#Frozen soap bubbles

[vestaignis]

Замёрзшие мыльные пузыри. Frozen soap bubbles.

Источник://pikabu.ru/story/zamorozhennyie_myilnyie_puzyiri_9642674, /vk.com/wall-137343478_11343, https://vk.com/wall-42886009 _1343820, /pikabu.ru/story/myilnyie_puzyiri_na_moroze_4709905, //vk.com/album24104442_185732024, ://kulturologia.ru/blogs /281213/19626/.

[kestarren]

Detail of a frozen soap bubble ~ from the photo by Tawnya Silloway, at Colorado Springs, 9 Dec '23.

whole image

[wallflowerglitter]

Sakura knot wrap, frozen, intergalactic, chick n mix, baa bar, various samples

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

[lvrsfilm]

Johnny and Simon aren't used to domesticity beyond what they can give each other in the quiet of the barracks. They haven't been together quite long enough to share a leave the way they'd like to. But when you came along, and chirped about on one of your weekly calls to them about how they should both just stay at your flat in London when they come back, so the three of you aren't all separated, they couldn't say no.

They didn't know what to expect, duffel bags in hand and covered in grime, sticking out like weeds on the cleanliness of your doorstep. "Door's unlocked" you had told them over the phone when they said they were on their way. Simon does Johnny the favor of opening the door first, stepping inside to cover him as if they're still on the field. But they're not met with gunfire or yelling, not even empty silence. The television is on low, playing a random football (because it is football, birdie) match and the house smells of cinnamon and something hearty bubbling on the stove.

They aren't used to the excited call of your voice from the kitchen, the sound of soft, socked feet padding on the floor towards them. You in a large shirt (one of Johnny's,) and a pair of leggings. They're almost frozen when you take their bags, dropping them to the floor and pulling them both towards you for a hug while you murmur about how you missed them.

But they like it. It's not much different than a shared tray of food in the barracks, followed by a fitful rest on a too hard mattress pad and scratchy sheets. Except it is. It's a shared meal, home cooked, the best thing they think they've ever tasted. It's you checking them over for injury not so subtly as they scarf down their plates, daring to ask for seconds to indulge both themselves and you. A shower, for both of them while you clean up, hot water and soap that smells like you.

They whisper conversation in the shower, about how different and nice it is. Johnny does more of the talking than Simon, who scrubs Johnny's back the way he likes while he listens to Johnny ramble quietly about their lass. About when did she learn to cook like that? About how he never wants to go back to his place, how he could stay here and let her feed him his weight in roast until it was time to leave again. Simon who indulges him with nods and grunts, but who's really thinking about a neat glass of bourbon and having you two draped over his lap where he can bask in your shared warmth because in his mind he's already used to this. He already knows he wants more.

It's Johnny passing out on your couch, drooling onto the armrest, a leg thrown over Simon's lap and a full belly. You coming into the living room with a mug of hot tea for the man left awake. Sitting down next to him and leaning against his side, asking him questions about where work took them and if he needs anything while you comb your fingers through his damp hair, occasionally stopping to catch a stray drop of water with your fingers. Once the cup has gone cold and theres no liquid left, you let him sit in silence as well, not speaking, only lightly pressing your lips to the stubble of his jaw and whispering that you have a surprise for him. Leaving the living room and coming back with a bottle of his favorite. Whispering about how you asked Johnny to make sure this was the right one as you burrowed your way back under his arm. And as he presses a kiss to your forehead, traces circles along your shoulder with his fingers while the other holds the bottle of bourbon on his lap, he thinks Johnny was right.

[simonghostlovely]

Soaping Together

(18+)

Pairing: Husband!Simon Riley x Wife!Reader

Tags: NSFW, unprotected sex, p in v, slight spanking? slight edging? idk

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: you and your husband badly needed some quality time to relax and pamper each other when he came from deployment (you insisted to take care of him and he didn’t understand why this was a big deal but gave in when he saw how much efford you put into it)

You heard him walking through the door and you rushed your way to him leaving whatever you were doing in the living room. Giggling softly when he embraced you, feeling his big hands wrapped around your waist and lifted your feet off the ground. He had his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent he longed for.

You were the first to break the silence, "I missed you so much, Simon..."

"We missed you so much..."

"I missed my babies, too." he caressed your face and put a strand of your hair behind your ear. He looked beaten and he could barely keep his eyes open while trying to smile but when you told him he can rest if he wanted to, he chose to spend some time with you and his boy first.

Holding him in his lap at the dinner table,

“Hello, stranger!” he said to his son who was back to acting like his dad was a stranger -since it has been a few weeks he last saw him and that's literally what babies are like- it didn't stop him feeling offended and missed out so he needed to remind himself by singing a lullaby he liked so much to break the ice.

The baby stared at him with wide eyes, frozen, with a teething toy in his hands. Holding on for dear life.

“Give him some time, Simon. He’s gonna get used to you in no time. Remember last time?” you said smiling to soothe him when you saw him frowning.

Later, he was shoving all his favorite food you prepared for him into his mouth. Then he joined the two of you while you were giving your baby a bath and started rolling his sleeves, you realised he was joining you.

Him taking a little amount of shampoo in his hands making little spikes of the baby's hair made you both laugh. Your baby was playing in the water and giggling too.

It was a sight for sore eyes and you couldn't be happier. Your sweet, sweet boys… how did you get so lucky?

When you were done washing him, he wrapped him in a towel and went to the nursery. You sneaked your way to the other bathroom where you had other plans for him. You heard the honeyed cooing of Simon's voice, drying your baby and getting him into new clothes when you were passing by.

Simon finally came to the bedroom after putting the baby to sleep,

"What is it?" he stared at you with curious eyes, examining you. You walked towards him reaching for his hand.

"Follow me."

Scowled, trying to accommodate his eyes to the dimmed light of the bathroom, "I'm sorry baby, but I'm so exhauste-"

His eyes went wide when he realised,

Bubble bath waiting for him, relaxing music coming from the speaker, candles and a bottle of red wine by the bathtub. You wrote 'I love you' in the mirror with lipstick??

Then he finally looked back at you, grinning at him with starry eyes.

In that moment he knew he fucked up... Sleep wise. not in any other way. just that. There was no way out now that he saw the little arrangement his wife made.

"C'mon, let me take care of you, I'll make it quick." Now you were closer to him, few inches away from his chin, looking up at him with doe eyes.

And who was he to deny his sweet girl?

You made Simon sit on a stool in the bathtub while you were washing all the dirt and sweat off of him. He was watcing you, only admiring your face intently, although you were completely naked in front of him and your boobs few inches away from his face.

Right until you squished him between your boobs while you were trying to lean and wash his back.

He groaned, making you feel the vibration, the tingles in your stomach.

He was holding your waist tightly enough to leave marks when he finally let you go.

"My little girl wanted to take care of her husband? all this fo' me? sweet girl? Mhm?"

You nodded, smiling, appearing a little shy now.

You took a step back to look at him and giggle with soapy hands until he took a hold on your waist again and pull you closer, a little bit harsher now.

Little gasp leaving your lips, "Oh baby...i think we can take a little break from washing you?" you said, lifting one leg to sit on Simon's lap slowly. Then the other.

"How about that?"

"Mhm mhm." he nodded aggressively.

He made you sit in a hasty way while you were just hovering over his lap. All hungry eyes and hands taking whatever he can.

He didn't know what he was thinking. This was definitely more important than sleep. More important than washing. More important than anything on earth. In this moment, Simon was exactly where he was meant to be.

Burning inside and feeling the hot on your cheeks, he rolled your hair in one hand in a swift move, making your neck arched and vulnerable. All hot and wanting.

Nibbling at your skin. You bit your lip, willingly opening yourself in any way possible for your husband.

All for him to consume.

Your mewling sounds made Simon chuckle softly.

Both your hands sat on his knees behind you, you were panting and not realising all the sounds that were coming from your mouth.

You bit your lip trying to be more quiet when you felt Simon right in front of your entrance. You were getting more desperate by the second.

He was moving painfully slowly at your entrance, up and down, but not penetrating.

"Ohhh! Simon, please!"

"Mmm...do you hear this? You're so wet, baby."

"Ol this for me. Let me enjoy you."

"Simon, please!" you plead, and that earned you a firm swat on your ass. You jumped, panting.

Is he edging me? you thought as more mewling and pathetic sounds left your lips.

Before he gently lowered you on his cock.

You opened your mouth all the way at the feeling, exhaling, still trying to not make any noise but the friction was too good to be true.

Held his muscular shoulder, lowering your hand to his upper arm then his elbow while he was fucking into you torturously slowly.

Hands tight on your hips. Making you feel every inch and vein on his cock.

You decided to speed up the pace as much as you can in his firm grip.

He hissed at the attempt, making eye contact and you were scowling at him, biting your lower lip.

"So close... so close, Simon! Please!"

"I know, baby. Gripping me like a vice. C'mon you can do it, sweet girl."

"Just like that... do it how i taught you."

"come for me" he kissed your cheek and just like that, he made you loudest you've ever been.

As you throw your head back, all your wishes to not make a sound going out the window now you were crying and screaming because of your explosive orgasm.

Simon growled, coming inside of you.

You put your arms around his neck and he put his forehead on yours. Panting heavily. Trying to come down from your highs.

"Fuck! Simon..... what the hell? " then you both started laughing. You've done more dirtying than washing but at least now your husband can finally have his precious sleep his little coma as long as he likes.

[ddejavvu]

Hi daisy (i hope im right on your name) this has been on my mind for a while jake seresin and you going to take a shower and him joining you the water being to hot and you can tell hes not enjoying it "change the water to what you like " and it being fucking cold as hell and maybe he has a 3 in 1 and you forcing him to use your stuff"i dont want to smell like vanilla coconuts" "thats too damn bad you putting that shit on your hair is gonna make your hairline received by the time you're 45" and him allowing you too

You'd envisioned something sexier showering with Jake for the first time. Maybe something to do with being pressed against the tile wall. Well, you are pressed against the tile wall, but it's because Jake has dropped his shampoo (that's also his conditioner and his bodywash), and he has to bend over in the middle of the stall to retrieve it.

"Okay," You grimace as his feet shift backwards, and he smashes you even further against the wall, "This shower is not big enough for two people."

"We can make it work," Jake insists, but when he finally straightens up, moving back into the water's line of spray, he hisses in pain.

"Jesus," He gripes, clutching at his chest, "Do you think the water could be a bit hotter, darlin'? Don't think it quite fried my nipples this time."

"It's not that hot!" You insist, standing comfortably in the stream, "But if it really bothers you, Jake, just turn it to whatever temperature you want. I don't care."

You do care, it turns out. You'd been expecting him to squeak the 'cold' knob further to the right, but when he cranks the 'hot' off and swivels the 'cold' all the way on, you gasp.

"Ah- Jake!" You squeal, chills erupting over your flesh as the water runs ice cold, "Are you fucking insane? If I wanted to take the polar plunge I'd dive into the arctic ocean!"

"It's not that cold," He scoffs, squirting some of his 3-in-1 abomination into his hands, "Besides, 'thought you didn't care."

"I care," You gush, reaching for the knobs and adjusting them to be equal hot and cold. It's a bland, unfeeling temperature, but it's better than frosting over.

Your final straw is when Jake drags the same handful of soap from his armpit to his scalp. You watch in horror as he lathers in bubbles that he'd just smeared under his arms, reaching behind you for your own shampoo like it's a cross that can repel whatever evil spirits reside in Jake's bottle.

"Rinse that out now," You order, and he looks up at you bewildered.

"What?"

"Rinse that out," You insist, and when he's still frozen, you huff and do it for him. You spray him with the shower head at point blank range, successfully ridding his hair of the lackluster shampoo. He splutters and scoffs at the water in his eyes but he manages to wrestle the sprayer away from you, blinking his wet lashes open to glare at you.

"What was that about?"

"I'm washing your hair," You decide, smearing your hands together and spreading shampoo onto each palm, "That stuff doesn't work, you know that, right? Shampoo and conditioner work in opposite ways, so combining them makes them both ineffective. And would you use conditioner to wash your body?"

"No," He grumbles, and you press a kiss to his soaking wet cheek as a reward.

"Good," You hum, reaching for his scalp and lathering in your shampoo.

"Oh," He laments, "Now I'm gonna smell like lavender."

You let out a teasing giggle, scratching just right at his scalp so that his frown drops and his eyes flutter momentarily shut, "You'll be the prettiest flower in your field."

[longing-for-the-past-times]

finding out it's your birthday

task force 141 x reader

synopsis: It's your birthday, but you don't know how to tell your teammates about it

notes: don't really know how to properly describe this, but it's based on this request and my personal experience of having to spend my birthday at work (no, I did not bring them baked goods, just sweets from the shop). Really short, not proofread, no plot.

comments and reblogs are always appreciated🙈

warnings: none

find it on ao3 masterlist

"and now I am dreaming and you're singing at my birthday// and I've never seen you smile so big" - moon song

There were a lot of potential ways you could have spent your birthday, but running through the narrow hallways of the base with a heavy backpack slung over a shoulder definitely hadn't been one of them

You almost crashed into other three operators, including König from KorTac who had the common sense to place his heavy hands on your shoulders in an attempt to steady you before you ran him over in your rush to get to the meeting room

Laswell had advanced the hour the post-mission debriefing was supposed to take place and it ended up clashing with your own schedule, the one day you decided to organise your actions into one and now you were late by almost 5 minutes. Which wouldn't seem like much to some, but being a member of Task Force 141 meant you needed to uphold a certain standard.

But it was your birthday and even if you were 99% sure no one was actually aware of it, you'd spent the morning baking oat cookies and muffins, and carefully packing them into casseroles. You also tried to bring them to the destination with minimal damage, but now you could only hope there was something edible left of the baked goods.

"I'm sorry I'm late!", you meekly excused yourself, taking a seat between Ghost and Soap and blushing slightly when feeling Price's judging glare.

"Anyway, as I was saying when you tried to infiltrate through this crack in the perimeter…"

Slightly tapping your left foot against the floor, you couldn't focus on Laswell's words. What if they didn't like the cookies - you were never able to make them both soft and chewy - or what if the muffins stuck to the muffin liners? Did you put too many chocolate chips in them?

"Y/N? What's your take on this?"

You looked at Price with an alarmed expression, panic bubbling up in your chest upon seeing the questioning looks of the others. You didn't catch the last part of the question - were they asking about your birthday? Laswell must have known, she was the one responsible for all the intelligence after all.

So you did what seemed the most logical thing to do. You opened the backpack and placed the plastic casseroles on the table, unaware that everyone else in the room was literally frozen in place.

"So yeah, it's my birthday today and I made some cookies and muffins and thought it would be nice to share them with you and… that's not what you were talking about, is it?"

Your words trailed as you realised that the timing wasn't as ideal as you planned. At least, now you were sure they hadn't known: Price's eyes were widened comically, and Gaz was repeatedly blinking at you in confusion and disbelief. Soap let out a thunderous laugh as he instantly pulled you into a bear hug and Ghost… you couldn't tell his expression under the mask, but the blank look in his eyes meant he was probably still wrapping his head around it

"How about we forget any of this happened and I do it again after the debrief is over?" A blush spread on your cheeks as you tried to put the casseroles back into the backpack, but you were stopped by Gaz's firm grip.

"Are you kidding? It's your birthday, we should celebrate - go out for drinks and do karaoke and-"

Price and Kate shared a knowing look between themselves and shook their heads in defeat. Before being able to ask them what was the matter, Kate closed the laptop and began to stuff the files back into the manilla folders

"Happy birthday, Y/N! We will resume this tomorrow. And now tell me, what kind of oats did you use for the cookies, plain or instant? My wife's been trying to make them this chewy, but she never seems to get the recipe right."

It was your turn to open your mouth in disbelief when you saw Price joining Kate at the table, securing a casserole of oat cookies just for themselves

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?", he asked in a gentle tone, fishing breadcrumbs from his moustache.

"I… It's not that important, I mean…"

You couldn't help but flinch when someone placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it slightly, as if in reassurance. You turned your look to Ghost, who was holding a pink muffin in his gloved hand. His mask was lifted up to his nose, revealing his tight-lipped smile:

"Don't ever say that again, ok? That is all the more reason to celebrate it. You were the one who got us out safe from the bunker after all…"

And you could swear you saw his lips twitching into a smile, a playful glimmer dancing in his eyes as he bit into the cupcake

[sarawritestories]

Remember Me

Cassian X Fem Reader

Summary: Reader's Grandmother's memory is deteriorating. When Gram has an aggressive episode, Reader falls apart at the realization she is losing her best friend. She misses family dinner and Cassian feels the devastation through the bond checks on her.

Content Warning: Memory loss of a loved one, Death of a loved one, crying.

A/N: I've been thinking about my favorite Angel lately and apparently I needed to get some feelings out. Some of these are based off real memories though its mostly fiction but the love for my gram is real! I cried a lot while writing this, so please be kind.

ACOTAR Masterlist

“What are you doing here?” My Gram sneered. I stood frozen mouth agape, Madja warned me things had begun deteriorating quickly. I just hadn’t realized that it was impacting her personality. Her voice brook me from my thoughts, “Well, what do you want? Why are you here?” I took a sharp breath for the first time in my entire life my gentle loving grandmother held ire in her eyes, and they were glaring down at me. It wasn’t always that way.

“I win!” A younger me howled as I cleared my hand of card. My grandmother smiled and snapped her fingers in mock disappointment.

She opened up her arms and I ran right into them, her scent of cookies we made earlier and clean soap filled my nose. Home. She was my home, “Good job, my lil’ Princess.” She kissed my cheek with her pink lipstick smudging my cheek.

I grinned widely, “Can we play again?”

Gram let me go and started reaching for the Cards, “Let’s play.”

My chest felt tight, and I doubled checked to make sure that the bond was shielded on my end, not wanting to worry your mate. Her face held nothing but rage and fear of a stranger in her room. It was like a whole different person. Shaking the surprise of her behavior I took a breath, and reached out to her, “Gram.”

She swatted my hand her she yelled, “Don’t touch me, where’s my granddaughter? What have you done with her?!” I froze and blinked and blinked once more. “Healer! Healer!” She looked back at me and the broken sound of her scream, “Get out! GET. OUT.”

I bolted out the door and ran into Madja who was rushing in as I was speeding out. She gripped my arms, “Are you alright?” the healer’s brows knitted together in concern. Not trusting myself to speak I shook my head. “Her condition is worsening. There is nothing I can do. She’s fading fast I fear she may only have a few more weeks with us.”

I stepped out of her grip as the news sunk in. I dodged her attempt at an embrace and sprinted home. My legs wanted to give out, but I pushed forward and was trying to keep myself together. I ran through the door, and once I was in the confines of my home, I slid down the front door and fell apart. Tucking my legs to my chest I buried my face into my knees as sobs racked through me. Memories of my childhood, flooding to surface.

Laughter filled the room as Gram, and I were baking cookies and dancing in her kitchen. As she spun me around, we heard the door slam open. Male voices filled the room and Gram gave me a knowing smile, as excitement bubbled over as Cassian, Azriel and Rhysand barged through the kitchen. I had met Rhys in school, and he introduced me to his brothers when they would come to visit Velaris the four of us becoming fast friends and Gram had instantly welcomed them in her home and required them to visit before they went back to the Illyrian camps whether I was here or not.

The moment I saw Cassian’s shaggy hair I leapt into his arms. Quick to hold me, he gripped onto me in a bone crushing hug his wings tucked in, He turned to face Rhys and Azriel. “See, Princess, here knows how to say hello.” He kissed my check and gave me a full grin, “Hello, Princess.” I rolled my eyes as he put me down. He heard Gram call me that once and had not stopped calling me that. There was a point where it stopped bothering me and I began to enjoy it.

“Stop flirting with my grandchild and give your gram a hug,” Cassian put me down and gave her a hug, kissing the top of her head as I hugged Rhys and Az. Gram laughed, “I swear every time you three come home you get bigger.”

Rhys and Az both walked over and hugged her as one of Az’s shadows sneaked him some cookie dough. Gram playfully swats at him, “The fresh ones are on the cooling rack.”

The boys all lunged for the cookies. When I elbowed them for one of my own, I frowned as they cleared the way and found they took them all.  I sighed crossing my arms as two muscular hands caged me close to his chest delicious cookies in my line of sight. “Help me out, Princess.”

I smiled and grabbed both treats from his hands. He casually snaked his arms around my waist pulling me closer, whispering in my ear, “One day, when we are exchanging Gram’s cookies to accept the mating bond.”

I leaned my head on his chest taking a bite of the baked good, “Bold of you to assume we will be mated one day.”

He kissed the pointed part of my ear, “I’m not assuming smart ass. I’m just hopeful.”

There was a lot of laughter that caused my gaze to drift to the table where Gram was smirking behind the cards she was holding in her hand as Azriel’s shadows passed out the cards. I placed my hand over his, “Me too.”

~Later that day~

The house was almost quiet, the not so soft sounds of the three Illyrian’s snoring. I walked into the dining room where Gram patted the seat next to her. Taking the open seat her hand found mind giving it a comfort squeeze. “Time for girl talk.” I perked up as this was My favorite time of the day where it was just the two of us talking about all topics. She leaned over and watched the three soon to be warriors snoozing in her living room. “They are good males, Y/N. Promise me that you four will take care of each other when the time comes for me to see your grandfather again.”

My brow furrowed, “Of course. Though that won’t be until centuries, right?” Gram patted my hand.

“Yes, Princess, though I do miss your grandfather very much. I long to be in his arms again. Hopefully one day the mating bond will snap between you and a certain Illyrian when you are old and gray you will understand where I’m coming from.

I took a glance over at the sleeping long haired mail. His face so peaceful in his sleep. The stress of the world is no longer at the forefront of his brain. “Gram, do you think we could be mates?”

Gram grinned, “I do, it will snap in the right time.”

“I hope you’re there for the mating ceremony if it does.” I say leaning my head on her shoulder.

She laid her head on top of mine, her curls grazing my forehead. “Me too, Princess. Me too.”

I had no memories of moving from leaning on the door to lying down on the floor. I felt like I was drowning in my tears and was swept in the undertow. I heard a soft-landing upstairs and the boom of a male voice, “Princess!” He ran down the stairs, “Princess, where are- “He abruptly stop and then his hazel eyes meet mine, “Baby. What’s wrong, are you hurt?” He scanned me for injuries, and he cupped my face wiping my tears.

“Cass.” I hiccupped and he picked me up off the floor and carried me to the couch in our living room. “Why are you here?”

He snorted, “Leave it to my mate to ask me why I am in my own home.” He sat down and held me on his lap, my head laid on his shoulder and I could feel concern down the bond. “You put your shield down on the bond and I felt your overwhelming sadness. Then Madja told Rhys you visited Gram.” A fresh wave of tears started, and Cassian ran his fingers through my hair. “She wouldn’t tell him details but I could put it together.

“She’s dying Madja, said she only has months. Today she didn’t recognize me, “I whispered as Cass pulled me closer to him and pressed his lips to my forehead. “She asked what I did with her granddaughter. I’ve never seen such anger in her eyes.” I began to sob again and buried my face in Cassian’s neck.

Cassian rubbed my back and made sure to cocoon me in his wings, whispering soothing words in my ear. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. What can I do? Should I get Rhys and Az?” I shook my head.

“Just hold me. Please.” I clung closer to him gripping his leather tight and his free hand wrapped around mine.

“Of course, Princess.” Cassian kept rubbing against my skin and humming a little tune that lulled me to a dreamless slumber.

Cassian and I finally reached Gram’s table after the mating ceremony, she gave me a smile and kissed my cheek and Cassian kissed the top of her head. “You look lovely dear.” Gram patted my head confusion sparked in the elder fae female’s eyes. “What’s the occasion?”

I tilted my head, “Gram, we talked about this yesterday. My mating ceremony today.” I exchanged a worried glance to Cassian to find his face mirrored mine, his hand gripping mine a little more tight than normal.

Gram’s face lit up, “Oh how wonderful, I knew you would find your mate, who is the lucky fella.” She asked and her question was genuine and true.

Cassian bent down and gripped Gram’s hand, “It’s me Gram, Cassian. You’re favorite Illyrian.” He smiled.

She patted his cheek, “Well you’re so handsome, are you going to take care of my pretty princess,” clearly the memory of him asking for her blessing gone.

Cassian kissed her hand, “Yes and I will make sure she is well cared for ma’am.” It took everything in me not to burst into tears. I felt Az and Rhys behind me, and Cass must have too, “Rhys and Az will too. We made you promise to be there for each other. We’re going to keep it.”

Gram nodded her head in approval and saw the two handsome males behind me. “Oh hello, aren’t you two handsome fellas too.”

Rhys and Azriel gave a sad smile and instead of dancing the four of us sat around my favorite person and just talked about our lives and our adventures and she started talking about me but like she was a stranger. “My granddaughter, she’ll find a mate one day and I hope her mate loves her like you love yours, Sir.” She spoke to Cassian, and I could see his own heart breaking.

He squeezed my hand under the table, “I’m sure she will and the male or female that does will make her feel like the most important person in the world.” We spent the first night of our mating ceremony holding each other and crying over the interaction.

~A month Later~

We were having brunch with our friends, as I tried not to think of the looming cloud of losing my Gram. Rhys came into the dining room of the river house with a somber look on his face. His gaze met mine, and suddenly the food in my mouth turned to ash. “Madja just reached me. She says its urgent.” Dread pooled in my stomach. “It’s about Gram.”

Cassian’s wing curved around me, I swallowed my food and tried to level my breathing, I felt the cool kiss of Azriel’s shadow around my ankle. “It’s time, isn’t it?” Rhys’ eyes lined silver, and he nodded.

The four of us and Feyre were around her, her breathing was labored, but her eyes for the first time were cleared. Madja had informed me she is lucid and that she most likely had enough fight to say goodbye. She said it was a rare to see in memory loss severe as hers but it can happen. “My, you four have grown up.” Her eyes reach Feyre. “Rhys who is that lovely lady?”

Rhys let a tear fall down his cheek, and held out his hand for Feyre to take, “This is my mate, Gram. This is Feyre.”

Gram weakly raised her hand and Feyre took it. “You keep this boy in line okay, he always tries to get into trouble.”

She smiled and squeezed Rhys’ hand, “I will, Ma’am.”

She pointed to Rhys, “And you, take care of this beautiful female, don’t let her go.” He held her hand for his and he knelt to take it. “You have been an outstanding High Lord. Your momma, would be proud.”  Cassian pulled me close as Rhys nodded and kissed her head, whispering in her ear.

Azriel stepped forward next and Gram’s smile brightened, “My shadowsinger.” He gripped his hands, “You are so strong and so brave, but it’s your kindness and your loyalty that sets you apart. And if a partner of yours can’t see that or appreciate you, they are not worth your time.” She cupped his face and he leaned into it kissing her palm, “Also tell those shadows of yours to stay away from my lil’ Princesses, cookie dough.” Azriel laughed through the tears and promised also kissing her forehead.”

Gram’s eyes met mine, then Cassian’s as if she could see the gold bond that tethers our hearts together, “I always knew you two would be together.” She smiled and opened her arms and Cassian released his grip and I ran into her arms. Sobbing into her night gown. “Oh lil’ princess, don’t cry over this old bag of bones. Your grandfather, came to me yesterday, and told me to come home soon.” I sobbed hard and she soothed my hair. “Shhh, Cassian come here.” My general steps forward and she grips his hand. “I am so proud of you. My sweet Cassian. You have grown into a fine male. Take care of her you hear me?”

“Don’t worry Gram, our Princess is well cared for. I’ll make sure it stays like that.”

“Good.” She pulls me away from her shoulder and walks her shoulder, “Remember what I said all those years ago. Take care of your boys. You’re all each other has now.” She coughs and I gripped her hand in mine. “If there is one thing, I’m most proud of in this life. It’s being your grandmother.”

I whimpered and sniffled, “Being your granddaughter is mine.”

“I love you more than the stars in the sky, my lil’ Princess.”

‘I love you too.” I whispered as I held her hand in my mind and watched as she leaned back her breathing labored, as if her conversation with us cost her so much. Cassian gripped my shoulder as we watched as her breathing slowed and it stopped all together. Her hand loosened in mine, and I couldn’t hear her heartbeat anymore, and the scream that erupted from my chest was broken.

Cassian grabbed me and pulled me to his chest, rocking me as his own tears soaked my hair. The room was filled with sniffles and hiccups for what felt like hours and Cassian had held me tightly.

It was Rhys’ voice soft and somber that pulled me away from Cassian’s chest to look at my High Lord, my brother, “Cauldron save you. Mother hold you.”

He walks toward the bed grabbing the blanket, and Az voice joins him, “Pass through the gates, and smell that immortal land of milk and honey.”

Cassian was the one who joined next as Rhys raised the blanket tenderly over her face, “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.”

I wiped my tears as there was a pause and the three of them looked at me and I felt a light hand intertwined with mine. Feyre looked at me eyes lined with silver understanding in her gaze as she led me to my grandmother and through my tears I finished the prayer, “Go and enter Eternity.”

[ravencincaide]

Blurred lines 

Summary:  Having grown up together there were few lines you and Chuuya hadn’t crossed. But maybe that was a naive way of thinking OR the time your familiar banter was replaced with a ‘caring’ threat, which hid an almost carnal need.  

Pairing: Best friends! Fem reader x Chuuya Nakahara

Inspired by sweetober prompt 21: Bathing 

Warnings: Cursing & alcohol, nudity, banter, inappropriate behavior/ very light sexual content.

Enjoy?

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” 

You held back a smirk as you studied the glass of wine in your hand and purposefully twirled the red liquid an extra time to bring out more of its sweet notes. Satisfied that you aerated it enough, you finally raised it to your lips. Then; “ haven’t you heard of never entering a lady’s bathroom, especially when she’s taking a bath?” you asked, obviously faking anger. As if to hammer your point across you half-heartedly shifted the thick sea of bubbles over yourself. In reality neither shy nor bothered by being naked in front of him, but you did need to keep appearances if you intended to get away with your scolding. 

This time it was Chuuya who rolled his eyes at you.“ I see no lady, just a goddamn brat who made me freeze in soaked, icy clothes while she leisured about in a hot bath sipping on wine” he snapped, stormy blue eyes narrowed dangerously at you.   

Clearly, you did not get away with your scolding. 

“ Hey! I said you can shower in the spare bathroom.” You defended yourself. Neither of you bothered to point out that said shower was shoe-sized, with broken tiles and barely any water pressure. Good enough for cleaning off blood and gore without dragging it everywhere, but that was about all it was good for. 

Definitely far below a sophisticated creature like Chuuya.  

“ Whatever, move over so I can have some space” Chuuya sighed as he began prying off the wet clothes which stuck to him like second skin. He managed to get his coat, hat and vest off in one go before the struggle began. After a few moments he let out a curse as his frozen fingers couldn’t quite get the buttons of his dress-shirt off. 

“  You know it might go better if you take your drenched gloves off, right?” you suggested, earning yourself a dark glare. 

“ A Lady should avert her eyes when a man is stripping” Chuuya’s voice was something between teasing and annoyed; typical banter that made up the majority of your conversations. Still he threw off his gloves to the side, clearly following your advice. 

Unsurprisingly, stripping went much better for him after that. 

“ Please, I've seen your micro penis already. There’s not much else to see” you waved your hand dismissively. Despite your words you leaned against the bathtub, your gaze on the wall as you took another large sip of wine. You were going to give him privacy; but only for the sake of your sanity. 

“ We were children!” Chuuya growled as he finally wrestled out of the shirt. “ Anyway look at yourself, idiot” 

“ I don’t have a penis, dumbass!” you scoffed.

“ No, thank fuck for that or you’d ruin it somehow with your idiocy; you’ve got any mans and womans dream- big boobs, and you still manage to make them look like deflated baloons!” 

You gaped at him, eyes wide. “ How fucking dare you?!” you growled before you slapped your arm against the water, splashing him with warmth and bubbles. Effectively soaking his socks before he managed to move out of the way of the soap-water attack.   

“ Hey stop that” Chuuya pointed a warning finger at you. “ These pants cost more than your yearly wages and they don’t do well with bath-water” 

You rolled your eyes and slapped your arm down into the water once more, this time  you made sure to drench at least one of the pant legs: “ Well what do they say? The uglier you are, the more expensive clothes you need to hide that?” 

“ No one says that besides you, you dimwit,” Chuuya stated as he came over and flickered your forehead with a little too much force. 

You wailed, dropping your head into your hand. You clutched it in pain; eyes tightly shut. You waited until the stars in your eyes subsided before you fixed him with a dark glare; “ Ow what the fuck? That hurt!”  

By then Chuuya had slipped into the bathtub and leaned against the opposite side, one arm laid against the edge, the second one twirled the bottle in his hand, salvaging the fragrance for a moment. He deemed it satisfactory and flashed you the look.“ Hey, give me that!”  Chuuya stretched his hand out towards you, clearly expecting you to hand over your wine glass. After all, he wasn’t a barbarian who’d drink straight from a wine bottle. 

“ I’m still drinking from that glass, Hey–!” you called out as he yoinked the glass right out of your grasp, filled it up as he flashed you a grin as if to say ‘which glass? This one?’ before he took a sip from it. You noticed that his lips landed on the same spot you drank from- the place where the reminisce of your lipgloss stained the rim.  

You could have sworn something shifted in his gaze as he stared at you; something which matched the soft pinkness of his cheeks. The pinkness which came from the heat of the bathroom and bathwater- right? You shook your head at your own pathetic thoughts. This was Chuuya of all people; of course he’d do something like that just to spite you. To get a rise out of you for his own amusement. The fact that you thought something else even for a second indicated that you must be more tipsy than you first thought. Especially if you even toyed with the idea that there may be a hidden meaning in his stare besides a threat of payback for his ruined pants. 

You rolled your eyes then looked away from him, breaking eye contact first. 

“Whatever, you’re still just a stupid jerk” You sighed before you turned your back to him and pressed yourself up against the corner of the bathtub. You rested your arms on the edge, and leaned your head on top of them. You closed your eyes, salvaging the warmth of the water against your skin and the natural lull in the conversation. With no wine, and no banter, just resting was the best way to prevent overthinking. 

“ Oj don’t fall asleep on me; I’m not saving you if you drown out of your own stupidity” Chuuya said, as he was finally finished with your wine glass. You heard the gentle cling of it against the bathtub as he set it on the edge on his side instead of giving it back to you. Jerk. 

You showed exactly what you thought of him by reaching up and flipping him the bird. 

This earned you a heavy sigh; “ God you’re unbearable at times, you know that?” his voice sounded different in your ears, a tone you didn’t quite recognize. You shrugged it off, no doubt it was your drunken mind playing tricks on you again. Or maybe he was just trying to coax a reaction out of you which he could hold over your head for later teasing. You were not gonna fall for that old trick. Even as you heard the shift of water and sensed him come closer, you remained calm, relaxed, eyes firmly shut. 

Until you felt his chest hit your back, his arms caged you on either side, hot breath in your ear. You froze at the proximity; was it his leg that brushed against yours beneath the surface of the water or..? If possible Chuuya came closer, his breath a hot whisper in your ear; “ You’re still so naive, leaving yourself all defenseless and vulnerable, letting a man into the bathtub with you; Don’t do it again- or next time things might not end so innocently.” 

You gaped, then shook your head not believing what you just heard. “ W-What are you–?!” you spun around to face him but by then Chuuya had already stepped out of the bathtub, wrapped a towel around his waist and was half way out of the door. He did not spare you a second glance. 

“ Chuu?” You called out carefully, still in shock. 

Instead of answering, Chuuya took the last step out of the bathroom and closed the door firmly yet gently behind himself. He left you completely alone in the half cold bath waters. The action made you wonder if all that had actually happened, or if this was another one of those times when your drunk mind decided to play tricks on you, when it tempted you with something you knew would never be..

Authors note: Don't ask me what the hell this is and I'll not ask you why you're reading such questionable Chuuya content, deal? And for those of you wondering how the hell this could even begin to be "normal behaviour", mixed onsen is all I'm going to say..

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 26

Prompt: Blood

Words: 1000

TW: Depiction of Trans Man Having a Period (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

Crazy to think there's only five more prompts to go. Don't know what I'm gonna do with myself during November.

Enjoy!

“Tav,” Gaz tugged him off to the side, putting their backs to the wall and bending his head in close to murmur into Soap’s ear, “You’re bleeding through your shorts, bro.” 

“Am fuckin’ no’,” Soap snaps, his tone pleading. He twists and pulls his shorts off-centre and sees that Gaz was right, there’s blood seeping through the seat of his pants, “Mary, Jesus, Joseph, an’ the ass that took ‘em all tae Bethlehem, Ah bled through mah fuckin’ trews.”

Untwisting himself, Soap presses his back to the wall again and covers his face with his hands, hiding the mortified blush that he can feel creeping up his neck. 

“S’all good,” Gaz assures, shrugging out of his track jacket and hugging his arms around Soap briefly to securely tie it around his waist, letting the body of it hang down to cover Soap’s ass, “Go change, I can handle the rest of this on my own.” 

“‘hank ye, Ky.” Soap says sincerely, catching Gaz around the waist to pull him into an open one-armed hug, affectionately bonking their heads together. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Gaz plants a hand on Soap’s face and shoves him off, but can’t hide the small pleased smile that’s playing about his mouth, “Ge’ outta here.” 

Soap speeds his way back into the barracks building, walking at a clip that was a jog in everything but name. He would've sprinted, but he couldn’t risk some up jumped prick with something to prove stopping him for a reprimand right now.

Bursting into his bunk, he slammed the door shut and engaged the rarely used lock. He whipped Gaz’s jacket off and frantically searched for any signs that he’s accidentally stained it too. It was blessedly free of any marks and Soap heaves a relieved breath, he’s still going to launder it before giving it back, but if he’d bled on it Gaz would have been getting a whole new jacket. 

He yanks off his shorts and examines the scene of the crime. A small area of the seat and the line of the crotch are soaked with blood, it's thankfully still wet so he grabs a towel and rag he doesn’t care about, then rummages about until he unearths a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Spreading out the towel he sits himself on one end and drops the shorts on the free space leftover, not bothering to take off the boxers he’s wearing, he already knows there’ll be no saving them. Soap goes about dripping the peroxide over the bloody marks in the fabric, watching it foam and bubble, then daubing off the excess when it stopped reacting. Being careful not to rub and smear around the blood, the skill rusty but not lost to him. When the stain has lifted as much as it's going to, he bundles up the shorts and throws them into the small separate basket of laundry that he keeps for things that needed pretreatments before going through the wash. 

With a sigh Soap heaves himself back onto his feet, then goes to excavate the specialty boxers his older sister had gifted him, they had a detached gusset for pads and a pouch in the front for packers. Emerging triumphant from the back of his drawers, boxers in hand, he tossed them onto his cot and knelt to search its underbelly for his shoebox of menstrual products. Squeezing free the box, he cracks it open to find it well stocked. 

With dust.

Dust and expired Midol. 

Soap drops his head into his hands with a despairing groan. He hasn’t had a bleeding period in over a year, and of course he never restocked from the last one. The feeling of a drop of blood sliding down his thigh coaxes him out of his state of frozen misery, and he does an undignified knee-walk back over to the towel he hadn’t picked up and collapses onto it. 

What the fuck does he do now? He could stuff his undies with a rag and waddle to the commissary, but he really didn’t the schmuck running the cash to question why he was buying pads, nor did he really want to use the dirt cheap pads that the commissary was no doubt stocked with. He could go to a shop off base, but he’d need to sign out and he’d still have to waddle about with rags in his knickers. 

A chime comes from his laundry basket. He hadn’t emptied his fuckin' pockets. 

God damn it all. 

He flops over to the basket and divests the shorts of all his things, dropping everything but his phone carelessly onto his bed to deal with later, then dropping himself back onto his towel. Wishing he could deal with himself later too. 

“On my way” The message from Ghost reads. Gaz had no doubt told him, the helpful little snitch. 

Soap sends back a simple “Okay”.

He contemplates getting something a little more substantial than just his bloody briefs to cover his lower half, but he really doesn’t want to stain anything else today and Ghost has seen him in worse states. 

“Locked” Another message dings in from Ghost.

Tilting his head, Soap can see the break in light that comes in from under his door showing that someone is stood on the other side. How the fuck Ghost knows his door’s locked without jiggling the handle, Soap will never know. 

“Ah didnae give ye tha’ key jus’ tae weigh doon y’ur keyring,” He calls and in the next instant Ghost is inside, with the door securely shut behind him, looming over Soap’s sprawled body.

“Halo, mo chridhe,” Soap offers, not bothering to move. 

“Hey, Johnny,” Ghost rumbles, his voice rosy with affection, “heard you didn’t have the best morning,” 

“Aye,” Soap sighs, “Cannae say Ah did,”

“Would these help?” Ghost reveals a package of the commissary’s shite pads, “I know they’re not great, but it’s a stopgap while we go to the shops for something nicer.” 

“Simon,” Soap says with great seriousness, watching Ghost's eyes widen, “Ah love ye.”

Ghost’s eyes relax and crinkle into a smile, “Love you too, Johnny.”

Thank You For Reading!

I don't know if y'all know, but I do take prompts and requests, feel free to shout into my ask box. I'd love to hear from you!

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Cod Men With a Reader who has powers

Requested: No

Warnings: Angst, blood mention

Ghost - Mediumship

The first time Ghost saw you talking to a corner of a wall he just sighed, already making a mental note to report you for a psych eval as he went on his way. It wasn’t until you approached him later that day, quiet and hesitant, that he started to get very confused. And then you leaned in, whispered in his ear, “Tommy says to look in the right hand pocket of his leather jacket.” And he was shell shocked, frozen in place as you went on your merry way, like you hadn’t just shaken the foundation of his sanity.

And he did check that jacket, dug it out of a dusty box in the long neglected storage unit he rented under a fake name. What was in it? A picture of him holding Tommy’s newborn, eyes soft as the little one clenched one of his big fingers in both of his tiny hands. On the back, Tommy's chicken scratch handwriting in faded blue ink read “Happiest day of my life. We all love you, Uncle Simon.”

Soap - Invulnerability

The first time Soap ever learned of this he wasn’t even phased, just immediately asked you if he could launch a bazooka at you and see what happens. And you, being the mad bastard that you are, fucking let him, the sheer force of the explosion sending you flying back and crashing through several trees. He attributes it as one of the funniest moments in his life, and he was laughing even as Price made him do laps until he dropped.

While you’re in a relationship with him, it’s really not that much different. He maybe gets a tad more squeamish about recklessness with your power. Okay, maybe a tad is a bit of an understatement. In truth, he’s fucking terrified. He’s scared that you might get hurt, that maybe, even if it was just once, you were left vulnerable and you would be unable to recover. Or worse, that you’d die. The thought plagued him everytime you rush in, uncaring of your own safety until he basically starts bubble wrapping you before every mission.

Alejandro - Super Strength

Alejandro was never a huge fan of the superhuman program. It was nothing against the actual people in the program and more to do with the people who ran it. How they made the people under them miserable, treated them as less than human. It annoys him, makes him angry. Especially when he meets someone as nice as you, always eager to lend a hand around base. Whether it be lifting up a particularly heavy crate of food or tilting a whole automobile to the side when the carjack broke.

But there are moments when he’s reminded of how utterly different he is from you. When he gets to see your not to kind side, as you rip heads from bodies, sharp teeth bared and bloodied like some kind of beast among the corpses of its prey, a snarl on your face and a growl emitting low from within your chest. It….it probably should not have given him such a big hard on. It was even worse when Rudy saw and teased him about being a monster fucker.

König - Size Shifting

König is so utterly confused when he watches you disappear right before his eyes one day. A blink and you’re gone. At first he thinks that maybe you’re a teleporter but then he catches a glimpse of you scampering around on the kitchen floor, clearly looking for something in your tiny form. He thinks he scares you when he kneels down to ask you if you need help, finding it adorable when you jump but quietly accept his offer.

Ever since then you two slowly became inseparable. His favorite modes of yours are either teeny tiny or absolutely fucking gigantic. If you go tiny then he loves to have you inside his mask, cuddling up to his face. Or have you on his shoulder during lunch time, feeding your little crumbs of his food until you feel like you’re gonna pop. But he so loves it when you’re big too, picking him up like a baby and cradling him against your chest, or swinging him above your head while laughing. And oh the cuddles are so nice when you’re wrapped around him so fully. He can’t remember the last time he ever felt so safe.

[rookiesbookies]

Soap What if AU based on the new skin?

This is based on that new CoD skin where he has the funky face mask. Soap you sexy sexy lad I love you

Make sure to hit up my master list (pinned on profile) and my AU list (linked on master list) for more. The fic is under the cut-

And a quick thank you to my lovely mutuals @shotmrmiller and @ohmygraves - my dyslexic butt couldn’t do it without you both *MUAH*

Amidst the chaos of battle, a figure emerged from the smoke and dust. Clad in unfamiliar gear that glinted menacingly in the sunlight of the desert waste, a muzzle or mask of some sort over his nose and mouth. As the soldiers on the battlefield tensed, the world slowed, and for a moment the dust settled so they could lay eyes on the man.

The breaths of the soldiers Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, and Captain John Price caught in their throats, and a chilling realization dawned upon them, slithering up their spines and making their skin crawl - it was John MacTavish, Johnny, or what seemed to be him.

The Soap had returned, but not as the valiant ally they once knew.

Simon, Kyle, and John stood frozen in disbelief, their eyes wide with shock and horror at the sight before them. They had seen Soap die. It was irrefutable. The hole in the head, blood seeping into the cracks of the cement. blank, dull eyes, so different from the usual vibrant feverish blue.

They had mourned his loss and buried his memory deep within their hearts, they had buried their brother in arms and brother at heart.

Yet, here he stood, wearing the insignia of the enemy, his blue gaze ice-cold and unrecognizable from the warm and bubbly Soap they once knew.

He was just how they had last seen him. Due to Scottish Highlander genetics, he had never been a scrawny kid, always broad and covered with coarse hair. He was still built like a rugby player, just as wide. The only difference was a dent in his temple, it was just large enough to see, and the ventilation face piece he was wearing drew attention away from it. Scarring had turned some of the hair over it white.

Unlike the wound on his head, his death was still fresh, even after over two years, in his teammates’ minds. Not a day would go without a somber moment for him, a memory making them all laugh. A team of four now cut down to just three. Like a table, if anyone put pressure on where the missing leg was it would fall- all having to take a moment and walk away from each other before quietly reconvening.

When he looks over the three of his past teammates, it’s as if they aren’t even human. To him, they are prey.

No witty remarks were leaving his mouth, not a quip or joke. Johnny just barked orders and raised his gun.

“Captain!” Simon quickly tackled Price out of the way, through a door, and into a side room of the building. “This isn’t a good time for sightseeing.”

Price barked an order at Ghost and Gaz, they quickly moved out of the building without what they came for. Now they’re directive changed.

They had to talk to Laswell.

“I brought his body back, it was recovered. Why is he out there now, alive, and against us?” Price yelled. He wasn’t yelling at Laswell, as much as he just happened to be emotional and yelling to express himself.

“We’re both asking the same question right now, John.” She said, calmly. “I sent out word and I’m running it up the flag pole as we speak.”

“I want to know who let someone else get ahold of his body. He should be buried and resting,” Price said, white knuckle gripping Laswell’s desk.

“And I agree, but we can’t change the past. We need to figure out what happened and what to do now.”

“I can’t kill him,” Price whispered, looking down at the desk, “even if it means letting him rest again if we can’t save him, I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“That’s an incredible jump to a conclusion,” Laswell said, raising an eyebrow.

“He deserves to be at rest.”

“I never disagreed.”

“I-I know,” Price breathed out, before walking towards the door of her office, “let me know when you get answers.”

It was days before John Price heard from Kate Laswell.

“John, I think I have a lead,” she said quickly, the second he answered her call. “They outsourced the transportation of the body to a third party. When I looked into it, they were owned by a shell company with a suspicious name.”

John groaned. “What do we do with that information?”

“I think Grave’s Shadows got to him,” Kate said, her voice softer. “It’s not unthinkable that they could have done something to his mind.”

“He was dead,” Price spat, “I held his cold lifeless body on the heli ride back to base. No heartbeat, no breathing. We’ll talk about this later.”

When Price and Laswell were briefing the team on a new mission, however, was when things hit the fan.

“An unknown transmission,” Kate mumbled. “Think it’s our answer? It’s address looks like its coming out of an American base.”

“Well, let’s answer it,” Price said gruffly.

“Hey, old friend,” Graves’ accent sounded, invading Price’s ears. “I heard you had a run in with our latest advancement.”

Price noticed the background. The outline of Soap’s silhouette stood in the dark, back lit.

“Why don’t you say hi to our newest team member, Razor,” Graves says, waving Johnny forward.

John could practically hear Simon’s eyes roll at the code name they had given Soap. It was truly something Soap would have never been given or picked, a clear jab due to it being another bathroom supply. It was far from his personality and clearly Graves’ sense of humor.

“You know that’s not his code name,” Price practically growled.

Kate put a hand on Price’s shoulder, “what did you do to him?”

“Well I did nothing,” Graves said, “it’s amazing how far medical advancements have come, truly. The best part is, he’s the perfect soldier.” Graves hummed, “just perfect at following orders.”

Price couldn’t watch anymore, Johnny was like his son- the whole team was, but Johnny reminded him so much of his younger self. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his heart rate. He was amazed Simon had stayed silent this long, no quid or snippy banter, and he was sure Kyle didn’t even know how to react.

Price didn’t quite know how to react either. On one hand, Soap and more importantly Johnny was alive, he was healed. On the other hand, he was a shell of his former self and far from the witty and friendly sergeant he once served with.

Simon looked like an animal in a corner. He was coiled up in himself, his arms crossed, and Price could see his knotted eyebrows under the mask.

Price only wanted to hang up the call. To throw the computer out the window nearest to him and possibly a chair as well.

“I’d like my sergeant back, Graves.”

“Hmmm, I think he’s mine now. It was my medical services that brought him back, Price.” Graves spat back. “Well, I’m glad you’ve made your introductions!”

Graves hung up the call. Price stood up and walked out the door. Simon stewed in his anger. Kyle went to go get his mind off it. Kate had some calls to make.

————

Hoped all of my lovely readers loved this. Sorry it took so long, 1.2k is nothing to sneeze at. I’ll probably do a follow up part but if you’re a veteran of my page you know Imm really bad about part twos.

If you loved it: hit up my inbox, like, reblog, and leave me a sweet little love note in my comments for more all are available options.

If you didn’t love it: pop on into my inbox, tell me what you want to see.

As stated up top- my door is always open, make sure to hit up my master list (pinned on profile) and my AU list (linked on master list) for more glimpses into my brain like this one. I love hearing what you want to see and I can only truly know that via comments and ESPECIALLY inbox messages

I love you all, be good, play nice, and keep reading on <3

[afyrian]

☆ dental care, bay 2 w/ mattsun | wc: 510

m.list

    "it'll be a quick trip, c'mon," you grasp at issei's hand, pulling him through the grocery store's automatic doors. 

  "you always say it'll be a quick trip and it never actually is..." he looks up at you, fingers grasping at yours, not quite ready to let go as your hand falls back to your side.

  looking back at him, you reach for a basket, certain you wouldn’t have more than a few items you’d be getting. you instinctively raise your eyebrows, pursing your lips into a lopsided and crinkled grin. “but you know you love me,” you walk into the main entrance of the store, the archway revealing a large convenient store with more goods than you could imagine.

  “oh, so you’re just using me for my inherent love of others? my profound goodness and kindness?” issei looks forward at you, hands quickly stuffing into his pockets, long legs quickly matching your pace.

  peeking back over at him, you carry a much more subtle smile. it barely grazes your lips, however, the feelings of infatuation fight for a giddy smile to come to surface. “oh sure, your ’profound goodness’ is just so widespread and powerful,” you raise your eyebrows, passing the frozen aisles and the baby aisle. 

  two aisles list dental and physical hygiene. issei stands beside you, looking at you calculate which one you should walk down. he narrows his eyes, licking his lips, “pick one and whoever wins has to buy the other one breakfast before class tomorrow.”

  “deal, now, my intuition says right… but we both know to never trust my intuition so i say left,” you look back at him, walking down the left aisle as he veers into the right aisle.

  walking down the aisle, you stop a couple times, grabbing a couple of other things you needed. more floss, another bar of soap that bubbles up just the way you like it, and finally, the toothpaste that you knew you would find. grabbing it with your hand, you smile to yourself, giving a quiet shout over the aisle, “found it!”

  “of course you did!” his voice echoes back, frequent footsteps quickly following as he peeks down your aisle.

  walking over to you, he tilts his head as he stares at the toothpaste tube. it isn’t the typical mint flavor, rather a lemon one. still giving the same cleansing ability, just slightly odder. “lemon? c’mon that’s a bit weird, no wonder you aren’t dating anyone, you must always taste like lemon,” issei grabs it out of your hand, examining the ingredients and the appearance.

  “wow, are you some kind of dating master or something? because i never see you with anyone either.”

  “just when it comes to you. i mean i’d kiss you, but wow that lemony breath is potent.”

  looking back up at him, you smile widely, setting the toothpaste back down. without a word, you grab at one of the minty ones. you would never be opposed to using mint toothpaste again, but this motivation seems to make the decision a whole lot easier.

a/n: for kam who requested mattsun and friends to lovers <3

gen. taglist (open): @maybespiderman @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia @bakery-anon

@nekozaki @nnnyxie @kameyyy @cherrysurf @lale-txt

@keicdcat @moochiwoochi @corvid007 @an-ever-angry-bi

[innocentsandsofdreams]

Soap/Johhny x Reader Head canons

Tags: pregnant reader, reader is poc in this, reader has no gender listed but is referred with afab genitals, slight partial description of birth, breeding kink, again the reader is higher rank than 141

Word Count: 803 Words

Both SFW and NSFW under the cut, Minors and Ageless Blogs DNI

SFW HEAD CANONS

Soap/ Johnny after missions, notices so many families and other children around him with more clarity on his times off

What if you and him; his bonnie have kids together?

Johnny, unsure on how to encroach the subject; stares relentlessly at you during meals, sparring, and after missions.

Eventually you just ask - "Why is it that you just keep staring at me Johnny?"

"What if we have kids bonnie?"

"Well hello left field nice to meet you" you were blown aback

Johnny goes to explain that he has been thinking about you, kids, you and kids, you WITH kids (his kids)

You express your doubts and Johnny doesn't really get it

You explain on how being a POC with curly hair; styling takes a million years.

On top of that, before you were able to get your own money, there wasn't proper care for your hair. That being said, it was hard for you and your hair and not to mention the relentless bullying. You're worried about the hair care primarily; being said you propose a trial run for Soap

Soap says easy enough and asks to do your hair on wash day; it was wash day incidentally, so might as well.

Very surprisingly the bomb expert is very skilled and to be honest if he offered to do your hair again? You would never refuse

Suffice to say, you think with his ability of doing hair; what else can't he do

You bring up kids again and Johnny lights up like a kid getting a new toy. Saying yes, you brought the man over bubbling with joy

Now comes the fun part for you guys: trying

NSFW HEAD CANONS

Johnny works hard but his cock works harder

Knees by your ears, this man bullies his cock in your cunt

The man never stops; 3AM and Johnny has you speared on his cock. Even just to warm it because you both are tired.

After he keeps abusing your poor cunt; you getting pregnant is that man’s prize

You get pregnant and start showing little by little

Did you think that put a hold on the fucking? Some men are like that; not Johnny

Making sure not to hurt you, he keeps the cum flowing “ye can ‘ave twins now could you”

You obviously can’t but it’s not for the lack of trying

You display your pregnancy after a few months and that man is so proud he keeps rubbing your tummy saying “this baby!!! I did that!!!!!! That’s mines!!”

As the months progress you get more and more nervous and excited as does soap. Mostly excited on his part

“Yer be fine bonnie! We’ll be fine!! Me and you? We’d be going to be great parents ye? We love that babe and they are going to be so loved there would be no reason that we wouldn’t be great parents!!”

…the cravings have been terrible to you and you forced Johnny to experience the abominations with you. He did this to you, so he was gonna ✨experience✨ it with you. definitely making him regret saying “we’re pregnant!”

The most traumatic to him was frozen fish sticks and caramel sauce; who hurt you???

He loves you, he swears up and down to everyone and himself that he does…but he’s afraid for his life

Sooner or later this child has to come out

Soap was finishing a mission and was on the av heading back and the headphones announce that you’ve gone into labor: cue johnny hollering for the av to hurry up

Running in the base in full gear, dead sprint as he reaches you he thanks the world that you are only partially dilated-

Even in pain you say “Johnny….the least you can do? Take off your gear baby, we have enough time- this baby isn’t going anywhere??”

To which at that point; Soap does take off his gear, and takes a quick shower. but the baby didn’t even try to make its exit yet, so he started doing paperwork while in the room with you

The pain getting worse, the poor man is almost ripping his hair out trying to comfort you and not have an anxiety attack

After constant ice chips and rag wiping, you are finally about to bring the baby in this world

The baby? Is a screamer, absolute banshee- they have soap’s lungs alright

Your hair, his eyes beautiful chunky healthy baby weighing in on 9lbs; the fish sticks paid off 😌✨

You and johnny leave after a few days in the hospital, having your wonderful baby in tow while you both take a leave of absence

Yup, this is one of Johnny’s best moments in his life