Text
simon riley is the type of man who people move out the way for
he had an aura, a presence. you’ll feel his looming shadow approach your back before you see him. most don’t even turn to look at what nightmare could possibly be behind them. opting for simply stepping to the side instead
it’s very convenient for you, to be honest. crowded areas are never a problem for you. standing on the busy train platform, a dozen people all pushing to get the one empty seat which became available when the doors opened. except when simon grips your hand tight, shouldering his way through people who part with little resistance
their necks will crane up to glare at the mountain pushing through them, bitter that they can’t say anything because… well, it’s simon
he’ll guide you in front of him, hand on the small of your back herding you over to the seat. standing over you with one arm holding onto the ceiling handrail on the carriage. gives you a wink when you smile up at him and mouth a ‘thank you’
he’s the first to get noticed at the bar too, arms caged around you on either side so people aren’t crashing into you. thankfully, everyone seems to have the good sense to stay out of simon’s way
a simple jerk of his head is enough to get the bartender scuttling all the way to the other end of the bar, ignoring all the other grumbling patrons who were definitely there first. nudges you forward gently when they finally come take his order,
“tell ‘em what you want, luv…”
you’ll never catch him losing aura points bae
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
Meditations in an Emergency Part 1
Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish
“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”
“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.” Or: How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.
Part 1 of 3, 5,857 words, mature, cw: alcohol, cannabis
Read on A03 I Read part two
"I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. "
Frank O'Hara, "Meditations in an Emergency"
“I just think people should compliment each other more, that’s all,” you declare, biting the cherry off plastic sword that Kat, the bartender, had stuck in your Dirty Shirley. “Like we think these things all the time. Her scarf is pretty, or that guy’s got a cool haircut or whatever. We notice them, we think about them, but so rarely do we say it, you know? Even though being complimented is the best,” you say emphatically, using the tiny sword to punctuate your words.
Kat nods and gives you a second cherry, because Kat is good people. Kat serves you doubles while charging for singles and listens to you ramble and lets you spread your notebooks and laptop on the bar when it’s slow, like tonight.
It’s early on a Friday evening which means you’re supposed to be writing. You pay the bills as a ghostwriter during the week and you like it, you do. The flexibility to work strange hours typing late into the night, remote so you write wherever you want like coffee shops and cocktail bars and anywhere loud enough to drown out the more distracting of your thoughts.
But you spend so much time devoted to other people’s work that you’d promised to set weekends aside to work on your own ideas. Easier said than done, when there isn’t an irate publisher on the other end setting deadlines and demanding pages. And the problem with your own ideas is that you just have so many of them; find it hard to devote yourself to one without getting distracted by another, your hard-drive a graveyard of drafts in various states of decomposition.
But routine helped, so there you’ve sat every Friday night for almost two months—even if you’ve spent proportionally less time writing than people-watching and sweet-talking Kat into making you interesting drinks off-menu (“This is a dive bar,” she’s told you more than once. “We don’t even a menu to be off of.”)
It’s not not part of your writing process, you reason. You’re a firm believer that life is stranger than fiction, and many of your most delightful ideas have come from observations and unusual interactions—the very reason you’d been thinking about the importance of compliments.
“I just think we should be more intentional about finding joy in each other. For example, what would you say, darling Kat,” you begin, batting your eyes at her sweetly, “if I told you that you look fucking incredible now and always, you’re so hot it gives me hives if I look at you straight on, and more specifically that little curl that’s coming out of your ponytail is particularly fetching and I like it a lot?”
Kat rolls her eyes, which is as good as a smile for her. “I would say you should slow down on the Shirleys.”
You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends, not really, but there was a familiarity and ease in the relationship now that warmed you. You’d met her your very first night while on your usual ramble to learn a new place, begin to make sense of its curves and corners and spirit. The neighborhood you’d found an apartment in wasn’t the best, but it was furnished and month-to-month and good enough for you. Best of all, you’d only needed to wander in the snow a couple blocks before you’d struck gold: drawn like a moth where a plain, unmarked door had opened, spilling warm light and the sounds of overlapping laughter into the night.
Inside it really was a dive, all sticky floors and old dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, a jukebox that took dimes and a blonde bombshell behind the counter who served with a decided lack of smile. But a week of you showing up and chattering at her had cracked that icy shell enough to get a name and a few raised eyebrows instead of complete silence. By the time you’d earned your discount as a regular around the third week, she’d occasionally comment on your more interesting trains of thought, offer some piercing observations and insights of her own if she was in a good mood.
A couple more weeks, and you know her well enough to bring a second iced coffee when you arrive for the evening, Kat pulling a bottle of Irish cream from the well as you remove the lids in a dance that has become comforting in its routine.
Yours is now slowly melting beside you, momentarily abandoned in favor of the syrupy-sweet mess that was waiting for you. Kat’s sipping the last of her own as she considers her verdict on your compliment, hip propped against the side of the bar.
“I don’t know if I’d particularly appreciate a stranger saying that to me. Don’t want strangers saying anything to me, really,” she frowns, “but particularly the bit about the hives.”
“Alright, I might have gone too hard out the gate with that one,” you admit. “But more importantly, I think you might be in the wrong profession for strangers not talking to you.”
She flips you the bird, heading to greet the two regulars that had slipped into place at the end of the bar. It was still early enough in the night that the place was mostly empty, only a few singles and two-tops stopping for an after-shift drink, giving you and Kat plenty of time to talk. It’d get rowdy enough later on, the voices louder, the jukebox queue a little more violent—but you’d found that among the chaos was often when you did your best writing.
“Hives aside, you know what I mean though, right?” you continue when Kat returns. “Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”
“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”
You ignore this, already imagining renting a sailboat somewhere sunny, tropical. “I always thought it’d be fun to be a sailor,” you say dreamily. “Kerouac was a Merchant Marine, did you know?"
Kat makes a face.
“What, you didn’t like the book?” You’d loaned her a copy of The Dharma Bums the week before, slim and beloved enough that you carried it with you instead of borrowing from the local library, like you usually did. You had a collection of library cards now, rattling around in an old Altoid tin—the only souvenirs you kept from all the various cities you’d visited in your travels.
“It was fine. Good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing,” she say, swirling her coffee around. “He’s just so fucking mopey. I wanted to shake him, like c’mon man, you need to stop thinking about your life and actually fucking live it.” Kat’s the most animated she ever gets. Which, admittedly, is just slightly more expressive than usual: eyes narrowed a little further, three degrees more derision in her tone.
Kat prefers nonfiction. History. Facts. Still reads everything you recommend, but rarely finishes one without getting frustrated with protagonists making dumb decisions and whining about their life choices. And while some of the books she recommends to you are a little dry at times, they’re certainly illuminating—and the last one about organ harvesting was surprisingly catalytic for plot ideas.
You shrug, acknowledging the point. She’s not wrong, but you tend to live most of your life in your own head and your own worlds, so it doesn’t bother you in quite the same way. Although, now that she mentions it…
“You know, all of this is kind of to my earlier point. Giving someone a compliment is like the ultimate shortcut to living outside your head. You’re not all wrapped up in your own issues and thoughts, but appreciating the world and the people around you. Even if you don’t say it—which you should—it means you’re paying attention. Noticing.”
You drain the last of your Shirley, swapping it out for the iced coffee and swirling around the diluted ice. “Proposal: we make a game of it, tonight. We notice.” It wouldn’t be that different from what you and Kat normally did; share little observations on other patrons, trade theories on this person’s job or that person’s backstory. They’d just be a little more…intentional about it. "Keep your eye out for any interesting hats or weird pins or extremely sexy noses and come and tell me. That way we can both enjoy it,” you entreat, clasping your hands together in anticipatory delight.
You know better than to suggest Kat actually compliment anyone. You’re optimistic, not delusional.
“What constitutes an extremely sexy nose?” she asks, frowning at you.
You shake your head pityingly. “Oh Kat, that’s something you feel in your heart.”
She rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar, where a nicely-dressed couple sink uncertainly onto the cracked vinyl stools. Looking around like they might be feeling just a wee bit out of place. You catch the woman’s eye, smiling broadly. “I love your dress,” you tell her, and feel the joy of her answering blush bubble sweet and bright in your veins.
…
You pride yourself on having excellent ideas, but this is easily one of your best. You get a tremendous amount of writing done, unusually productive while riding the high of giving out compliments left and right. Not so many that it feels insincere and never any you don’t mean. But Baader–Meinhof was a real sonofabitch because it’s true that the more you look, the more you see to appreciate.
Like Bobby, the union electrician with his first name embroidered on the pocket of his work-shirt. It catches your eye because it’s not machine-printed but carefully done by hand, illuminated when he leans over to order a Schlitz. His wife’s work, he shares you when you comment on it. “She’s paid special for her embroidery but still makes time to do every last one of my shirts. So I can carry her love around all day,” he says proudly, unabashed even when his friends tease him good-naturedly.
Then there’s the lady whose cheetah-print nails match her furry coat, who winks at you when she catches you looking admiringly from across the bar. Right after her is the burly biker who reveals an entire themed photoshoot of his toy poodle when you compliment the photo on his lockscreen. Others in between, some you speak to, some you don’t—but all you appreciate in a way you vow to do more in the future.
Inevitably, little pieces of what you observe trickle onto the page, fleshing out bits of characters and sparking ideas you jot down in bursts of inspiration. You won’t know until later if you’ll end up keeping any of it, but you like the thought that that you’ll always have some part of this moment—the people, the place, the time—woven into your writing. A little souvenir in-and-of-itself.
Though the night gets progressively busier, Kat swings by from time to time to share her observations: money fished from strange locations, custom bank cards, funny pins she read when customers leaned close to shout their orders over the music—partially your fault, after you compliment an old geezer’s song choice and spend twenty minutes with him, combing through the catalogue and cackling as you feed dime after dime and queue enough dad-rock to last a fair few hours.
All told, you’re feeling fucking incredible as it nears midnight and the synth solo from Toto’s “Rosanna,” has you wriggling in your seat. You’ve a few thousand words under your belt and the high off all those little moments of kinship is making you feel sparkling and happy and well, which, historically speaking, is sometimes a challenge for you.
You grin at Kat when she slumps next to you, enjoying a brief reprieve from new customers.
“Whatcha got for me, killer?” you ask, fishing in your bag for a granola bar. She takes it with a grateful look, shoving half of it in her mouth and talking as she chews.
“You’re gonna fucking love this. A mohawk, dude. In 2024.”
You perk up, looking around the room. It’s pretty packed now, but you can’t believe you missed a cut that attention-getting. “Liberty spikes?” you ask hopefully. You adored the punks of your acquaintance; always had interesting thoughts and insider tips on the local music scene.
Kat shakes her head. “Nah, it was cut short. Gym rat type, I think. Good tip, nice accent. Scottish,” she clarifies around the last of the granola bar. “Talked some shit about the ‘natural superiority of whisky over bourbon’ when he got a Maker’s for his friend.”
You hum, still craning your head. “See where they sat?”
She shakes her head. “Asked about smoking though, so probably on the patio.”
Calling it a patio was generous—a small bit of grass with a couple white lawn chairs and an ashtray, mostly. But there was a heat-lamp that worked roughly sixty percent of the time, which made the bar very popular with those in the know on cold nights like this.
“Speaking of, ‘bout time to take your break?”
If it wasn’t too busy Frank, the bouncer, would watch the bar while you and Kat split a joint in the back, sitting in companionable silence and pointing out shooting stars and passing satellites—clear skies a benefit of the city’s frigid nights. Kat knew a startling amount about astronomy but absolutely nothing about astrology; could tell you the history of the universe up to the surface of last scattering, but blinked at you when you’d asked if she was a Scorpio or a Capricorn.
Kat checks the clock then whistles to get Frank’s attention. You shove your laptop into your bag but don’t bother with a coat—your cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the crowd and you don’t mind the cold, not really.
The patio initially looks abandoned, silent but for the wet sound of car tires moving through the snow-choked alley. Not totally surprising; most balk at below-zero temps even with the lamp. Snow clumps heavy and wet on top of the plastic chairs and the overturned garbage pail that serves as a footrest but the sky is clear, a thousand tiny pinpricks of light visible in the heavens. You breathe in until the night air fills your lungs and you feel fresh and clean and cracked open wide, just pouring out love into the world.
Movement in your periphery catches your eye and oh, Kat was right, not a punk at all.
You’re not quite sure what to make of the two men standing half-shadowed near the lamp. Big is the first word that comes to mind and perhaps that’s sufficient for now, since you can’t seem to stop ogling the breadth of their shoulders and mouthwatering thighs long enough to notice anything else.
Kat had thought gym-rat but you’d put money on those bodies not just being for show—there’s too much power, too much potential for carnage disguised in that plush softness that comes from muscles in repose.
“Why hullo there, barkeep,” the one with the shaggy, soft-looking mohawk greets Kat jovially, his Scottish accent just as charming as promised. “And barkeep’s friend,” he adds, nodding to you as you come close enough to get a good look at his face. To latch on to details like the too-blue shade of his eyes and the too-sharp canines in his smile, the silvery-white starburst of a scar across his stubbled chin.
“Christ you’re pretty,” you hear yourself say. This happens sometimes, your mouth just venturing off on its own to get you into trouble.
Kat groans overlap with the man’s chuckle. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he says, propping the lit cigarette between his lips and sticking out a hand. His palm is warm and callused against your own as you properly introduce Kat and yourself.
“I’m Soap, this here’s Ghost,” he offers in turn, nodding towards his friend who steps forward, murmurs a quiet greeting. He’s enough in the light now to reveal dark eyes shadowed under a hood, skeleton gloves and a matching skull-print balaclava pushed up far enough to accommodate a lit cigarette.
“Fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” you grin at him, immediately charmed by the weirdness of it all.
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the man says affably, his voice a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a little twist of his mouth that could be amused, if you squint.
“Jesus Christ,” Kat mutters, eyes shutting briefly in second-hand embarrassment. “She’s on a mission about compliments tonight, noticing people,” she tells them with bemused emphasis, turning to clear off the chairs and kick snow off the garbage can.
“I just think it’s important to be more open with our affection, even with strangers. Especially with strangers,” you argue, dropping into one of the seats and pulling out the battered Altoid tin that holds your stash and a few pre-rolled joints. “Will this bother you?” you ask the men, holding up one.
They shake their heads, amused.
“Good, because it’s my fucking bar,” Kat snorts, grabbing it from your fingers and dropping into the chair next to you.
“What, you own this place?” you say, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kat holds the joint in her mouth and cups a hand around her lighter flame, coaxing it to life despite the wind. She takes a deep drag, tilting her head up before releasing a thick cloud of smoke into the air.
It looks wicked cool right up until she folds in half, coughing desperately on the tail end of the exhale. You can’t fucking blame her; you’d bought it off your teenage neighbor, a science prodigy who claimed to have developed the perfect strain. Ivy League, he called it, since it had paid for his entire college fund.
Kat straightens up, red face feigning composure as she passes you the joint. “You never asked,” she finally says.
And that was just…well, fair, actually.
“Huh,” you say brilliantly, struggling not to cough on your own exhale and bidding adieu to any dreams of looking cool in front of all the fucking fashion models around you. “You know, I did wonder when you’d get in trouble with your boss about the free drinks thing. And the drinking on the job thing. And the this on the job thing,” you say, frowning as you contemplate the joint.
You offer it up to the men and Soap takes it, your hands brushing long enough to send a little fizz through your blood.
“You’ve known each other long, then?” he asks, taking a puff. Turning a vibrant shade of red as he heroically—and futilely—tries to hold in a cough.
“Oh, we go way back,” you say very sincerely. “I helped her bury the body of her ex-husband years ago, a mafioso named Jimmy the Janitor because he cleaned up, if you know what I mean.”
“I met you two months ago. And I’m a lesbian,” Kat contradicts blandly.
“I didn’t know that, either!” you exclaim, smacking her in the shoulder. “What the fuck, dude, I would have tried flirting with you ages ago.”
“You’re not my type,” she says devastating, and Ghost snorts when you dramatically mime a dagger to the heart. The joint glows red between his full lips, crossed with scars that shine silvery in the moonlight and trail up beyond his mask. Exhales in one long, smooth breath and looks suitably smug about it, the fucker.
“I do seem to remember you saying something earlier about me being ‘so hot I give you hives.’” Kat reminds you. “You telling me that wasn’t flirting?”
“Nah, that’s just being neighborly,” you beam at her.
“I shudder to think what your flirting does look like.”
“That’s the appropriate response, honestly.”
Ghost barks out a laugh and you shoot him a cheeky wink before turning back to Kat. “Alright then killer, gimmie the goods. What is your type?” you prod, hooking your ankle around her own. “Is it a black cat, golden retriever thing? I can bark, babe, just say the word.”
Soap damn near chokes on his drink but Kat only sighs, more fond than exasperated. She takes the joint and leans in, bringing your faces only a few inches apart. You watch, riveted, as she brings it to her cherry-red lips and inhales deeply. Holds your gaze and leans ever so slightly closer, the moment stretching into eternity as she releases a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into your face. You bring a hand to your mouth, think you might actually be drooling.
“MILFs,” she answers finally, devastatingly. She tucks the joint between your fingers before patting your hand and heading back inside—as good as a kiss on the mouth from anyone else.
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap's voice is rough as the door closes behind her.
“You’re telling me, pal,” you sink comically in your chair. “I think she broke me.” You’d already been drunk off the night’s joy but now you felt lightheaded with desire, literally dizzy with it.
This is not an uncommon response to Kat, you suppose. Nor, you expect, to the pretty lads that remain.
You summon your forces and sit back upright, kicking over the newly empty chair in offering. Ghost takes it, the plastic frame creaking under his bulk while Soap drops down on the garbage pail, resting his elbows on jean-clad knees. You pass around the rest of the joint in companionable silence, and it’s just…nice, all of it. The cold at your back and the heat of the lamp on your face, the fading alcohol buzz replaced by the sweeter, steadier high of the weed, always better at gentling your nerves and clearing your head. The easy camaraderie of smokers cast out into the cold, the same thing in almost every city and country you’d ever seen. You smile, thinking back on all those shared lighters and bummed cigarettes over the years. All those ships passing in the night.
“Gettin’ us a refill,” Soap finally says, standing up and snagging Ghost’s empty glass, hooking their pinkies together briefly in the action. You note it and immediately drop the thought, scalded. Know you will literally, actually combust if let your brain run-rabbit imagining the two of them together. All that muscle, all that strength, curved around each other, curved around you…
“What’ll it be, bonnie?” Soap’s warm voice snaps you out of your reverie and you flush, sure from his smirk that he can read the direction of your thoughts. You were legendarily bad at poker—couldn’t keep a neutral expression if they paid you to.
“Dealer’s choice, please and thank you,” you grin at him despite your embarrassment; turning down a free drink is against your moral code.
He gives you that shark-like smile and Ghost tsks as he heads inside. “You’ll probably regret that, birdie. Johnny’s got atrocious taste.”
“Aye can fucking hear you, you Manc twat,” Soap calls from the door, a little extra Scottish in his snark. Ghost chuckles lowly, stretching his feet out into your space.
“It’s Manchester then, our kid?” you tease, kicking your foot playfully against his boot. Leaving it there when he lets you. “Whose your fighter then, Liam or Noel?”
He considers for a moment. “Liam. I like his spunk.”
“’A man with a fork in a world of soup,’” you quote, nodding approvingly. “I get that.”
You toy with the Altoids tin and debate lighting up another one.
Ghost fishes a pouch of rolling tobacco out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and holds it up questioningly. “Clever boy,” you praise, and he leans forward to pass it to you, big hands dwarfing your own. When he settles back in his chair, he tangles his feet with yours properly and you feel a little flutter low in your belly.
You prep the blunt in a practiced motion, balancing the tin on your knees as you sprinkle the peaty tobacco overtop the flower evenly. “I’ve always been more of a Blur than Oasis fella, myself,” you finally offer to distract from the weight of his gaze. “Damon Alburn, the man you are,” you say, putting a fervent hand to your heart.
“Oi, we talking about the Gorillaz then?” Soap calls out, juggling glasses as the door shuts behind him, muffling the chatter from inside. “Fucking choon after choon, them,” he declares, dropping back onto the pail.
He passes Ghost a rocks glass filled with an inch of amber that matches his own, his eyes tracking where your tongue runs across the filter paper, wetting it. He trades you the finished smoke for a glass with something alarmingly orange in it, another plastic sword stuck with three cherries laid across the top.
You sniff skeptically, all sweet and citrusy and strong. “This must be off-menu.”
“Dive bar innit, no menu to be off of,” Soap points out, and you smile at the familiar response.
You take a curious sip, looking up in surprise when you taste a bright splash of orange and vanilla across your tongue. “That’s fucking incredible,” you say, eyes wide. “What is it and why haven’t I been having it all night?”
Soap grins at you, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. “Had a feeling you were a lass that’d enjoy a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”
Ghost groans, and you squint skeptically at Soap. “Who doesn’t, what’s that got to do with my drink?”
Soap laughs, delighted. “That’s the name of the drink, bonnie. A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” he says with emphasis.
Ah. Well. That’s—oh, motherfucker. “Does Kat know that?” She’s probably laughing her ass off inside, the sadist.
“Oh, aye. She seemed amused. Though she made an unnerving amount of eye contact while stabbing the wee cherries,” he says, eying the garnish. “Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a minute. Put me in mind of someone we know, actually,” he says, giving Ghost a wry look as he takes a sip and sets the glass down.
He pulls out his own lighter to coax the blunt to life, a battered Bic with SOAP scrawled in thick, Sharpied letters. He lets out a pleased sigh as the opaque smoke curls through the cold air then leans forward to rest his elbows back on his knees.
“Now, as for why you weren’t getting it slow, comfortable, or otherwise before now, I couldn’t say,” he tells you, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re more than happy to provide for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right L.T.?”
“Right enough there, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is closer to a growl, setting off a delightful curl of heat in your belly.
You nibble on your straw and pretend their attention isn’t going straight to your head, twice as good as the drink or the drugs. “You know what they say about variety and spice of life. Might get bored with just a screw against the wall. Got any thoughts on horizontal surfaces?” you tease, enjoying the way Ghost smirks around the blunt.
But oh, is that a dimple you suddenly see carving out of one scarred cheek? Before you’re even conscious of it you’re balancing one hand on his knee and leaning in for a closer look. “I adore your dimple,” you tell him sincerely, undoing any hope you had of appearing cool and hard-to-get. “It is very cute.”
You give him a businesslike pat on the thigh and start to pull away, but he catches you gently before you get too far.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he purrs, petting over the soft skin of your wrist with one gloved thumb. “We’ll keep you entertained, don’t you worry. Bored is the last thing you’ll be, right Johnny?” Ghost says, squeezing gently once before letting go. You try to play your delighted shiver off as one of chill, but you suspect your violent blush isn’t selling it.
“Oh, I fuckin’ swear to it, L.T,” Soap answers, winking at Ghost before unfolding his big bulk from the garbage can. “We’ll give you what need, bonnie, promise. Starting with this.” Then his arm is around your waist and you’re in the fucking air and—
Oh, that’s not so bad, actually.
Soap sinks into the lawn chair and settles you across his lap, surrounding you with delicious warmth and a scent like whisky and salt air. Your brain goes a bit soft and cottony for a moment and you latch on to the gentle pressure of his arms. Manhandling has always been a shortcut to your most devastated self, the kind of stupid and sweet and sated that you’ve only found once or twice through chemistry or luck or sheer fucking determination, and it bodes very well for the night to come.
Besides, for all he wears only a bomber jacket, the Scotsman is radiating heat like a furnace and it’s the perfect sensory foil to the plummeting temperatures, a few clouds coming to fleck the sky.
“Saw you shiver. Couldn’t let our girl be cold now can I?” Soap says, chucking you under the chin like a kid. Should be stupid but you fucking like it, can’t help but smile up at him. Can’t remember the last time someone treated you so sweet, like you were something to protect. To indulge.
Ghost’s eyes are fond on the pair of you, reaching out to trap Soap’s feet the same way he had yours a few moments before. One of his hands reaches to splay possessively over your thigh, resting it there and turning your insides liquid.
There’s no reason it should be as easy as it is, getting all wrapped up in each other as the night stretches on and the clouds continue to gather, chatting quietly and smoking through the rest of the blunt and finishing your drinks just as the first fat, fluffy flakes of snow begin to fall.
You watch, delighted, as the storm kicks up in a sudden flurry, a magical, glimmering coat that turns the world into one whole thing. Untouched and perfect and silent except for the tides of your breath and the slight hum of the heat lamp, small sounds within a vast, quiet night.
You sigh in Soap’s arms, totally and unexpectedly content, luxuriating in the way your blood hums in anticipation of the night’s inevitable conclusion.
People asked if you got lonely, sometimes, travelling the way you did. Never staying anywhere for more than a few months, only occasionally breezing through past towns for a few loved-up reunions before the wind starts pressing at your back.
And though it’s true you’ve been seeking a place of your own, a place where you could belong, this, too, means something. To have these beautiful, fleeting moments of connection with once-strangers, to lose yourself completely in the headiness of such quick intimacies, no less passionate or kind or devastating for their brief duration. All those countless moments of connection—romantic, sexual, platonic—coalescing into a kind of soft sweetness to hold on to long after you’ve forgotten a name or had a face grow fuzzy with memory.
All of that sweetness is swirling inside you as you nudge Soap’s chin with your head, drawing his attention from where he’d been conversing softly with Ghost, one hand petting absently at your waist.
“Take me home?” you ask softly, and his eyes melt at the question, his hand coming up to thumb a little desperately at your mouth.
“Oh, the Cap’n would love that,” Ghost drawls. “Fall arse-over-tits over a sweet thing like you walking through the door.”
“My home,” you clarify, though you’re not opposed—especially if their friend (captain?) looks anything like them. “I live like four blocks that way,” you chuck a thumb vaguely over your shoulder.
“Well why didn’t you say so, bonnie’,” Soap says, standing up and dumping you on your feet. Before you can be too offended, he grabs your chin and presses his mouth against yours, searing hot and leaving you breathless when he pulls away too soon. You look up at him a little dazed and he pets his thumb across your chin, grinning. “Ghost is right. Too sweet for your own good, darlin’. T’wouldn’t be right for us to let you walk home alone, sweet thing like you. Not in a neighborhood like this.”
“Au contraire mon frère, I’m fast as shit,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes. This occasionally happened when you got crossfaded in particularly the right way, became possessed with the urge to tear off down a darkened street, drunk on the feeling of wind against your face and your heart hammering in your chest. Feeling like you could fucking fly. “No bad guy’s gonna catch me, no way.”
“That right, little rabbit?” Ghost moves as silent as his name, a sudden warmth at your back without you even noticing he’d left his chair. He curves that big body around you, nipping at the soft skin at your neck and caging you in against the firmness of Johnny’s chest. “Gonna let us chase you?” he near growls.
The thought sends goosebumps rising along your arms. To be wanted, to be chased. To be caught. Ghost groans when you lean back against him, tipping your head back to nip at his jaw in return. “Home. Now,” he commands lowly, pulling down his mask.
You can’t help your shit-eating grin as you tug them through the door and the thinning crowd to collect your long-abandoned things from the bar.
Kat eyes the three of you suspiciously. “If I find cum anywhere on that fucking patio I will have your balls in a bear trap,” she threatens.
“No promises,” you wink at her, laughing when she flips you the bird. You shrug on your coat and pick up your bag, which Ghost immediately appropriates, slinging it over one shoulder. He ignores your amused tug on the strap, looking over your head to plot the swiftest exit.
“Don’t wait up, babe!” you say, blowing a kiss to Kat as Ghost tows you and Soap toward the door.
“Call me if you need help burying the bodies,” Kat offers in response, and you cackle at the uncertain looks the late-night crowd shoots you both.
And then it’s just the three of you and the cold and the night, pressed together like you’re one body in the snow-crowned streets.
Read part two
179 notes
·
View notes
Text
Most desperate things the 141 boys have done for sex because I can't stop thinking about it <3
(sorry for this being a 3rd repost, I had an account called Lumi_bunsblog but that one got deleted for some reason so this is the new one now ig lol)
John's begged for it. I mean on his hands and knees begging for a taste. I know this man is an avid pussy pronoun user too. He has been on his knees in front of you as you sit pretty on his couch, trailing kisses up your soft belly to your tits and then back down to your thighs.
"C'mon sweet girl lemme' 'ave a taste of 'er yeah? Know she fuckin' needs me hm? Just look at tha'" as he runs a thumb of the wetness that's seeped through you thin panties, just waiting for you to say the words and let him tear them off.
He knows if anybody else in the 141 or if any of his fellow soldiers could see him now, the Captain Price practically drooling over you and sweet talking your cunt like it could hear him they would have a fit. But he couldn't care less because you looked so fucking good right now so "just let 'er 'ave what she wants alright sweet thing?"
I just know Kyle has spent 70% of his last month's pay check on hotel room because the 5 star pent house suite was the only hotel room in your area left available during the holidays. He played it cool with an arm around your waist assuring you it was fine, acting like this was the room he wanted to get, not the one he was forced to have. But if he was being forced to do anything thank god it was spoiling you.
"Don't worry 'bout it love. Just make 'urself comfortable" He'll say in a sultry sweet tone, planting kisses up the side of your neck before excusing himself to the lavish bathroom to check his bank account. He had to make sure he still had enough to buy you a nice breakfast in the morning.
And you're already layed out so pretty for him on the bed so he's not complaining about anything. Especially not the mirror situated on the ceiling right above the bed. Oh and don't you dare suggest splitting the cost, "just split your legs for me hun, 's all ya need to do"
Johnny is eager, like so so eager. When a passionate make out session on your couch got even more heated than either of you had previously expected and he now had his fingers playing with the waistband of your skirt, letting his cold finger tips splay themselves just below. When he got to the hem of your panties and began to hook a finger into the lace you had to stop him,
"Johnny"
"Yea?" He was breathless, chasing your lips when you pulled away to talk. You almost felt bad for separating but if he was going to touch you, there was one request you needed to make. You had felt his nails drag across your thighs moments earlier, it felt wonderful but they were...a little long.
"Do ya nae want this hen?" He'd ask, looking at you like you were a piece of art. Pleading with his eyes, shining like they'd spill tears if you said yes.
"No, no I want this, I want you so so much. It's just..." you trailed off
"Tell me what's wrong bonnie and I'll fix it, yeah?" his hands kept you grounded to his lap either a soft grip on you ass.
"It's just- you're nails, they're a little long" your request was nothing more than whisper.
'Oh' Johnny knew he probably should have just asked for clippers, but you felt so damn good on his lap. He could feel your warm cunt through the zipper of his jeans and with your tits brushing against his chest he couldn't bring himself to move.
You watched in shock as he just began to just tear his nails off with his teeth. Without a second thought his pointer and middle finger nails were bit off to the skin. He paused and looked at his right hand before ripping off the index finger as well.
"Johnny what's gotten into you-?"
But he's already got his hands back down your skirt. Soft finger tips slipping between your folds. "Feel better now eh?" And when you just nuzzled your nose into his neck and let out a little whimper he chuckled "I'll take tha' as a yes"
Simon swallows his pride for the first time in his life for a chance at hitting it raw. You tell him it's okay to not use protection, that you're on birth control. But you needed to make sure that he didn't have any stds seeing as they're even more of a pain when you're on birth control. Not that you don't trust him you just want to make sure and it's not a problem for him seeing as he has to get tested every other week being in the military.
He doesn't, however, have his records on him at the moment and with a girl already lying in his bed telling him he can cum inside. Plus a raging hard on, he doesn't exactly feel like running back to base to get the paper work. So...next best thing.
"Price-"
"Rare for ya to call on leave Simon, whatchya need?" Price responds, his voice cracking through the face time call, a cigar dangling from his lips.
"Sir I need..." he looks back at you, your eyes expectant and shining. You wanted him and he wasn't going to fuck this up. "Can you send me a picture of my last med check results?" He rushes out the last part, elbow on his knee and hand dragging over his face.
Price quirks one eyebrow but doesn't look like he's going to ask any questions. Unlucky for Simon though, Johnny was also in the room. His voice distantly coming through the phone,
"The feck ya need those for l.t.?" He questioned
Simon just groaned, soap's addition to this call just made it even more frustrating. But he snapped out of his frustration at the sound of price opening his file cabinet. "What part?" Price asked, dismissing Johnny with a wave of his hand.
"The-" Simon began, this was fucking embarrassing but when he looked back to you, now perched on your hands and knees, the plush of you hips resting on your ankles, he'd do anything at this point. "STD results." He responded plainly.
"Aye! No fuckin' way mate!" The sound of a chair scraping the floor could be heard as Johnny began to clammer over to his captain who pulled the sheet from his files.
"Ya didn't tell me he was in the room" Simon growled
"Ya didn't ask" Price droned
Johnny's head popped into frame "show me what she looks like ey l.t?"
"Not happening" Simon deadpanned
"Aw c'monnnn" The sergeant whined "just proud of you for finally getting some action!"
"Enough." Simon could see you biting your lip to stifle a laugh out of the corner of his eyes, a curious look in your eyes at his reddened face.
"Sent a picture to ya Simon" Price huffed, letting Johnny give him one last "good luck!" Before hanging up the phone.
You were a mess of giggles as he just shook his head and shoved the phone results in your face for you to look at. "See. Clean."
"Okay okay" you giggled, finally letting his form eclipse you back onto the pillows
"Went through a hell of a lot of trouble for ya, sweet girl" he whispered, nipping at the shell of your ear.
"I'll make it worth it" you said, kissing the corner of his lip and tangling your fingers in the back of his hair
"Christ woman" he groaned, feeling his cock twitch at your promise, "gunna' be the death a' me"
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
spike, the dog (still derogatory)
who: John Price x wife!reader
what: continuation of this fic and this thought about john price being a softie for his wife and the dog you found on the side of the road (y’all LOVEDDDDD this, thank u omg)
word count: 0.9k
“We are not naming the fucking dog Gremlin.”
“Pooh Bear.”
“No.”
You and John are sitting in the living room, staring at the dog you picked up from the side of the road a few days ago, trying to come up with a name for him.
Convincing your husband to let you keep the dog was a challenge. It felt like you were debating with judge, jury, and executioner. Stakes were high. He was sitting across from you at the dining room table, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes were narrowed at you and his face was expressionless, giving nothing away as you plead your case.
Somehow, you won.
So now, here you both are, brainstorming names to replace “Puppy”. You’re holding the dog in your arms on the couch and John is sitting across from you in his chair.
“And where the hell did you come up with these names?”
“I have a list.”
“You have a list?”
“I have a list,” you say, “of dog names and baby names. Every girl does.”
And then, for just a second, the room stills.
“Baby names?” John asks.
A shiver runs up the bottom of your spine and you sit up a little straighter. You feel the air buzz and John’s heavy gaze on you.
“Yeah,” you say, glancing at John and then back at the dog in your lap. “But—Pooh Bear?”
After a long second, he says, “No.”
“Georgie Banks.”
“The actress?”
“Wha— no, fucker, Georgie Banks from Mary Poppins.”
“… I’ll consider it. What else.”
“Ja’Marcus.”
“My love,” he says, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together, looking at you seriously. “What the fuck are you talking about. It’s a dog.”
“Tra’davious.”
“I’m making a list,” he scoffs, sitting back again. “Jesus.”
“It’s a nice name!” you exclaim. “What are you gonna name him, Scout?”
He looks at you.
You look at him.
“No.” Your face drops and you almost shudder. “No, John, that’s not even funny.”
“Oreo?” The corner of his mouth twitches but he quickly steels himself.
“Stop.” You hold the dog close to your chest, horrified.
“Rocky?”
“No!”
“Buddy?”
“John.”
“We could just call him Puppy.”
“What is this, Bird Box? When Sandra Bullock named her kids Boy and Girl? We can’t just name the dog Dog. We would sound like neglectful parents.”
“Your friend has a dog named Cat,” John says.
“And that gets confusing because she just got a cat. I think she’ll have to rename Cat. And by Cat I mean the dog. Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head, eyebrows furrowed. What a mess that would be.
“We could name him after your team…?” you say, the idea popping into your head. Then, you frown. “I’m not calling him Kyle, though. That’s too human. Ghost? He is—you know.” You rub over the dog’s mangey back gently. “A little ghastly, still.”
“Riley?”
“Who’s Riley?”
“No one.”
You eye him. “Must be one of your other wives…”
He ignores you. “It would inflate their egos too much. They’re already insufferable enough. And,” he adds, “they don’t need another reason to suck up to you.”
“They don’t suck up to me,” you say.
“Sweetheart,” he says. “They suck up to you.”
“A pun with Price? Uhhhh… High? Low? Buy one get one? Bogo?” You hold up the dog, as if to present him. “Bogo Price, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Price?”
“You think you’re funny,” John says.
“I think I’m hilarious.”
“How about Mackie? For Mack? Soap’ld love that–Scottish for ‘my son’.”
“… I’ll consider it.”
“You did find him near Notting Hill. Maybe Notting?”
You shudder. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Knotting. It’s a—I’ll explain it to you later.”
(By later you mean never. Explaining A/B/O to your husband who doesn’t have any social media? And has never heard of the website Ao3? He’d have an aneurysm and then wonder why you know about it. And you cannot have that conversation.)
“What are the characters from Notting Hill again?” he says, scratching his chin. He needs to shave—well. You need to shave him, rather. “We just watched it. William Thacker, Anna Scott, uh, her shit husband, what’s his name—“
“Jeff King.”
“Jeff King, yeah. King, maybe?”
“Look at him, John.” You turn the dog to face him. He wiggles in your hands and yips, his tongue falling out of his mouth. “He’s not a King.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “He’s not a King.”
“What about William’s weird roommate? Uh, Spike?”
“Spike,” John repeats slowly.
You nod. “Spike.”
You both focus on the dog.
“I like Spike,” you say.
“I like Spike, too.”
You hum, considering this. “Spike…” You narrow your eyes and study the dog closely, holding him tighter in your hands.
He yawns with a high-pitched whine and then hacks.
“Jesus,” John mutters, shaking his head.
“Better than Georgie, Banks, or Mackie?”
“Yeah,” John says, “look at ‘im. He’s a Spike.”
“He’s such a Spike,” you muse. “He’s gonna be huge, too. I mean, look at his ears and paws–they’re already too big for him. Shit, he’s probably gonna be 70 pounds or 30 kilos.”
“We need to train him.”
“Yeah. I can hire a trainer? Find one online.”
“I could get a trainer from base.”
“I do NOT want an army dog.”
“It wouldn’t be an army dog. It would be a dog trained by the army.”
You eye him. “John.”
“Love.”
You sigh. “Fine.”
“Good girl.”
note: prob gonna make wife!reader and spike a universe/series bc i loveeeee them. I hope you enjoy!!!!
posted 01.02.2025.
do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.
to masterlist.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
do ya'll ever think about a reader in customer service having a slow day at work, shooting the shit with a coworder, doing a mangled ""Scottish"" accent when you think no customers are around
but this cute, bulky guy with a mohawk seemingly just appears out of nowhere, and before you can even put on your best professional "How can I help you?", he's like:
"Och! Abair iongnadh! Guid tae see such a bonne Scottish lass so far from hame! Hou are ye? Where are ye from then, hen? Aberdeenshire? Clackmannanshire?"
and you just. die on the spot.
'Soap's grinning ear to ear, think's it's very funny and turns it into trying to get in your pants
119 notes
·
View notes
Text
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/4099253aa34350124b054d10c3b05c44/5ef93c05c9360761-16/s540x810/88b8aa03d89079dec1b721b1e03437704d41cafa.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/42b271e7fd5ca252ee645be7c6c51627/5ef93c05c9360761-51/s540x810/9e852eeb28d0ad3a39a7723998a62259dafba76e.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3a030379131635b0aa09a588a52725e9/5ef93c05c9360761-25/s540x810/fa59cce4e43de712fc48fff62bf71edc9b815a93.jpg)
Filthy Dog
MMA au -> pro!Soap x PR team!reader
Series CW: 18+ MDNI, possessive behaviour, spitplay, oral oneshot - 2K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune
“-I'LL HAVE YER’ HEAD ON A STICK!”
You heard him before you saw him- the blur of a man who was truly more bull than human, and the scraping of chairs. Another headache for you.
You knew this was coming, you knew he wouldn't be happy with this sponsor. You tried to warn them.
“Johnny.” Soap’s manager, Mitch, tried to reason, eyes widening when the fighter’s massive wrapped hands flexed around his freshly-pressed white button down, untucking the bottom from his pants in the process. “-John.” he corrected, coughing awkwardly. When Soap snarled at him, Mitch looked to you with that ‘help clean this mess up’ look.
“No.” Soap bit, jamming a blunt finger into the man’s chest before you could respond to his plea. “This is yer’ problem.”
“We don’t have a problem.” Mitch assured. “Talk to me John, what's up?”
Soap’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. “Ye’ know damn well. Told you I'd sooner quit than work with Max Energy.”
Mitch’s lips pursed, You were unsure what he expected as the outcome of his greed- probably that he would be able to talk his way out of it. “I don’t remember you saying that." he scoffed. "Come on now, Max is great, don't blow this out of-”
Soap growled in frustration, his fist careening into the folding table beside him; a deadly weapon- a warning shot.
“Tell me, Mitch- why was I-” he snatched the cloth hanging out the pocket of his sweatpants and pushed it into the wiry man’s chest. “-just handed shorts with Max Energy big and bold ‘cross my fucking bits?”
he leaned in, jaw tense. “Ah’m a joke to ye’? I’ll quit right here, right now.”
Mitch called your name like he was summoning a maid and you could only sigh in response. “Soap-” “You say one more word for him and ah’ll knock his fucking teeth in.” he warned, not even turning to look in your direction. Your mouth closed, locked tight.
“John, you quit and all those paying fans out there waiting for you will make sure you never get another damn title again.” Mitch threatened. “They’re not here for some still wet-behind-the-ears openers. They’re sure as shit not here for Kozlov.” he laughed sardonically. “They’re here for you. Don’t ruin this.” ‘-for me’ he seemed to leave out.
You couldn’t help but wonder if Mitch was doing this on purpose, or if he was just flat out stupid.
A deep, rumbling noise echoed around the depths of Soap’s expansive chest, lips curling back like a dog. “I do this fight- then I’m done, Mitch.” Mitch beamed, seemingly only hearing the confirmation he’d be fighting tonight. “-Not for yer’ sorry ass and not for those Max Energy bastards either. For the fans.” Soap grit out.
You could see the gears inside the manager’s head turning as he processed the financial hit he would inevitably take if his golden boy were to leave. “John-” Mitch practically whined.
“Not up for debate.” Soap snapped, shooting him a venomous look- and like a tornado on a storm path, he chucked the shorts in the bin and left, dipping back into his locker room.
Mitch sighed, rubbing at his temples before setting his eyes on you.
“Do something. You’re Personal Relations- go relate personally.” Mitch snapped at you as he began digging into the trash to retrieve the shorts.
“Public Relations.” you corrected, earning a frustrated hiss and a dismissive hand wave.
“Don’t change the subject. Get in there.”
You grimaced. “He’ll kill me!”
“Don't be dramatic and hurry up, he's on soon.” Mitch urged, shooing you off. You made a sour face, heaving yourself up off the padded bench before Mitch could find something else to complain about. “-Wait.” Mitch ordered, as if he was telling a dog to heel. “-Second thought," he hummed "scratch that, let him be pissed for the fight. It’ll do numbers.”
-
Loathe as you were to admit, Mitch was correct- all three rounds had been polished off like they were light meals. You were next, surely. Your knee bounced anxiously as you awaited the full oncoming force of Soap’s post-cage high. “Fantastic! MacTavish v Kozlov-” Mitch barked out a laugh. “What a joke Kozlov was, does his team think it's amateur hour?”
“Mitch.” you interrupted, knee falling still. “This isn’t really time for celebrations, you're about to lose your current biggest fighter.” He mowed you down with an eye roll “John just needs time to come to his senses, Max Energy contracts like this are once in a lifetime.”
“He’s not-”
The Locker room door nearly flew off its hinges, a beast coated in sweat and blood emerging. “John!” Mitch grinned with outstretched arms that faltered as the big man stormed straight past him.
God. Good god. He was hurtling towards you. Avert your gaze downwards, you coached yourself, you wouldn’t sit well in the stomach of a dog like him.
Bare feet stopped before you. “You.” he chuffed out around the rubber guard in his mouth, drawing your gaze upwards. “Let’s go.” You looked around, not fully processing the situation. Mitch regained his composure. “Y-yes! Go talk with John.” he urged, desperately latching on to any inch of leeway Soap would give. “Get the fuck out, Mitch.” Soap barked, voice distorted by the EVA covering his teeth.”’Fore I rip yer’ head clean off.”
“R-right! We’ll talk later.” he laughed out nervously and tucked tail as Soap stared you down through the eyes of a starving street dog; getting the hell out of dodge. He kept his eyes on Soap as he left- a survival instinct not to show your back to a hungry predator.
”I tried to warn them about the Max deal.” you pressed once alone, hoping to avoid an argument. “Ah’know, bonnie.” he hummed lowly, a sweaty, gloved hand coming to graze your cheek. His sudden, loose tenderness came as a shock to your system. “Yer’ not like those vultures- Ye’ don’t see me as an asset.” His empty blue eyes relaxed, pupils dilating as his other hand raised to cradle the other side of your face, both thumbs brushing the corners of your lashlines. “Aye, Yer’ the good one. So patient with a daft bastard like me.” Your eyelids trembled slightly, his gaze zeroing in on the movement. “You want me like I want you?”
Your eyes darted to your lap, urging Soap to tap at your cheek. “Eyes up- On me.”
“You give the word and ah’ll treat you better than any man ever could. Ah’ll set ye’ right.” his voice dropped to a low boom. “Yer’ the only good thing ‘round me, have been since the moment we met.” You could still remember why you were hired. Soap was on the come up, but couldn't seem to figure out why getting into random scuffs with strangers over little annoyances was a bad thing. Especially for a man with a body that was essentially a lethal dose of muscle and bulk he had been specially trained in how to throw around. Possible fatal outcomes aside, it wasn't making him a man to root for. Every fight needed tension, but Soap wasn't a man built for pyrrhic victories- he was an underdog, biting and gnashing his way through cage after cage; man after man. He was meant to enjoy his hard-earned glory, and because of your work- MMA fans absolutely adored him.
Soap huffed out, head tilting. “Y-yeah- yes, okay.” you whispered, trying not to psych yourself out. Your lips creased, head nodding before you could chicken out.
Pulled into an blurred vortex, it took you an embarrassing amount of time to realize you were hiked over his shoulder as he lumbered towards his private locker room for the fight, locking the door behind him. Setting you gently on the luxurious industrial sink counter was his last mercy as he ripped off his gloves and clawed at your bottoms and underwear, yanking them off your legs. A freshly-bare and clammy hand braced itself under each thigh as he jacked your legs up and over his broad shoulders, a pleased grunt passing his lips.
He lowered down before cursing and pushing your legs back up against your chest.
You made a small noise, worried you had somehow fucked something up for him which earned you a growl and a headshake as he grunted and spat his mouthguard onto your tummy, sticky saliva coating your skin as it found its resting place before he dove back in, not caring where the plastic ended up.
He pressed open-mouthed kisses at the apex of your thighs, sucking and biting at the skin like he was underfed and hungry. You whined as his teeth kept digging into the sensitive flesh, earning satisfied hums from the man in response, stubble not helping your case. You flexed, legs caging in his head which had seemed to guide him towards your waiting cunt.
The noises he emitted as he lapped at your folds made you feel nauseated and lightheaded, a blushing mess.
A shoulder jerked upwards to support your leg so he could explore the messy folds with a newly-unoccupied hand, but didnt pull his mouth back to give himself the space needed to do so; leaving you reeling at the feeling of such a concentrated area of stimulation.
As if sensing your limits, he bullied his way deeper, growling into your pussy in a way that left black spots at the corner of your vision.
Brutish fingers began to dip into the spot they had been searching for and you could feel his body tense and flex as he practically humped into the space beneath the counter, hips desperately chasing contact it wasn't receiving. He cursed against your flesh, mouth covered in drool and slick as he rose upwards, reminding you of a hulking behemoth as you were forced to accommodate the new position. He gazed down with hazy eyes and a glistening jaw as he focused on jamming whatever he could of his finger into your cunt, twitching and thrusting the digit inside you. As if the stretch wasnt enough to satisfy that itch in the back of his skull, he stuffed in his ring finger next to it, pinky and index bracing his hand as he fucked the fingers into you, transfixed.
You were going to pass out at this rate, his knuckles, malformed from years of improper training and injury- kissed at your inner walls, sending you out of body.
His lids lowered, pace easing as a thought passed his mind. He paused, stretching open the hole as his throat bobbed a few times. Your head clumsily lolled to the side just in time to watch a fat wad of spit drip from his mouth, directly into your slicked pussy. He smiled, happy with himself and savoring the sight for a moment before continuing his ministrations- slower this time, deeper. He angled his hand, thumb massaging at your clit just to see the way you would react.
You didn't disappoint him, the sight of you causing his mouth to part, drool still hanging from his chin. “Fuuuck.” he breathed, drawing the word out. "-What a sight ye' are." His eyes darted back to your cunt, thick brows quirking as he experimentally ground his thumb deeper into your nub, urging a cry to push its way out of your lungs. His teeth glinted as he huffed out a small laugh. “Yer’ being so good to me too, huh?” he rumbled happily, eyes coasting along your stretched folds and it took you a moment to realize he wasn't talking to you. He pulled his fingers out slowly, scooping the mixed fluids up and popping them into his mouth. “Mmh-” he groaned, diving back in to gather more, this time digging deep. the movement finally pushed you over the edge. “Tha’s it.” he praised, dipping his head low to lap his mess beneath your flexing thighs. -
You spent the following half hour under a steaming waterfall shower head with a looming mass tucked against your back, cleaning you up and rutting against you in random incriments- his skin surely emitting steam at a higher rate than the water. He bowed his head into your neck, bunting against you and inhaling the smell of his favourite body wash on your skin. “-Got an offer from 141 Athletics a bit ago, they could take care of it all for us, y'know.” he mumbled, pausing and dragging his nose along your nape. “Yer' coming-" he breathed out. “You work for me, not Mitch- You're coming with me.” you could feel his lips drag up in a sneer against your skin when the man's name left his mouth. In an attempt to comfort him, you tried to turn and face him, but thick arms stopped you, curling under your arms and around your chest, sneaking a feel before pulling you into him, the fatty layer coating his pecs molding against your back like a dream.
You nodded.
“Good.” he sighed.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Poly 141 x neighbour!reader: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! (Or in your case, the way to four men’s heart is through their stomach)
It started with cookies.
You’d been in the middle of baking a double batch- oatmeal chocolate chip, your personal favorite- and realized halfway through scooping them onto the tray that you’d made far too many for one person. It wasn’t unusual. Baking was how you coped with stress, and ever since you’d moved into this apartment building, stress had been in no short supply.
The guy in 4A had blared music all night. Your hot water barely lasted five minutes. And your smoke detector had developed a habit of chirping at odd hours.
But there was one bright spot- your neighbors in 4C.
You’d seen them coming and going. Tall, broad, and always carrying duffel bags that looked far too heavy to be legal. They kept odd hours, too, but never caused trouble. One of them- Johnny, you’d learned later- had even held the door open for you when your arms were full of groceries.
Which was why you’d stood outside their door that evening, balancing a plate of cookies and feeling like an idiot as you knocked.
Not-Johnny had answered first, blinking down at you in surprise, though his smile was warm and he was beautiful. You couldn’t blame him; you had barely spoken to them more than a few short words.
“Uh… hi?”
“Hi.” You forced a smile. “I’m your neighbor from 4B. I, uh… made too many cookies?”
His eyes dropped to the plate immediately, and you swore you saw something primal flicker behind them. Still, you worried.
“I mean, if you don’t want-”
“No! No, we want. Come in- Johnny! Get over here!”
And that was how it started.
The second time had been lasagna.
You’d just finished assembling it when you realized- again- that you’d made too much. So, after psyching yourself up for ten minutes, you’d knocked on their door for the second time in as many weeks.
Price, who had introduced himself along wuth Simon the day you dropped off the cookies, had answered that time, his expression guarded until he saw the foil-covered pan in your hands.
“You’re joking,” he’d said, but when you started to retreat, he’d stopped you with a firm, but gentle hand on your back. He had such a nice, big hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, lovie. Get in here.”
That night, you’d sat at their table, sharing stories and laughter while they cleaned the dish down to the last crumb.
After that, it became routine.
You started “testing recipes,” and they became your eager guinea pigs.
And they never seemed to mind.
And now…
The smell hit first- roasted garlic, browned butter, and something rich simmering low and slow. It snuck out from the slightly cracked kitchen window and spilled into the shared hallway of the apartment building. For men used to MREs and takeout, it was practically siren song.
Gaz was the first to notice, lingering just outside the door labeled 4B- your door- with an almost predatory focus. He wasn’t proud of it, but his stomach growled so loud that Soap- rounding the corner with a gym bag slung over his shoulder- laughed outright.
“You stalking the neighbor again?”
“Shut up. You smell that?”
Soap inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered shut for a beat before snapping open.
“Jesus wept- what is that?!”
“I don’t know, but I’m this close to knocking.” Kyle held up his fingers, barely an inch apart.
“She already fed us last week, mate. Dinna push it.”
“But what if she’s testing another recipe?”
Gaz wasn’t wrong. You had a habit of showing up at their door with dishes too good to refuse.
They hadn’t stood a chance.
After the cookies and the lasagna, it wasn’t long before other dishes followed: casseroles, soups, pies, and even homemade bread. And the worst part? You bow always prefaced it by saying you needed an opinion- like they were doing you the favor.
It wasn’t until Price called you a “bloody saint” over a pan of enchiladas that Ghost finally put it together.
“You’re using us as taste testers,” he’d said flatly.
You’d grinned- too cute and too smug for your own good. “Is that a problem?”
Not a single one of them had said no, just as stated before.
Which led them here, hovering outside your door and pretending they weren’t waiting for another offering.
“… Fine.” Soap muttered, raising his hand to knock.
But the door swung open before he could, and there you were- apron on, hair pulled back, and flour dusted across your cheek.
“Hi!” You chirped, eyes bright. “Perfect timing!”
Gaz’s grin was pure relief. “Tell me you need opinions. Please, love.”
You laughed, stepping aside to let them in. “I always need opinions. Come in!”
Inside, the kitchen was chaos. Cutting boards and mixing bowls were scattered across the counters. A Dutch oven bubbled on the stove, releasing clouds of savory steam. Plates of food- half-assembled sandwiches, stuffed peppers, and what looked like chocolate tarts- sat waiting.
“I… might’ve gone overboard.” You admitted, and if you hadn’t spent all day in the kitchen, your cheeks would’ve gone warmer.
Soap whistled low, eyes raking over every dish. “Not complainin’.”
Price arrived just then, texted by Kyle, trailed closely by Simon, who took one look at the spread and froze. His eyes swept from the roasted chicken resting under a blanket of fresh herbs to the still-warm biscuits stacked beside a bowl of honey butter.
“What’s the occasion?” John asked, smile amused, but you just waved him off.
“Practicing.”
Gaz was already halfway to the table, trying to decide what to start with, but Simon lingered, watching you carefully. He had his balaclava on, though you haven’t yet dared to ask why he wears it.
“Practicing for what, exactly?”
You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of your apron. “There’s this… thing next week. A community bake-off. And I thought it might be fun to enter.”
Soap arched a brow. “You’re entering this in a bake-off?”
“Well, not all of it. I’m still deciding which dishes to use.”
“You’re winning.” Kyle said immediately, filling his plate.
“Definitely.” Johnny added, already reaching for a sandwich.
Simon, still lingering, crossed his arms and stared down at you. His height will never, ever not make your breath hitch. “You’re testing all of this on us?”
You looked up at him through your lashes, pouting just a little. “You don’t mind, do you, Simon?”
His gaze darkened- not in anger, but something softer, heavier. It made your stomach flip.
“No,” he said simply. “We don’t mind.”
You swallowed and turned quickly to the oven to hide the heat rushing to your cheeks.
The next hour passed in a blur of taste testing, arguments over which dish was best, and repeated assurances that you were going to “blow the competition out of the water.” But beneath the laughter and teasing, you failed to catch the way they looked at you- how Price lingered by the stove just to steal extra bites, or how Johnny kept offering to help, hovering close enough that you brushed elbows more than once.
And Simon? He was the worst of all. He didn’t say much, but his eyes tracked your every move, following the way your hands worked the dough or wiped flour off the counter. He was the last to leave, hanging back as the others helped clear plates.
“You’re serious about this bake-off?” he asked quietly.
You nodded. “Thought it might be fun.”
“You don’t need it.”
“… What?”
He gestured at the now-empty plates. “To prove anything, I mean. You’re already…” He trailed off for a few seconds, and though you were left blinking at him, you didn’t rush him. “Good enough.” he murmured at last.
The compliment hit harder than you expected, and for once, you didn’t have a clever response.
“Thank you, Simon. That… means a lot to me.” you said softly.
And just like that, the others reappeared, breaking the moment. Johnny patted Simon’s shoulder with a knowing smirk, and Kyle slung an arm around your shoulders, while Price merely watched. Your kitchen was now spotless, cleaned by them.
“When’s the next test run?” Gaz asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, let us know. We’re free anytime.”
“Yeah,” Soap added. “Anytime.”
You laughed but this time, you didn’t miss the way Price was looking at you- thoughtful, like he’d already made up his mind about something.
The door clicked shut behind them after that, leaving your apartment quieter but no less warm. The scent of roasted garlic and herbs still lingered, and you found yourself smiling as you surveyed the spotless kitchen. They’d made quick work of the mess, trading jokes and lighthearted jabs as they wiped down counters and stacked dishes in quite the uniform style.
You didn’t know what you’d done to deserve neighbors like them, but you weren’t about to question it.
You caught yourself humming as you tucked away the last plate, the sound of their laughter still echoing faintly in your ears. It was easy with them- comfortable in a way that felt rare and almost too good to be true.
And maybe it was.
Because what you didn’t know- what you would probably never know, such a sweet and trusting thing- was that your apartment had been wired within days of your first visit to their door.
To them, it had started with a conversation.
“She’s alone,” Price had said after the second time you’d brought them food, leaning back in his chair with a contemplative frown. “No sign of anyone else coming or going.”
“Security’s shite.” Gaz had added, gesturing vaguely toward the shared hallway where your lock barely functioned half the time.
Soap had shrugged, easygoing as ever, but his eyes had been sharp. “Better us keep an eye on her than let some arsehole get the chance.”
And that was that.
Price had ordered the equipment, Ghost had handled the installation, and none of them had lost sleep over it. Not when it meant keeping you safe.
It wasn’t just the cameras, either.
Simon had reinforced your locks under the guise of “fixing” them after you mentioned a struggle with your key. Johnny had talked you into letting him check your windows “just to be sure they latched properly.” Gaz had set up an app on your phone to “monitor deliveries,” though it also let them track your location if needed.
And Price? He always lingered at the door just long enough to ask if you needed anything else- subtle, but enough to make sure you knew they were there.
You never questioned it. Never noticed the way they moved like a unit around you, anticipating problems before they could arise. Never caught the glances they exchanged when you mentioned a repairman or the way Simon hovered near the window any time a car idled too long outside.
You just kept feeding them, trusting them in ways that only made their resolve deepen.
Price was the worst.
He’d leaned against the counter tonight, watching you laugh at Johnny’s jokes and swat at Kyle when he tried to sneak extra bites, and the thought had hit him harder than he expected, while Simon watched on in amusement and was the only to successfully swipe a few more bites.
They could’ve had this already.
If life had gone differently- if timing had been better- you could’ve been his. Theirs. Someone to come home to instead of just someone they visited between deployments.
He hadn’t said anything, of course. None of them had.
But as they left, he’d lingered in the doorway, letting his hand rest lightly against the frame.
“Don’t let ‘em eat it all before the bake-off,” he’d teased, lips curling into a smile. “They’ll start begging if you do.”
You’d laughed, and God, it was dangerous how much he liked the sound.
“I’ll make sure to keep them in line.”
His smile softened. “Good girl.”
You didn’t notice the way Simon shot him a sharp look at that- or the way Johnny and Kyle exchanged knowing grins.
And later, when Price sat down in front of the monitors to check the feeds, he didn’t let himself feel guilty.
Because you were safe.
And as far as they were concerned, that was all that mattered.
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
holiday spirit
warnings: hurt/comfort.
part of the [rotten work] series.
takes place before the meeting with priceghost.
Simon would hate your chrismas tree.
that is the one singular thought that takes root and needles through your head once it’s been thoroughly decorated.
never mind that Johnny is absolutely gleeful as he stands back to look at the final product while Kyle is beside him, equally as proud of the joint effort– you’re too stunned to comprehend the fact that they’re still even here.
here. as in your city.
here. as in your apartment.
not theirs. not in different countries with either the Garrick family or the MacTavish clan.
here. with you.
it’s... jarring. your stomach has been in knots all day ever since they dropped in, each with a bag of their own clothes and boxes wrapped with colourful paper and ribbon. you had stared at them with your mouth parted at the door, pure shock paralysing every fibre of your being before they gently barged in. after that, they set up camp in your little home.
this had been after Kyle’s return, then Johnny’s. four days. then they were gone for two days. for those two days when you were left alone, you figured they’d gone to their families for the rest of the holidays.
and you were fine with it. no matter how cold you felt when you were left with nothing but their absence, you were fine with it. you had expected it.
so for them to–
“Soap, i swear to god if you burn the gingerbread men again, i’m going to kill you.”
–still be here...
“alright, alright! i’m going.” as Johnny walks by you, he leans in with a grin to whisper, “so grumpy.”
he delivers a quick peck to your cheek that draws a flinch. if he noticed it, he doesn’t say. just storms to the kitchen to get the cookies out of the oven.
they both flitter around you the entire day. talking over you, around you. they’ve noticed how quiet you are by now. they must have. they just haven’t said anything about it. yet.
and it gnaws at you. even more than the tree.
even more than the memory of Simon glaring at you for suggesting decorating one. even more than the memory of John wrinkling his nose at the small gift box you held out for him before he told you to take it back to the store, that he had no use for it.
Simon and John didn’t like christmas. not that you did all that much, this month was almost always never a good time for you either but you tried to make it better, you tried to celebrate it with them in hopes of bringing you closer to them. but they always shot you down every year.
you figured it has something to do with Simon’s childhood, however little you knew of it. or John’s natural aversion to the holiday season in general.
or it was just you.
maybe. maybe it was just you.
it makes you sick to think about.
that you spent so long trying to mould yourself to their liking, to be cheerful, to bring gifts to be anything but yourself so they could finally accept you and you didn’t even make a dent in their resolve.
yet with Johnny and Kyle, you hadn’t lifted a finger. you never uttered a word about a tree to Johnny, or showed a hint of interest in looking at holiday playlists with Kyle.
you hadn’t even dared to ask what either of them wanted for gifts and even though you had tucked away the boxes you got for them months ago, you certainly hadn’t mustered the courage to even tell them that you have them tucked away under your bed.
you were determined to keep things normal and carry on as any day of the year and were going to do so for the very brief time you thought you had with them in december but they took a sledgehammer to those plans from the second you opened the door to them and let them in.
it hurts. that you’ve been yourself the entire time with Johnny and Kyle and they’re here while you spent your entire life being someone else for everyone else and they’re not here.
it hurts. that you can’t even see what it is Johnny and Kyle see in you that others couldn’t see. because there’s nothing special about you. nothing worth being here for, nothing staying here for.
you’re just... you.
you’re just you and it hurts. it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—
there’s a hand on your shoulder. you inhale deeply and look up, belatedly ad see Kyle’s blurry figure. your eyes felt so hot when you blinked several times just to get a clear view of him.
concern laced his features. it paints a divot between his brows, expression twisted and devoid of the mirth that had been there the entire day. Johnny’s still by the counter but you catch him slowly shuffling around it to come closer to you with the same expression.
oh, god, now you feel worse.
they’d gone to such great lengths to make this such a happy occasion and you’ve just ruined it by drowning in your own tears in front of a heavily decorated tree.
“love, what’s wrong?” the softness of of his voice damn near breaks you where you stand.
Johnny’s comes shortly after. “bonnie?”
“i’m–” the lie struggles to make it past your lips. “fine.”
they don’t believe you.
you don’t care to reinforce your lie as you push past Kyle and head to your room, where you lock yourself in so you can hyperventilate in peace.
the texts mocks you.
both from your parents. sent in consecutively. just a simple "happy holidays" from both of them as if you didn’t just see them laughing heartily with your siblings on your cousins’ facebook and instagram posts five minutes ago.
none of them called and none of them answered your calls but it’s better than last year, you think. back then, they didn’t even think of you until after new year so it’s an improvement. one that you don’t even know if it’s worth acknowledging.
being second best to your own family isn’t anything new to you. it’s taken some getting used to. standing on the outside looking in does sting but... yeah, it’s nothing new.
what is new is being at the forefront of someone’s mind.
Johnny has worked so hard on the cookies and made sure his second attempt didn’t burn them to a crisp. he’s been determined to put his baking skills to the test as of late and has been refusing any sort of help. he’s also been taking pictures and capturing every precious memory he can find, which is amongst the many things he’s been doing to bring the holiday cheer. and Kyle has been actively making sure to plan all the other activities you three will be doing outside the house like ice skating, going shopping, knitting ugly sweaters for all of you to wear and all that.
through all this, you’ve been struggling to come to terms with having them around. you’ve fluctuated from self deprecating thoughts to coming to terms with the fact that you were happy that they’re here with you. it’s just that you were in shock to notice the latter until an hour after locking yourself away.
now you’ve ruined it because you were too stuck in your own head, dwelling on being second best while you were the best to Kyle and Johnny. two of the most wonderful people who’ve been right here the entire time to show you that you are just as important to them as they are to each other.
when you finally unlock the door, Johnny was already standing on the other side.
“bonnie lass.” he breathed out, his knitted sweater moving with his broad muscles. he looked so cosy, you wanted to sink into him and cling to his bones until you became part of them.
his relief upon seeing you again thawed the ice that had been chipping at your veins. you regret making them worry. you should’ve been better to them from the start.
“i– hey. need anything?” your voice comes out scratchy and gives you away. shame blooms all over your face as his eyes search and find nothing but puffy cheeks and swollen red eyes.
no doubt he and Kyle heard you sniffling earlier.
“ye disappeared fer a while here...” he starts but trails off to let you continue.
yet. what could you say?
how do you apologize for being so awful and putting such a damper on their happiness when they went through the trouble of bringing it all the way to you? you don’t exactly know how to act when you are the center of attention, so you wouldn’t know where to begin. besides, well–
ducking your head and quietly muttering– “sorry.”
hoping that what comes after isn’t the shadow of your own failures. like watching yourself fall over a waterfall. the drop isn’t painless. it never is.
Johnny wants to say something. he does. it’s in his nature to open his big mouth and articulate his big thoughts. it’s in his nature, with a big heart like his, to burn as bright as the sun that scorches you.
yet he stays quiet. his silence gives way for your thoughts to spill out all over him without you meaning to.
“sorry, i just– i wasn’t–” your head ducks away as the words catch in your throat in a heavy lump. you can’t bear the distraught expression on his face.
–expecting all this.
being doted on. fussed over. having anybody bring gifts for you and bake for you and want to watch stuff with you around this time. you weren’t expecting anybody to think of you around this time.
Christ, you were going to cry all over again.
“i thought you’d be in Scotland.” it all unfolds. the tears, your resolve, a sniffle cuts through the air, startling him just before the sob follows. “i–i thought Kyle–”
the shadow of a man behind Johnny makes itself known. Kyle looked so heartbroken that it just made you want to stop talking altogether.
“sorry.” it’s pitiful the way you wipe the tears with the back of your hand and try to sniffle back your sorrows in front of them. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t–”
Johnny can’t stand it anymore. he steps forward and wraps you in his arms and that’s all it takes for you to break all over again and this time, no amount of shame could stop you from bursting into tears while Kyle comes over to embrace you.
for every moment you’ve spent looking at the broken shards of your own heart and wishing you didn’t have one, they’ve spent twice as much putting each piece back together and pilling up the empty spaces with their own warmth.
“let it out, baby.” Kyle’s voice melted into your neck while your bdy wracked with cries.
Johnny’s hand stroked your hair and added, “it’s okay. it’s okay, bonnie. cry as much as ye like.”
they spent the entire night consoling you. they held you like that for however long you needed them to. and you think you were going to need them for a lot longer than one more night.
in the end, though, you realize that you had let your own anguish overshadow just how much you truly enjoyed having them with you. but they didn’t seem to mind that it took you this long to come to that conclusion.
you blinked through puffy eyes while trying to eat, as per their insistence. the cookies Johnny baked weren’t half bad this time. Kyle placed a warm glass of milk to go with them.
neither one of them pushed for you to explain yourself. you were thankful that they didn’t. you think they noticed that you’d wrung yourself too raw to tell them anything that made sense.
“i’m really happy that you’re both here.” you spoke through a groggy tone after swallowing the bite.
“we know.” Kyle grinned. “aren’t we just the best boyfriends ever—”
shoving one of Johnny’s cookies in his mouth doesn’t stop him from sassing you the whole night after. he was just happy to put a smile on your face.
Johnny added every bit of it to his collection of polaroids to keep.
gift giving threatens to make you break out into hives sometimes.
“i was going to give these when you both came back but i figure now’s a good time as any.”
you are so glad you had the forethought to get something for each of them because you think you would have cried even more for not getting them anything when they bought something for you.
Johnny and Kyle glanced at each other as you held out your gifts to them. then they were all grins as they accepted the neatly wrapped boxes.
“aww, baby.” you smiled nervously as you watched each one open them. “you didn’t have to!”
Kyle unwrapped his present, carefully making sure not to ruin whatever was inside. Johnny didn’t seem to care about the wrapping as he tore through it.
one book set for Kyle. you’ve heard him rant about this author far too any times not to get something for him. pencils and a new sketchbook for Johnny. his current one’s running out so you thought you’d do him the honour of finding him a new leather-bound one to add to his collection.
“steaming jesus, bonnie, these are hard tae find!” Johnny held up the pack of pencils to study them in awe.
Kyle was so giddy about the books that he didn’t stop kissing your face until you had to physically push him off of you before his boyfriend did the exact same thing. both of them slobbered all over you like the happiest dogs you’ve ever seen and it eased any fears you had about them possibly not liking your gifts.
“thank you! thank you! thank you—” they both said through kissing you while you squealed and tried to shove them off. this time, you were pushed to the floor and had to take it. your lungs were filled with nothing but happiness as you giggled through it all.
there were no more tears after that. they made sure of it.
you grew to appreciate the christmas tree and all its splendor. the holiday was unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, with all its magic and wonder and you’ll remember that feeling for the rest of your life.
haven’t written anything much in a while so consider this an apology. also i feel like my writing is so different with this and not quite satisfying because i haven't written in so long but i'm trying to push past that.
[rotten work]
banners by @saradika and @vase-of-lilies
offer a coin to the picklejar
do not like, comment, reblog or follow— in fact, do not interact with this blog if you're a minor or if you have no age in your bio. read the [ground rules]. you have no excuses if you get blocked.
240 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Other Half Masterlist
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
Notes: Welcome back to accidentally-created-a-series-Monday
Not beta-read.
Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, angst, fluff, explicit sexual content
Summary: You glance at the man, then freeze, eyes widening. There’s no way that the goddamn Prince of Gotham is on your counter right now. Luckily for you, he’s focused on the tie clips. Maybe he knows you’re staring and is just ignoring it. Maybe he’s just so used to the sensation that he simply doesn’t register it anymore.
**As of 3.23.24, this series is complete
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen
Part Fifteen
Part Sixteen
Part Seventeen
Part Eighteen
Part Nineteen
Part Twenty
Part Twenty One
Part Twenty Two
Part Twenty Three
Part Twenty Four
Part Twenty Five
Part Twenty Six
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Just thinking relentlessly about Ghost who meets a clairvoyant (you).
You live life in relative peace and normalcy, but sometimes (something beyond this universe) convinces you to use your gift. When the urge strikes, you usually let it; you are not one to deny the powers of the beyond. Of fate. Of God maybe—who knows.
When you see the tall man outside the train station rifling through his backpack, brow low and angry, something in him calls to you. He’s handsome enough, a little intimidating especially thanks to his stature, but you feel no fear as you change course and cross the street to him.
“Left it on the tube, friend,” you tell him. He stares up at you with fathomless, dark eyes. Eyes that have seen so much brutality, that have shut against so much pain.
“What?” he asks.
You point to your mouth. “Your facemask. You left it on the tube. Rotten luck. Hope your day gets better!”
And while you don’t anticipate ever seeing him again, you’re hardly surprised when you do. That’s the universe for you. Or, more likely, that’s just Simon Riley. When he falls into step beside you the next morning, he’s wearing a new facemask.
“You been following me?” he asks.
You blink. “No? Think it’s the other way around.”
“How’d you know. About my mask.”
“Ah. Clairvoyant.” You tap your temple.
He scoffs. “What, like talking to the dead?”
“I do that too.”
“Don’t believe you,” he says. Ah, a skeptic. You know better than to argue with one.
“Alright. See you later, Simon.”
And it isn’t until you’ve turned the corner that he realizes he never gave you his name.
The next time he runs into you, he stops you in your tracks. People on the sidewalk flow around you both, irritated at the interruption in their walks, but you don’t care. Not when he pulls out a leather-bound book and hands it to you.
“Prove it,” he says, hand shaking a little. “His name was John. Johnny. He’s been dead for three months. I just—prove it.”
You take the book reverently, sensing how much it means to him. You nod and part ways. When you glance back over your shoulder, he looks disappointed—but sometimes these things take time.
At home, you open the book. It’s a sketchbook, filled with pages, figures unfamiliar to you (Simon. So much Simon), handwriting in a neat curl. You flick through it slowly, learning about John MacTavish the old fashioned way. When you come across the last page, you find it blank.
Perfect.
You pick up a pen—but no, that’s not right. You search for your charcoal pencils. That’s better. Then you begin to write in a neat handwriting so unlike your own.
The next time you see Simon, you hand him the book. He takes it with naked trepidation, mouth set in a frown beneath his mask.
“I’m so sorry,” you tell him.
You both part ways. He isn’t sure what to feel—like a fool, mostly, for believing. Heartbroken, sure. He can admit it. He’d wanted to hear from Johnny one last time, some message that the man was at peace. Some idea, painful though it would be, that Simon’s feelings had been reciprocated.
He goes home and flips through the book, knowing each page by heart by now. The last one is his least favorite, forever blank—except this time it isn’t. And it makes his blood run cold.
Written in Johnny’s handwriting are a number of disjointed words:
help
help me
help me
tunnels
Makarov
help me
head
boom
help me
sos
alive
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Thinking abt the secret baby trope with gaz
You’re crouched in the grocery store, inspecting and comparing a few items on the lower shelves (why does there need to be a banana, a vanilla, and a banana & vanilla flavor of these baby puff snacks?) while your baby is sitting up in the cart. She’s an angel— never cries or throws tantrums at the store, just sits patiently with her little pint of blueberries. You’ll pay for the empty plastic container with everything else.
Gaz spots her first. Deep brown eyes staring into his soul from down the aisle. She stops looking at him only to get another blueberry— excellent pincer grasp for her age. He loves seeing babies out in public, and this is an exceptionally cute baby.
So of course he tries to make her smile. Makes some silly faces, he’ll be the first to admit. Sticks his tongue out, scrunches his nose. She bursts into a little fit of laughter, the gurgly kind that babies do— and it makes you stand up to check on her.
And you meet his eyes. The same eyes your baby has. And he meets yours. The girl he met on leave— must’ve been a year or two ago.
Oh.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
🎅🏼 Day 3 ‒ Altruism
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a0c131ef5472a22310a9df34ffdbbfce/788f247db2acbd97-85/s540x810/1b790069ad758bc5ef9fae8313d706834506bd66.jpg)
Synopsis: Being part of the military means making sacrifices and a lot of times – those are personal. Sometimes, though, they do pay off.
Pairing: Kyle Gaz Garrick x fem!Reader Warnings/Info: No smut. | Kyle’s POV; military!Reader; fluff; pining; friends/teammates to lovers
Word count: 1.5k
↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️
When Kyle enters the rec room, packed duffel bag slung over his shoulder and ready to leave for the holidays, he stops dead in his tracks as soon as he sees you lounging about in one of the armchairs, mug of tea in one hand and some magazine splayed open in your lap.
The room smells of chamomile tea, some tangy Yankee candle and fresh gingerbread and biscuits, and it almost seems too homely for this particular room while you look terribly casual in your civilian clothes, shoulders slumped in a relaxed posture.
A sight he rarely gets to see and it’s doing something funny to his stomach.
He almost sounds accusatory when he addresses you, “What are you still doing here? It’s Christmas Eve.”
You look up from the page you’re reading and the way your face lights up with a soft smile has Kyle’s heart thudding rapidly in his chest.
“Hi, Kyle,” you greet him casually, “Gonna hold the fort here. I’m on standby over the holidays. I swapped my vacation days with some of the lads, so that they can celebrate with their families.”
Kyle. Not Gaz or Garrick. Kyle.
His name spilling from your lips so smoothly is like a commando that has him stand at attention like the soldier he is.
His duffel bag hits the floor with a heavy thud as his shoulders tense and spine straightens, “Wait – What? Why the bloody hell would you do that? Is Price in on this?!”
Kyle can’t wrap his head around the fact why you’d do such a thing. You’ve worked your arse off all year and the team has only come back from a four month deployment less than two weeks ago; if there is someone who deserves a break – it’s you!
However, you merely shrug and nod nonchalantly before blowing on your steaming mug and taking a small sip.
“They have wives and kids and I don’t, and of course, the Captain knows.”
Bastard, Kyle thinks and scoffs; face setting in a frown, though he can’t quite argue with your reasoning. Still, it feels wrong, and Price could’ve told him. The Captain knows that–
“But you have a loving family waiting for you, too.”
And here Kyle was hoping to see you, perhaps invite you over to his place during your leave, but he’s not going to tell you that now. Then again, it never seems to be the right timing between you, and it’s starting to frustrate him more than anything.
The way you tut, quirk an eyebrow and then ponder, pursing your lips cutely about his statement, almost makes him smile triumphantly. There’s a reaction and he can work with it. He grabs his heavy duffel bag from the floor and carries it over to the vacant sofa across from the armchair you’re sitting in, dropping it onto the cushions before flopping down next to it.
“I’m no one’s wife and I’m not a mother, and can I be completely honest with you?” You don’t even wait for Kyle’s answer as you continue, “My siblings all have partners and, hell, even kids now, and I kind of feel–“
You hesitate, fiddling with the pages of the magazine in your lap, clearly either struggling again to open up or simply searching for the right words, but either way, Kyle waits dutifully like he always does, not daring to interrupt you in a moment of rare vulnerability. He knows how to make people talk, is trained to do so, yet you’re like a Rubik’s Cube he can’t quite solve.
Whenever Kyle thinks he’s getting closer, you show him a new side, give him a new piece of intel on you, and it’s like he has to start all over again. Or perhaps, his feelings for you are in the bloody way, always self-sabotaging him.
You let out a deep sigh, “I feel out of place at home, like I don’t even know how to handle being there anymore and– it’s only getting worse.”
Oh, shit. There it is.
He shakes his head, having made up his mind already, “I’m gonna stay here with you, then.”
Your eyebrows furrow and you shuffle in your seat, sitting up straight and meaning business. Kyle can barely suppress a snort at how cutely you prepare yourself to argue with him; he will hear you out, though. Perhaps you’ll say something and spill some beans he hasn’t heard from you before.
“No, Kyle, you’ll get in trouble with your ma and I ain’t having that.”
“Please,” he flicks his wrist dismissively, “She’s aware that I can get called in for an emergency mission anytime. She knows what comes with our job.”
“This isn’t an emergency, though.”
“Nah,” he hesitates before adding with determination, “This is far more important and who the bloody hell says that I don’t feel exactly the same, hm?”
The look he gives you is non-negotiable and your lips close while you huff through your nose.
The whole evening could very well be the plot of some corny Christmas romance movie.
After informing his family of his absence with a well-meant white lie and making other arrangements – and promises – to be home for Boxing Day, you and Kyle end up making dinner from scratch, both of you refusing to resolve eating some shitty MRE’s on Christmas Eve.
It’s all terribly domestic between you then, and Kyle has to actively remind himself throughout the evening that this isn’t going to be a permanent state of affairs between you two.
Not until he addresses the elephant in the room, at least, because it’s suddenly too easy to let his hand linger on the small of your back when you brush past him in the kitchen and soak up all the soft glances and smiles you shoot in his direction.
Once dinner is finished and the dishes are washed, dried and put away – Kyle scrubs while you wait with a dry kitchen towel, working alongside each other like a well-oiled machine just like you do in the field – you retreat back to the rec room together.
“I haven’t watched Home Alone yet,” you chime, walking towards the sofa where Kyle has already laid down on his back, head resting on the armrest while he lounges with his long legs stretched out, clutching the remote of the large flat TV in one hand as he scrolls through Netflix lazily.
He raises an eyebrow in mild surprise, “Like, ever?”
You snicker quietly, shaking your head, as you set the warm bowl of buttered popcorn on the low coffee table.
“No, this year,” you answer, and Kyle can see the way your eyes flicker briefly between the armchair and the sofa he’s already spread out on. You’re pondering your next move, he can tell very well, can see the gears turning in his head, and his stomach starts fluttering with nerves, quarrelling internally to make the first move instead.
God above, he’s never felt this lost and anxious because of a woman before.
But it’s you.
Kyle clears his throat before untucking his arm from behind his head,
“C’mere,” he says and his voice is way too breathless, sounds way too unconfident for his own liking, “Lay down with me.”
He pats his chest with his flat palm invitingly, holding his breath in anticipation of your reaction while his stomach twists with knots. A rejection from you would certainly hurt more than a bullet wound and take longer to heal, too, he’s sure.
The moment seems to stretch endlessly and while you hold eye contact with him, Kyle is starting to feel incredibly awkward with each passing second. His pulse starts to throb in his neck, cheeks heating up with the sudden blood rush, and in a brief panic, he wonders if he should back-pedal before it can get even more cringy.
However, when the crease between your brows softens eventually and you close the short distance between yourself and the edge of the sofa, Kyle nearly breathes a sigh of relief.
“You sure about this? I might be too heavy,” you mutter, bracing one hand on the backrest while Kyle parts his legs instinctively to make space for you.
He scoffs in mock offense, making a vague gesture at the length of his muscular body, “Are you serious?”
You roll your eyes and when you get settled on the sofa with him, Kyle notices how flustered you look, and it makes his chest swell with an odd mixture of pride and affection.
He acts on autopilot then, makes adjustments as soon as you lower yourself on his chest oh so tentatively; tugs you closer and wraps his arm around your waist, deciding then and there to never let you go again.
Sure he’s hugged you before, been in close quarters, and shared a corner to catch some shut eye in some rancid safe house, but it has never been like this. He’s hooked.
“This okay for you, sweetheart?” He asks, tucking your head below his chin while his hand roams along the length of your spine with a feather light touch, not wanting to overdo it and cross a line you don’t want to cross yet – if ever.
“Mhmm,” you hum and your cheek rubs over his sternum as you nod slowly, making his breath hitch at the friction.
And, oh God, but Kyle realizes he might’ve been too overzealous with his invite to cuddle up with him; might’ve bitten off more than he can chew, now that he’s so hyperaware of your warm body moulding flush atop his own.
Two perfect pieces of the same puzzle. He knew it.
He focuses on keeping his breath steady then, lips slightly parted; eyes flickering between the TV screen with the Home Alone cover on display and the crown of your head, so close that he could purse his lips and place a kiss on your hair, while he’s frozen in place, blood rushing and heart pumping so fast, he’s sure you can feel it.
“Hey, Kyle?”
Kyle swallows thickly, trying to get some moisture down his throat, “Uh, yeah?”
“Just start the bloody movie.” You utter with a soft sigh, nuzzling into his chest.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0536408e8e3dc4ff4c9be6758d26b866/788f247db2acbd97-77/s540x810/fce958db35ddb0ef302927686efad5899386d76b.jpg)
127 notes
·
View notes
Text
unedited thing about price x insecure reader and the bird test
a long time ago, before you'd ever even met john, you'd read something on the internet about a relationship study. from what you can recall, the premise was that they set up a couple in a bed and breakfast, and had one partner call to the other 'hey, come look! there's a bird out this window!'. if the partner came, the couple was statistically more likely to last and report deep satisfaction with the relationship. or something. the memory of the finer details have blurred over time, but you remember the jist of it.
you've thought about it a lot over the years. being married to an s.a.s. captain means being home alone more often than not, and after particularly long and difficult missions john goes so quiet it feels like you don't really know him anymore. it's taken a lot out of you, if you're honest. it's left you feeling doubt about your place in john's life, like your whole world revolves around him but to him you're merely a warm body to come home to.
it feels awful to think that way, that your husband just views you as a convenient girl to have around. it's just so deeply uncharitable to accuse him of growing apathetic to you that you don't say it. it feels like a mean thing to accuse him of, so you let your insecurity fester instead.
it builds up and builds up, and on the day you think you'll actually burst into tears, you see it. a small yellow bird on the tree branch outside. the study comes back to the forefront of your mind, and before you can even process that a plan has been formed, you can hear your own voice calling john's name.
"john! come look at this bird out the window!"
from the other room, you can hear the sound of big feet hitting the carpet and padding down the hall towards you with a familiar gait. you watch the little yellow bird flit about, rustling it's wings and chirping just barely loud enough to hear through the closed window. large, warm arms wrap around you, pulling you back against john's broad chest.
"what kind do you think he is?" john asks quietly from behind you, as if he's afraid of scaring the bird away.
"i don't know." you reply, holding onto his arms while the tension in your mind, body, and soul leaks out through your feet into the carpet. he came. it would have been easy to ignore you, to not pay attention or blow you off, but he came to look. he listens to you, this is all the proof your doubtful heart needed that you're not just background noise to him. the satisfaction you feel is bone-deep, a relief that he loves you just as much as he always has. you feel silly for ever doubting it.
after that, whenever you start to feel unimportant to him, you call him to the window.
john! come look at the sunset!
john! come look at this dog outside!
john! come look at this flower!
john! come look at this funny looking cloud!
john! come look at the moon!
john! come look at the snow!
and he does. every single time. without fail.
989 notes
·
View notes
Text
clawing at the door
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/8b7bae3efae636bc462fc4e8483e9263/3b00cdbc049ff648-22/s540x810/a827c0b8e4dbb4ac1574843b9cbbc9f1c30ec913.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/2aa5d6b018f604fba6ba6c3e0ef4f8cb/3b00cdbc049ff648-a4/s540x810/d811408a3742c2afd1414f63c8d2cf2750c6a4ec.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/407e91f80b0c20154f289c193112b2b3/3b00cdbc049ff648-f6/s540x810/2176d5a28b1f14aa17bfe768a9060f42b172dee0.jpg)
ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/09682caa0ca5910f7b3ab210dfe61913/3b00cdbc049ff648-f7/s540x810/905c379a73cf47a26723d47b4d16a513d0a219b9.jpg)
When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.
On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.
Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.
The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.
Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.
So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.
Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.
Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.
He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.
And it's...fine.
The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.
He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.
The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.
The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.
Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.
Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?
He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.
And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.
This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.
He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.
Less of a hassle for everyone involved.
Problem solved.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/09682caa0ca5910f7b3ab210dfe61913/3b00cdbc049ff648-f7/s540x810/905c379a73cf47a26723d47b4d16a513d0a219b9.jpg)
And then he encounters you again.
You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.
The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.
You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.
"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"
"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.
He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.
"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."
Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?
He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—
"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.
"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."
You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"
He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.
Well, then.
Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.
But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.
You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.
Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.
And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.
Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—
Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.
(Were you one of those pub girls?)
So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.
In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.
He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.
Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.
And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.
Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.
You're happy.
It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.
Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.
Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.
Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.
It’s worse.
Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.
Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.
Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.
He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.
The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.
One of the barflies has made the first move.
She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.
Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.
(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)
Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.
He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.
He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.
He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/09682caa0ca5910f7b3ab210dfe61913/3b00cdbc049ff648-f7/s540x810/905c379a73cf47a26723d47b4d16a513d0a219b9.jpg)
Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.
“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”
“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.
“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”
Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.
“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.
Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”
Ghost grunts.
Soap does, in fact, see him there.
He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.
Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”
“Soap.”
From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.
The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.
“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”
“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.
“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”
You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.
“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.
Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.
Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.
It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.
But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.
Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.
The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—
That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.
Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.
At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.
He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.
“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”
“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”
Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.
Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?
“Simon’s fine,” he replies.
It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.
“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.
“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”
“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.
Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”
“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.
“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”
He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.
It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.
“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.
You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.
Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.
“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”
“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”
“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.
Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.
Some incomplete circuit finally connects.
Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”
Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.
Not one. Not the other. Both.
“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.
The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.
Soap's hand spread on your back.
“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.
There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.
They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.
He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.
“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.
“Oh, he will,” Soap says.
He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—
“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”
And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/09682caa0ca5910f7b3ab210dfe61913/3b00cdbc049ff648-f7/s540x810/905c379a73cf47a26723d47b4d16a513d0a219b9.jpg)
a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
take me home, country road
[ao3]
You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 20 / epilogue)
masterlist
-
Black trees against a yellow sky at evening time.
It’s late when you finally reach home. Dark enough to almost be night—a full day longer to return than it took to leave, but then you hadn’t ridden as hard coming back, too sore and sleep-deprived to manage the same pace. Even the meager sleep you got on the road was hardly sufficient.
Then the shape of your house appears on the horizon and you nearly break down in tears. The sight of it fills you with such relief that you nearly lose your balance, your head slumping forward. Too long. Days that felt like weeks, your body and mind weary from the long trek home. Against the gold of the horizon light, it appears like a boat arriving at port.
You throw yourself off your horse and to the ground before John has even had a chance himself to dismount and come help you down. He stomps over when your foot nearly catches in the stirrup, nostrils flared and mustache twitching with his scowl.
“Don’t go breaking your leg before I’ve even gotten you home,” he growls when he reaches you, fitting his hand around the nape of your neck and giving it a squeeze. You’d shiver, but your body is too exhausted for your libido to manage more than a half-hearted twitch. Instead you nod, head bobbing like a baby doll.
John takes the horses to the stables while you clamber up the stairs on wobbly legs, headed straight for your bedroom, passing out the second your head touches the pillow. Your growling stomach will have to be addressed in the morning.
You aren’t conscious for when John comes up to join you, but you swear even in sleep you can sense his presence in the room. Certainly when he curls himself around you, the wall of warmth at your back briefly making your eyes flicker open before sleep claims you again and they slide shut.
In the morning, you eat a big breakfast before letting John rub a liniment onto your inner thighs and bandage the cuts on your hands and face. The doctor he takes you to see after breakfast for the shoulder that Graves dislocated prescribes bed rest and light stretching for recovery and laudanum for any lingering pain.
“What did you tell him?” you ask when the two of you head out for a light lunch in town before heading back home.
“Told him you fell off a horse.” He shrugs. “Not that uncommon around here.”
All you can do is roll your eyes.
Still, it’s as good an excuse as any. No one questions your story when you tell it to them over the following days, when your shoulder is still too tender for you to move it too vigorously. Only Kate lifts a brow knowingly, all but cornering you for the real story when you finally get a moment alone.
“That sonuvabitch,” she hisses when you finally break and tell her what happened.
“It’s fine,” you insist, shushing her. “John… Well, John handled it.”
She nods approvingly, then looks like she might say more before thinking the better of it. Silence falls between the two of you.
“He—” you pause in the middle of your sentence, unsure of how exactly to say it. “It wasn’t so bad. Telling him, I mean.”
Kate must catch the slight inflection in your voice because she stares at you expectantly, waiting for you to say more. “…I’m happy to hear that.”
You inhale as if gathering your breath to say more, but nothing comes out. You know what it is you want to say, but it’s getting it out that’s the tricky bit. What you want to tell her is that your trust wasn’t misplaced in the end; all of your fears that the truth would shatter the affection and trust that had finally been shown to you after a lifetime of nothing were unfounded, proven ultimately wrong.
“Was there something else you wanted to add?”
You chew your lower lip.
“No. Nothing else,” you say in the end. There’ll be a time someday to tell her that her trust wouldn’t be misplaced with John or Kyle either; perhaps that day will come sooner than you expect, but for now it remains on the distant horizon. It’s not your place to lecture or admonish; your place in her life is to offer the same feeling of security and companionship as she’s offered you.
Today, you loop your arm through hers and join her for lunch.
In town, people greet you like you never left. Only one person asks you about the man you were walking with the previous day, and Kate covers for you when you stumble over your answer, throat constricting in your panic. There’s no suspicion in the question, but still you anticipate it because life has conditioned you to expect pain as a response to any action or inaction.
You are surprised when pain doesn’t come this time. But still, you are wary.
When you get home, John fills the tub with hot water for you and lets you wash up on your own while he tends to the horses, the third now unofficially his. You lean your arms over the side of the tub and drift in and out of your daydreams, ears attuned only to the sound of his voice and the owls calling from the trees just beyond the house. Eyes fluttering shut until slipping deeper into the water kicks you back into wakefulness.
“You falling asleep in there?” he asks when he stomps back inside, the door slamming shut behind him and nearly giving you a heart attack.
“No,” you deny, discreetly wiping the rheum from the inner corners of your eyes. “Just resting my eyes.”
“Of course,” he snorts. Amused as ever by seemingly anything that comes out of your mouth.
A telegram comes in to the sheriff's office some weeks later asking about a missing bounty hunter, and though you pitch forward in your chair when John tells you this, he’s quick to remind you that as far as anyone else knows, Graves moved on after his first visit a month or so back.
It takes time to reassure you, but slowly your hands unclench from the edge of your seat.
Still, you make yourself scarce for a week after that. It takes some time for you to feel safe again. You spend those first few days after hearing about the telegram constantly looking over your shoulder, plagued by the worry that you’ll be found out. Sharing your worries with John doesn’t go a long way towards alleviating them because his confidence never wavers. It’s almost infuriating.
“Would it kill you to just pretend?” you huff, cracking an egg into the skillet.
“Nobody’s gonna come looking for him here. ‘Far as anyone knows, he made his way west a long time ago,” he says, dismissing your concerns while clipping his fingernails at the kitchen table. You scrunch up your nose when you glance over your shoulder.
“You better not think I’m sweeping those up.”
He barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head at the same time.
True to his word, the front door stays shut. No one comes knocking looking for an errant bounty hunter. Perhaps that is a lesson that you can take away from all of this—that there is no reward for isolating oneself. Your safety has only ever been assured in community, in putting your trust in others and safeguarding their secrets in turn. Only love has ever held out its arms for you to fall into.
And now the days pass like clouds in the sky.
Tranquility hovers on the periphery of your life with every intention of calling out your name. It’s waiting for you with open arms.
In the evenings, John takes you upstairs to the bedroom and pries you open enough to fit himself in. His mouth blazes a trail across your body, sucking your nipples until they’re beaded, wetting his beard with the essence of your pleasure, and bringing you to the brink of completion time and again before pushing you over.
After a while, he leaves a piece of himself behind.
Weeks pass and the seasons change. The changes you notice in your body are physical as well as emotional. At some point since coming home, you must have started to unwind. Shoulders loosening up, knots melting down your back. Is it just you, or does the air smell fresher too?
You pin the laundry up on the clothesline and wait for your husband to come home. The sun sets earlier these days with autumn just around the corner. Already the leaves have begun to redden and brown, some breaking off from the branches altogether and floating to the ground where you know eventually they’ll rot and dissolve into the earth, starting the cycle of death and rebirth all over again.
Winter is fast approaching and you know this one will be tough with a little one on the way. You’ve already started preparing for the winter months—canning and storing corn and potatoes and other root vegetables harvested from your garden, making preserves from the fruits of autumn—apples and pears sealed in jars of thick syrup—and filling the cellar with barrels of salted and cured meats. In town, you visit the seamstress for clothes of thicker material and leave with an armful of wool flannel petticoats, fur-trimmed bonnets, and corsets of a heavier cotton coutil.
You rest a hand on your belly as you stare off into the distant mountains. Even the sky darkens earlier these days. When all of the laundry is pinned on the line, you pick up the wicker basket resting by your feet and bring it back inside, shuffling into the kitchen to get started on supper.
There’s still much that needs to be done before winter arrives. Firewood to be chopped, furs and blankets to be hung on the walls, the fireplace to be swept, and more. Enough to keep you busy and your mind occupied when you aren’t bent over a book because that’s also your reality these days. The librarian in town now knows you by name and knows to set aside a few books a week for you to pick up when you pass by with Kate.
You don’t think much of the knock at the door at first, absent-mindedly thinking that it must be a neighbor come to visit. Only when you open the door to an unfamiliar face do you pause.
It’s a woman, not too dissimilar in looks from you. A bit taller, but otherwise if someone were to describe you from looks alone, they might be tempted to use the same words for either of you. She stands on your porch with a suitcase held by her side, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead from the short trip from town. She dabs her forehead lightly with a handkerchief before pocketing it again.
“Hello there,” she greets, a bright smile on her face. “I’m looking for John Price. I was told he lives here?”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at her nonplussed, not understanding why a strange woman might be at your door asking for your husband in such a familiar way. It takes a moment for it to sink in. Then the light goes on and your confusion shifts to disbelief with a twinge of rage.
“We’re engaged to be married,” the other woman hurries to explain, taking a step closer, foot wedged in the door almost as if intending to barge right in.
Her gall nearly makes you lose your temper. Months ago, you might’ve welcomed her arrival, eager to prove to John that you weren’t the woman that he mistook you for so that you could be on your merry way. But that time has long since passed. There isn’t anywhere else in the world you’d rather be than here. You’ve put roots down, entrenched yourself in every way.
Your lips pull into a hard line, face set in stone. “You must be mistaken. He’s already married.”
She blinks, uncomprehending. “That’s…—are you sure? We’ve been corresponding. I know I’m a few months late, but I was held up back in—”
You cut her off by sticking out your hand, topaz ring shining bright on your third finger. “I’m sure. But thank you for stopping by; I’ll let John know you send your apologies.”
And with that, you shove her foot out with yours and shut the door on her face. On another day, you’ll allow yourself to feel guilty for your rudeness; for now, this is your happy ending to enjoy.
And savor it, you will.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Date Night
Platonic!141 x reader
Synopsis: You and Gaz discover Soap's date night present for Ghost.
A/n: And if you find yourself asking why Soap left Ghost’s gift in the bathroom…let’s just say he was making sure it worked properly.
Daily Click for Palestine
Banner credits to @cafekitsune
There were several pros and cons that came with sharing a flat with four other members of the armed forces. Among the various pros were having basically four live-in guard dogs that kept you safe. Among the various cons however…well…erm…
-
Gaz gently called your name from where he stood in your doorway. You slid your headphones from your ears and looked at him expectantly. You noted his sheepish, almost embarrassed look and the way he refused to meet your eyes. You asked if he was alright but instead of answering, he lobbed a question your way.
“Did you…” Gaz cleared his throat and began again, “I believe you’ve left something in the bathroom.”
Confusion was clear on your face. You were certain you hadn’t left anything in the main bathroom, save for your towel and washrag. Nevertheless, you got up and followed him. The moment you stepped into the bathroom your eyes immediately latched onto what had given Gaz such a fright.
“Good God almighty,” you coughed out. “T-that’s not mine! I don’t even think I could even fit something like…that in me.”
“That” in question was an absolute behemoth of a dildo, violently red and violently large. Nine inches in length and an inch and a quarter in girth. Huge silicone balls and all. It sat, almost menacingly, atop the toilet lid. There was something unnerving about it, in the way the sheer weight of its head caused the dildo to bow forward.
“Kyle…Kyle, I didn’t know they made dildos this big. Dude, who is shoving this in them?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’! Nearly screamed when I saw this. Was just tryin’ to take a shower and was greeted by this hunk of silicone.”
You stepped back to cower next to Gaz in the doorway. “This is spooky. That means there’s someone in this house that not only purchased it but is able to handle it.”
Gaz pressed in closer to you. “What kind of freak would do that?” he mused.
You wracked your brain for answers. “Well, I don’t think Price is the type to be a size queen. I feel like his toys would be a bit more modest.”
Gaz nodded. “And Ghost just doesn’t strike me as the type to leave his stuff about. So, that leaves only one person.”
“’Scuse me, gonnae need th’ twa of ye to move,” a voice said from behind you. In a flash, you and Gaz whipped around to make eye contact with Soap. He was unperturbed, shouldering past the two of you to get into the bathroom. He made a noise of satisfaction upon seeing the monstrous dildo. In one fluid move, he yanked it off the toilet lid, the suction cup underneath letting out a loud POP as it unstuck itself. Soap whistled a tune as he rooted around in the cupboards. He emerged holding a bottle of lube. He continued whistling as he waltzed past you and Gaz once more. Before he fully left your lines of sight, he turned back around, a devilish glint in his eyes.
“By th’ way, Ah suggest ye twa git good headphones fer th’ night. It’s Simon n’ Ah’s date night. N’ this,” Johnny held up the monstrous dildo, “Is his gift.”
Needless to say, you camped out in Gaz’s room that night, as it was the farthest from Soap and Ghost’s shared room. The two of you kept your headphones on tight and your music cranked up. Price, upon receiving the memo that his subordinates were dancing the devil’s tango, booked a room at a nearby hotel and was not seen until you gave him the all-clear via text the next day.
90 notes
·
View notes
Text
Assassin!Y/N, holding a detonator: I'll give you two minutes to say your goodbyes before I blow you to smithereens Ghost: Can I get a different kind of blow? Gaz: *turns and stares at him* Ghost: ...I said that out loud Soap: YOU SAID THAT OUTLOUD Price, turning to Y/N: You can skip the countdown just kill us
6K notes
·
View notes