sneaking in. but with sarah’s help, they managed to slip through unnoticed. and of course, jj wasted no time diving into the kitchen where bottles of booze were scattered like treasure, hence why y/n found herself struggling to maintain control of the situation, fearing that at any moment, someone would eventually realize who they were and the fact that they completely weren’t supposed to be here.

to be honest, y/n never wanted to come here. if anything, the last place she wanted to be after her recent breakup was anywhere near the kooks. yet, as soon as john b and jj heard about the party, they couldn't resist the temptation to crash it in true pogue fashion.

as usual, y/n and ki couldn’t bear the idea of those boys getting their asses kicked again, especially after the millions of times that that happened in the past.

“jj, seriously, that’s enough. this is absolutely no place to get wasted right now. please.” she begged her best friend who was now downing his third bottle and moving along to music.

“god relax y/n, no one’s gonna figure us out, alright? just drink, dance, and we’ll be out of here as soon as possible.”

her eyes bored into him, clearly not believing a word he said, “uh huh, you say that now but—“

“c’mon! just dance with me.” before y/n could protest any more, jj had her by the hand, dragging her out of the kitchen and into the living room. the air was thick with the scent of flavored smoke and alcohol. loud trap music pounded from the speakers, the bass vibrating through the floors and walls, matching the rhythm of her racing heart.

“jesus christ…” the girl muttered, watching jj get lost in the music, his head swinging and hair flying as he danced amidst the throng of bodies.

y/n's eyes scanned around the room, her anxiety mounting with each passing second. sweat slicked her forehead as she continuously looked around the crowd for any familiar faces who might recognize them.

and then she saw him.

his pair of piercing grey-blue eyes locked onto hers, sending a jolt of fear through her body. those same eyes flicked between her and jj, and before she knew it, she felt a chill run down her spine.

rafe cameron lounged on a plush couch, arms draped over the backrest with the usual unreadable expression on his face. next to him was some girl who was bent forward towards the glass table, snorting a line of powder. she raised her head back and pinched her nose, waiting for the rush to hit.

but y/n’s focus was solely on rafe. whoever the girl was didn't matter. either way, rafe’s attention was fixed on her, and she couldn't tell if that excited or terrified her more.

snapping out of the daze, she turned to her best friend again, “jj, we gotta go. rafe’s here.” she desperately tried to tug on her friend’s arm.

“jj!” she yelled over the music and that finally caught his attention.

“what?!” he yelled back, irritation flashing across his face at the sight of her anxious expression.

“we have to go! now.”

rafe never liked jj. throughout their secret relationship, he always thought of him to be a little too loud, violent, and far too carefree. on top of that, he also thought jj was always too close to y/n for his liking.

and y/n knew this. she knew both of them well enough to understand that she needed to act quickly before things escalated and this night became another reminder of why sneaking into this party had been a terrible idea in the first place.

her hand wrapped tightly around her best friend’s wrist as she moved as quickly as she can through the crowd in order to find an exit.

but almost immediately, she felt jj's wrist slip from her grasp. her heart dropped as she pushed through a dense cluster of bodies, the press of people making it hard to move.

"fuck, jj—" she started, her voice barely audible over the pounding music.

but it wasn’t jj behind her anymore. instead, she found herself face-to-face with the same pair of ominous blue eyes she saw earlier. she barely had time to think as she shoved past more bodies.

finally breaking free from the crowd, she found herself at the foot of the stairs. without hesitation, she dashed upwards. it didn’t matter, she was going to find a window and get the hell out of here. kiara would find jj, y/n was sure of it. and pope had to be somewhere downstairs as well.

reaching the second floor, her heart raced even faster. she frantically looked left and right, searching for a room to hide in. she pushed open the first door she came to, only to recoil at the sight of two strangers making out.

“fuck, sorry,” she mumbled, cringing as she backed out and moved to the next room.

she hurried down the hall to the last room, cautiously peeking inside. finding it empty, she slipped in quickly.

but the door couldn’t close behind her.

she attempted to push it again, but it wouldn’t budge. y/n stumbled backward as the door pushed back against her efforts, her breath hitching when she realized it wasn’t any problem with the door—it was rafe on the other side.

“closing the door on me again? i’m starting to think you love doing that.” a mischievous smirk played on his lips as he slowly stepped into the room, his presence making the space more suffocating as he closed the door behind him.

the silence in the room was deafening and the growing tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. y/n definitely did not miss the sound of the lock clicking into place.

she could still hear the music blaring from downstairs, the bass vibrating through the walls and floorboards. or maybe this time it was just her own heart, pounding in her chest as she kept her eyes locked on his. every fiber of her being braced for his next move.

rafe took a step closer, his gaze never wavering from hers. the dim light cast shadows across his face, making his expression even more unreadable.

she never expected for this situation to happen again, wherein they would be both locked in a room and none of her friends were even slightly aware of the fact that they were alone together. every instinct screamed at her to run, but she stayed rooted at her spot.

“not running this time?” he inched closer, his voice a low and threatening.

“i know you won’t hurt me.” it sounded like a whisper, as y/n back slowly to the desk behind her.

rafe scoffed, “you say that but i see you still trying to escape from me.”

y/n glared at him, defiance flickering in her eyes “well, what do you expect? for me to run to you?”

his glare intensified, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he moved closer. but then, in a flash, his expression softened.

“i missed you, you know?” his tone turned manipulative, a tactic she recognized all too well from their relationship. she had fallen for it many times before, but she wasn’t going to this time. “i really did, y/n… we were so perfect together and you-you just left without giving me the chance to explain myself.”

“well, i don’t think any more could have been said after you beat the fuck out of my best friend, don’t you think?” y/n's voice grew more aggressive, her anger flaring.

“yeah well he hit me too! and what’d you do? nothing!” he yelled, and she flinched at every word, her body tensing as she tried desperately to find an escape from the suffocating situation.

his breathing grew heavier as he looked at her with pain and frustration in his eyes, “you said you loved me but-but you didn’t even come to defend me.”

“rafe… you started that fight and i-i told you if you laid a hand on any of my friends then that would be the end for us.”

“god, fuck!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the room. rafe's hand shot out, knocking the floor lamp until it crashed to the floor with a loud shatter, fragments of glass scattering across the hardwood.

y/n flinched, raising her arms to shield herself as she inched closer to the corner where the bed was.

“it’s always you and those fucking friends of yours.” he spat, his face contorted with rage.

and before she could even process his movements, his hand was on her throat, pulling her forcefully towards him. she gasped, feeling the pressure against her windpipe, her fingers clawing desperately at his chest in an attempt to break free.

but even in her panic, she couldn't ignore the familiar sensation of his solid chest beneath her hand.

“and now, let me guess, you’re moving on to that fucking blonde you claim to be your best friend.”

“jj really is just my best friend! p-please, rafe. let go of me.” y/n pleaded as she fought the urge to look at how close his lips were from hers instead of holding the weight of his intense gaze.

“see, that’s where you’re wrong, y/n. i’ve never let you go, and i’m not fucking letting you go now or ever.”

his lips crashed down on hers, the kiss intense and demanding, leaving her gasping for air as she struggled to keep up with his pace. his other hand found her waist, pulling her closer against his body.

“r-rafe…” the moan she tried to hide escaped freely from her lips, coming out as a breathless whisper as his lips trailed down to her neck, no doubt leaving a trail of marks.

“god, l-let me go.” y/n weakly pushed him while he backed her up towards the bed.

“you say that, but your body tells me otherwise. you’ll have to tell me what you really want, sweetheart.”

he continued to suck on her skin, marking her with dark red and purple bruises as his hands trailed down to the hem of her floral sundress. slowly, he slipped his fingers underneath the fabric until he was hooking one side of her lacy underwear.

“still haven’t answered my question, y/n. or do you seriously want me to fuck it out of you?”

his eyes locked onto hers with growing frustration and need, “just fuck me, rafe.”

finally, the mischievous smirk returned to his face, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he leaned in closer.

despite her initial reluctance, y/n lifted her hips, allowing him to easily pull her underwear down until it hung around her ankles.

her hand grew clammy as she clutched the sheets beneath her, her breath catching in her throat as she lay staring at the ceiling.

meanwhile, rafe moved his hand back up her thighs, brushing her skirt up slowly to tease her until the fabric pooled at her waist. she could feel the air around them mixing with his breath against her skin, making her exposed wetness grow colder.

“d’you let anyone get near this after you left me?” his voice came low and deadly as his fingers played at her entrance, sliding against the slick liquid between her lips.

y/n whimpered at his touch, trying to hide her face with her hand while she shook her head in response.

“use your words, princess.”

“n-no, i didn’t.” she stammered out, her breath hitching as she felt his finger plunge through her hole.

satisfaction evident in his voice as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin, “good girl.”

her eyes shut tightly as soon as she felt his lips wrap around her soft bud, tongue lapping over and over it, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body.

“w-wait, rafe! slow down!” she groaned, her hands moving to tightly clutching his hair, her body trembling with the overwhelming sensation.

but rafe didn’t slow down, his hands holding her legs firmly in place before they tried to snap shut and he continued running his tongue over her clit, his warm saliva mixing with her wetness, making his actions even sloppier and faster.

“sh-shit, i’m close—rafe, please.” she begged, her voice thick with desperation. her hips moved involuntarily, seeking more friction and intensity, driving her to buck her hips against his face, urging him to keep going.

her fingers pulled his hair as she arched her back, and rafe buried his face deeper between her legs, his hands gently and possessively molding her thighs like they were lovers. like they never broke up and she had always belonged to him all this time.

“come for me, princess. c’mon.” he voiced breathlessly, the tip of his tongue tracing maddening circles around her bud, pushing her closer and closer to the edge with each passing second.

it was all too overwhelming for y/n. she felt her orgasm building up, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to engulf her completely.

“fuck, rafe!” she moaned, her entire body tensing as her release crashed over her in waves, leaving her breathless and shaking.

rafe wasted no time in savoring all her juices, his lips and tongue eagerly lapping up every drop as they poured onto the sheets of some stranger's bed.

with gentle kisses kisses trailing along her inner thighs, he moved up to face her, delicately wiping the sweat off her forehead and gently brushing her hair out of her face.

still recovering from the intensity of her climax, y/n struggled to catch her breath as she locked eyes with him. the full weight of her actions had yet to sink in but she pushed the thought aside for later as his lips came down again to meet hers, softly grazing the bottom with a gentle nip.

“finally remember who you belong to, sweetheart?”

© 2024 seventiesweetheart | do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my work.

[hockeybabe]

Family Skate | M.Knies

Not my gif

Parings: Matthew Knies x gf!reader

Summary: you and mattthew are new to the dating scene and he makes it official to the public by inviting you to the family skate.

Warnings: pure fluff, swearing, insecurities, kissing, slight cocky Knies, ngl rushed af

Word count: 756

Note: this has been in my drafts for a while. Also requests are open, send them in! And I saw Olivia Rodrigo!!!!

The moment you met Matthew, you two instantly clicked. You had lived in Toronto your entire life working for the leafs. To the team you were like their little sister and the John well you were like his kid. When the leafs called up Matthew you had lost your apartment and John was there to help you.

So gradually you lived with the Tavares residence, along with Matthew becoming professional babysitters for John and Aryne. But what the outside world didn’t know was that you and Matthew were a little more involved with each other than just friends. 

You were a couple. One that you kept away from the world because of people not always being accepting. It was your idea. You had seen it happen to so many and while they could handle it; you weren’t sure you could. However, after multiple talks with Aryne and other girlfriends, they finally convinced you to be shown off.

And what better to have it done at the family skate.

“Babe, you ready.” Matt called for you pulling on his jersey. “Yeah.” You said fixing you scarf and pulling your hair out. “How do I look.” You turned around showing him your outfit which consisted of a handmade leafs jacket with his name on it and black leggings. 

Matthew stared down at you with a cheeky smile gabbing you hands at your sides and leant down giving you a kiss. “You look perfect.” He mumbled. “We should probably get going.” He said heading for the door. As he walked away you slowly feel your nerves creeping up. Matthew notices you lack of presence.

“Y/n,” he calls out. “Everything alright?” He asks once you come to the door. “What if they don’t like me?” You asked, twiddling your thumbs. “Who’s not gonna like you?” He asks clueless making you groan. “The fans, you dummy.” You placed your hands on his chest, looking up at him. “What are they gonna do? You’re mine and I’m yours. They’re just gonna have to accept that.” He says, putting loose hair behind your ear.

“But-” “If they judge, they judge don’t let them tear you apart. I love you.” He says, opening the door. “I love you too.” You mumble. “What was that?” You groan, “I love you too.” You said louder. “That’s my girl.” He said, watching you exit the house and getting into the car.

Once you guys got to the rink, you trailed behind Matthew as he waved to the fans what you didn’t expect were the amount of fans calling your name. You had no clue how they knew who you were, but they were cheering for you.

“Looks like you don’t need to impress anyone.” Matthew turned around, looking down at you with a smirk. You gave him a smile, tightening your grip on his hand as you gave shy waves to the fans. When you finally got to the rink, you sat beside Steph. “Looks like they love you.” She commented.

“Could be a facade.” You shrug. “Fans are brutally honest about liking people. I guess they realized that because you've been dating for a while, then there’s nothing they can do.” She said as she watched Mitch and Matthew grab their girl's skates.

“Hi baby,” Matt said, kneeling down and tying your skates as you told him when it was tight enough. “You know you’re going to be dragging me everywhere, right?” You laugh. Matthew chuckled, “I got you.” Once your laces were fully tied, you took his hands and walked to the rink.

Matthew set foot into the ice first and took your hands, holding you tightly as you slightly wobbled in his grasp. “You doing great.” He cheered as he strides across the ice, pulling you with him. When the two of you passed close by the fans, they’d gush about how cute you two looked.

“Have I told you how gorgeous you look with rosy cheeks?” He smirked, making you blush. “I would slap your chest, but I’d probably fall.” You grunt. “And now you’re saying you’ll fall for me. How great.” He gave you a goofy smile, making you groan.

“Thank you.” You said to him. “For what?” He asked, confused. “For letting me see past the negatives. I love you.” You said quietly. “What was that?” He said, leaning down. “I love you.” “I love you too.” He responded by leaning down giving you a kiss as the other players' sticks clacked with the ice as they cheered with their partners. 

[guppybibi]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 | How does the TF141 love? (as food!)

John Price loves like a plate of carbonara 𓐐

It's one of the most beloved Italian pasta dishes out there, just like how he loves you the most! It's a simple dish yet it's hard to perfect, but you learn not to make the same mistakes afterwards. That's what's so nice about it, it isn't perfect. It never is, but even that is something to be cherished. Some of the choices made are questionable to say the least but he doesn't question them any further, he was one of your choices after all. (i have no idea how this connects to carbonara but do u see my vision, the choices are like ingredients..) Spaghetti is the most common pasta to be used in carbonara, outshining the less frequently used rigatoni & bucatini. And who can blame them? It's a timeless classic, a staple. (Just like you two;3) Spaghetti was notably long as well before shorter lengths gained some popularity! You know what else is long? Your prosperous relationship together! (Let's not talk about the creamy sauce.)

Simon Riley loves like a box of chocolates 🍫

It's assorted too! White, milk, dark, name it all! It's no problem-o! It's a surprise in every bite, or swallow but please chew your food. It's a whole new experience every time, it's thrilling. It could be filled with delectable chocolatey sauce, oozing out once you take the first bite! It's sweetness overload, reminding you of the sweet moments you and him have together. Then, the next chocolate has..nuts! Yum, these are a teensy weensy harder to chew especially if you have the teeth of a grandma..Like how it was just a little bit hard to get Simon to open up, to let you in. But sometimes the chocolates disappoint and have a hollow inside :C

John MacTavish loves like a bucket of popcorn🍿

Corn was domesticated in Mexico, a memorable place for Johnny to say the least. A lot happened there..During the early years, it was popped by hand but as we can see now it's popped by machines. How is that significant? Well, it shows how your relationship evolves. It's being nurtured like a little baby by the two of you after all! It gets more efficient, the both of you doing your own part in smoothing the bumps along the road. It's often eaten at movie theaters and sporting events, and what do those places have in common with this man? One word, fun! (This or he could also be pop rocks to be honest idk)

Kyle Garrick loves like a bowl of strawberries 🍓

A strawberry flower averages 5-7 petals according to a website, if you do the 'he loves me, he loves me not' game–you'll always land on the love one! (He purposely takes out the ones with 6 petals, or he plucks them off individually.) Or if he doesn't have time to do all of that, you guys resort to 'he loves me, he loves me lots' because that's just the wholehearted truth! Though strawberries don't always taste as good as they seem, no? Especially if they're out of season, yuck! Again, there's always some sour ones in the batch, but it's no use crying about it. So, you and him just fix it!

[ms-demeanor]

One thing that I keep seeing whenever I make posts that are critical of macs is folks in the notes going "they make great computers for the money if you just buy used/refurbs - everyone knows not to buy new" and A) no they don't know that, most people go looking for a new computer unless they have already exhausted the new options in their budget and B) no they don't make great computers for the money, and being used doesn't do anything to make them easier to work on or repair or upgrade.

Here's a breakdown of the anti-consumer, anti-repair features recently introduced in macbooks. If you don't want to watch the video, here's how it's summed up:

In the end the Macbook Pro is a laptop with a soldered-on SSD and RAM, a battery secured with glue, not screws, a keyboard held in with rivets, a display and lid angle sensor no third party can replace without apple. But it has modular ports so I guess that’s something. But I don’t think it’s worthy of IFixIt’s four out of ten reparability score because if it breaks you have to face apple’s repair cost; with no repair competition they can charge whatever they like. You either front the cost, or toss the laptop, leaving me wondering “who really owns this computer?”

Apple doesn't make great computers for the money because they are doing everything possible to make sure that you don't actually own your computer, you just lease the hardware from apple and they determine how long it is allowed to function.

The lid angle sensor discussed in this video replaces a much simpler sensor that has been used in laptops for twenty years AND calibrating the sensor after a repair requires access to proprietary apple software that isn't accessible to either users or third party repair shops. There's no reason for this software not to be included as a diagnostic tool on your computer except that Apple doesn't want users working on apple computers. If your screen breaks, or if the fragile cable that is part of the sensor wears down, your only option to fix this computer is to pay apple.

How long does apple plan to support this hardware? What if you pay $3k for a computer today and it breaks in 7 years - will they still calibrate the replacement screen for you or will they tell you it's time for new hardware EVEN THOUGH YOU COULD HAVE ATTAINED FUNCTIONAL HARDWARE THAT WILL WORK IF APPLE'S SOFTWARE TELLS IT TO?

Look at this article talking about "how long" apple supports various types of hardware. It coos over the fact that a 2013 MacBook Air could be getting updates to this day. That's the longest example in this article, and that's *hardware* support, not the life cycle of the operating system. That is dogshit. That is straight-up dogshit.

Apple computers are DRM locked in a way that windows machines only wish they could pull off, and the apple-only chips are a part of that. They want an entirely walled garden so they can entirely control your interactions with the computer that they own and you're just renting.

Even if they made the best hardware in the world that would last a thousand years and gave you flowers on your birthday it wouldn't matter because modern apple computers don't ever actually belong to apple customers, at the end of the day they belong to apple, and that's on purpose.

This is hardware as a service. This is John Deere. This is subscription access to the things you buy, and if it isn't exactly that right at this moment, that is where things have been heading ever since they realized it was possible to exert a control that granular over their users.

With all sympathy to people who are forced to use them, Fuck Apple I Hope That They Fall Into The Ocean And Are Hidden Away From The Honest Light Of The Sun For Their Crimes.

[lholland14]

Error: Name Unknown

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader

Summary: When you vs the Paige Bueckers in her own game, but don't know who she is.

Warnings: Somewhat suggestive? Also, I have no idea who most of the UCONN basketball team is SORRYYYY I JUST FOUND OUT PAIGE AND IM OBBSESSED!! Also this isn't edited so if you find anything pls tell me and I'll fix it.

---------

The annual Sport Swap, the day where all UCONN athletes show off their athletic ability by playing other UCONN teams of different sports in different games. The staff would randomly choose two teams to face off in a series of random sports determined by a spinning wheel. 

It was electrifying.  

It was your day, as someone who played soccer, this day was a chance to show off. You were a newer athlete, but that didn't mean you weren't popular, fans began noticing you after pulling of a 2 goal comeback and an assist against St. John in the last 15 minutes of the game winning 3-2. Ever since then you were highly regarded as the "Comeback Kid" of UCONN and was shortly named captain, even with that title though, Paige Bueckers was the one to watch. Winning award after award, game after game, heart after heart.

"Okay! Everyone gather around!" Your coach yelled into the clamouring locker room, "The competition is out and I think you're gonna be happy about it this year!" 

You and your teammates sprung out of the tightly packed locker room and into the meeting room with a slide show on titled "SPORTS SWAP". As soon as everyone was settled down your coach lectured you all on being good sports and how everyone is winners. 

To be honest, you had tuned out long before he had began talking. He finally garnered your attention when it was time to reveal who you were playing.

He clicked a button and he slide switch to reveal the highly anticipated words, "UCONN WOMEN'S SOCCER VS WOMEN'S BASKETBALL" 

Your teammates paled at the though of having to compete against the 6ft tall team of total hotties, you, however, didn't understand the fear. Being a younger player in a much more rigorous major you didn't get out much, in fact you never went out, or watched a lot of TV, including certain games starring a certain blonde haired girl. 

Your coach began ushering your solum team into the basketball court where the girl's basketball team was waiting to hear what sports you'd all be playing. The moment you opened the court's doors your team was welcomed with loud music, laughter and cringy dances by the basketball team. 

You smiled, but on the inside you hated it, you hated how cocky they were. You never met them, or seen or watched them, but you hated them. Their smirks and loud music in a dominant way to show that they simply didn't care. 

They knew that they would win. All you and your team was to them was dust on the pedestals. Tattered challengers  standing before gods, someone they could merely dismiss without a thought. 

Your blood boiled at this, and with a defiant look and steeled nerves you asked your teammates who the most famous one is out of the group.

"Paige Bueckers, she's the blond one with braids." Your friend replied staring heart eyes at the 6ft tall girl with piercing blue eyes. You simply rolled your eyes in response, earning a shove from the girl.

"Settle down everyone!" Geno yelled, "I'll be spinning the wheel soon to determine what sports we will be playing today." The basketball girl's screeched in response, yours remaining dead silent.

He began spinning the wheel landing on ice hockey (cue the groans), cheerleading (out of the corner of your eye you could see a younger girl joking rub shoulders with the blue blue eyed blondie you were told about earlier) and finally, basketball.

The final spin landed on basketball, you could visibly see your teammates hearts sink as the other girls erupted in screams. Geno turned to us in apology offering to do another spin, just as your teammates agreed to this you asserted a cold no.

He sighed, and told us to skate up.

~~HOCKEY~~

You had to admit, it was pretty funny to see both teams just slide across the ice in various positions (none of them correct). Both teams not even bothering to play anymore, just running out the clock in order to show off their "skill". 

By skill you meant how long one could stay standing, and that record was held by a girl named KK on the basketball team, her record? 15 seconds. Other various skills included how many players one person could take out in the least amount of time currently held by you.

It just happened so fast, one minute you were standing hunched, arms sprayed out in hopes for finding balance, but instead finding the stomach of a certain blonde haired girl and the mouth of you teammate. Desperately needing balance you accidentally swung out and clutched onto the girl, effectively knocking your teammate onto the ground. However, Bueckers wasn't so balanced herself and began skating backwards due to the sudden force your body had. With each backward step you two knocked down three other played before tripping over a random 6'3 body.

Landing softly, thanks to girl whose shoulders you were clinging onto, whose hands are on your thighs that were currently straddling her waist. As you slowly lifted up your sweaty body from hers you felt the shock that came from unconsciously grinding on her abs after her shirt rode up. The shock sent waves of red onto both yours and hers face, breathing heavily you stood back up, and stuck your hand out to help the blonde haired girl. She sheepishly grinned in response, the cocky smirk wiped from her face and onto yours.

You didn't even notice the long forgotten puck sliding slowly into your goal.

Point Basketball team.

~~CHEERLEADING~~ 

"Lets gooooo!!!" KK screamed the moment we entered the gym. As you continue walking to the middle of the gym you could feel the intensity of Paige's eyes at the back of your head. Was she really check you out? With your mind of occupied by the blue eyed beauty you failed to notice the pom poms set out by Geno, and because you're a tad dramatic ...you screamed, thinking it was a spider.

Both teams erupted in laughter as your teammates ran to help you up, heat rushing to your face due to embarrassment, not because you can still feel the heat of Paige's hands on your waist, and definitely not because the same girl was staring at you with a lopsided smile. 

"Well, I guess Y/n has volunteered her team to go first!" Geno clapped your coach's back with a grin, while the rest of your team groaned and walked over to the pom poms. After 20 minutes of practice, trying to choose a song and props your team was ready and rearing to go. 

With you donning ridiculous white sunglasses and a plastic poofy skirt, you took your place at the center of the gym. The moment the music Apple Bottom Jeans played you started dancing, only stopping when a teammate fell or was laughing too hard to continue, finally ending with the last pose, one hand on your hip and the other in the air with smug eyes and a goofy smile.

Honestly, Paige didn't know if it was hot or the most adorable thing she has ever seen. The way your curved hips swayed with the music, or how the skirt was showing off your ass perfectly. Your goofy smile and the way you were the first to help a teammate, either way, Paige Bueckers was hooked. 

Her teammates could tell too, the way she would just gravitate towards you, how she would look at you for approval when she did a move correctly, tripping over her feet the moment your eyes locked into her's. 

And thanks to your quick observational skills, point you.

Well, Point Soccer team.

~~Basketball~~

The court was buzzing with excitement, with countless students coming in just to see Paige the basketball team dominate a team no one has heard of, but with your 5'7 frame and hidden skills you were determined to win. Unbeknownst to the basketball girls, your team actually played basketball frequently, practicing teamwork, communication and trick shots. Along with UCONN had offered you both a soccer and basketball full ride scholarship, but no one knew about that. 

After both teams came out it was clear to everyone who the audience preferred, the moment Paige came out the students cheered and you were pretty sure you could here girls begging Paige to fuck them. You'd be lying if you hadn't had that exact same though ping through your head at least once today. 

With you facing off for the ball against a someone named Aaliyah, you didn't even bother jumping against her 6'3 frame, instead opting to go behind her in order to steal the ball from KK. The moment the ball was in your grasp you hurled the ball towards the basket, and a loud buzzer played, signifying the bucket you just made. The crowd was dead silent, then cheered so loudly, you fell out of surprise, falling right into Paige.. again. 

"That was insane ma," She murmured against your eye, her hot breath fanning your neck causing you to shiver involuntarily. You just bowed your head in response to the praise, heat spreading to your face and to your core.

With the crowd not settling down anytime soon, you returned to your position. Nodding to your teammates in unison. You had a game plan, you had each others backs and you were going to win. 

With multiple well timed passes, a couple of threes and some insane dunks preformed by your team, you were well ahead of the actual basketball team. 

And they were pissed.

Paige was laughing and cheering and smiling, until, she wasn't. Until she started to get annoyed how you were beating her. She was the record breaker, you weren't. She was a god at this school, you, well you were a nobody.

After you had just scored a three that Paige thought was hot, she started guarding you more closely.

"Who are you?" You breathed out behind her body, trying to block you from getting the ball.

"Paige, Paige Bueckers" She managed to gasp out, her body was totally gassed from the earlier events.

"What? Are you famous or something?" You cocked an eyebrow that you knew would only agitate her more. 

"You could say that" 

With her momentarily distracted your teammate passed the ball to you in the final seconds.

"Really?" You smirked, "because you seem," throwing the ball in a no-look half court basket, the way you saw Paige had done in a video.

Just before the buzzer could signify the end of the game you put your hand on the back of her neck pulling her close, and whispered,

"Irrelevent." 

[tojisun]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C129xgdPN0D/?igsh=eWptZ2tnMHI0ODJ1

price and soap price and soap price and soap. i’m literally foaming at the mouth. i can’t take it

IM A PUDDLE IM A MESS OH MY GOD!!! THATS SO PRICE AND SOAP YEA IM LIKE SCALING THE WALLS

જ thinking about seeing price’s tummy first before his gains. thinking about price lifting his shirt up to wipe at his face, giving you a view of his belly and you freeze, going breathless because what the fuck that’s so hot.

john sees you gaping at him and he coughs awkwardly, apologizing about the indecency, and you’re quick to reassure him that “no, no oh my god you look good! sorry i just- i just didn’t expect that!”

clearly that doesn’t save you from further mortification so you stutter out a goodbye and hightail out of there. it’d be weeks later (the gap days full of you remembering john’s body… sometimes even dreaming about it. dreaming about being pressed against his softness and being cradled and being taken by him against the wall and-…!!) when john shows you his muscles—ripped in a way that you also didn’t expect from him but, you realize, of fucking course he’s ripped!

the daydreams just spiral even more after that :((

જ thinking about the opposite for soap—how you first saw his toned pecs before his tummy. thinking about seeing soap in that white cunty ripped-sleeves turtleneck as he fixes up something in his garage, sweat making his adonis-like muscles glisten and you honest to god whimper.

johnny looks up from where he’s got his head bowed to see something in his car and waves at you, shooting you that toothy smile that makes your breath hitch. the stretch of his arm makes his muscles flex and you could not stop the dreamy sigh that slithers out of your lips.

“hey neighbour!” johnny calls out, before his brows furrow in confusion as you, and you realize this in horror, proceed to just stare at him, all dopey and unblinkingly.

“oh!” you squeak. “bye!”

you’d try to ignore him as best as you could and you tell yourself that johnny’s sad puppy look isn’t getting to you but, well, you’re a liar and a weakling.

so, naturally, you see yourself knocking on his door a week later with a tupperware full of cookies. johnny swings the door open, wide smile only faltering a bit to make way for his confusion, but you bulldoze through whatever he must have wanted to say because you could honestly feel yourself getting faint—of course your handsome neighbour is even more handsome up close. of course.

“i, uh, got you cookies,” you say, cringing at the rasp of your voice. “well i say i ‘got’ you cookies but actually i baked them. for you. as apology. because i’m sorry.”

why, in god’s name, are you talking like that!?

“and you probably don’t wanna eat them because, duh, muscle man right here—” jesus christ, shut up! “so feel free to chuck ‘em out, i honestly wouldn’t feel offended and-”

johnny laughs, so bright and joyful that it makes him throw his head back. he even wipes his eyes because he’s laughing so hard, he teared up.

“easy there, chipmunk,” he says, mid-chuckles.

chipmunk?

“i’d love to eat these—” he takes the tupperware from you. “y’kiddin’?”

then he does the unthinkable—he lifts his shirt up to show you his, surprisingly, soft belly. you expected muscles and sculpted abs but this? god, this is better.

johnny pats his stomach. “this baby needs ‘em sweets.”

“uh huh,” you rasp out because what else can you say when adonis shows you his stomach?

“that’s great,” you add, your eyes still trained to his belly. “really, really great.”

“…you okay there?”

you fumble another ‘uh huh’ because, again, what else can you say?

yall need to stage a full intervention atp bc i cant stop rambling hhhshe!!! ne ways, this is me rn for realz 😭 and me! anotha me!! god i need emmmm

[yeyinde]

past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral. 

It starts in Madrid. 

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers. 

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic. 

A family. Children. 

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat. 

You've never seen your Captain look like this. 

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader. 

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close. 

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance. 

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't. 

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache. 

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush. 

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself. 

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke. 

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end. 

Well, that isn't entirely true. 

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch. 

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch. 

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too. 

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless. 

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on. 

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain. 

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy. 

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head. 

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.  

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response. 

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue. 

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response. 

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad. 

Dangerous, even. 

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different. 

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue. 

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now: 

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there. 

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour. 

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it. 

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting." 

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane. 

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?" 

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love." 

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend. 

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat. 

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning. 

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod. 

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle. 

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar. 

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability. 

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable. 

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns. 

You know because, now, you're always watching him. 

A silly little girl with a crush. 

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?" 

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face. 

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you. 

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over. 

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered. 

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race. 

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same. 

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door. 

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison. 

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you. 

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it. 

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test. 

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it. 

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed. 

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy." 

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent." 

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be. 

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes. 

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together. 

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there. 

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo— 

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes. 

He calls it. Yeah? 

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue. 

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow." 

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir." 

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing." 

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust. 

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir." 

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn. 

"John." 

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting. 

You don't know where it starts. 

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear. 

"Gotta stop this, love." 

The first thought: he knows. 

The second: he knows. 

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad. 

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back. 

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose. 

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke. 

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you. 

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear. 

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them. 

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash. 

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't. 

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back. 

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong. 

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it. 

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda. 

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company. 

Mornings met by the coffee maker. 

No tea, it seems. 

They have tea, sir. 

Not the good kind. 

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British. 

Only that? 

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it. 

But he is. 

Always. 

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission. 

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean. 

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear. 

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it? 

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence. 

This feels inevitable. 

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer? 

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever. 

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you. 

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be. 

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out. 

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot. 

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation. 

But he is. 

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant. 

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts. 

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard. 

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch. 

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting. 

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time. 

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John. 

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering. 

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it. 

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier." 

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean. 

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white. 

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony. 

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core. 

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard. 

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought. 

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips. 

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear. 

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine. 

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you. 

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums. 

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling. 

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss. 

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion. 

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin. 

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling. 

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours. 

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain. 

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes. 

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit. 

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm. 

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue. 

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn. 

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut. 

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid. 

It's always like that with him, you find. 

His warmth bleeds into your palm. 

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers. 

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in. 

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn. 

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue. 

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it. 

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke. 

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now. 

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know." 

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

[n30nwrites]

Now Sit (Shifter! TF141 x Male Reader)

Part 2 of Good Doggy

Masterlist here

Warnings: None really??? I'm not sure. Some awkwardness but that's cause Reader couldn't give less of a fuck. Some creepy behavior

Updated; 3/5/2024

Beta Reader: the lovely @letmelickyoureyeballs who's saving your guys asses right now

Part 1 here.

The entire house was shrouded in darkness. The windows were covered up in thick fabrics of purples and blacks. You didn't have any lights on, instead some candles that were hastily lit when you had entered the building and a few lamps. Your eyes were thankful for the darkness after the long drive during the day.

Your first trash bag was filled with clothing fabrics, they all needed to be washed so you quickly filled the tub with warm water and laundry soap, sorting the fabrics by color before tossing in the divided groups. Starting with your whites.

You decided to bring more boxes in, figuring the more you unboxed the easier it would be when the rest of your stuff arrived. Your box labeled ‘Gear’ was the first box to be put up, putting it in the closet near the entrance so you could pretend it wasn’t there. Just looking at your uniform brought back memories that you wish you could ignore. The second box was just one filled with knives, your swords were in another container wrapped up tightly in the back of Maya’s car. The Knives were put into your bedroom, you would come back to organize them when you weren’t so hungry.

You had cash ready for your pizza. Along with a tip because people needed to be tipped well. Especially in the service industry.

So when a knock echoed in the open-spaced living room, you had the cash tightly gripped, exact change in one hand and in the other the tip.

Until a man who was very obviously not the pizza delivery driver stood there, your pizza in his hand.

Well you figured it was yours. And there was no way this man was a delivery driver. He was far too fine to be one, if you were honest with yourself.

He was 6'2 which immediately put you on your toes, athletic build with graying-brown hair and blue eyes. He seems to look like he's reaching his 40s, something that shouldn't be so attractive yet is.

God, you needed therapy.

But, smash.

Nope. Nope. It was just inappropriate thoughts of an impossible achievement. You didn't need a relationship, not after your last one. You needed solitude, you needed to live a normal life without constant stares.

"Why do you have my pizza?" You ask him, money being squished.

"I paid for it, figured I could do that for the new guy." He speaks and seems almost cheerful, which is strange.

"I'm not paying you back."

"You don't have to." He handed the pizza to you and you snatched it quickly, almost comically. "Okay, bye." You go to shut the door but he quickly protests.

"Wait, who are you?" He seemed desperate and you didn't understand it. You sat the pizza on the table you had set up right next to the door, which was supposed to hold trinkets and your keys but you hadn't put the bowl there yet. You rolled your hand, rubbing your wrist that had ached from just a minute of holding the pizza. It was something you were working on fixing, just not right now.

"Who are you?"

"John, I live over at that house." He points to the house that Stalker 1 and Stalker 2 stood outside of. It was big enough for you to assume they were roommates, or perhaps a family.

"Can you tell the guys to not stare next time? It was uncomfortable." You blankly told him, before introducing yourself, only saying your first name, same as John did.

"This is a pretty big house for you to live all alone in." He was fishing for information, John knew that it could come off creepy, but he needed to know something about this person in front of him.

His mate.

"I don't live alone." You tell him, and he believes you are lying to him. He doesn't hear another heartbeat, and Ghost and Soap said that you arrived alone. "My Partner is coming with the rest of our stuff."

Partner? Why the hell do you have a Partner? How could you not know that you have three (maybe four with the way this pattern is) men waiting for you, willing to do anything for you. He's angry, and he knows that it makes no sense to be. You had lived your entire life before meeting them, it's not like you could drop everything and move in with him.

Despite everything in his body screaming at him to take you into his home and keep you there, keep you safe. And it's unreasonable, and something he would never do unless he wanted to traumatize you.

His eyes slightly widen at his own thoughts, and he needs to take a step away from you. You muddle his brain, you confuse him. He's had partners in the past, but this was different.

You weren't even supposed to be here.

"I'm sorry for bothering you sir, hope you enjoy your pizza." He takes a step away and turns and you don't bother to say goodbye or even thank him. You shut the door and he can hear you shuffle around and grab the pizza.

Price hates himself for what he's going to do next.

Gaz is almost surprised at the meeting. He says almost simply because he knew Price was going over to the neighbors, he watched the leader leave the house and pay off the pizza man. So something had to happen.

They just had to wait for Ghost to get home. Price was insistent on it, that everyone needed to be there and they couldn't wait nor do it over the phone.

He just wasn't expecting the words.

A theory that you were somehow mates with all of them. Price had revealed your status to him which caused Soap to blow up. It seemed ridiculous, all four of them connected to you.

But Gaz wanted it to be true. If he could just walk over and meet you, to find out.

If Gaz could no longer feel so alone because of you. He would do anything for that. So he didn't care that Ghost didn't seem to trust you, claimed you could be some creature putting a spell on the team, he didn't care that Soap wanted you for himself. He didn't care that Price was still talking.

He went outside and ignored the protests.

And he was lucky too, because a car had pulled up to your house and you walked out, sunglasses on and a large jacket which didn't fit for the weather.

But he could finally see if it was true.

-----

NEXT

Okay so I skipped my homework to finish this (i'm not gonna be this irresponsible I swear) and I made a poll here where you can decide on if reader is a human or not. I have plot points for both (probably a longer story if not human??? but that depends on what the people want) also please reblog and leave comments I usually lose interests with these and I'm trying not too. Gonna post a Masterlist for this soon, and if you want to follow the story you can follow the tag Good Doggy FF so you don't have to have notifs on lol.

[rainybubbles]

How COD men say the first "I love you"

Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost, Rudy, Keegan

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)

-

for more context (you don't need it to read) : here how you met them

P R I C E

-He confessed with Gaz covered by whipped cream.

-Let me explain.

-After your first meeting based on a pregnant Shrek cake to his base and a misunderstanding, John became a regular of your bakery.

-So obviously for confessing his love, he thought of baking a cake.

-During the afternoon on the base, he tried to bake.

-Yes, he could have bought a cake with "I love you” on it. But John liked doing this on his own when it came to gifts.

-He liked the old-fashioned way of doing gifts himself.

-However, as the dough turned an unexpected purple hue, he wisely sought the expertise of Soap, a proficient pastry enthusiast.

-"Cap...your dough is..." Soap hesitated, unsure of how honest he could be.

-"Horrible, you can say it, son," John acknowledged.

-"I just wonder how you managed to make it turn purple?"

-"I used beetroot."

-"For a cake?"

-"Sugar is derived from beetroot."

-"Yeah, but in a Paris-Brest, you don't have beetroot."

-"...how can I fix this?"

-"Well, call Gaz. By three, we could finish the pastry in time," Soap suggested with a knowing smile.

-The collaborative baking commenced, yet Soap overlooked a crucial detail—Gaz sucked as much as Price when it came to bake.

- Entrusted with the delicate task of preparing the crème au beurre, Gaz inadvertently neglected to secure the mixer's lid.

-Chaos ensued as the cream erupted, spilling on the surroundings.

-Soap tried to stop it, but he slipped on the floor.

-Gaz couldn't see because of the cream, and John was looking at them reconsidering his life's chouce.

-Obviously, you decided to come back home at this moment.

-Yo were greeted by the sight of Gaz adorned in whipped cream, Johnny sprawled on the flour-strewn floor, and John enveloped in a cloud of flour.

-"I...is this a kinky food party, or did I miss something? Because usually, people are naked when they use whipped cream," you quipped.

-"I can explain, love," John offered.

-"Okay, what happened?"

-"I wanted to bake for you."

-"You know I don't need cakes or pastries; that's my job. If I crave a sweet tooth, I have plenty of cakes, honey."

-"I know, but this one was special. It was supposed to be a heart-shaped Paris-Brest."

-"Paris-Brest aren't heart-shaped."

-"Not when they're not employed for confessions."

-A moment of realization dawned upon you.

-"Fuck, you...you wanted to say 'I love you.'"

-"Yeah, but it's clear I messed up."

-"No, no. I mean, sure, Gaz covered in whipped cream, Johnny on the flour, and walls adorned with flour was not what I pictured, but it's perfect."

-"Good because I don't plan to cover Garrick in whipped cream every time I want to say it."

-A shared chuckle ensued as you joined Gaz and Soap in the aftermath, each contributing to the cleanup while John beamed with contentment.

G A Z :

-He confessed with a vocal.

-After your meeting and your teasing when you found out Gaz listened to your spicy ASMR as a streamer, you noticed him.

-He was a regular, one of the fans who always leave a comment under each post.

-He became more than just a familiar username.

-Your bond deepened as you sought his counsel on scenarios for your streams and videos, a virtual confidant in the ever-expanding realm of online content creation.

-As time unfolded, your relationship transcended the digital realm.

-The spark between you two ignited, an intangible force that fueled your creative musings.

-Swiftly, meetings materialized whenever Gaz found a fleeting moment of respite from his duties.

-When he was on long deployments, you sent him exclusivity audios so he could be distracted from the horror he did or saw, offering a temporary escape from the grim realities he faced.

-Your voice became a comforting melody, a beacon in the darkness, ensuring that Gaz could find solace even amid the harrowing experiences he encountered. 

- In fact you could record yourself spelling a list of grocery and he would find it awesome

-Yet, despite the kisses shared and the intimate moments experienced, Gaz had yet to formally ask you out or declare those three potent words: "I love you."

-One night, as a gentle breeze whispered through the window, he turned to his friend Soap for advice, a hint of embarrassment lingering in his tone.

-"Hey, mate, can I ask for advice?" he queried, his eyes seeking guidance from Soap.

-"Sure," Soap responded, welcoming the opportunity to lend an ear.

-"How... would you confess to someone you've been flirting with for months?" Gaz inquired, his apprehension palpable.

-"Tell them," Soap replied matter-of-factly.

-"No shit, I wanted something special. They're... they're awesome, and I really want to make the thing memorable, you know?"

-Soap smirked, teasing Gaz.

-A playful shoulder bump ensued as Gaz protested, "Shut up, mate. I just... I feel like they're the right person, you know? I mean, they saw me during my lowest moments, and for people like us, it's hard sometimes to find those who can handle a lover with PTSD."

-"Yeah, I feel that," Soap acknowledged. "Well, maybe use your first meeting or something they love. If they're into soccer, bring them to a big match and confess during it."

-"But, you know, during a match, everyone screams? It's kinda dumb."

-Soap paused.

-Gaz looked at him.

-"Well, it sounded like a good idea at that time."

-Gaz's eyes widened. "Wait, you did that?"

-"Listen, it seemed like a good idea."

-"Oh my gosh, what happened?"

-"She didn't understand what I said and answered, 'You're such a good friend.'"

-"Damn."

-"But it doesn't mean it'll be the same for you."

-"I know. I just think about things they love. I... can't confess by ASMR, honestly. It'll be cringe."

-"Maybe send an audio? No need for ASMR," Soap suggested.

-"Yeah," Gaz agreed.

-As Gaz found himself in his room, armed with his phone and ready to send a heartfelt audio message, he hesitated.

-The recorded voice sounded foreign and awkward to him, far from the eloquence he envisioned.

-Discouraged, he abandoned the attempt.

- Upon his return from deployment, sensing your unusual behavior, he confronted you about it.

-"You... sent me a vocal, but it only said 'Fuck you,' so I didn't know if I did something or not," you confessed, puzzled by the unexpected message.

-Gaz paused, the realization dawning upon him. He had forgotten to delete a frustrated attempt at confessing that slipped through the cracks.

-"No, it was not against you. I... I tried to do something, but I messed up. So I was mad at myself, and at the same time, I was recording a vocal for you," he admitted, vulnerability coloring his words.

-"Can I ask what was this thing?" you inquired, curiosity dancing in your eyes.

-"I... gear. I couldn't take off my gear," he lied, attempting to divert the conversation.

-"You're a bad liar," you chuckled.

-"Okay, I wanted to confess to you. And I tried to record something like you do, but it sounded horrible."

-"You know you could have texted?" you suggested with a playful smile.

-"Yes, I... I didn't think about it. I was so focused on voices and the perfect confession."

-"I reciprocate, if you ever wonder," you reassured him.

-A smile broke across Gaz's face as he squeezed your hands, grateful for the understanding that transcended words.

S O A P :

-He confessed by drawings.

-After drawing you like Gollum because you flustered him, Soap, determined to prove his artistic prowess, pursued every opportunity to capture your essence on paper.

- Despite attending each modeling session and receiving your compliments, he couldn't quite capture the nuances—those wrinkles when you smiled, the sparkle when you ate, the delicate mole that graced your visage.

-Unyielding, he embarked on a mission of his own, drawing you ceaselessly between military duties, on the pages of his diary, and during leaves.

-Training, a familiar concept to a soldier, became his artistic discipline.

-You willingly played muse.

-The drawing sessions evolving into intimate conversations, forging a connection that extended beyond artistry.

-As your bond deepened, so did Soap's frustration.

- The elusive perfection he sought in his drawings continued to elude him, and he longed to express his feelings through his sketches.

- One day, returning to your darkened apartment, you discovered a trail of candles illuminating your path.

- Recognizing Soap's expertise with fire and explosives, you followed the flickering lights until the room burst into brightness.

-There, on the wall, an intricately arranged collection of sketches painted a portrait of your shared moments—coffee spills, date nights, and more.

-Overwhelmed by the domestic warmth of the scene, you couldn't help but murmur, "Shit, it's so cute."

-"I hope so, because I love you, baby. I want these sketches to continue, to wake up to you every morning, to draw you, to see you, to kiss you," Johnny confessed, closing the distance between you.

-A tender embrace and a heartfelt kiss followed. "I love you too."

-"Good, because it would have been hard if you said you hate me after I spent five hours gluing these sketches," Soap admitted, a playful smile gracing his face.

-Laughter filled the room, echoing the joy of two hearts entwined in love.

G H O S T :

-He confessed with a monkey wrench.

-You were tired.

-The life of a mechanic on the base demanded a toll, and today, that toll felt almost unbearable.

- Fatigue etched lines on your face as you toiled among the clattering tools, your hands weaving intricate dances of repair.

- The camaraderie with your coworkers, usually a source of solace, had soured into an unbearable weight on your shoulders.

-Amidst the clinks and clanks, a sudden snap echoed through the air, drawing attention like an unwelcome spotlight.

-Your favorite monkey wrench, a faithful companion in countless repairs, lay shattered in your hands.

-A surge of frustration coursed through you, and against all reason, tears welled in your eyes.

- It was an odd vulnerability, shedding tears over a broken tool, but the accumulation of stress had reached a breaking point.

-Then, there he was—Simon, the enigmatic connection born from his bad driving skills and your repairing of his vehicles.

- Your eyes met, and the vulnerability you felt intensified.

-"Don't pity me, please," you whispered, a plea tinged with embarrassment.

-"I don't pity you, love," Simon responded, his voice a balm to your wounded spirit.

- He knelt beside you, his presence a comforting anchor in the chaos of the workshop.

-"I... I must look ridiculous?" you stammered, seeking reassurance.

-"No, you look quite stunning crying on the dirty floor with a broken monkey wrench," he teased, a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

- Your tears mingled with laughter, a cathartic release in the midst of chaos.

-"Yeah?" you asked, a hint of uncertainty lingering.

-"Yeah," he affirmed, his gaze sincere.

 -"Then Soap is the most stunning with his mohawk full of mud."

-"Hm, he can't beat you with your grease on the cheek," Simon remarked, using his gloved hand to wipe away a smudge.

-A quiet settled between you, broken only by the sound of tools and distant chatter.

-Simon extended his hands, a silent offer of support, and you accepted, rising from the dirt-strewn floor.

-"Thanks for... being here," you said, gratitude coloring your words.

-"I'm not always here, love," Simon admitted, a touch of vulnerability in his gaze.

-"But you're here when it counts, Simon. That's all that matters to me," you confessed, and with those words, you retreated to the solitude of your barracks.

-As you left, Simon watched you, and in that moment, an unfamiliar warmth enveloped him.

- It was the realization that he was enough—enough to be there for you, enough to be loved.

-The following day, a surprise awaited you in the form of a brand-new monkey wrench.

-A note accompanied it, bearing Simon's distinctive scrawl: "I hope to buy you more in the future."

- A subtle promise, a declaration beyond words.

- You smiled, for you understood—it was more than a tool.

-It was the promise of a connection that transcended the clangor of the workshop, a sentiment that spoke of a desire for something deeper. And for you, that was more than enough.

K E E G A N :

-He confessed with Happy Meals.

-After all, it was how you met. Keegan ordered 20 happy meals, and you were a worker for McDonalds.

-( Even though you began to write an essay about how happy meals and military men seem to be an issue)

- Keegan and you became close.

-Since you saw him each night during his leave after your shift.

-At first, it was because some teenagers were here, threatening the employees after their shift, so Keegan proposed his help.

-And after that, driving you back home became a routine when he was on leave.

-And when one night you decided to ask him to drop you somewhere else, and it ended up being a restaurant, he realized you were asking a date subtly.

-Slowly, it became flirtatious.

-Even though you still didn't know how he could flirt when you were covered in grease-smelling potatoes.

-But Keegan had rizz even at 1 AM.

-He could say the more cheesy lines while you're covered in cheddar and coke.

-That's why he wanted to confess in a cool way, the same way, his flirt could make you smile through the worst shift.

-At first, he thought of a Happy meal where the toy could be a letter saying "I love you" with a selfie of you two.

-But he wanted something fun, as fun as when Ghost ordered 40 Happy Meals just to have all the skeleton toys.

-So during one of his missions, he used his phone and ordered food for your flat.

-Surprised, you opened the door to the delivery guy, saying you hadn't ordered anything. But you noticed it had your name on it.

-You sighed and took the bags.

-The 4 bags.

-Which surprised you because, hell, you won't eat all of that.

-And then you opened the bag to see happy meals.

-20 happy meals. Like Keegan used to order.

-You chuckled.

-It was a good prank.

-You sent him a text.

-"Okay, good one, I'll take revenge, I swear"

-But then you notice the Happy Meal is empty.

-Except for one who had a little toy.

-A heart toy.

-You squeezed it like it said on it

-And the little toy spoke with a horrible voice. "I love you".

-The cheesy smile you had when you realized it.

-"fuck, you got rizz even miles away, uh ?"you texted.

- "of course" he answered.

-"well, Mr Rizz, I can't send you Happy Meals, but I love you too."

-"thanks, love"

R U D Y :

-He confessed with books. 

-After meeting Rudy in the library and realizing he was one of the few readers following your books. You ended up meeting with him when he was on leave so he could be your beta reader.

-He was a good help, he was not always saying "good", he had good remarks and ideas.

-He was the one bringing coffee during your late writing sessions.

-Even when duty called him away on missions, he sent texts 

-Texts traversed the ether, connecting your worlds despite the miles that separated you.

-In response, handwritten letters, carefully penned with the knowledge of his penchant for tangible memories, sailed back to him, becoming anchors of shared moments in his turbulent sea of duty.

-Thanks to his comments and ratings on sites, you slowly became more famous as an author, and you now live by it.

-Yet one day when you were writing, you were searching for one of the books you wanted to inspire your fight scene for, but...

-"I didn't order my library like that," you whispered.

-Your books, usually standing sentinel in perfect alignment, bore witness to an intrusion—an inexplicable disorder. 

-But you had this habit of putting in order books in a certain way. But it seemed someone messed it up.

-And it would be so strange for a stalker to just break into someone's house in order to...mess up their library ?

-What kind of shitty villain could do that ?

-You sighed.

 -The only one who could come in  your flat is Rudy, and it couldn't be Rudy since the guy was kind of obsessive with it too.

-Not a soldier for nothing, after all, being clean is part of it. 

-His library was impressive, he even gave advice to his local library about archives.

-So slowly, you pulled out one book, in order to put it back where it was supposed to be.

-You sighed, knowing it would take your night to do all the books.

-Until you noticed it.

-The letters.

-The first letters of each title were aligned.

-You stepped back, and you rode it.

-"I love you"

-You bite your lips and smiled.

-'Fucking idiot", you whispered, and you sent him a selfie with you and the books aligned.

-"Me too." you had texted.

-"I had thought you would never find it."

-"What do you mean ?"

-"It's been six months, it's like that."

-"What, no"

-"si."

-"Fuck, you-"

-"I thought you didn't want to address it before I realized you just haven't seen it."

-"I'm so sorry; fuck, you must have been stressed."

-"Not really"

-False. He cried to Alejandro one month after he did it, and you didn't answer. But you would never know that.

-"Well, now you know it's reciprocated."

-"Thanks, love"

-"Have a good night, honey".

He smiled. It'll definitely be a good night, now he knows you said I love you.

If you want more : my COD masterlist

And my whole masterlist

[blingblong55]

Snow at the beach- John "Soap" MacTavish NSFW

Based on a request: Hi there. I wanted to make a request for something a bit personal. All this week, my family has been criticizing my weight (which I have struggled with my whole life) and told me point-blank that no one would ever love me because of it. That being said, I would like to request a writing with Soap. Let's say the reader has been avoiding sex with him for a while. They'll kiss and stuff, but as soon as he starts pulling her shirt up, she pulls it back down and makes some sort of excuse. This goes on for a while until Soap confronts her about it. She basically then goes off, pointing out all her bodily flaws and how fat and hideous she thinks she is and asks him how he could ever think she was sexy. And all he says is, “How can I NOT?” And he makes love to her and every time she makes a complaint about her body or calls herself ugly, she shushes her, ultimately taking her in front of a mirror and making her look at herself and how sexy she looks taking him. And when they're done, Soap should talk about how she's not fat, she's cute and squishy. ---- F!Reader, smut, MDNI, 18+, established!relationship, self!degrading, body!issues, unprotected!sex, plus size/chubby!reader ----

A/N: anon, I hope you find love from family elsewhere, there words are not correct because love is not by bodies, its by hearts and emotions. Anyway, I got carried away in the smut...love you <3

Three weeks ago, the issue started. Your family decided to visit you and your boyfriend, and that's exactly when they commented how he must be lying to you about loving you. Surely a man like himself wouldn't be with a girl like you. "A girl like me?" you asked and your mother nodded. You know, big…fat and if we are honest, ugly because your body makes you ugly, honey," she feigns kindness as she says this. You don't let her see how terrible her words hurt, so when Johnny and your family were talking, you excused yourself and walked to the bedroom.

In the comfort of the room, you cried, wiped your tears and fixed your makeup. What if they were right? What if Johnny was just trying to pretend to love you to get with a woman who according to them is beautiful? It's funny, watching yourself cry in front of the mirror when just that morning, Johnny watched you smile as you applied makeup.

Once they were gone and the night took over the skies, Johnny found himself sitting on the bed, waiting as his bonnie got out of her shower. He looks around, impatient because he knows how naturally beautiful you look after your showers. If it were for him, he'd create a temple just to worship you, because to him your beauty comes from within.

When you two lay in bed, he turns to you, his hands caressing your sides as his eyes look over your lovely goddess-like body. He leans in, his lips capturing yours in an ever-loving kiss. He places himself on top of you, his hands wandering into your shirt as they always do. Usually, this would bring butterflies but with the conversations held during the day, those butterflies were long gone from your system. All you could think about was the truth that you believed from the serpents you call family.

"Sorry, I'm…tired, Johnny, not tonight, okay?" you say and he nods. He is a gentleman after all so if you say no, that's where it ends and he just cuddles you to sleep.

After the three-week mark, his patience runs thin. You avoid his neck and shoulder kisses, you no longer sleep in the comfy tank top you like. You begin to distance the intimacy of tough he would provide. Of course, he would respect your desire to not have sex but he knows there is something more deeper than tiredness or lack of lust for him.

"Lass, what's the matter?" he asks one night and you sigh. It was time the truth lay in bed with you both. "I don't think we should continue this," you say, trying to keep distance. It was common for you to do this with men you thought were too good to be true for you, you break it off and regret it later. But he is different; you never see life after Johnny because he is it for you.

"Naw, we're no' daein this. Ye cannae just expect me tae accept this," he says with hints of sadness. "Johnny, it's not fair if you say with me. You don't deserve to be with a girl of my size-" you say and he cuts you off. "Don't ye dare finish that thought, bonnie. Ye're this incredible, gorgeous girl an' I'm one lucky bastard tae hae found ye afore another man did. I love ye, I love that silly wee mind, I love wakin' up tae ye beside me," he says and leans in. Your eyes try to play strong against the floods of tears that threaten to drown your eyes.

He takes your hand into his, placing it over his heart, "Ye're this smart, funny, stupid at times," he chuckles and goes on, "..look, whit I'm trying tae say is, I love ye. I dinnae see myself with some lass ye think I deserve, whatever that stupid thing meant. I deserve a bonnie that holds me close when I come home frae work. The kind of lass that takes me tae quiet places because she likes them, the kind of lass that makes me laugh so hard, the kind of lass I see masel' in fifty years," he says before he gets emotional and clears his throat.

"My mum always said, find yer other half, worry about their looks when they are sick and dinnae tell ye. An' damn it, y/n, I worry when ye get sick and don't smile, I worry when ye look in that damn mirror and think tae yersel' that yer body isnae enough. So dinnae tell me yer not enough for me when every damn day I find masel' worshippin' yer body like it's my religion. I fuckin' love you," he says out of breath as he looks into your eyes. His gaze is full of sincerity.

You shake your head. "I'm fat, even if I wanted to, there are things I can't do, I prefer dim lights for sex…I limit your life of adventure by being this way," you say with tears finally falling. "Look at me, I'm just not deserving of you. A guy like you doesn't just magically fall in love with a girl like me!" you say frustrated in wanting him to understand.

"Cut the bullshit, bonnie! I rather die for ye than any other girl! Cannae ye see that ye have bewitched my heart and soul with those sweet eyes and lips? That yer laughter alone makes me a madman when I cannae hear it? I have fallen for ye over and over, and if it takes me lifetimes tae make ye realise I'm the one that needs yer soul attached to mine, then I'll sit and wait for ye tae understand that." he holds both your hands by now as he pulls you in.

"You don't get it-!"

"Maybe I don't, but god damn do I love ye," he says breathlessly and cups your face and without a warning, kisses you like there is no tomorrow.

"Ye are the love of my life. Skinny, tall, fat, short, stupid or smart, I love ye and I fucking love this gorgeous body of yours," he says between pecks to your lips.

Your tears staining your cheeks as he wipes them away and makes you walk to the mirror. "Look at ye, bonnie. Men used to worshipped women like ye,…still do," he mumbles the last part.

You look at him and he smirks. He closes the door and bends you over the sink. "Just look at how I make love tae ye, yeah? If you dinnae believe I love you the way ye are, break up with me," he kisses the back of your neck, taking grip of your hair and slowly parts your legs, undoes your clothes and spits on his fingers.

The euphoria and anticipation built up in Johnny as he let out a chuckle, his hand sliding up your leg to grab your ass. "Yer goin' to make me a madman, ye wee temptress," he whispered, tilting your head down to kiss him. His tongue slithered into your mouth, pressing you against him more, feeling your fingers stroking his hard cock.

His hand slid back to your ass, squeezing it before he turned you around. "Bend over the table and show me that ass," he demanded, his voice a mix of desire and command. He was losing control, thinking of how tight and perfect your ass was. 

Your body is the perfect temple for his every loving heart and it's time he worships it again but better this time.

"Fuckin' perfect," Soap praised, eyeing your wet pussy and puckered ass. His cock twitched, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He stepped up, taking one of the lube from the table, unscrewing the cap after squirting it on his fingers. "Ease back against me, lass," he ordered, spreading the lube on your puckered hole.

"Take my fingers," he commanded, coating two fingers in lube before slowly pushing them into your ass. Johnny groaned softly at the sensation, feeling your muscles clench around his fingers. "That's it," he praised, his other hand fondling your pussy, slick with your arousal. The scent of sex filled the air, heavy and intoxicating.

"Come on, lass… Tease me some more," he growled, pulling his fingers out, his cock aching to fill you. Johnny stepped away for a moment to roll a condom onto his cock, grunting with the effort of restraint. When he stepped back, his eyes were dark and intense. "Slip those wee cheeks apart…" He commanded eyes on your ass. "Ye're mine, Y/N."

"Nngh," Johnny groaned, the sight of you eagerly waiting for him driving him over the edge. "Alright, lass, take it," he growled, pushing his cock against your tight entrance. He lined his tip against your tight pussy lips, feeling you quiver even more.

"Ye feel fuckin' amazing, ye know that?" He asked jaw clenched as he slowly pushed himself inside you. Your tight walls engulfed him, sending shivers down his spine. "Such a perfect lass," Johnny moaned, grinding his hips, a bit rougher into yours. He grabbed your hips, holding them tightly, feeling that you were made for his cock.

"Fuckin' take all of me," he growled, pulling back slightly before plunging himself in deep, the sound of their clothes slapping together, your moans and his grunts filled the air. Johnny began to thrust into you, each stroke harder and more intense than the last. His grip on your hips tightened, feeling a roughness in him, a need to claim you. "Ah, ye like that, Y/N…don't ye?" He snarled, his voice bordering on a roar.

His hand snakes to your throat, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror. Your body and his move in a cosmically beautiful passion as he makes love to you in the best way he can. Your eyes lock with his, the love he has for you is evident in the soft eyes he gives you. He fucks you like a whore but treats you like the princess you are, and that's what makes this all so beautiful.

Your whimpers, mixed with that beautiful face that is riddled with pleasure makes him chuckle a little. "Oh, ye're beggin' for it. Ye dirty kinky slut," Johnny hissed, his hands leaving your hips, only to grab your hair, yanking your head back into an almost uncomfortable angle. "Take it, take my cock, and scream for me, lass," he demanded, increasing his pace, his thrusts harder, leaving no time to catch your breath.

He leaned down to nibble your neck, "You make me feel alive, ye know that, Y/N? I live for this, for the way I lose myself in ye, for the way ye take my cock so perfectly." Johnny's breathing grew ragged, "Fuck, ye're so tight, so wet."

"I'm gonna cum, deep inside ye. I'm gonna fill ye up," he grunted, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Cum with me, lass. Show me how you feel--" He didn't finish, unable to stop himself as they reached their peak together, his cock pulsing inside you, his cum filling your sweet pussy as he moaned your name, his pleasure ringing through the chamber. "Ah, Y/N…!"

You scream in pleasure his name, earning his pants to get rougher as he so gently kisses your neck. His eyes never leave that sight of you in the mirror.

"Nngh," Johnny groaned, his cock throbbing inside you as he waited for the aftershocks of your orgasm to subside. He waited for your body to steady, enough to pull out without making a mess. "Easy, Y/N," he whispered, slowly pulling out and tucking his spent cock away.

"Ye made me cum so hard, and I love every second of it," he praised, grabbing his clothes. Johnny lifts your chin to look at him. "That was… fuckin' amazing, lass," he admitted, unable to stop a grin.

He brushed the hair back from your face, placing a kiss on your forehead. "Ye always leave me breathless, Y/N," he chuckled, a feral gleam in his eyes. 

Your face cooling down as you lean to his kiss your arms wrap around him so beautifully. He lifts you and smiles, "Ye believe me now?" he kisses your cheek and you nod. A moment like this, where you can sit naked in front of him, where it feels like a realistic romance movie, where the girl finds the guy that was made for her.

He truly does love you, no matter the size or shape…or even if others whisper venomous words into your ear. He is the land of peace in which your body has found comfort, the one man that in a sea of snakes and evil standards makes you feel at home, even if you wake up looking like a mess. In this world, he and you stick together, not for the looks or the vanity the world tells you, you must fit in. His love is rare, comes every few lifetimes, it's beautiful and weird like snow at the beach.

A/N: at the end of the day, you need to love yourself, no matter your size of if you meet society's standards of beauty because you are your own standard of beauty. I love you, but I'm sure your love for yourself is stronger <3 (which it should be) Also, only tagged those that let me know they are comfortable with plus size!reader pics and those that I believe dont mind it

Tags:

@honestlyhiswife @ikohniik @who-can-appease-me @konigssultwithghost @lovelyvqer @nobodys-coffee @the_royal_bee @luvecarson @soapybutt17 @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @thegreyjoyed @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @sleepyycatt @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate @vampsquerade @azkza @anonymuslydumb

[hatsheep]

CALL OF DUTY ; TASKFORCE 141 and DAD TIKTOK TRENDS

Note. these aren’t meant to be serious!! this is gn reader (with only one mention of daughter) and meant to be silly. this also isn’t my writing acc but if u guys have a request for platonic tf 141 content go shoot.

CAPTAIN john price

- you sent him many tiktoks and reels, which he always begrudgingly watched during his deployment (mostly because he did miss you)

- he always sends back questions since he dosent understand some slang

- “yap???” “i’m sorry, what does cap mean?”

- when hes home, he was happy to help video you when you were out or when you wanted to do a trend

- but making HIM do a trend?

- it took you forever to convince your dad to do so…but it was worth it

- he would do trends like the “dad lore trend” with him being videoed in x2 speed as he pretended to talk

- “pov: your dad drops the craziest lore on a random tuesday” because he really genuinely does

- or the home depot one…

- “my dad when he sees someone fixing an airplane when we’re about to board our flight” and it’s just him with his hands behind his back or crossed while he watches the repairmen.

- in the end, he enjoys doing these trends with you. but god, if you keep on trying to prank him, he’s actually going to go crazy.

- everyone thinks he’s hot by the way. you have like 50 single/divorced moms in your comment section commenting about him every tiktok he’s in. sometimes people your age.

- “honey, what does beekeeping age mean?”

LIEUTENANT simon “ghost” riley

- you send him many tiktoks that contain silly puns. he on the other hand, only uses reels. either way, he sends you the dumb ones

- or the ones that are like

- “when your teenager is driving and narrowly avoids a tragic accident” or “me i ask my teenager who they’re going out with and it’s still the same group of people since middle school”

- as a dad, he’s honestly very protective over you, but he’s loosened up a bit over the years. he dosent want to be too strict, nor does he want to be too lax.

- he was terrified of becoming like his father.

- either way, if you thought you had to beg price to let you make tiktoks, you’d have to beg hard for your dad to

- simon won’t let you take tiktoks with his face in it, so he’s always his chest and below….or a mask, sunglasses, and a cap.

- surprisingly sentimental! the one tiktok he agreed to was

- “do i always have to kill spiders in your room?” “ofcourse you do, you’re my dad!”

- he teared up a bit

SERGEANT john “soap” mactavish

- boy, he loves doing tiktoks with you

- he loves sending them too!! a nice way for you guys to bond while he’s away is him sending you the really stupid tiktoks that the people of your generation would more commonly send

- he DOES now some slang! he….does NOT know some others though, skibidi toilet confuses him slightly

- he took the sigma male thing seriously for a bit because he thought it was a positive thing. he loves protecting his family and being strong

- sadly stopped when you broke the news to him that it was in fact, maybe not the best thing in real life.

- either way, such a good dad to do tiktoks with

- you can do those really silly ones with the tiktoks audios

- “when my dad finds out i get offended when people say i have my dads accent” with the regina george soundtrack

- “regina wait i didnt mean for that to happen!!” “do you know what everyone says about you?!?!”

- he loves doing them with you, he wouldn’t trade quality time with you for the world

- “be honest, do you really not like the accent????”

SERGEANT kyle “gaz” garrick

- more of a calm dad, but like simon, surprisingly sentimental

- he’s the one from the 141 who’s has the most morality issues, especially doing his job, so he always felt it was best to teach you important values

- he’s drilled into you to never change your ideals for others

- …which leads to him sending motivational quotes or those hopecore videos

- either way, he actually can be pretty silly and he’s the type of dad to get you watermelon every other day for the rest of your life if you say you like it once

- he can be a little blunt with you sometimes though, bless him

- “pov: my dad if he didn’t have me” (i’ll put my helipad over there…my olympic sized swimming pool, OVER THERE!!)

- you do these tiktoks with him (disregard gender because no matter what, he’d make you help)

- this is how poc parents be, pls understand

- you sent him this reel while he was on deployment and he couldn’t stop smiling

- “love you too, pumpkin. remember to take out the dishes”

- “did u have to remind me”