#but ay here it is i suppose

[rimouskis]

one of my best friends is about to have a baby today........... so weird to be on the periphery of something so life changing. I want to go "life is going to change forever" as if it hasn't already

[sollucets]

I warned you, should you open fic requests I’d be coming straight for your inbox with AkkAyan. I’m obsessed with on our way up/the sky full of stars and I wondered if you’d be willing to write something of it we didn’t get to see like their cooking date from chapter 4 or dinner at Akk’s house from chapter 3

tiis do you know i love you dearly

context from my fic on our way up:

The thing is, he and Akk had spent last night doing crimes against the culinary arts (jointly trying to make stir-fried basil pork in the tiny dorm room kitchen in a small disaster that ended in takeout) + The disaster at his dorm had been almost entirely Akk’s fault, and he’ll die on that hill.

so! as requested i took this briefly referenced incident and proceeded to project my personal (lack of) cooking skills on akk for about 1k(?? these things happen) of fluff. this ficlet brought to you by my best friend thaicookbooktv (and my milestone event. i guess)

💜

"Can I trust you with that?"

Akk glances up from the two eggs he's just started frying to glare at his boyfriend. There's a smug look on Aye's face as he leans against a counter on the other side of the cramped dorm kitchen (and thus within potential grabbing reach) and uses a little bowl to crush up some garlic and peppers (making grabbing probably a bad idea). "I know how to make eggs, Ayan."

"If you say so," Aye tells him, singsong. "I've never once seen you cook."

"That doesn't mean anything." Returning his gaze to the pan, Akk startles to see them more cooked than they should be and hurriedly, awkwardly gets them flipped before Aye gets to pretend it's evidence.

If it'd been anyone else, Akk might have admitted to the truth, which is that he does (sort of) know how to make eggs, and he can grill meat if he's invited to barbecue, but much more is beyond him. He thinks he could be good at it, with time, but he’d never learned to cook much at home, and at school he’d had so much to do that it had always been faster and easier and cheaper to have cafeteria leftovers or something instant. 

But it isn’t anyone else, it’s Aye, and when he’d asked all earnest if they could cook together when he visited, Akk had gritted his teeth and then spent most of last night and the part of the bus ride over that he had decent data on looking up recipes. 

So it’s particularly infuriating that Aye seems to have figured him out right away anyway. Akk scowls down at his eggs. 

“All set over here,” Aye says, then snorts audibly. “What’s that look for? Did the egg insult your parents or something?” 

“Shut up.”

Aye brings his bowl over to Akk’s side of the kitchen and sets it next to the other ingredients on the counter to the right of the stove. He’d only been banished over there in the first place for being distracting; Akk probably should’ve known he’d manage it anyway. 

A moment later, there’s a light breeze against the back of his neck, and Akk jerks against the tickle, barely suppressing a yelp. He’s not actually holding the pan, just his spatula, so the worst that happens to the eggs is them getting slightly jostled, but he aims a blind elbow in the direction of Aye anyway, making contact with his ribs. “Jackass.” 

“Violent authoritarian,” Aye responds, cheerful if slightly strained. “Those look good."

Once the eggs are safely off the heat, Aye hands him a larger pan, shuffling some things around on the little counter once there’s enough space. “Turn the heat up a little higher and put a little oil in there, okay?” 

Akk glances over for the bottle of vegetable oil and grabs it. His recipe-searching had turned up the idea, but Aye isn’t using one, and Akk does not know how much ‘a little’ is. He sighs, sends a sideways look at Aye where he’s putting the egg pan in the sink, and tentatively pours some oil in. 

“More than that.”

Frowning, Akk does as told. When he checks Aye’s reaction, he finds his boyfriend leaning on his hip against the counter and holding the bowl of vegetables again. 

“Were you nervous about this?” Aye asks, tone a too-familiar combination of fond and condescending.

“Why would I be,” says Akk, too quickly. Always too quickly. That’s something Aye’s pointed out before, he should know better. 

“‘Cause you wanted to impress me? I understand.” 

Akk rolls his eyes, keeping his attention on the oil where it’s heating up. “You’re extra annoying today. Is it a special occasion?” 

“Of course it is,” says Aye, tone gone painfully sincere. “My boyfriend came to see me.”

When Akk reacts far too late to keep a smile off his face, Aye pokes his cheek. “I’m happy, too,” he coos. “Now scoot, please. This next part has to happen kind of fast.”

Akk shuffles out of the way, letting Aye move in front and pour his little bowl into the pan, and sends a baleful look at Aye’s back. He’s looking far too cool in this situation; it has to be fixed. 

Decided, Akk moves until he’s right behind his boyfriend, then hooks his chin over his shoulder, looping both arms around his waist, and glances down at the pan. With the bowl poured out, something looks a little suspicious in the garlic-to-chili pepper ratio. “Aye,” Akk says, trying to make sure his breath hits the skin of Aye’s neck over his t-shirt, “Did you put enough spice in?” 

Annoyingly, Aye takes this without much in the way of reaction, only leaning back into Akk’s hold, and doesn’t even flinch. He reaches out for the bowl of meat and says, amused, “The neck is your weakness, not mine, Bigfoot.”

“That’s not an answer."

“Hey, who's the one of us that actually knows how to make it?” 

“I could figure it out,” Akk says mutinously, dropping his face all the way to Aye’s shoulder in defeat and speaking into his skin. It’s not his fault Aye is apparently some kind of cooking expert who’s never needed a recipe in his life. 

Aye laughs, just audible over the suddenly-loud sizzling sound of what Akk assumes is him adding something else to the meat. “I’m sure you could, baby, you’re smart. You just haven’t had much practice.”

“I help at home,” Akk retorts, offended. 

“I know, I know.” Aye’s shoulder moves, presumably stirring, as he continues, “You don’t need to worry about it. I’ll cook for you, so long as you always do the dishes.” 

Squeezing Aye’s waist just that bit too hard in retribution, Akk scoffs. “As if. I’ll practice more. I’m not doing your dishes for the rest of our lives.”

The sizzling gets a little louder, and Aye doesn’t respond. Akk blinks, lifts his head, and sees Aye frozen over the stove, one hand out on a bottle of soy sauce and the other not moving a spatula at all. “What?” 

“You said—” Aye starts, sounding awed. “You said ‘the rest of our lives’.”

“Oh.” Akk swallows on the impulse to deny it and just— lets it sit. Hides his face in Aye’s shoulder again and leaves it there, feels his ears heating up. What can he say? They’ve made the joke before, about their pins and wedding rings. It’s stupid, they’re teenagers, they’ve gone too fast, and he meant it, or it wouldn’t’ve slipped out.

Gratifyingly, Aye seems just as unable to speak for a moment. Eventually, he stutters, “I— that— sounds good to me,” and then, “I love you,” and then, “Oh, shit, the pork.” 

[loismagic]

on tonight’s demily discourse, this would have been a perfect moment for a kiss :)))))

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Just out of curiosity, anyone else get like elevated mood, insane evergy, or like unhinged focus while on their period?

[taemin-eternal]

they did like 15+ interviews/promo videos/and more including “to us” this day that’s fucking insane

[arcadequeerz]

I miss my dad.

[dannystarstruck]

me on tumblr is such a fucking enigma

cause i will b unactive for like. weeks on end maybe even a month or so. and then turn up and reblog a BUNCH of shit all in a goddamn row .

it's a silly time here on the dark rahn rose blog :]

[twasnotme]

Okay so I wanted to ask something, right? But I can't read tone very well so I can't tell if the people I've asked irl are being honest

Am I being a bad friend if i don't talk to people over text? To put this into perspective I spend 2 hours on public transport and then spend 6 hours at school so by the time I get home and do my 4 bloody hours of homework I have no energy to talk to anyone.

But this chick expects me to bloody talk to her every day after school, like we haven't just spent a full 9 to 5 together. And it has been previously established that I don't answer my phone. I feel like i should be on Reddit typing out one of those am i the asshole posts.

Being a teenager is bloody hard. I would love to leave school but I hear being an adult is worse sooo that's not an option

[skauni]

Can’t stop thinking about Soap calling himself ‘Uncle Johnny’ around your kids but they consider him a dad because that’s how he acts:

When your friend John MacTavish found out that your boyfriend dumped you after you got pregnant, he was right by your side for all of it. Saying “Dunnae worry, Bonny. Uncle Johnny’s gonna help with the wee bairns.”

And he did. He was there the whole pregnancy, even went as far as moving in so you could rest and he could keep an eye on you.

When you went into labor, he was there. He was there for everything. From the birth of your twins, Aster and Cody, to the sleepless nights after, he was there. You even heard him in the middle of the night telling them “Dunnae worry wee ones, Uncle Johnny’s here. Nothin’ t’fear.” And you loved how dedicated he was to helping you.

When the boys got old enough to talk, you were unfortunate enough to witness the fact that they spoke their first words in Scottish accents. Just like John. It wasn’t bad, it just meant you had a hard time understanding them is all.

When you couldn’t watch them, he would. Saying “Let Uncle Johnny watch the wee lads.”

But, as soon as the boys called him ‘Dad’ for the first time, he looked at you eagerly and said “I suppose Uncle Johnny is becoming the Papa of these wee lads, aye Bonny?” He said to you. You blushed at the comment and looked away in flustered embarrassment.

[fxllfaiiry]

─ you're the sunflower ੈ✩‧₊˚

✶ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!reader

✶ synopsis: everyone on the team loves you, expect miguel who seems to hate you more than anyone.

✶ warnings: angst!! major angst. sunshine!reader x grumpy!miguel. reader is nicknamed sunflower, mentions of death.

✶ notes: there's one spanish sentence in this, I'm not good with spanish so if I've made a mistake please tell me so i can fix it! part two is already up!!!

Everyone on the team loved you from the moment you joined, everyone, except Miguel. 

You knew Miguel was cold towards everyone, but he was extra cold with you. Maybe it was because of how different your personalities were. 

You were the embodiment of sunshine, always positive in any situation, putting others before yourself. Hence why everyone calls you sunflower, it fits perfectly, Miles was proud of coming up with it. 

Miguel on the other hand was cold and distant but that didn't stop you from trying to get him to open up. You'd try to have simple conversations with him but nothing, all you would receive in reply was an eye roll or a slight grunt, but you wouldn't give up that easily. 

Like today, you got him some coffee. 

"Morning, boss. Got you some coffee." You said in your usual cheerful tone. 

"Why?" He raised his eyebrows, looking down at you suspiciously. That's the most he's said to you all week. 

"Because I wanted to." You shrugged, placing it down on his desk. 

He steped down walking towards his desk, you couldn't help but stare at him, unfortunately for you, everything about him was so attractive, it's such a shame he hated you. 

"This isn't how I like my coffee." 

"Huh?" You snapped out of your daydream at the sound of his voice. 

"The coffee, it tastes terrible. Get it from another place next time." 

"Well, actually I made it-" But he had already walked away from you not listening to a word you said. "Alright, never mind, I'll just go back to work." You mumbled hurt by his words. 

"Wait, hold on." You looked up, thinking, maybe he'll say something nice after all. 

"Yeah?" 

"Take the coffee with you, I won't be drinking it." 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"Girl, why do you look so sad? Did Miguel do something again?" Jess asked with a frown, she did not like seeing you sad. 

"No."

"Sunflower…"

"Okay, yes." Miguel being cold towards you was normal, he never spoke to you unless necessary. Out of everyone here, he probably hated you the most, even more than Miles.  

"Sunflower, I've told you to stop trying." Jess sighed. 

"I know, I know… why does he hate me so much, Jess?" 

"That's just the way he is, don't overthink it. It's his loss, baby." She replied, gently patting your shoulder. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Today was going to be a good day, you were so sure of it. 

But, of course, you were wrong. 

Everything was going great up until a few hours ago. 

Miguel had assigned you on a mission to catch an anomaly, alongside a few other spider-people. His instructions were clear, stick to the plan and catch the anomaly. It was supposed to be simple. 

If only you didn't disobey him. You screwed up badly, and because of that, you could have been killed. 

"Why don't you ever listen?" Miguel shouted. No one had ever seen him this angry. 

"I was just tryin-" 

"¡Ay, por el amor de Dios!" Being yelled at by your boss in front of your coworkers was humiliating, everyone was looking at you with pity. 

"I'm sick of this, why can’t you follow simple instructions? Is it that hard to understand?" He barked, towering over you. 

"It's not a big deal." You tried to keep your composure, you didn't want to humiliate yourself further by bursting into tears. 

"Not a big deal? You could've died! A simple mistake would have ruined the whole mission." 

Don't cry. Don't cry. 

"But we're all fine, aren't we?" You weakly chuckled. That was the wrong thing to say because it only made him angrier. 

"Oh? If that's the attitude you have then you shouldn't even be on the team." Ouch. 

"Miguel, I think that's enough-" Hobie said, quickly jumping in. 

"Not now, Hobie." He growled. 

Never once did you think that you'd be in a situation like this. 

"If you put more focus on trying to be good at your job, rather than impressing me, we wouldn't even be here!" Oh, so he did notice that. 

At this point, tears were streaming freely down your face and you made no attempt to stop them. 

"Yep, you got it, boss." You smiled up at him through your tears. It was pathetic, but you did not care, you just wanted to leave and never come back. 

"Next time make sure this doesn't happen." 

"It won't happen next time." That's because there won't be a next time.

[entitled-fangirl]

Snowfall.

Cregan Stark x Dornish!wife!reader

Summary: the reader is feeling a bit out of place as the Warden's wife.

A/n: Based on an ask w/liberties taken!!!

Masterlist

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

"Things are quite cold here," she admitted aloud as they sat at breakfast.

Cregan smiled as if the thing she stated was the most obvious thing he'd ever heard, but he would never mock her for it. "Indeed. And when summer ends, the snow will return. Have you ever seen snow, dear wife?"

She stared at him for a moment, wracking her brain at the question. "I've read it in novels, I think."

"Novels?" He chuckled. "Aye, I suppose it's nice when it's only in pages while you read it in the sun of Dorne." He takes a long sip from his cup before continuing. "When winter comes, the chill settles into your bones." He looks at her, clearly going somewhere with his choice of words. "I mean no disrespect to you, but tell me you've packed warmer dresses than the one you have on."

Her cheeks flush as she looks down at her dress. 

"It's not that it's not a beautiful dress," Cregan is quick to correct as his smile falters. "In fact, it's quite stunning on you. But it has no place here. It will not keep you warm." He sits on his words for a minute before a thought came to him, "Are you not cold now?"

She tugged at the sleeve of her dress, becoming insecure of her clothing. "It is sufficient, my lord."

His smile falls, "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Seems the cold has indeed gotten to you, for your heart is becoming chilled as well." He leans forward, placing his arms on the table, "My name is Cregan. You know that well. Do not become formal if I offend you." 

She quickly shakes her head, "You've not offended me."

He stands up, his chair forced back with a loud noise. His fingers begin to pry at the top of his cloak, pulling the strings apart that keep it on his shoulders.

She stands as well out of respect. He's confused by it- ladies don't stand for men. Quite the opposite. But he doesn't question it as he moves to her.

"Here, try this," Cregan smiled as he wrapped the cloak around her frame. Warmth enveloped her body as he tied it on her.

"You don't have to do this for me."

"I know, but I wish to." His smile turned teasing, "Will you deny a Lord his wishes?"

She grinned, "Never."

"Good." He kissed her forehead, "I wouldn't want my lady to feel the chill."

He gestures for her to sit again, pushing her chair in for her. He sits down as before. "Let us finish this meal, and I shall call for a seamstress." His grin grew. "She will have Stark patronage for a long time."

…

"Something the matter?" He asked quietly.

Y/n looked up at him, "Hmm?"

Cregan reached down and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. "Something is bothering you. I can tell."

She shrugged lightly.

He let out a sigh, pulling her hand up and placing a kiss on the back of her hand. "When you're ready, you can speak to me. I hope you know that."

"It's just," She looked around the courtyard and leaned in, "the stares."

"The stares?" He repeated. He looked around also, his brows furrowed. "It's only the people getting used to you."

"It's been almost seven months."

"I suppose it has," He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, "Perhaps your beauty is just distracting. Surely the stares don't truly bother you?"

"It's not just the stares, Cregan. They all whisper, too."

"Well, you don't look like them. Most northerns never journey outside of their cities. You intrigue them."

"Cregan-"

"-My love, please. Don't let such a thing take up space in your mind. You're my lady of Winterfell. The rest does not matter."

"Perhaps they think me a spectacle."

"They do not think you a spectacle."

"Then why don't they speak to me?"

Cregan sighed, "I don't know, my love. I don't know."

…

Cregan made it his mission to ease his wife's worries. 

"I believe they're just intimidated to speak to her," the maester tried to ease to Cregan.

"How so? She's sweet spirited."

"Aye, but they do not know that when you're constantly casting a shadow over her." The maester chuckled. "Perhaps you're the intimidating one yourself, my lord."

Cregan grinned, "Perhaps indeed." He takes a moment to think. "What shall I do then?"

The maester thinks for a while himself before reaching a conclusion. "Show them that she is human as well," his eyes lit up, "Show them she's approachable."

"No," he quickly denied. "I don't want people just… approaching her. She's the lady of Winterfell."

The maester let out a sigh. Cregan held the same stubbornness as he did when he was young. "My lord, if she does not feel welcomed in her new home, she shall be miserable."

"The new is wearing off, and I'm afraid misery is inevitable if I don't do something." He let out a frustrated groan. "The North is cold and miserable on a good day. I'm running out of ideas."

"You cannot force the people to bend to your will, nor her. Perhaps you just… focus on your relationship with her, and the rest will fall into place?"

Cregan sighed in thought. "Yes, I believe I shall start there."

…

Luckily, their bond was quite well developed at this point, the two going as far as to say that they love one another. 

"I've been thinking about what you said," she finally spoke up.

Cregan looked up from his papers to her. "And what's that?"

"About the snow. I do truly wish to see it."

He nods, "Be patient, my dear. Winter is close at hand."

She stands from her chair, walking towards him. "But how close? How long must I wait?"

Cregan considered her question. "Less than weeks, I'd assume at this point. He eyed the warmer dress on her frame, "You've noticed the change in the air, haven't you?"

"I have," she nods. "It's quite frightening. I didn't know the air could bite so hard."

He grinned, "You will adjust, I swear to you. Your dresses are warm enough, yes?"

"Quite so. Thank you again."

"I'll make you a promise, little wife." Cregan leans back in his seat. "The first snow of winter, I shall personally introduce you to it. How does that sound?"

A bright smile came to her face, "You'd do that?"

"Of course. Consider it done."

…

True to his word, the first snow came at an unexpected moment. 

Cregan had left for the day, but the second the first snowflake fell to his cheek, he forced his horse to turn around and head back to Winterfell.

"Get Lady Stark for me," He barked at a servant as he handed the reigns off to a stable boy. "And make sure she's properly dressed."

 Minutes later, she walked through the doors of Winterfell to the Courtyard. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cregan with his hair covered in snow. 

"I had a promise to keep, my lady," he said with his hand extended to her.

She stepped out into the yard with hesitant feet, her body uncertain of what to make of this.

The people in the courtyard watched with curious gazes at their lord and lady.

When she reached Cregan, she took his hand. "It's not dangerous?"

"Not like this," he grinned. "When there's a lot of it, yes. But for now, you may enjoy it."

Her other hand reached up to his shoulder where snowflakes lay on the furs of his cloak. She paused centimeters from it, unsure. "May I?"

He nodded, "Of course."

She reached out and touched a flurry, watching it melt into liquid against her hand. Her brows furrowed. "Is it water?"

"Yes. Merely cold water."

She tried again, pressing her entire hand to his cloak and flinching back at the sudden intensity of the chill. She let out a gasp and tucked her hand back into her cloak. 

"Easy," his grin grew. "It's only the chill."

"You did not tell me it hurt."

"That is the nature of it. The more there is, the more likely it may hurt." He reached out and takes both hands now. "Do not give up on it. Try again."

She hesitantly does so, reaching out again, this time aware of the feeling that will come. The flakes melt on her palm and instead she lets out a breathy laugh. "And how long does winter last, Cregan?"

"Longer than it should, dear wife." He reaches up and caresses her cheek, "Have you had enough?"

"No, I could never!" She smiles. 

Cregan looked around, noting the people around them that tried to hide their obvious gaze. He was used to it at this point. 

…

"Cregan, you will never believe what has happened!" She grinned widely as she marched into their chambers. 

He quickly gave her his attention in worry. "What? What has happened?"

"I have been invited to eat with northern ladies tomorrow!"

Cregan brows furrowed, "Have you?" His panic turned to relief as he took her in his arms. "That is wonderful news."

"The woman who invited me was so kind! Lady M…" She tried to recall her name. "Morn…"

"Mormont?" He finished with a smirk.

"Yes! Lady Mormont! I promise, I won't forget again! She asked about Dorne as well! No one has asked me of Dorne. It was so refreshing, Cregan!"

"Lady Mormont is kind indeed, sweet girl. You are safe with her."

"So I may go?" She asked in shock.

He was stunned for a moment that she was asking his permission. "My love, your Dornish may think me a brute, but I will not hold my wife away from what makes her heart the fullest."

Her arms wrapped around his neck and her face pressed to his chest. "You are wonderful to me, Cregan," her muffled voice sounded against his chest.

He chuckled, "I've only done my best to make a home for you, my girl."

"Perhaps being northern is not all bad," she teased. 

He pulled her away from him with a confused look. "What do you mean?"

Her smirk grew, "It's not all bad. It's got… kind women… and… beautiful mountains… and… handsome men."

He pulled her to him, bending down to speak lowly in her ear, "Handsome men? Are there more men fighting for your attention?"

She giggled, "I misspoke. Handsome man. Just one. Their leader."

A low chuckle came from his throat, "Aye, there are pretty women too."

When she looked confused towards him, he grinned. 

"One, at least. And she's Dornish."

He pressed a heavy kiss to his lips, groaning when she returned it fervently.

…

He would never tell her how earnestly he had prayed to the Old Gods for that first snowfall to be a kind one for her to enjoy.

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

Taglist: @twinkletwinklenotastar, @kidd3ath,@yujyujj, @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @8812-342, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn, @callsignwidow, @a1lexh-blog, @alyssa-dayne, @ethereal-athalia, @ashovertheriver

[gloomwitchwrites]

His teammates call you because he isn't handling the break up well.

I'm gonna be honest, Anon. I went a more humorous route with this (but some angst in there too because why not!) I'm just imagining all of them being completely pathetic and the one calling is on the phone like "come get your man please." So, with that being said, I hope you enjoy this!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, some angst, established relationship, breakups. brief humor

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“You have two minutes,” you say immediately after answering your phone.

“You need to call him,” comes Simon’s gruff voice on the other end.

You’ve only met Simon a handful of times, but he’s always been your favorite of John’s team. He has consistently treated you with kindness and respect, and he never oversteps boundaries.

“Why?” you ask, glancing at your nails, pretending you don’t care.

“He fucking misses you.”

“That’s not enough of a reason,” you reply.

It isn’t. Not really. Even if your heart aches and your stomach flips from hearing it.

“Captain isn’t taking the breakup well.”

You want to say that you aren’t either, even though you’re the one who ended things. In reality, you miss John. It’s agonizing.

“And?” you ask, trying to hide the slight crack in your voice.

“He has us running laps around the fucking track, love. Haven’t done that since I was a grunt who couldn’t properly tie his boot laces.”

You sigh. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“Yes.” Simon’s response is immediate.

Rubbing your temple, you decide to take a leap. It wouldn’t hurt to talk. Not really. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank fuck,” he breathes.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“This is absurd,” you mutter, rubbing the middle of your brow, irritation building in the back of your head.

“Just give us a few minutes,” comes Captain Price’s voice. It’s Kyle’s boss, but he’s not the only one on the phone.

“Oh, aye. Hear us out.” Soap is there, too.

For all you know, Ghost is lingering on the call, a silent entity listening in but not saying anything.

“Why? Give me a reason?”

“Kyle misses you,” says Price.

“He loves you, lass.”

This isn’t new information. You’re aware of how Kyle feels but that doesn’t change things. The two of you are not together anymore. He needs to move on.

“He’s not handling the breakup well.” This time it’s Ghost. The silent man speaks.

“What do you want me to do,” you sigh.

“Talk to him,” says Price.

“No.”

Your phone buzzes and you hold it away from your ear. It’s a text from Price. You click on it, revealing a photo.

It’s Kyle. He’s curled up in his bed in the barracks, clutching a teddy bear he won you at a carnival on your first date.

“We can come get you,” says Price.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“I’m sorry, John. But you shouldn’t have called. I don’t want to hear it.”

There is a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. You respect Captain John Price. The few times you’ve met him, he’d been pleasant, and he was always the first one to greet you whenever you visited Johnny on base.

“I understand that you broke it off with him.”

“John—”

“Listen. Please.”

He genuinely sounds concerned, and that gives you pause.

It’s not like you and Johnny ended things on bad terms. His life is busy. It’s dangerous. You just don’t fit in it, and the stress of never knowing when or if he’s going to come home is something far to difficult a thing to carry with you.

“He’s been struggling. Had to corner him in my office to get him to talk. He’s really hurting.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. “Why are you calling me, John?”

“I want you to talk to him.”

“John—”

“Soap is currently facedown in his bed in the barracks. Sulking.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

“In person,” says John. It sounds like a command. Not an ask.

“Fine, John,” you reply, grabbing your car keys.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You need to talk to him. Simon is a bloody mess.”

“He’s fine, Johnny. He’ll get over. There was no reason for you to call me.”

Johnny snorts on the other end. “You don’t think so? I thought he was going to crush a new recruit’s skull in this morning.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not interested in talking with Simon right now.”

Is it really a breakup? No. Not really. More like a separation. Simon has your whole heart, but he’s stubborn and cold. His shell is difficult to crack.

“That’s too bad. Because I’m here.”

“You’re—what?”

“Aye. Walking up to your front door right now.”

You blink. Aghast. “John MacTavish you better not—”

There is a sharp series of knocks at your front door. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter.

Growling, you storm to the front door, phone still pressed to your ear. You unlatch the deadbolt and yank the door open. Johnny is standing on the other side, his phone also held to his ear. He gives you his biggest grin.

You want to smack it right off his face.

“What are you doing?”

Johnny ends the call. “I’m taking you to Simon.”

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[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

if the military wanted you to have a wife, they'd issue you one. Soap's heard that saying once or twice.

and here you are. claiming to be his... issuance.

you tilt your head. "you don't remember signing up for the program?"

no. no, he doesn't. his eyes dart down to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes. he'd remember that. more to the point, he'd remember whatever he did to deserve this. he looks you up and down again, disbelief and desire flashing across his face, and not in equal measure.

you’re like if someone wrung the starry slurry of thoughts constituting what makes a perfect woman directly from his brain matter, let it ferment and clarify like honey wine, put marriage papers in her hand, and dressed her in a… in a fucking… are those stockings stretching up under your skirt?

hell’s bells. you’re one part girl next door, one part muse—the one his hand can never quite shape on the page to match what’s in his head—and several shades of his favorite porn star. an old-fashioned pin-up doll in the flesh.

"you're not John MacTavish, then," you say, peering down at the papers in your hand with a small frown. "so sorry to bother you—"

“no, hold on.” he takes a step closer. “i’m him, aye. but the program...” the application questionnaire. filling it out was nothing more than a drunken bet with Gaz, but yes, he dimly remembers it. doesn't recall turning it in, but maybe he was drunker than he thought. “it's real?"

“completely real. i was selected for you based on the preferences you specified,” you tell him. you shift the clipboard into your other arm, pleasant smile turning into a frown. "but i couldn't possibly ask you to sign a marriage certificate sponsored by a program you don't even remember applying for."

oh, that is rich. you don’t seem to see the humor here. it’s absurd. have you not seen yourself? he'd be daft to pass on someone as bonnie as you.

not to mention you seem more than a little disappointed at the idea of being turned down. that fuels his ego even more.

 "you're sayin' you're a part of that military partnership program, aye? and you were handpicked as my spouse based on a few questions?"

you helpfully produce a copy of his responses in pink triplicate. sure enough, he recognizes his own drunken scrawl.

none of the questions have anything to do his preferences looks-wise. career aspirations, communication preferences, hobbies, his ideal saturday night. his sleeping habits. this is a psychological profile. CIA shite, as Gaz would say.

he doubts his drunken self read more than a few lines of this paperwork while he was constructing his dream girl in the survey blanks.

as he studies the page a little too closely, your small frown turns into a frustrated scowl. "john? um, i mean."

it instantly pulls his eyes back to your lips.

you twirl a strand of hair around your finger. "it’s nice to meet you,” you say in a tone that makes it clear what you’re really saying is ‘hey, stud, i'm looking forward to the honeymoon.’

that’s your attempt, at least. but Soap sees more than you mean to show. the way you play that card--the way you twirl your damn hair--is the clumsiest, most blatant attempt to flirt. somehow, that's what catches him off-guard the most. It makes his heart squeeze. god, are you nervous? you?

he runs over the back of his teeth in the split second before his signature lazy smirk slides back across his face. "happy you got paired up with a bloke like me?"

he hands the paperwork back to you. you take it back with great relief and nestle it securely into the crook of your elbow. you’re certain he didn’t sign every single blank he was supposed to, but he won’t remember that. you’ll check the signature lines later and forge his handwriting to finish it.

you smile prettily at him. then you make it a little more coy. you should be bashful--he's handsome. "i'm lucky. you're special forces. i’m a nobody, really. if you want, you could try filing for a spouse upgrade. if you want a really good fiancée..."

“fiancée." Soap rolls the word around his tongue. "is that what i should call you?”

"well. you saw my name on the paperwork," you point out. you know very well he didn't.

before he can ask any more questions, you press a chaste kiss to his cheek and pull away, walking down the hall with documents in tow. his gaze is heavy on your back.

the documents in your arm are real enough. Soap really did complete that questionnaire, just like how he remembers. getting the application turned in is what required a little creative effort.

but as long as nobody looks too closely at the military ID photocopied in the application file, they won't notice that the mostly-obscured face of the soldier who turned the application in doesn't look much like Soap at all.

...

more Soap / masterlist

[shotmrmiller]

A/N: I simply had to join on writing for John 'just the tip' MacTavish so. Here goes. Unedited, its horny its explicit yall know the deal. It was supposed to be a drabble and i got completely carried away. got me out the writing slump tho. any mistakes please ignore. CBF!Johnny because I say so.

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

WC: 1.6K

Flipping through Netflix, you hear a rapt at the door. You turn to look at your dad, who gets up quickly as if expecting someone. 

“Johnny, my boy! I’m glad you could make it! Had me thinking you forgot all about us. Come on in!” Your dad pulls Johnny in for an affectionate embrace that he returns immediately.

“Och, yer aff yer heid! As if I could ever forget my second family!” Giving your dad a final pat on the back, Johnny steps back. “Now where’s my girl?” 

Lifting the hand holding the remote, you call out. “Present!” 

Johnny almost trips over the coffee table, rushing to you. He doesn’t wait for you to stand up, just snatches your wrist and lifts you for a hug— your socked feet dangling by his shins. With his strong arms wrapped around you, he pulls you close, nuzzling his face against your neck. “Missed ye, bonnie,” he murmurs, “missed ye so much.” 

As you exhale a wheezy breath, you tell him, “I love you too, Johnny, but I can’t breathe.” One last squeeze, and a squealed “Johnny!” he finally relents, setting you down. 

Hands resting on your shoulders, his striking blue eyes lock onto your face, flicking across your features, as if he was re-memorizing what you look like. His intense gaze rushes blood to your cheeks, but don’t shrink under it. It wouldn’t be the first time your best friend teases you like this. “Somethin’ on my face, Johnny boy?” and bat your lashes at him, “I know I’m staggering to look at, but now you’re just being shameless.” 

He lets out a huff, a small smirk gracing his lips, and mumbles, “Don’t I know it.” Your taunting smile falls off your face at that. What? Before you can even ask him what he means by that, your dad calls him into the kitchen. 

“Johnny! Come get a beer, it’s about to be movie time!” Without breaking eye contact, he answers him, “Aye! Comin’!’ and with a finger tap to the underside of your chin, walks away. Heart pounding against your chest, you head towards your bedroom to get a blanket, hoping the little walk calms the butterflies in your stomach. 

What?

The movie is playing, and Johnny is curled up behind you on the reclined sofa, roughened palm resting on your thigh, occasionally squeezing it. You’re mortified at the slight arousal you’re feeling just at being caressed by Johnny. Johnny. Your best friend. Who has consistently had girlfriends, who will never look at you that way. You’ve never thought of him that way either, granted, but that’s what makes this so embarrassing. Maybe you’re ovulating, biology simply reacting in the presence of a virile male, or something. 

And then you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, faintly pressing against your arse. Gods. Heat radiating off of your face, you bite your lip and try to discreetly wiggle away, for his sake and yours. However, Johnny seems to disagree with your thoughts because he moves his hand from your thigh to grab your hips in a bruising grip, fingers digging into your hipbones, forcing you to be still.

He leans into your ear, warm breath tickling your cheek and softly whispers, “Dinnae move, hen,” and sluggishly starts to rock his hips, erection now firmly rubbing against your sleeping shorts. Johnny’s movements are imperceptible, nonexistent underneath your blanket. Not that it would matter, because the movie is reaching its climax, and all eyes are glued to the screen.

But your mind is solely focused on Johnny— the heat of his hands scorching against your skin, his prominent length hidden underneath his pajama bottoms grinding on you. 

“Lift yer leg a wee bit, hen.” Keeping a watchful gaze on your parents, you silently plead that they won’t notice as you hide your compliance under the guise of trying to make yourself comfortable. Once settled, you lowered your leg and had to bite your tongue with force, to keep the moan from slithering out of your throat. 

His cock, bare, right in between your thighs. Like warm velvet wrapped around steel, thick, heavy, tip pushing against your core with every minute thrust. Johnny moves even closer, arm tight around your waist, hand sliding into your bottoms, heading straight towards your soaked, swollen clit to rub feather-light delectable circles on it.

“I’m gonna stick just the tip in, a’right? I swear,” he says in a hushed tone, as he pulls back to lower the waistband of your shorts to rest on your upper thighs, “just,” he thrusts once, “the”, again, “tip.” and his leaking head slips into your hole— pushing it in until your walls flutter around it. 

“Ye feel incredible, squeeze that tight pus—” your dripping cunt cuts him off, drawing out a hiss of surprise from him. His subdued voice in your ear is so seductive, so bewitching, that you can’t help but clench around him. 

For most of the movie, Johnny languidly thrusts into you, truly keeping to his word. Just the tip— teasing you, making you drip onto the sofa, muted squishy, gooey noises coming from under your blanket, and you couldn’t be bothered by any of it. Flared, ridged head catching on your slippery lips with every drag of his cock. You’re drooling on your hand that covers your mouth beneath the snug blanket— struggling to hold back the mewls and whimpers threatening to escape. 

All of a sudden, Johnny mutters, “The movie’s about ta end, close yer eyes and keep completely still. Stabilize and deepen yer breathin’, hen.” Without hesitation, you do as he says, body going limp in compliance, the only tell-tale sign of your excitability being the rapid pulsing of your jugular on the delicate skin of your neck. 

The TV is turned off, and the living room goes completely silent, apart from the deafening sound of blood rushing in your ears. Johnny behind you feigns quiet snoring, so believable that if it wasn’t for his throbbing cock still at your entrance, you’d think he actually fell asleep.

Your dad’s poor imitation of a whisper cuts through the quiet. 

“They’re asleep, let’s just leave them here.” Footsteps shuffle as they tip-toe around you both, and as they get farther away, Johnny slowly moves his hand to cover yours, truly weighing down on it. The instant their door clicks shut, he uses his other hand to pick up your leg and throw it over your shoulder, and thrusts hard, deep, until his bollocks are flush against your arse. Your nails claw at the hand over your mouth as you scream, your gummy walls stretching against his assault— a burn so exquisite, pleasure teetering on the edge of pain, achingly delicious, it sends tendrils of ecstasy directly into your veins.

He lets out a guttural moan, one only you could hear, private, intimate. “It’s about time ye let me have this sweet pussy, hen.” One vicious thrust that punches the air from your lungs and rattles the sofa, and then another, when he finally speaks again. “Fuck, we hae ta do this when we are nae restricted, hm?” His hips start a slow rhythm, long, unhurried undulating thrusts, and every time he bottoms out, he grinds his pubic bone on your clit, the tip of his cock giving your cervix a lewd kiss. Every time he reaches the entrance of your womb, it feels like he wants to go in further, to go past the dead end, and your cock drunk mind only thinks about how you want him to do it, too. 

“Yer slobberin’ all over my hand, hen. S’that good, is it? Oooh, I ken it is. Only the best fer my girl, hm?” He hisses through clenched teeth, “I’m fuckin’ close. Come f’me. I’m not comin’ until ye cover my cock with yer cream, leave a white ring at the base.” His hips have been moving at the same exact speed he started at, not a stutter in his pattern. As if him fucking you into a puddle of arousal wasn’t taxing on his part. 

Then he does something different, something that threatens to snap that coil in your lower tummy, and along with it your sanity. He starts giving shallow thrusts, never pulling out more than halfway, and makes sure to rub against your clit, giving you that heavenly friction you need. It has you delirious, fervent, and you start moving your own hips, uncaring of how you must look.

Johnny moves his thumb down to your nub, drawing tight, precise, merciless circles on it, and you are thrown over the edge— more like kicked off by a spartan kick from how gut-wrenching your orgasm is ripped from you. Your pleasure is so acute, so powerful that there are needle-like pricks on the shell of your ears. Your body shakes underneath Johnny, pussy throbbing and pulsing with the aftershocks of your blinding climax. 

Drool escapes under Johnny’s palm, dripping down your cheeks and into your hair as you fall back, going completely limp, utterly spent. Finally getting back some coherency, you realize that Johnny’s gone soft inside of you, also drained, as he catches his breath holding himself over you. He removes his hand, uncaring that it’s sticky with your spit, and noses your cheekbone, nudging you to slant his lips over yours, curling his tongue against yours. He swallows the pathetic mewl you let out and presses one final kiss onto your lips. 

“I’ve missed ye, hen. I’m so happy to be here, with ye. Let’s move to your bedroom, and in 10 minutes, I’ll give ye a proper fuckin’.” 

Your eyes close shut as you let out a resigned but elated sigh. 

“I love you too, Johnny.” 

@rookiesbookies and forgive the tag but i had you in mind too @brewed-pangolin ill never do it again unprompted

part 2

[elrastrodetusangreenlanieve]

Like, I don't want to keep on being really wanky but permission by whom?? The author only does speak for her book and not for a whole region full of millions of people?? The "Mexican" ballet created by Christopher and Joby and Bob, who are making money out of it??

I wouldn't even care about this whole thing if not for them tooting their own horn about how culturally sensitive and inclusive and respectful they're being. Not, they aren't.