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cuckoo-on-a-string · 4 months ago

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Neighborly (Part 2)

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: near death experience, hypothermia, cuddling for medical reasons, implied medically-related stripping, implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a two-shot.

The cold burned.

Once the sun set, the weather front moved in, and the temperature plunged. Snow fell thick and fast, just short of a whiteout. Your feet sank to the ankle, then to the shin, and your aching trudge became a slow-motion nightmare. It was about that time you realized – you were in real danger.

It was a two-mile walk – uphill, through old snow and frozen sludge – from your stranded vehicle. Home was closer than town, so you put your head down, buried your mittened hands in your armpits, and threw your emergency blanket from the car over your head as a bright orange cloak. And you set out.

It really took you too long to leave the car, but it was a life and death decision, and you waffled between shit options. On a busier road, you’d stay in the car. But this kind of snowfall would keep people home for a day or two. More than enough time to freeze to death, curled up in the driver’s seat.

If you lived, you’d make a better emergency kit for your ride.

In the meantime, the path demanded all of your attention. Even under fresh snow, it was easy to follow the road. Thick forest covered this stretch, and there was nowhere to go but forward. Hopefully you wouldn’t miss your drive. Should luck bless you for the first time in a decade, you’d see your neighbors’ lights in the dark.

But you had miles to go, yet. And the footing was terrible.

Old snow, half-melted and refrozen, threatened to turn your ankle with every step. Staying upright took work. Every muscle joined the battle, from your toes to your shoulders. Your abs clenched, and your thighs soon shook from exertion. As cold as you were, sweat stuck your hair to your face. Your neck.

The wind turned the moisture to ice.

Pins and needles prickled under your clothes.

Worse, and worse, and worse.

But there was no choice, so you moved on. No one was coming, so you would go. Keep calm and carry on and all that noise.

You had tea at home. An electric heating blanket under heavy quilts. Dry clothes and fuzzy socks.

So, you walked.

One foot in front of the other. Wobbling. Trying to find safe footing.

You crashed to your knees, bracing for pain that didn’t come.

Fuck.

You were losing sensation in your extremities.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The fresh layer of snow swallowed your hands where you’d braced to catch yourself. It didn’t look right from your perspective. You hadn’t punched holes into the drift. You’d joined it. Flesh flowed into freeze, and it sucked the heat from your body. Hungry. Careless.

Physically shaking the image from your head, you rose. You pushed on. Slow and unsteady as your thoughts lost traction on the creeping ice.

It never seemed right that such an oppressive season made the world so bright. Even on a moonless night, the snow practically glowed. When you first moved to the mountain, you’d look out the window and marvel at how clearly you could see the world you couldn’t explore. The endless white always looked so inviting, but it kept you locked away, isolated.

Snow ate the color out of the world. That was why it sparkled so brightly in the sun, full of ingested prisms stolen from kinder seasons.

What colors, you wondered, would it digest out of you.

Once you were buried.

Lost to the white void falling without. Swelling within.

Everything felt damp. Warm. Your muscles went syrupy. You were your own personal swamp, and you panted, dropping your blanket. It was too heavy, too waterlogged anyway. You couldn’t carry that weight forever. It fell easily. All you had to do was let go.

Your feet turned, and you began to ascend. Uphill. That was correct, somehow.

Fuck.

You were on fire.

The snow was up to your knees and still falling. Maybe, if you just took a nap, you’d wait it out. Better to travel in the daylight, right?

No. Not quite right.

One arm hung out of your coat, and you couldn’t shake the second free. It clung to your wrist like a needy child, and you just wanted rid of it. Wanted to be free and finished and home.

Lights blazed, and it felt like dawn. Had you walked all night, or did you just look up?

The path split. Or you thought it did. The snow covered the way, but your instinct sniffed out the divide.

You wanted to be closer to the lights. Lights were good. Even though they hurt your head. They looked so pretty, flushing the snow gold. You imagined they’d paint you gold, too. A Midas-touched statue – pretty, lifeless, and cold.

Snow always looked so soft. You’d felt cheated as a child when you discovered it was nothing like the fluffy duvet you imagined. But in a pinch, it was wonderful.

It held you, gathering you up as you sank. The flakes landing on your cheek didn’t melt anymore, and frigid works of art gathered on your eyelashes, slowly eating the lighthouse you’d followed home from the bright white dark.

-------------------------

“Fucking hell.”

Death had a British accent. Not bad. A shame you somehow disappointed him.

“Johnny! Get some towels. Clean shirt and sweats.”

You blinked up at Death, swimming through waves of unfamiliar sensations to get a glimpse of the end.

Really, you’d hoped for Death to wear a kinder shape – like in Sandman – but the grinning skull seemed appropriate. It was the rare case where the destination mattered more than the journey. Or the escort.

Being dead was exhausting. As curious as you were about Death’s face, the quiet void already had a deposit on your soul. Resting limp in the psychopomp’s arms, somehow you relaxed further. He was so much more solid. More real. Soon you’d melt between his fingers and rain into the underworld.

“She isn’t shivering.”

Dreams ate your mind. Time rose and faded like steam as strange hands prepared you for burial. Your grave was warm. The soil packed tight, wrapping around you as the first gnawing sense of dread woke with the agony in your hands. Roots squeezed around you, tightening as you writhed against the sting in your feet.

You did not rest in peace.

You’d fallen into hell. Your skin burned, your muscles seized, and a sharp scream of a moan shrieked through clenched teeth.

“Easy, easy.”

A broad palm pressed over your heart, hauling you back to a second pulse. Someone else’s words rustled over your hair. Someone else’s breath pushed someone else’s chest flush against your back. Their smell and shape surrounded you.

A someone. A living someone.

That finally reminded you of the need to wake.

To rise from death.

Every inch you climbed towards consciousness scorched you, and reality came in bursts of pain. Your fingertips felt like you’d clutched red-hot iron, and shivers wracked you like private earthquakes. Everything wanted to tear itself apart, escape the pain radiating from every other piece. If the stranger wasn’t holding you together, you’d shatter like your poor, ugly mug.

You had a body but no control.

The stranger shushed you, a second hand settling over the top of your head. Locking you in. Keeping you in your flesh. You thought he might stroke your hair like a cat’s fur, but nothing moved between you besides the heat seeping from his palm to your scalp.

If you had a choice, you’d go back to sleep, but you were too aware. Pain dared you to relax, running knives along the underside of your skin, threatening to stab you inside out with the next shudder.

And you didn’t know where you were – or who was cuddling you back to life.

Helpless as you were, you knew to be afraid.

“Johnny,” the chest behind you rumbled, “she’s coming to.”

Wrath caught on the name. It bit the hook and followed the line to the light so your eyes could flutter open. They were painfully dry, and the gathering tears offered some relief, but you recognized the mohawk over broad shoulders leaning through the doorway through the blur. Your restrained whimpers turned into a growl.

“Think she recognizes ya.”

“Aye.” Johnny approached, kneeling by the bed you found yourself in. His pretty face was all bent out of shape with apprehension. “How you feeling, hen?”

You wanted to shout at him. Or slap him. Both at once and more. Instead, your shaking tongue fumbled the words, and your arm flopped weakly under the quilt, thudding into the branch-like arm caging your chest.

Which meant –

Wait.

If Johnny was in front of you, you must be in his house. He lived alone. Except for a hulking giant in a skull mask.

Like he could read the fresh stiffness beneath your shivering, Ghost said, “Spotted you from the window. Had to get you dry and warm, but you’re safe. Body heat’s best at this stage. We’re both dressed, and if you can’t stand it, I’ll trade out for a fleet of hot water bottles.”

You struggled to pick up his words and put them in order. They bobbed through the snowmelt in your brain like so much flotsam, a murky sea you already worried would drown you. But you did it. You got it all. But it was a lot.

He was barely more than a stranger, and you found yourself in bed with him.

But a man so hesitant to show his face wouldn’t be eager to show more skin than necessary, and while it was hard to tell what fabric was clothing and what was bedding, nothing but cloth touched you. Except for the hand on your head. Which was fine, actually. It could be better than fine if you thought about it much longer.

How much did it cost such a reserved person to get so close? You were no better than a stranger to him, too.

He saw you in trouble and moved to help. Everything he said was practical. Reasonable. He’d probably saved your life.

You felt you understood Ghost. Maybe it was the confusion or the onset of a fever, but you got him. And he was so, so warm. You wanted to crack open that giant chest and burrow inside him like a tauntaun.

When you felt better, you’d make it up to him. You’d apologize for being a burden and make your imposition right. In the meantime, you didn’t want him to leave you alone with some shitty substitute.

You wriggled, trying to put your hand over his, but something was over your fingers, and you had to guesstimate. Maybe you patted his knuckles. Maybe you smacked his wrist. Hard to know. But you felt you made your point.

“S’fine.”

He shifted in response, settling in for the long-haul. “Good.”

You tried forcing yourself calm. Everything had a mind of its own, though, and you curled up tight, trying to preserve heat even when it was given freely. Ghost supported your new position, bending his knees to keep contact, spooning with purpose.

How far had your temperature dropped for you to be this miserable? Very. Dangerously. Fucking shit.

Johnny cleared his throat. “I could join? Help get you toasty?”

Though you were still in gods damned agony, you wouldn’t let Johnny Fucking MacTavish join you under the covers if he was the last thing between you and death. You’d already touched the door to Hades that evening, and he hadn’t been the one to bring you back.

You lashed out the only way you could.

“No.”

The first word you managed to say clearly. You sent it off with a scowl, daring the Scotsman to try you.

He practically jumped back from the bed, anxious expression washed clean in shock. You’d never told him no. Never drawn a boundary. Never shared your anger or hurt.

Well, you’d finally learned your lesson.

Fuck that man.

He wouldn’t be getting anything from you ever again, not even a clear conscience.

Ghost hummed, his thumb stroking over your temple. “Got you right pissed off, has he? What’s he done? He the reason you got caught in the storm?”

Nodding was easier than speaking. You’d said the most important part.

“Thought as much. You’re too well prepared. When you feel up to it, you can tell me what Johnny needs to set right, yeah? He’ll clean up his mess.”

Across the room, where he’d stumbled after your rejection, the man in question blanched. “I didn’t – I couldn’t – What did… Ah, Christ. ‘M so sorry, hen.”

“Plenty of time to talk later,” Ghost said, still fully felt and entirely invisible at your back. “Let her rest. When I’m confident she won’t choke, you can make us something warm to drink.”

Johnny accepted, nodding with big eyes. His shoulders rose to his ears as he turned on his heel and marched away, fists squeezed tight.

He’d only been out of the room for a minute when you heard something crash, and you jumped.

Ghost just hugged you tighter and sighed.

Eventually, you did sleep. It was a night for achieving the impossible, apparently. Ghost kept one hand on your chest, waking or sleeping, and as the daylight slowly burned away the icy mist in your head, you realized he was monitoring your heartbeat. Keeping his arm around your chest was better for your recovery, and you might not have reacted so calmly to a hand on your neck.

You still felt like shit.

“How bad was it?” you whispered.

Asking was a struggle, and not just because your lips cracked and burned around your voice. Staring doom in the face only scared you if you recognized it, and you were afraid to hear how close your choices had brought you to the point of no return. Words could hurt. Knowledge could hurt.

“Should’a taken you to a hospital,” Ghost murmured. “No way to get there in this weather.”

You closed your eyes, burying your face in the pillow. You did it in defiance of the windburn over your nose and cheeks. In defiance of your chapped lips. Dead people couldn’t feel pain, and it was hardly the worst you’d suffered through the night.

“Your shivering’s manageable now. Think you could drink something?”

Could and should.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go tell Johnny. Stay here.”

You didn’t answer, but you swam all the way under the heavy quilts as his solid heat left you. With only your eyes peering over the blankets, you watched him – probably cold in his thin t-shirt and worn sweats – breeze across the room, quiet as his namesake. He had a lot of tattoos, a whole sleeve. You couldn’t catch all the shapes as he moved farther and farther away, but deathly themes curled like gun smoke and curses up from his wrist, towards his heart.

Once you were alone, you examined yourself under the covers. There were socks over your hands, impromptu mittens. You’d worry about any horror beneath them later. You wore a loose tee you’d seen on Johnny when he was resting up, staying comfortable as he nursed his cold. The gym shorts they’d dressed you in were bunched up where the drawstring fought to draw them into a smaller size, and the fabric would fall to your knees if you stood. Maybe farther.

They’d dressed you in a piece of each man’s wardrobe, and the embarrassed heat creeping up your neck was almost as warm as Ghost.

But you wouldn’t read between the lines. There were no lines. They’d saved your life and carefully explained their actions. It didn’t mean anything else.

They were only being neighborly.

#ghoap x reader #ghoap fic #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap x ghost #soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod mw fanfiction #cod x reader

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girl-lostconnection · 2 months ago

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Harbour seal!Soap with Grey seal!Reader, send tweet.

Inspired by my dialogues with @nightunite about seal couple of Soap and Reader.

Seal!Soap who is elated to finally, finally have seal addition to the team. God knows he enjoys company of his squad mates and they are good lads, but sometimes he can’t help but yearn for someone who understands him on a different — primal level.

And here you come — strong and absolutely gorgeous, your grin wide enough to show short canines, tips of them peeking out from under your lips, Soap’s own grin so wide it’s inappropriate.

He knows you feel that too. The pull, the excitement, the basic creature in your head huffing happily when he smacks your shoulder a little harder than necessary.

Soap licks his lips when you tilt your head at him, your eyes shining and oh, this is going to be good.

Gaz raises an eyebrow silently, already planning to take his leave and let Johnny get properly acquainted with fellow seal hybrid when the mad bastard full on locks lips with you.

Soap’s hands cupping your face, eyes wide open (why the fuck his eyes are even this widely open, why would he stare in your eyes like a bloody lunatic??) and then he angles your head carefully to shift your jaw and get access to the soft wet insides of your mouth.

It’s not too deep, not too heated, but just enough to get to know each other properly.

Johnny knows that you could break his fucking jaw if you actually wanted, you are bigger than he is — probably stronger too.

But you don’t mind, readily accepting a chance to greet him properly, to feel him up as well.

Soap drinks in it, shudder running down his spine when your fingers slip under his T-shirt, stroking the line of his spine — his whole body melting into yours.

“Mate— come on, what the fuck? Let them go”, Kyle hisses, bird part of him enraged at Soap’s lack of proper courting or a basic fucking “can I kiss you”. Who even jumps in straight into the abyss like that?

If Johnny heard him (and the bastard definitely did, Kyle saw the way Soap curled himself around you, just pressing himself in harder) he prefers to ignore Kyle completely, giving all of his attention to you.

Soft, warm, welcoming you who stares right back in his eyes — laughter simmering on the edges of your irises, smile already crinkling the corners of you. Pretty fucking seal. God, this is just grand.

Best fucking day of his week.

Soap finally pulls away, licks his lips before grinning wider and pressing another short kiss to your wet lips, primal part of him sated and happy, human part of him vibrating with excitement.

He was accepted so well, you didn’t push him away — you like him too, you are happy too, you’d like him to “chat” with you again. You are a little far from home, but you definitely already tried out local waters - he can taste salt on the tip of your tongue.

“Baltics, eh?”, Johnny hums like Kyle should understand what the fuck does it even mean, but you happily nod and Gaz feels like wrapping himself around you as well. That’s probably the concussion speaking in him, he should get checked out pronto.

“Welcome to the Taskforce, sergeant”, Soap grins like a maniac and grips your shoulder, your fingers still stroking the line of his spine. Your fingers still under T-shirt of his. “Good to have you here.”

“Thank you, sergeant.”, you just smile back like nothing special happened, like it’s a regular occurrence for you to get kissed by someone you hardly know — your new teammate no less.

Kyle’s befuddlement written in letters so big Johnny actually takes pity on him and shrugs nonchalantly, his hand still on your shoulder, your hand still on his lower back, “Seal to seal communication. That’s how we talk.”

You just nod like it’s the most normal thing in the world, not even blinking when Gaz looks at you for confirmation because there is just no way. What do you mean, that’s how you talk?? What the fuck?

“I know it’s unconventional, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself properly. It’s just been a little while since I met another seal”, you smile sheepishly, sharp points of your teeth peeking out from underneath your upper lip and Kyle has to force himself to swallow.

Pretty seal. Dangerous seal. Never before he wanted to switch spicies so badly.

“It’s alright. Glad to hear you feel…welcomed.”, Gaz musters up, mentally smacking the back of his head, bird part of him enraged that he is fumbling so badly, bird part of him already thinking about showing off.

Oh, this is bad.

Soap smiles wider and pulls you towards barracks, already chatting you up about your homeland and family and swimming and “we have proper waters not far, you up for a swim this weekend, bonnie?”.

Gaz rubs his face, quietly groaning in his palms before he turns to follow the two of you. God knows that’s concussion speaking, he should get checked out.

Because he is definitely (not) going to show off to his new teammate like some sort of pretentious wanker.

Bird part of him snaps in annoyance and Kyle sighs harder. He most certainly won’t.

Next one>>

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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

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domnamewoman · 2 years ago

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MK1 Characters React To: Being Pinned To The Wall By Their Crush To Hide On A Mission

Characters: Liu Kang, Raiden, Kung Lao, Johnny Cage, Kenshi Takahashi, Kitana, Mileena, Tanya, Sub-Zero, Scorpion, Smoke, Reptile, Baraka, Shang Tsung, Rain

Warnings: GN!Reader

Masterlist

Requests Are Open

Liu Kang’s first priority is making sure that you both are safe and undetectable by the enemy. It isn’t until after he confirms your safety that he realizes just how close you are. So close that he can feel your breath brushing over him on every exhale. Despite enjoying the proximity he doesn’t want to risk you feeling uncomfortable so he backs off.

“I think we are in the clear now. Let’s find our way back to the exit.”

Raiden is overthinking everything from the moment you press up against him. Should he hold his breath because breathing in your face is rude, right? Should he close his eyes because him staring at you just has to be making you feel awkward, isn’t it? So caught up in his head he doesn’t even realize that you moved back until you ask if he is okay.

“What… Oh, y-yes I’m okay. Let’s get out of here.”

Kung Lao uses this opportunity to appreciate your features up close. The way your eyelashes brush against your cheeks. The little mole on your chin that he never noticed before. Your smell… It’s simply intoxicating. He would be so focused on memorizing every detail that he didn’t notice the enemy left until you cleared your throat to get his attention.

“I’m sorry, I was just… never mind, let’s get going.”

Johnny Cage takes full advantage of the situation and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Can you blame him? The cart you’re hiding behind is too small so you have to be as close as possible not to be spotted, obviously. That’s also the reason he has to lean his head against your shoulder. He’s just too tall! It’s definitely not because he wants to nuzzle into you, his lips brushed against your neck completely by accident. Really.

“I think I still hear someone walking around. Let’s stay here for a bit longer.”

Kenshi Takahashi is cursing his heightened senses right now. He is hyper-focused on you and only you. Your addicting scent, the warmth seeping into him from every point your bodies are connected. It takes all of his willpower not to just melt into you. Once you pull away he takes a calming breath and tries to get his brain to focus back on why you both are even here.

“Right, the mission… Let’s uh, let’s head that way.”

Kitana is only worried about the mission getting ruined if you both get caught. That is why she is surprised when she notices her hand over your mouth keeping you from making a sound and the tight grip she has on your shirt, holding you against the wall. This is not how she pictured finally getting this close to you going. She blinks as she releases you and takes a step back.

“My apologies… We just, we can’t get caught.”

Mileena smiles as you press up against her, happy with the turn of events. She knows that you like her just as much as she likes you. She uses this time to tease you by pushing her chest into you and blowing her warm breath against your neck. Her thigh finds its way between your legs. It amuses her to see you try to remain quiet and unbothered by her actions.

“We should try this another time… under different circumstances.”

Tanya tries to remain calm as your bodies are pressed against each other. She can’t believe that you both are in this situation right now… but she doesn’t exactly hate it. You smell so good and your body is so warm. It’s better than what she’d imagined being pressed against you would feel like. The only downfall is that you both were hiding in enemy territory. Oh right… the mission.

“I think we’re all clear. Let’s find a way out of here.”

Bi-Han can’t help grabbing onto your hips as you push him against the wall. He would be lying if he said he didn’t love the feeling of your bodies pressing against each other. He only wished it was happening under different circumstances than hiding from the enemy. Maybe after you both get what you came here for, he will finally make a move and make his intentions clear.

“Come, let’s finish up and head back home.”

Kuai Liang would try and create as much distance between you as he could, which would be futile. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Even though all he wants to do is pull you into his arms and hold you tightly, he would contain himself. He respects you and your personal space and all he can do is hope that someday you would want him in it.

“They’re gone. Sorry about that… We can go now.”

Tomas doesn’t know what to do with himself. He keeps his arms down to his sides, hands gripping his pants legs. That is the only thing he can do to keep himself from reaching out and embracing you. Something that he has longed to do since shortly after meeting you. Why can’t he think of anything besides how stunning you look, even now?

“Do you, uh… Do you think they left? We should probably get going.”

Syzoth’s brain is malfunctioning. He can’t control the way his body reacts to having you in his personal space. He tries to stop the low rumble of a purr-like growl forming in his chest because one, how embarrassing, and two, he doesn’t want to give away your location. You two were hiding from the enemy for goodness sake! This definitely wasn’t the time.

“Um, can we… Maybe we can sneak around the corner.”

Baraka was surprised that you didn’t mind being this close to him. Ever since being affected with Tarkat, nobody wanted to be even a few feet away from him, much less in physical contact. Being this close to you just reminded him of how much he missed physical affection. He hopes that since you aren’t afraid of touching him, his affection for you won’t be rejected.

“Come on, I will fight our way out of here if I must. You don’t have to worry.”

Shang Tsung believes that this is right where you both belong, in each other’s arms. He desires nothing more, not even power or influence (although they’re pretty close), than he desires to be able to hold you close to him daily. He will stop at nothing to convince you that you belong with him. He’ll start by showing you how capable he is by protecting you.

“These imbeciles are no match for my magic. We’ll be out of here shortly.”

Zeffeero bit his lip trying to ignore your thigh pressed against his crotch. You seemed oblivious to your position and just how hard you were making it for him to hold on to his last strands of self-control. How did you not know how you affected him? He thought he was being pretty forward with his flirting but you never seemed to get the hint. Maybe he should talk to that Johnny guy? Later, you two needed to get out of here first.

“Let’s sneak attack him once he turns around. Get ready… Now!”

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last-starry-sky · 2 months ago

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like – comment – subscribe

alpha!141 x omega!youtuber!reader

[MDNI – MIND THE WARNINGS: 2.5k, poly/pack!141, nothing nsfw, baby’s first omegaverse fic, (mentions of cycles/heats) pls be gentle.]

shorts

It was quiet in the little room. At least, as quiet as a room can be with four large men stuffed inside it. It was nothing special; just an unused office one of them had claimed as an ad-hoc rec room. This base’s rec was . . . okay, but it served all comers. It was too bright; too loud. Too many scents. Too many unknowns. It was just better this way, to be away from everyone else and around only each other.

Despite it’s size, it had slowly collected everything they needed: Soap’s gaming PC shoved in the corner, a recliner for their old man Captain to “rest his eyes” in. A collection of beat down, worn-in, chairs and couches curled around one wall. The perfect place to pile together at the end of a stressful day; to melt into each other’s warmth and scent, for their pack bond to silently strengthen. They wouldn’t call it a den, per se, but it was as close as they could get here. It was a place for the four of them to relax separate from the rest of the base. A place they could forget their bloody, awful work didn’t exist outside the concrete brick walls and dingy lights.

Though they had been working separately, they all had filtered in one by one over the course of the afternoon. Ghost had been first, sprawling in the middle of the jumble of couches in the most comfortable spot. He was absorbed in his phone, scrolling away as snippets of soft music and voices started and stopped, when Soap came in. They had given each other a tired nod, communicating all they needed as the other man plopped himself down in front of his computer. Ghost watched him while he sat back in his rolling chair, rubbed his eyes and groaned. He hooked a pair of old headphones over his head while he waited for his game to load. Ghost scoffed under his breath as he flicked to the next video. He didn’t understand how Johnny could spend all day either behind a computer or a gun, and then choose to relax to both of those things, but he had respect for the man so he let him be. At least he didn’t have to listen to digital gunfire and kids with scratchy mics anymore now that he had the headphones.

Gaz and Price rolled in together. Nothing new there. The stripped down scent of artificial musk and spice wafted in ahead of them. Ghost’s eyes wavered between the two men, down to his screen, then back up. Gaz was literally still wet behind the ears. Price’s shirt was damp where it pulled over his chest and under his arms. Oh. Humph. Had a shower together, had they? He gave the two the same tired nod as they strode in, letting his attention soften back into his phone as they found their places.

Price’s joints popped as he relaxed groaning into his ratty recliner, eyes falling shut as he breathed in deep, even breaths. Gaz chose to slide in next to Ghost, something he didn’t do often. He eyed his lieutenant nervously; big, brown doe-eyes raking over his closed-off form, carefully testing how close the other man would let him get.

Bloody fucking hell, he thought. Still acting all shy and shit? Ghost patted his shoulder, ripping off the band-aid. “Cm’on,” he mumbled with a jerk of his head that kept his low gaze trained on his screen, urging the sergeant forward. “Plenty’f room.”

He complied, pulling himself in close enough to fall against Ghost’s broad shoulder. Gaz relaxed into the larger man’s heat instantly, a low rumble purring out of his chest, his eyes falling closed. Ghost couldn’t help but smile, safely hidden behind his mask. Gaz always was the most tactile of the four of them; constantly seeking out heat and touch and giving it in return. If he wasn’t in need of both his hands at the moment, Ghost would have wound one around Gaz’s shoulders, blanketing him further in the comfort of his warmth and scent.

“Whatcha’ watchin’?” Gaz slurred out half coherently, pressed into the skin of his bicep and exhausted. Suddenly, his head lifted away from his arm. His eyes, already heavy with sleep, zeroed in on the video playing soft piano music in his hands. “She’s cute,” he commented, voice heavy. “Real fuckin’ cute.”

Ghost’s eyes snapped down to his phone. He lifted it to his eyes, squinting at the jumble of information crammed on the screen as the video replayed. A woman in fast motion was cleaning her room from the looks of it: stripping the soft pink sheets from her bed, throwing pillows, blankets and plushies to the side until the semi-circle mattress was bare. Both him and Gaz shared a low chuckle at how comical the speed of the playback made her actions look. The woman then got up on her bed, failing over and over to reach for the hook that held up the bed curtain until, with a jump, she finally grabbed it, flopping down onto the mattress with a cheer of success to the camera.

“Yeah. Cute,” Ghost agreed with a rumble, watching as the short finished with her trailing the long, gauzy curtain out of frame before popping back in front of the camera to smile and wave.

“Who is she? What’s her name?” Gaz asked, practically pushing himself into Ghost’s lap to get a better look at his screen, his fingers just brushing the side of the case as the video started replaying.

Ghost jerked his phone out quickly out of Gaz’s reach. “Cool it,” he warned. “Can find it m’self,” he said, staring Gaz down. He felt the smooth screen sliding beneath his bare fingers as he swung his arm back to his face.

Fuck, he realized too late. He had scrolled to the next video. She was gone, the two men realized with matching groans. Disappointed, Ghost still brought his phone up to his face. Happily, he was met with another video from the same woman. The two men sighed in relief together when they saw her smiling face. It was short lived. Silence fell, the room filled with only with heavy breathing and Soap’s clacking controller as the video played.

There was no music in this video. You walked out in front of the camera this time, your pretty, sleepy face and rumpled hair perfectly in frame. You scrunched your face, yawning and stretching in your soft loose PJ’s, your voice-over began as you started some sort of morning routine in fast motion in the video.

“Hi guys,” you cooed, sweet and gentle. Oh, your voice. Your voice was warm and sweet and comforting, like vanilla and cinnamon - like laundry fresh out of the dryer. You washed your face with a white hand towel, lotion smoothing over your skin quickly after.

Ghost felt Gaz’s cheeks flush against his chest, the choke of a soft, “oh” caught between them.

“Because my other short did so well, I thought I would make another one for all you lovely people!” you said as your other self brushed her hair. You were obviously happy, but your voice was toned down. Tired. “This is from my, um, morning get ready with me that I posted last week, if you couldn’t tell,” you said with an honest to god giggle.

“Fuck,” Ghost breathed against his mask, tensing his free hand, hoping to whatever higher power was out there that no one heard him.

“What’s got you two so quiet all of a sudden?” John mumbled sleepily. He popped his back as he stretched, not yet fully awake from his cat-nap.

Neither of them responded. Ghost was powerless to stop the video playing in his hands, the gentle sounds of plastic containers clicking against something hard out of frame continued in the background as you leaned in close, applying mascara. You batted your eyes for a brief second, drying them before dancing out of frame.

“Just simple makeup today: BB cream and . . . um mascara, because I filmed this right before work and I didn’t feel like being too done up. All the products I use are in the description of the original video, by the way, as always.”

Their Captain’s knee pushed into the couch, his hand on Ghost’s shoulder as he leaned in to watch. Price was beyond needing an invitation like Gaz. His presence was always welcome: warm, solid, and inviting. He was just in time to see you flounce back into frame with an outfit on a hanger: a long, soft gray sweater, black leggings, and fuzzy pink socks, then back out. Ghost didn’t need to look up to tell John was already entranced. The steel grip of his hand cutting into the meat of his shoulder was all the sign he needed.

“Don’t you just love those socks? They are SO much pinker in person, believe me. I was sad how dull they turned out looking in the video. But they are SO comfortable. I would wear them everyday if I could. Um, so yeah, just working and then doing some editing today, so I chose something comfortable but also nice enough in case I had a Zoom meeting. Always have to plan for those even though I hate them,” you said with a tired laugh.

The three men let out a collective groan when you stepped back in frame wearing your outfit. You did a little twirl, socks sliding across the beige carpet, before you stepped close to the camera again. Your face craned away; hands masking off the long column of your neck, showing off the three tiered necklaces you were wearing: a black tattoo-style choker, a short velvet ribbon with a star pendant hanging from it, and a long gold chain with a small heart-shaped locket.

Gaz kicked the back of Soap’s chair, knocking him forward hard enough for his headphones to roll off his head.

“SHIT!” he snarled as he turned. “Who fuckin’ did that? Gaz? The fuck-”

“Get over here now,” Gaz hissed at him, voice biting through the air.

Soap obeyed, scrambling onto the couch next to Gaz as your video came to a close.

“I love these necklaces too. Omg, look how they sparkle,” you squeaked. “I have the BEST light in this room. I’m so lucky. Someone asked me where I bought them and I honestly can’t remember! I’m sorry! I know they were all separate and I’ve had that long locket-thing for ages, so they might not even be available to buy anymore. Hit up your local antique and thrift stores though! If the scents don’t both you too much it’s a great place to find pieces like this. Ooo that’s a good video idea! How to de-scent second hand clothes? Let me know if you want to see that! Anyway, that’s all the time I have bye!”

The four of them sat in silence, pressed as close around the phone in Ghost’s hand as their bulk would allow, the video replaying. The mood in their ad-hoc rec room shifted like the tide. It was nothing dangerous, nothing concerning. Just the four of them, so attuned to one another, deciding within them on a single course of action. It was all internal, though; all within that basal, animal part left in them that made them alphas. The first to bring that reaction into their human brain was Soap. He sank sideways into the cushion of the sofa, smashing into Gaz, as he watched you flicker in and out of frame. He groaned when you held your hands up to display your necklaces for the fifth time.

“Nay any mark there,” he sighed, eyes still following you.

“Means . . . means she not-” Gaz rambled quietly, still entranced.

“No claim,” Price gritted out. The three other men groaned in tandem as he said it, something akin to a group howl.

“How?” Soap asked, scrubbing a hand futilely over this face as he tried to snap himself out of the cloud of testosterone filling the room. “How’s a pretty thing-”

“Pretty omega,” Ghost interrupted, plunging the room into silence once again. Soap was first to respond once again.

“No way,” he breathed, “You sure? How’d you know?”

Ghost flicked his thumb down the screen, interrupting you as you leaned in to scrub your face. The previous short began to play. “Look,” he urged, voice grumbling harsh and low, “Lookit the name of the video.”

They all squinted to make out the title in it’s tiny font. “Post-heat/post-cycle bedroom clean with me!” #nest #omegalife #omegasafe A jumble of sighs and keens, of possessive chest rumbles and hisses, rang out. They didn’t mean it. It was an instinct reaction that, even among the pack, they might have to fight one another for you flared before dissipating.

“Gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Gaz breathed, speaking to no one in particular.

“She got other videos?” Soap asked, his hands reaching for the phone before Ghost snapped it away. “Cmon, Ghost. Just lemme look, please? Know she’s gotta-”

“Yeah, cmon, Ghost,” Gaz joined in, forcing the man to fend the both of them off with his arm, his phone curled protectively into his chest with the other.

Price was up off the couch in front of his three men as fast as his sore knees would let him. “Get a hold of yourselves!” he bellowed, snapping them to attention. Wide-eyed, they sat waiting for instruction. “We’re not gotta find shit about this girl fightin’ each other, actin’ like a bunch of dickless welps.”

Three, slow, “yes, sirs” followed.

“We’re a pack. We work together,” he said looking at each of them, hands on his hips. “We all want this one, right?” Price looked from man to man as they all nodded. “Then we have to be smart about it. We use all of our skills to help each other. Divide. Conquer. Reap the rewards. Sound good?”

“Then what’s the plan, Cap?” Gaz asked, breaking the knife-like tension of the room.

Price’s mustache twitched, his mouth squashed into a thin line of frustration as he thought. “First,” he finally said, “Ghost, send that channel t’ each ‘f us.” The large man immediately began tapping away at his phone. A buzz rang out around the room as a link landed in each of their messages. Price hummed in satisfaction before continuing. “Assignment f’ tonight is to watch through everything she’s uploaded. All of them. Take notes. Find what you can. We meet here tomorrow after breakfast for discussion and further planning.”

Soap made to stand up, his eyes glued to the pretty lady decorating the channel on his phone, but Price caught his shoulder; forcing the man to look him in the eye. “Don’t think I need to say this, but you three do not breathe a word about her to anyone else. This does not leave this room, understood?”

“Understood, Cap,” Soap said slowly nodding until Price released his death-grip on his shoulder.

“Good,” he said looking over at Ghost and Gaz still sunk into the couch. “See you all t’morrow then,” he said with a curt nod as he cleared his throat and turned on his heel. “I’ll be in my office.”

#mw2 #141 x reader #141/reader #starry writes #cod mw2 #call of duty #cod fanfic #ayyy i finally finished something else this month ❤️#pls let me know if i fuck anything up in this series. i have no idea what is what in omegaverse lmao. just writing what seems right.

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lushrue · 11 days ago

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pt. 2 to this

cw: petplay (sort of?), oral (m! receiving), unprotected sex, overstimulation, degradation

your bouncing leg was shaking the table.

you could see it in the way water sloshed in the glasses, hear it in the subtle rattle of cutlery. your eyes darted between your husband and johnny, watching as they ate like there wasn’t a storm brewing inside you. you’d been buzzing with excitement ever since johnny accepted the invitation to dinner again. memories had plagued you all week, the phantom feeling of johnny’s hands on your thighs or his tongue between your legs making you fluster at the worst of times. even Simon couldn’t settle you like he normally could.

now, sitting here and watching johnny’s tongue dart out to clean some sauce from his lips had you sweating and blushing like a schoolgirl. you only realized you were staring when simon’s fingers snapped in front of your face, pulling your attention back to him. “where’d ya go, dove?” he asked teasingly, a knowing smirk on his face. you press your thighs together beneath the table, trying to give yourself a snippet of pleasure to tide you over. just get through dinner, you thought. then I can have what I want.

“nowhere,” you lie, bunching your dress up in one fist and forcing your fork into the other. you took a bite of the food you’d prepared, trying to put up the most natural facade you could. “just thinking.” johnny let out a huff of breath through his nose, amusement shining in his eyes. “i ken wha’ yer thinkin’ about,” he replied, a teasing lilt to his voice. there was movement under the table and johnny yelped, shooting simon a glare. he started to protest, but simon’s eyes darkened and he withered. you fight back a whimper, squirming in your seat and stuffing another bite into your mouth to stifle the sound.

displays of dominance from your husband were commonplace. he was a domineering man and you never begrudged him an opportunity to throw his weight around at home. he was used to being in charge, and you were used to letting him take the reins. seeing him do it to someone else was even more thrilling, though. the idea of you and johnny both melting into him, giving yourselves over to his control, didn’t do much to help the heat steadily building in your core. simon sighed, his fork clattering against his plate as he set it down.

“can’t enjoy a nice meal without the two of you pawin’ at each other, hmm?” his tone carried no malice, but it was a clear scolding. you almost felt ashamed, like a puppy who’d disobeyed its master. simon’s attention fixed on johnny, who hardly looked as surprised as he had the first time this happened. this time, he was eager, knowing the prize that awaited him if he behaved. “a mutt, tha’s all you are. filthy mutt tha’ can’t keep ‘is paws to ‘imself.” your breath caught in your throat and johnny whined, high-pitched and wanton. your eyes widened, staring between the two of them.

the meal was long forgotten at this point. you’d slaved over the roast, but that was the least of your concerns. not when whatever was happening between your husband and his subordinate seemed much more delicious. “remember wha’ we talked about, yeah?” simon asked, and johnny nodded obediently in response. they’d talked? you felt out of the loop, but it didn’t scare you as much as you felt it should. simon never let anything happen to you; it always happened with you and he would tell you as much as you needed to know.

simon’s gaze fixed on you and you flustered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "gotta earn the right to touch my pretty princess, yeah?” you caught johnny’s nod in your periphery, and all of a sudden, your throat dried up. the weight of both sets of eyes on you was heavy, but not oppressive. it was safe, like a warm blanket straight out of the dryer. it made you gooey at your core, the weight of being so thoroughly admired. you couldn’t say that you hadn’t planned for that; you’d pulled your tightest dress out of your closet with the object of being fawned over.

simon reached for the burgundy napkins you’d carefully set on the table, folded artistically before johnny arrived to give your wandering thoughts something more appropriate to focus on. he wiped the corners of his mouth, folding it tactfully and laying it back down beside his plate. both yours and johnny’s eyes followed it, sharing a secret wish that simon’s fingers would show either of you the same kind of care.

simon noticed, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth as he pushed his chair back to stand. as if commanded, the two of you stand not long after him. johnny’s eyes were shining as he bounced on the balls of his feet, anticipating the treat he would get for his obedience. “c’mon, then,” he muttered, and the two of you fall into step behind him.

you go to the bedroom this time. this didn’t feel spontaneous the way last time had. there was a plan in place, even if you didn’t know the specifics of it. both johnny and simon moved with a practiced ease, tactical and confident. they knew what was happening, and it made it easier for you to fall into the desire that had been practically consuming you all week. you take your place on the bed, leaning back onto the pillows like you did for simon when it was just the two of you. you position your arms to bracket either side of your chest, pushing up your breasts and looking between the two men.

the heat of their gaze on you was enough to burn, both of them admiring you in their own way. simon’s was a quiet possessiveness, a comfort in knowing that you belonged to him. he’d looked at you the same way on your wedding night. johnny’s eyes, though, wanted. he looked at you like a candy display in a store window, the best rifle on the market or the tastiest MRE the british government could supply. simon made you feel wanted, but johnny made you feel desired.

heat rises to your cheeks, your gaze averting to escape the intensity of theirs. simon snaps his fingers and you raise your head again, watching johnny move. the signal meant nothing to you, but it was a command for johnny. he toed off his boots, removing his socks and shirt after that. everything was folded neatly and placed on a chair near the bed until he remained in just his boxer-briefs. simon snapped again, and johnny sunk to his knees by the bed. you were breathless watching the display, how effortless simon’s dominance was and how easily johnny yielded to it.

“good lad,” simon praised, and you both shuddered. he chuckled at the evidence of his influence, stepping over to johnny’s side and laying a hand on his head. “you remember last time, righ’, lovie?” he asked, addressing you. you nod, unsure of where to look. simon enjoyed your eye contact, but johnny was such a vision on his knees. simon hummed, looking down at johnny as well. “got a little impatient, didn’t he?” you nod again, and so does johnny. simon’s fingers tighten around johnny’s mohawk, tugging his head back. your breath catches in your throat at the whine johnny lets out. your chest was heaving now, rising and falling sharply as your heart pounded in your chest.

“we’re gonna teach ‘im a lesson tonight, pretty. you an’ me. nasty pup needs to learn ‘ow to think with ‘is brain and not ‘is cock.” your eyes widen, understanding the purpose behind all the planning. it seemed simon had taken johnny’s education upon himself, making sure it was done just right. it was so like your husband to take in a stray, train him up to be an obedient guard dog. that was exactly what he was doing with johnny: training.

simon released his grip on johnny’s hair, letting the scot’s chin drop to his chest. he was breathing just as heavily as you, the heat of desire flushing his skin and turning it a pretty shade of pink. your lips were parted as you stared down at him, half wondering if he’d get to have you at all tonight. perhaps simon would be cruel and make him kneel on the rough carpet while you relished in all the pleasure. or perhaps simon would let him have another taste of you, but keep a tighter hold on the leash. you pressed your thighs together as the possibilities raced through your mind, feeling the stickiness that was steadily growing.

the sight of johnny was eclipsed by simon’s broad torso. you looked up at him, eyes heavy-lidded but alight with the anticipation of what was to come. no matter what simon did with johnny, you’d get your due. he always made sure of that. “jus’ pretend he’s not even there, dove,” simon murmured gruffly, the gravel in his voice vibrating in your chest. shivers traveled down your spine, rattling each bone on the way down. “gotta ignore ‘em when they’ve misbehaved. only way they learn.”

beside the bed, johnny whimpered, nails digging into the calloused skin on his knees. it felt cruel to give johnny no attention, to leave him wanting and aching while you and simon had your fun. despite simon’s command, you let your eyes fall to the scot while your husband is distracted sucking a mark into your neck. you expected to find johnny looking uncomfortable, maybe giving himself some pleasure in the absence of yours or simon’s hands. instead, his gaze was heavy on the both of you, just watching. his cock stood at attention between thick thighs, red and leaking precum from the tip.

your cheeks instantly flush, tucking your head into the crease between simon’s shoulder and neck. simon hums affectionately, feeling you clam up with embarrassment at realizing what was going on. “he’s jus’ a stupid dog, lovie,” simon soothes, and your cunt clenches at the moan johnny lets out. “no’ like he knows wha’s goin’ on. jus’ focus on me, yeah?” your eyes drift back to his, glassy with tears that want to fall. “there she is,” he croons, stroking your cheek with one hand as he eases the straps of your dress down with the other. “tha’s my pretty girl. let me make ya feel good, huh? earned it, workin’ hard on that dinner like ya did.” you settle back against the mattress, nodding slowly. simon seemed to be enjoying this immensely, and if the glance you stole johnny’s direction was any clue, so was he. they wanted a show, so a show they’d get.

you relaxed into simon’s hold, movements slow and syrupy as you let desire consume you. you’d been waiting all night for this, so it was only right that you got to enjoy it. simon eased your dress over your full breasts, down over your plush stomach and hips. as each inch of skin was bared, the carpet rustled beside the bed with johnny’s impatient shifting. his hands twitched with the phantom sensations of undressing you himself, feeling you squirm under his fingertips. simon’s calloused hand brushing across your chest brought you back to the present, rough skin catching on your sensitive nipple. you jolted and simon grinned with delight. “sorry, doll. gonna be more careful, yeah?” you nod, and simon’s hands continued downward.

he brushed over the curves and valleys of you, taking time to sink his fingers into the fat on your stomach and hips. as much as you were putting on a show for johnny, arching your back and playing up your blissed-out expressions, so was he. every pause, every hum, it was all to show johnny how much he was missing, how much simon was enjoying you. it was one thing to see how much your husband adored you in private; it was another thing entirely to have another man watch you being worshipped. that’s what simon was doing, in truth. worshipping you, paying homage to every curve and divot.

caught up as you were in the excitement of it all, it took you by surprise when one of simon’s fingers pressed into you. it didn’t hurt, not with how wet you had been since the bedroom door shut. the stretch was just sudden and you keened, hips bucking up off the bed. simon’s forearm came up, holding your hips in place. “don’ run from it,” he teased, crooking his finger to brush against that spot that made you melt. the moan that left your lips was guttural, uncontrolled. johnny let out one to match, which made simon chuckle. “hear that, lovie?” he asked, a certain cruelness in his tone. “poor mutt can’t help ‘imself. just too pretty when she’s gettin’ fucked, ain’t she, pup?”

“uh huh,” johnny choked out, thrusting into the air on instinct. there was nothing to sink his poor, neglected cock into, but his body didn’t care. “please, simon, please let me touch her!” simon hummed thoughtfully, as if considering, before turning his attention back to you. you’d been writhing under his hand the whole time, teetering dangerously close to an orgasm. “what do you think, doll?” he asked you, pressing his finger up into your gummy walls. “want me to stop so johnny can have a turn with you?”

you weren’t really thinking anything beyond how desperately you needed to come. you’d been practically edging yourself all day, clenching your thighs and rubbing yourself against the edges of the dining room chairs to get some relief from the overwhelming desire. all you heard was the word “stop,” and you knew you didn’t want that. you shook your head, pressing your hips down to urge simon to continue. simon chuckled, clicking his tongue. “sorry, pup. looks like she ain’t ready for you yet.” johnny whined, but made no move to disobey. one of simon’s many talents was caring thoroughly for his lovers, and johnny trusted in that.

with simon’s attention fully back on you, you felt closer to the edge than ever. his eyes alone made you want to come, deep chocolate focused on nothing but your pleasure. you imagined he stared through the scope of a sniper rifle with the same intensity, trained on his target and eager for his reward. “wanted to come first, didn’t you, baby? wanted my finger just…like…this.” each word was punctuated with a crook of his finger, your toes curling at the intensity. every exhale was a moan or whine or plea to keep going, fully out of your mind with the pleasure you were receiving.

“go on, then. you’ve got a captive audience.” the reminder of johnny sitting there on his knees, watching, was all you needed to fall apart. your orgasm slammed into you, making your thighs tremble and your back arch. you gasped and whined through it, simon’s finger slowing until it finally stilled and eased out of you. your eyes opened just in time to catch him holding his finger down to johnny, wiggling it in front of his face. “well? gonna lick it up like a good dog?” he said sharply. even though he’d asked, his tone made it clear there was only one correct answer.

it’s not like johnny would have refused anyway, the scent of your juices too intoxicating to resist. he leaned forward, lapping at simon’s finger with his tongue. he sucked and licked, making sure to get every drop of you that he could. the sight made your walls flutter around nothing, lust building up again as quickly as it was sated. “so you do know how to use your mouth,” simon snapped, pulling his finger away from johnny’s lips. “must’ve been a fluke last time, then.” johnny nodded, shifting on the carpet to take some pressure off of his knees. “yes, sir,” he replied obediently, and the tone of his voice made your pussy clench around nothing.

simon got up from the bed, yanking johnny up from the floor by his mohawk and pushing him towards the bed. johnny yelped, but went easily, vibrating with excitement. he’d been patient, so now he got a reward. “can’t trust your mouth near ‘er,” simon said, and you felt a bit of disappointment at that. “but you can use yer cock just fine.” both you and johnny perked up, your heart beating faster in your chest. without hesitation, johnny got up on the bed, positioning himself between your legs. you willingly opened them for him, ready for the pleasure of being filled. the thickness of him had felt wonderful in your mouth last time, so you could only imagine how well he would stretch you out.

before he could indulge you, though, simon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. johnny gasped, his fingers digging into your thighs as he fought to hold himself back. “gotta set some rules first, though,” simon said, releasing johnny’s neck and petting his mohawk. “you do exactly as i say. that goes for both of ya.” you and johnny nod, eager to get to what you’ve both been waiting for. “and for johnny,” simon began, tone darker. “if you cum before she does, i’ll make sure you never feel her sweet cunt again. understand?” johnny shivered, the threat clear. that wasn’t something he wanted to chance. “yes, sir,” he replied, and simon finally moved away.

with johnny’s metaphorical leash dropped, he was free to do whatever he wanted to you, and you were pliant enough to let him. his teeth scraped along your collarbones and the tops of your breasts, licking up the sweat from your skin. you shiver and moan, bringing up your hands to dig your fingers into his shoulders. you earn his teeth clamping around your nipple, the blend of pleasure and pain making you whine. satisfied, johnny raised his upper body, wrapping his hand around his cock and pumping it. it wasn’t like he needed to get hard enough to fuck you. no, he was showing off.

“gonna give ya all o’ this, lass,” he rasped, eyes fixed on your dripping wet folds. it was like you weren’t even there, johnny’s gaze locked between your legs. “she’s gonna swallow me up so nice. so warm and wet, can see how bad she wants me from ‘ere.” he wasn’t wrong. every word out of his mouth had your walls fluttering, begging for the pressure of his cock to fill them out.

johnny didn’t make love to you slow and gentle like simon did. simon treated you with care, like a porcelain doll that would shatter if he squeezed too hard. johnny fucked instead, thrusting all the way to the hilt in one go. you arched off the bed, nails digging into johnny’s back as you fought to stay grounded. the pleasure went straight to your head, making you almost dizzy with the force and the overwhelming stretch. in the moment it took you to catch your breath, simon’s weight made a dip in the mattress beside your head. the smell of his musk hit your nose, thick and potent, and you knew in an instant what was going on.

johnny groaned, the thought of what simon was about to do enough to add force and speed to his thrusts. simon ran a hand through your hair, tilting your head up to the angle he wanted it. his eyebrow quirked up, a wordless question to make sure this was what you wanted. you let your mouth fall open as a reply, sticking your tongue out for him. simon’s moan was all you needed to know you’d made the right decision.

it was almost too much, the feeling of simon’s and johnny’s hands on you at the same time. simon was petting your hair with one hand and holding your chin with the other, angling your head so he could fuck all the way down your throat. johnny was touching and squeezing, his hands exploring your thighs and ass with the hunger of a feral animal. the difference between them, simon’s gentleness and johnny’s roughness, made you clench down on johnny’s cock. the scot threw his head back, hips stuttering as he struggled to stave off his release.

“‘s too good, sir,” johnny babbled, thrusting his hips forward once more before stilling. “don’...don’ think I’m gonna last.” the assault on your throat was relentless, simon’s pace remaining steady as he reached over to grab johnny by the neck. “remember the rule, pup,” simon said, voice strained as your tongue caressed the underside of his cock. “gotta make her cum first. you know wha’ to do.” johnny’s thrusts slowly resumed after that, but that was secondary to the electric shock of his thumb on your clit.

there had been so much stimulation, so much feeling, that the circles he was making felt like pinpricks under your heated skin. you gasped, spluttering around Simon’s cock for only a moment before the pleasure evened out into something more bearable. you clenched around johnny’s cock each time he crested the top of your clit, which only made him thrust faster. “c’mon, bonnie. give it to me, i wan’ it so bad!” johnny was practically sobbing above you, his cock twitching inside you with how much effort it was taking to hold back his release.

simon groaned above you, salty pre spilling down the back of your throat. his hand braced on the headboard, he looked like adonis above you, glistening and blissed out with pleasure. “you heard ‘im, doll,” simon breathed out between whispered curses. “mutt’s earned a treat. best no’ keep ‘im waitin’.” johnny’s thumb pressed hard against your clit, and that gave you what you needed to fall over the edge again. your walls tightened around him, clenching down with the force of your orgasm. you could hear johnny above you, babbling about how good you felt, before the warmth of his cum filled you.

seeing his wife and his subordinate losing themselves was enough for simon, too. a few more thrusts and he spilled down your throat, salty cum painting the base of your tongue. you swallowed, giving him a bit more stimulation before they both pulled out of you, leaving you empty.

you didn’t have time to feel the coldness of it, not when johnny was draping himself over you and peppering your cheeks with kisses. “did so good, lassie,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around your torso. “such a perfect cunt. thank ye, thank ye for lettin’ me use her.” johnny’s compliments made you fluster, the weight of his adoration almost too much to bear. you mumble back a response, something to placate him, but your tongue is too heavy and your mind too empty.

by the time simon comes back with water and towels, you and johnny are both asleep, his sweaty body plastered to yours. simon could only smile and join the heap, holding you both close. yes, he thought, again hadn’t been such a bad idea.

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gyeomsweetgyeom · 3 months ago

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Just thinking about Fratboy!Jaehyun... who yes, of course he knows his birthday is on Valentine's Day, but that doesn't mean he's not going to ask you, his girlfriend, to be his valentine. He doesn't care that it's his birthday all that much because at the end of the day, he still wants you to feel special and loved.

So on February 13th, he comes home from his classes with a pretty bouquet of roses in his hands and a card with some cheesy pun and a smile on his face. Who would have guessed that the former fuckboy of Nu Chi Theta would be so excited to be in a committed, loving relationship and excited to ask his girlfriend of over a year to be his for a day that was usually all about him?

He comes into the frat house, sets his backpack near the staircase and finds you sitting on a couch far too dirty and unworthy of someone as precious as you and simply smiles. He loves how comfortable you are in a house that was once drowning in testosterone, you made it better for everyone.

"Sweetheart," he starts, entering your line of sight, "I know Valentine's Day is a little different for us, but I still wanted to ask, like I have before, if you'd like to be my valentine?"

You pout at Jaehyun with pure and utter affection, "Baby! I'd love to!"

Jaehyun leans down to press a kiss against your lips and hands you the bouquet and the card, "perfect, we can celebrate the day after tomorrow-"

"Well, I didn't finish," you reply awkwardly, "Haechan kind of already asked me to be his valentine..."

Jaehyun's face falls, "tell me you said no."

"Baby," you whine, cupping his face, "he's one of my best friends!"

"And I'm your boyfriend! Hello?! You can't be another guy's valentine on my birthday!"

"Well, it's not like we'll be going on a date or anything! We're just making each other valentine's baskets and that's it," you explain, pressing what you hope is a calming kiss against his lips.

"But it's my birthday," Jaehyun protests with a pout.

"Exactly, my love, so you know I like to treat you on your birthday. I'll spend the night tonight, tell you happy birthday right when the clock strikes midnight, we can put some of these flower petals to good use, and I have a special surprise for your eyes only," you whisper huskily, eyes dark while you trail soft, teasing kisses up the side of Jaehyun's neck.

He feels himself melting against the stained cushions of the couch, finding that in this moment he would say yes to anything you say or ask. His eyes fall shut, enjoying the feel of your soft lips against his sensitive skin while one of your hands finds its way under the worn cotton of his t-shirt, nails trailing over the pale skin of his abs. You smirk against his skin as a shiver runs down his spine, he's so pliable and docile in your hands when he's like this.

The make out session, foreplay, teasing— whatever, is interrupted when you both hear a sing songy, "oh, Sweetheart!"

You pull away from you boyfriend with a confused pinch in your brows. It comes as a surprise to both you and Jaehyun when you find the Jaehyun's core frat brothers walking toward the two of you all holding beautiful flower arrangements in their hands, your favorite snacks, and stuffed animals.

"What is going on?" Jaehyun breathes out, eyes zeroed in on his frat brothers with a matching look of confusion on his face.

"Sweetheart," Yuta starts.

"Will you," Johnny carries on.

"Be our," Jungwoo continues.

"Valentine?" Mark finishes off.

"God, another 7 guys to share you with?" Jaehyun breathes under his breath before turning his attention to the guys, "you guys know she's my girlfriend, right?"

"Jaehyun, she's frat sweetheart. This is literally the least we can do," Doyoung explains with a look that leaves no room for complaints.

And Jaehyun can't even find it in himself to complain, not when he sees the look of pure joy and the tears of happiness in your eyes as you go down the line and hug your friends one by one while accepting the gifts. He's so in love with you.

a/n: trying out a bit of a different format here

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codfishing · 5 months ago

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Part 2 of this

Pairings: ghoap x single mom!reader

TW: cavity-inducing fluff, Christmas

“We goin’ to see Simon n’ Johnny?” Your daughter’s voice asked excitedly from the backseat of your car, causing you to smile.

“Yes, sweetie; we’re going to see Simon and Johnny,” You answered, buckling up and putting the car in drive, your stomach a bundle of nerves as you pulled out of your parking spot.

It was one thing to be taken out for dinner by the two men (both with and without your daughter), but it was another thing entirely to be asked to spend Christmas Eve at their house overnight so that you could celebrate Christmas morning with them as well. And you couldn’t deny the excited feeling in the pit of your stomach at the thought of spending the night at their place for the first time.

Your daughter chatted absentmindedly the entire car ride there, singing ABC’s and Jingle Bells (which you had no idea she knew and smiled at the thought of Simon and Johnny melting once they heard her singing it). Soon you were pulling up to their house and your daughter was gasping and pointing when she saw her two favorite men waiting in the driveway.

You had just barely parked before Simon was opening up the back door to get your daughter out of the car seat while Johnny was a gentleman and opened your own door, something you always teased them for but secretly loved.

“There’s our girls,” Johnny said affectionately, helping you out of the car and pulling you in for a hug that you happily reciprocated.

“Hi Johnny,” You beamed, squeezing your eyes shut briefly before pulling away just in time for Simon to lift your daughter out of the car with a playful grunt of effort that was drowned out by your daughter’s squeal of laughter as he lifted her up into the air.

“How’s my best girl doin’?” Simon asked as he brought her back into his arms. “You behavin’ at daycare?”

Your daughter nodded, completely unfazed by his black balaclava and started chattering about the new animals she had learned about while he listened with rapt attention, slinging her bag over his shoulder and shutting the door.

“Sounds like she’s had a busy week,” Johnny mused, watching as you opened the trunk and reaching for your overnight bag before you could.

“She has,” You laughed, knowing better than to argue and simply grabbing the bag of presents you had brought. “They were learning about the north pole this week.”

He made a noise of understanding, eyeing the gifts you brought. “Ya better not’ve spent a lot on us, bonnie.”

You simply grinned, not answering him as you followed Simon into the house. Their house was always warm and inviting every time you had come over (which was surprisingly often in the past month after the first couple of dates they had taken you and your daughter on). Johnny immediately shut the door behind him and made a detour through the kitchen to drop a kiss on your daughter’s cheek before disappearing down the hall with your bag, where you assumed he was putting it in the guest room.

“Dinner should be ready in thirty,” Simon said over his shoulder between your daughter’s conversation. “She likes turkey, right?”

“She did the last time I gave it to her,” You said with a doubtful laugh as you went to the tree to start putting your gifts down under it.

You paused when you realized just how many they had bought not only for your daughter, but for you as well.

“Those better not be for us,” Simon called out, making you jump slightly.

His tone was light and you could tell by now when his scowl was playful instead of serious (mostly because he rarely had a serious scowl around you).

“Are you going to say no to presents from her?” You teased, raising an eyebrow as you continued placing gifts.

Simon simply huffed before your daughter wriggled out of his arms, wanting to get down.

“Course not,” He grumbled as he set her down, leaning against the counter and watching her run towards the tree with sharp eyes.

“Only look, don’t touch,” You warned gently as she stared up at the tree before giving her an insane amount of trust and walking away towards the kitchen.

Simon held out an arm for a hug and you happily obliged, molding into his side and returning the hug.

“And how’s my other best girl?” He asked fondly, pressing a kiss against the top of your head through his mask and making your heart flutter.

“A little tired,” You admitted with a sigh, leaning up into the affectionate gesture. “Work’s always busier around the holidays so I don’t get much of a break.”

He hummed thoughtfully at that as he rubbed your arm before Johnny emerged from the hallway and joined you and Simon in the kitchen.

“Pack-n-play’s set up,” He announced with a grin.

You blinked. “But…it’s still in the car?”

Johnny looked back at you and waved you off. “We got it taken care of, bonnie.”

Your jaw dropped slightly as you stared at him but he didn’t seem to notice as he focused on going to get a hug from your daughter, leaving you to look up at Simon questioningly.

With a deep chuckle he explained, “We thought it would be good to have one here. Just in case, y’know?”

You stared at him speechless but he simply smiled behind his mask and rubbed your arm again, looking out at Johnny play-fighting with your daughter as her peals of laughter filled the house.

Dinner was the usual affair; your daughter decided that she actually didn’t like turkey at all and the only thing she would touch was the rolls, much to your chagrin. Johnny and Simon didn’t bat an eye however, with Simon calmly talking her down from her near-tantrum while Johnny quickly fixed up some mac n’cheese (you caught a glimpse of a few boxes in the pantry that weren’t there before and felt something you weren’t quite sure what to call, but it made your heart ache with affection). And when Johnny returned with a small bowl of the eagerly accepted food, he refilled your glass of wine while dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

The rest of the evening went much more smoothly, consisting of old timey Christmas movies that your daughter loved followed by getting her ready for bed (which was mostly her showing off her new onesie to the two men who fawned over her), followed by setting out milk and cookies for Santa Claus and was finished up with reading a book before bed.

In the middle of her favorite book, a sudden thumping from the roof made you tense as you looked up at Simon and Johnny in the doorway, panic coursing through you. But that was quickly doused by their mock-surprised faces as they looked at your daughter.

“Who’s that now?” Johnny asked her, his voice light with a hint of excitement.

Your daughter of course didn’t know, but she happily took Simon’s hand as he offered to go check with her and you curiously followed, giving Johnny a playfully suspicious look as he grinned at you.

“What are you two doing?” You asked Johnny in a hushed voice as you followed Simon and your daughter.

Johnny chuckled and wrapped an arm around your waist. “Just wait.”

A sudden excited gasp from your daughter caught your attention and you stopped in the entryway to see another large man dressed in a red suit and an obvious military sack on his back. He had a white beard, but upon further notice it looked almost more like muttonchops.

Your daughter didn’t notice though as she squealed and jumped up and down, pointing excitedly towards ‘Santy!’

The man chuckled and knelt down, beckoning her forward with a gloved hand. You tensed slightly but Simon and Johnny obviously knew this man, and Johnny’s hand rubbed up and down your back reassuringly.

“I’ve heard you’ve been a very good girl this year,” The man dressed as Santa said in a deep voice, causing your daughter to giggle and nod excitedly.

He led your daughter to the couch and sat her up on his knee, asking her what she wanted for Christmas. Your daughter shyly said something about a babydoll, and Santa chuckled before reaching into his bag and pulling out a brand new babydoll, the exact one that she had been wanting.

You stared as she squealed and took the doll, your mouth dropping as your gaze flicked to Johnny and Simon, who simply returned a pair of smug grins.

“Now,” Santa started, smiling down at your little girl. “Off to bed, little one. Make sure to be good for your mother, and for Simon and Johnny, alright?”

“Okay,” Your daughter nodded happily before giving him a hug and hopping off his knee, eagerly running to show you her new doll.

You responded just as excitedly about her new toy and started to take her back into the guest room, but much to your surprise she insisted on Simon being the one to tuck her in.

Simon was gracious about it and promised it was alright when you asked, that he was happy to do it and he took your daughter’s hand as he led her back to the guest room, humming with intrigue when she babbled about her new doll.

As soon as they were out of sight you turned to Johnny and ‘Santa’, who was pushing himself up off the couch with a grin as he shed the coat to reveal a simple white shirt and chiseled arms tatted up in a strange geometric pattern.

“I think ya’ve found your look, Cap,” Johnny teased, his hand still in the small of your back.

“Watch it, Soap,” The man warned with a laugh, pointing to Johnny. “You’re lucky I’m about to shave it all off anyway.”

He then reached out a hand to you with a warm smile. “Name’s John Price, but you can just call me Price; I’m the captain of your two muppets.”

You laughed at that as you shook his hand in return, glancing affectionately at Johnny who simply shook his head and returned your fond look.

The door opened again and another man walked in, this one about Johnny’s age and just as handsome.

“Did it work?” He asked eagerly, mostly to Johnny and Price.

“Like a charm,” Johnny grinned. “Could’na done it without ya, Gaz; you’ve always been great at making noise.”

“Gaz?” You asked, looking to the new man curiously as Johnny slowly led you into the kitchen as Price followed.

“Kyle,” He corrected with a warm smile as he followed the three of you into the kitchen. “Gaz is my callsign.”

“Ahh, that makes more sense,” You laughed quietly, watching as Johnny opened the fridge.

“Would our resident Santa Claus like some eggnog?” Johnny asked teasingly as he pulled out a container followed by two glasses from the cabinet.

Price scowled, leaning back against the counter as Kyle stood next to him. “Nah, but I’ll take a bourbon if you’ve got one.”

Johnny shook his head with a sigh as Simon rejoined your little group in the kitchen.

“I’ll have some of that, Johnny,” He said, nodding towards the eggnog that Johnny was pouring out before nodding towards Price. “Nice beard, Price; you bleach it?”

“Figured paint would be too obvious for a smart kid,” Price shrugged with a grin, crossing his arms against his chest.

Simon took one of the glasses of eggnog and said, “At least you get a preview of what you’ll look like here in a few years.”

Price only scoffed at that while Kyle said, “I happen to like how it looks; though it does cover up the silver hair I’ve grown fond of.”

“Listen here, brat,” Price warned playfully, nudging Kyle with a scowl while Simon and Johnny chuckled.

You could only giggle before taking the freshly-filled wine glass that Johnny offered you, returning his smile before looking back at Kyle and Price.

“That was really wonderful of you two, doing that for her,” You said gratefully. “She’s been ranting about Santa coming to visit for the past couple of weeks now.”

Price waved you off with a fond smile before saying, “It was nothing at all.”

“Hell, you might’ve found the job for him for after he retires,” Kyle teased, earning him another playful scowl from Price that he returned by crinkling his nose up playfully at the older man.

“Oh that would be a riot; we’ll be sure to visit for a team holiday card,” Johnny laughed, which Simon agreed with and Price only gave an exasperated sigh.

The five of you hung out in the kitchen for a little while before Price and Kyle left, both of them giving you a warm hug and a peck on the cheek before leaving.

After the door shut, you turned to scowl playfully at Simon and Johnny.

“How long had you two been planning this?” You demanded with a smile.

Johnny grinned at that and you heard Simon chuckle before answering, “Since you agreed to come spend the night with us for Christmas Eve; We figured the little one would love it.”

“She definitely did,” You laughed, taking a drink from your wine. “You guys set the bar high for future Christmases.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to top it next year,” Johnny said then with a wink, making your heart flutter at the thought and the subtle promise woven into his words.

The next morning was filled with excited squeals and giggles with every present your daughter opened, her favorite surprisingly being a little tea set that she convinced Simon and Johnny into using with her (which led to some wonderful pictures that you knew Price and Kyle would love). Your own presents were beautiful, and the men were delighted with what you had gotten them, though they were still insistent that you didn’t need to get them anything.

It was a warm feeling that filled your chest as you sat there, watching as Simon and Johnny had tea with your daughter. For the first time in a while, everything felt right in the world, and you couldn’t have imagined a better gift than the sight in front of you.

#call of duty #cod #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghoap x you #ghoap x reader #simon riley #johnny soap mactavish #ghoap #ghost x soap x reader #fluff

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 month ago

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Your Royal Highness, could I please request the 141 boys and how they would react if Reader pulled the “Is it okay if I touch?” Clock App trend on them 😌

Peasant, you may have what you've requested. Remember, in real life, we don't touch people without their consent. But this is fiction...and I can do whatever the fuck I want. :)

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

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, pranks, humor, flirting, western au (Soap)

Word Count: 800

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

John Price

There are children everywhere. There are also helicopters and Humvees. It’s controlled chaos. John is trying hard not to stress.

Whose idea was it to have the local school visit base?

Price stands next to the open Humvee door. There’s a young boy in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, making car noises like he’s an F1 driver. Gaz sits in the passenger seat, grinning, pretending to cling to the interior of the Humvee like they’re in a race.

Price snorts and shakes his head. As he glances away, his attention catches on the woman approaching him. You’re pretty. There’s a softness about you that he’d like to understand. Price thinks you’re walking by, but you pause, smiling at him with a flirty smirk.

Bloody hell.

You’d look gorgeous bent over the backseat of the Humvee.

“May I touch it?”

“Course you can,” replies Price, expecting you to place your hand on the hood. You touch him instead, resting your hand on his bicep. That smirk widens, and Price nearly groans under that look.

You drop your hand, backing up. Retreating.

No. Not happening. You’re staying here. With him.

“You can put that hand back, love,” he purrs.

John "Soap" MacTavish

The dust kicks up as Johnny brings his horse to a stop. This town doesn’t even have a name. It’s just a dot on the map.

“Good girl,” he purrs, lightly rubbing the horse’s neck.

The few people about frown in his direction, clearly a bit fearful of a stranger. It’s a normal reaction every time he arrives somewhere new. But he won’t be here for long. Johnny needs a stiff drink and a willing woman.

“Is it safe to touch?”

Johnny turns, glancing down at the beautiful woman staring up at him. Your voice is a sweet song, one that Johnny wants to hear all night. Preferably with you under him.

“Pretty thing like you can touch whatever she wants,” replies Johnny with a flirty smirk.

Johnny knows you’re talking about the horse, and when you reach out, he expects you to pet its hide. But you touch him instead, caressing his thigh with a teasing smile.

A willing woman. And a stiff drink.

You quickly drop your hand, clasping them in front of you. Johnny slides off his horse. He leans against the saddle and you match his movement.

A willing woman.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Is it safe to pet?”

Simon glances up from his phone. You stand in front of the small outdoor table, an eagerness in your eye. You’re an adorable thing. Bright. A spot of sunshine. Simon sees an opportunity here.

Most people avoid Bravo. The all-black German Shepherd is imposing when he’s not wagging his tail.

Simon quickly checks Bravo’s demeanor. The German Shepherd has his head up, ears alert with interest, and his tail smack smack smacks against the concrete.

“He’s safe,” replies Simon with a smile.

You step forward, going down on your knees beside Simon. He reaches for the leash, just to make sure Bravo doesn’t jump on you in his excitement. But your hand passes over his, pausing there. You bat your eyelashes at Simon, and he melts into a fucking puddle.

It’s a deliberate but brief touch. Then you’re scratching behind Bravo’s ears, your focus on the dog.

“Who’s a good boy?” you coo. “You are. You’re a good boy.”

Bravo’s tail thumps harder, tongue lolling with happiness.

You can call me a good boy, sweetheart.

“He likes you,” muses Simon.

You smile warmly. “I like him.”

An opportunity. Blooming.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Nice bike.”

Kyle’s head turns. A beautiful woman stands before him, giving him a look that’s irresistible. The bike always attracts stares, but very few actually approach him to talk.

“Thank you,” he replies, sitting up a bit straighter.

Your smile widens, and Kyle melts. You’re a sweet thing. He can tell. This is an opportunity for him, a chance to make a move. He’s always flirting with strangers on his socials, but there’s the buffer of the screen. This is an actual woman standing before him showing interest.

“Can I touch?” you ask, not looking away from his visor.

Goddamn. The eye contact if you were beneath him would be intense.

Kyle nods. “Yeah,” he laughs. “You can touch.”

As you reach out, Kyle believes that you’re aiming for his bike. But your hand skirts the bike, landing on his thigh. You lightly squeeze. Rub. Then your hand falls away. Blood rushes to Kyle’s dick.

Shit. Fucking hell.

There’s no way you’re escaping. He’s keeping you.

“Can I go for a ride?”

On the bike or on my dick, love?

Before Kyle can answer, Johnny, his riding buddy, leans forward. “He’s got two things you can ride on, lass.”

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callme-holly · 5 months ago

Note

pls pls pls something about dally and reader dating but the gang doesn’t know about them yet and they get caught making out or smth like that

love your work btw!! 🫶🏻

𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚/𝐧: does anyone know how the hell i can get my images to stay in the same row?? 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dallas being a little handsy in the start, but whats new

The radio crackles softly in the background, the tune familiar, but something you're not paying all too much attention to, too focused on the way Dallas' fingers run through your hair, tugging on the strands as his lips move against yours. It’s slow and languid, the two of you entirely caught up in one another as you both lean over the centre consol, oblivious to the fact that it’s digging into your lower stomach uncomfortably.

You're meant to be home by now; you'd told Darry you were at a friend's house, helping them with something but you'd be back before 6. However, it's now long past 7, and the sun had gone now at least an hour ago.

Dallas pulls away momentarily, drawing in a quick, shallow breath as his eyes roam over your features, a smirk tugging as his lips. “You're drivin' me insane, you know that?” He mutters under his breath, dipping his head once more to trail kisses down your throat. “Most I've seen ya all week, dollface....”

You let out a weak, breathy chuckle, trying to pull him away before he can get anymore carried away. “You know why you haven't been able to see me, Dal.” You remind him, moving to push his shoulders off of you, but Dallas is having none of it, grabbing ahold of your wrists and pulling you closer. “My brothers would skin you if they saw us right now.”

Dallas grunts in response, his words muffled against your skin. “Which is why we're in my car and not in your room.” His hands trail further south, resting against the small of your back, and you find yourself melting into him.

“We're parked in the middle of the street.” You point out, though you do nothing to stop him as he leans down to press open mouthed kisses to your jaw. A shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps forming along your arms in reaction.

“It's late. Aint no one out here.” He says between kisses, moving his mouth from your neck back to your lips, silencing any further arguments.

You're about to relent, give into him, when a sharp knock sounds on the window, causing both of you to spring apart sharply. Dallas curses lowly under his breath, and there, standing at the window, is none other than Johnny and Pony. It seems they havent noticed you yet, Dallas blocking you as he rolls down the window.

“What?” He snaps.

Johnny flinches momentarily, before straightening up a little, clearing his throat. “You said you were busy, Dal.” His voice is suprisingly steady and Dallas scoffs, gesturing to you.

“I am busy, aint I?”

Pony looks past him, eye widening slightly, and you feel your breath hitch. Shit.

“Y/N?” He asks, and you can practically hear the disbelief in his voice.

You can feel the blood leave your face, your pulse racing as you force yourself to sit up slowly and try to ignore the way Dallas stiffens next to you. “Hey,” You respond weakly, not knowing what else to say.

“You told Darry you were with a friend.” Pony accuses, his tone a little flat, and he sounds almost disappointed. Your cheeks flush and you swallow thickly. scrambling for an excuse, but it's too late, there's no denying what you and Dallas had been doing: your lips are swollen, and a few stray bruises on your neck.

“I am with a friend,” You begin, but Dallas cuts you off, blowing all chances of diffusing the situation out the window.

“Friend? That's what we're callin' this?” His grin is teasing, and you glare at him, even as your blush deepens. He’s enjoying this far too much.

Both Pony and Johnny stare blankly at you, their expressions unreadable, and for a moment you wish that you could disappear from existence entirely.

“You're together?” Johnny finally asks, and there's a note of surprise in his voice as you nod silently, averting your gaze and biting the inside of your cheek in frustration.

“Since when?” Pony demands, clearly wanting an explanation, and your mind scrambles desperately for one, anything to keep you and Dallas out of trouble. You open your mouth, the words dying on your tongue, and you don't quite know what to say, so instead you just shrug weakly, unable to look at either of them in the eyes.

Pony scoffs, shaking his head as he turns to run in the general direction of the house, Johnny trailing right after him. “Just wait until Darry and Soda hear about this!” he calls over his shoulder, and you let your head fall back against the seat, sighing heavily. You knew that was coming. Of course it was.

Dallas lets out a snort beside you, his hand brushing down your thigh. “Secrets out, huh?” He smirks slyly, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

“Thanks to you.”

He shakes his head, starting the car and pulling away from the curb, driving you the short distance back home. No doubt the other two boys have already made it, and the news has most likely already been spread. “You know, you dont have to take me back yet…” you try, knowing full well that you're going to get your ear chewed off the moment you step through the door.

Dallas glances over at you briefly, a knowing smile curling around his lips. “I know. But I reckon your brothers are waitin' for ya, and I'm respectable enough to not leave 'em hangin'.”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head in exasperation. Respectable is one way of putting it. Dallas Winston doesn't have a respectable bone in his body; he just wants to see you get into trouble, but you love him, and although he doesn't say it back, you know he loves you too.

#the outsiders x reader #darry curtis imagine #darry curtis headcanons #darry curtis x reader #darrel curtis x reader #dallas winston x reader #dally winston x reader #dallas winston imagine #steve randle x reader #johnny cade x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #soda curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #ponyboy x reader #ponyboy curtis x reader #pony curtis x reader #two bit matthews x reader #two bit x reader #two bit mathews x reader

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allllium · 8 months ago

Text

I Think This is a Red Flag

~ This is really short but I think it's adorable, especially the thoughts Simon has about reader 🤭

~ Fluff, Johnny being a meanie, WC: 656

~ readers throws things at johnny and Simon falls even more in love

"Don't make me beat your ass Mactavish!" Your voice booms though the small apartment. Simon sighs, hearing your words as he walks into your shared home.

"No! This is assault!" Johnny yells back, his voice comically high pitched. Simon doesn't even have his boots off before a semi quiet bang hits the wall.

"Do I need to intervene?" Your boyfriend asks, leaning on the door frame of your bedroom. You and Johnny are standing on opposite sides of the room but he can clearly see the plastic cup on the floor that you threw at Johnny moments before. You're standing with your hands on your hips, while Johnny has his arms up in defense.

"No we're good, baby." You smile at him, discreetly moving your hand to grab another throwable item from the dresser next to you. Johnny begins shaking his head in disagreement.

"Tell them to stop trying to kill me!" The scot demands. You give Simon a very clear look that screams "stay out of it."

"Love, why are you throwing things at Mactavish?" He asks, and quickly adds, "Not that I disagree with this course of action."

You throw something else at Johnny as Simon is talking. Not even looking to see what it is before launching it across the room. "Why don't you tell him, buddy." You offer to Johnny.

"But then he'll throw stuff at me too." Johnny practically whines. Simon happens to have a much better aim than you. Simon watches in amusement as the people closest to him act like toddlers.

"What'd you do, Mate?" He asks quietly, not really wanting to know the answer. He really doesn't want to be labeled your accomplice when you inevitably kill the man.

"I threw a bug." Johnny mutters under his breath. Quiet enough that Simon couldn't hear but loud enough to remind you to throw your next item.

"I'm sorry, what?" You ask him to clarify in an angry voice.

"I threw a bug at 'em." He says again, his head hanging down. Simon has to resist the urge to laugh. Johnny can do dumb things, yes but something as dumb as this? Not even Simon saw this coming.

"Well, why'd you do that then?" Simon bursts, still trying his absolute hardest to keep in his laughter. The last thing he wants is your current wrath focused on him.

"I don't know," he brings his voice back to a mutter, "Thought it'd be funny."

It's almost humorous how he looks like a kicked puppy.

Almost.

Certainly not enough to stop you from your present revenge.

"And was it Johnny? Was it funny?" You aggressively question. From Simon's standpoint it almost looks like tears are forming in your eyes. He must admit you look gorgeous when you're so angry.

"No it was not." He responds, it reminds Simon of a child being scolded. His eyes dart up to meet Simon's.

"Help me." His eyes beg. Simon quickly looks away.

"I don't know, this seems like a fair revenge plan." He shrugs, more than happy to keep watching you.

A disgraceful sound comes from Johnny as he realizes he has no way out. Not with Simon in the doorway or the anger radiating off you.

"Thank you, Sweetie." You gleam at him. Simon can feel his heart melt in his chest at the sight of your happy face. He'd let you throw things at him too if you got this happy about it. Obviously you've been wanting an excuse to do this for a while.

Johnny lets out an overly dramatic sigh as you and Simon stare at each other. He's awfully emotional about this considering you've missed him over the half the times you've thrown something.

Simon watches as your attention turns back on Johnny and the smile leaves your face. He can make out the faint "Traitor" you mouth at him. You really are perfect for me. Simon thinks to himself.

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withlovemark · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! Could you do something with Johnny & something like “Get rid of that attitude before I have to do it for you.” please?

warnings: suggestive

johnny! was absolutely fed up. you’ve been acting like a brat this entire award show, refusing to make eye contact with him, not bowing towards his direction and once backstage, he called out to you and you completely ignored him.

he had no choice but to drag you in this small enclosed space, just enough room for the two of you, leaving a couple spaces in between. he locks the door behind him.

“okay, what the fuck is up with you?,” he asks sternly, arms crossing, leaning on the wall behind him.

rolling your eyes, full of attitude, “why don’t you go ask that bitch you were talking to?,” you snark. the image of your fuck buddy laughing and getting a little too touchy with one of his back up dancers making you frown.

“so this is what it’s about? you’re jealous,” he smirks, taking two steps towards your figure, completely towering over you.

you refuse to meet his eyes, looking instead at the corner of the room, an angry pout displayed on your face.

“look at me, pretty girl,” he growls by your ear, the intensity of his voice sending tingles to your stomach. you stay strong, trying your best to ignore the heat radiating off of him.

johnny chuckles darkly, clicking his tongue, “get rid of this attitude before i do it for you,” he taunts, catching your attention.

“yeah, what are you gonna do about it?,” you challenge, eyebrows furrowing, not backing down from his stare.

he gets even closer to you, calculatingly placing his large thigh in between your legs, pushing it against your core, your breath catches in your throat, pussy twitching at the sudden friction as his hand goes straight to your waist, grabbing you tightly.

“you don’t want to test me, babygirl,” he whispers, large hand wrapped around your chin, craning your neck to look up at him, as he got closer and closer to your lips, your eyes fluttering close as you await the contact.

he watches you amusingly, loving the way you’re effortlessly melting into putty under his touch.

he smirks, taking two steps back, completely out of your space.

you open your eyes to his cheshire cat features smirking at you, “what-,”

“bratty girls don’t get to cum,” he menacingly teases, before unlocking the door, snapping you out of your haze, and leaving you leaning against the wall, frustrated — in ways more than one.

#2 in 1 day for the bday boy!#wooo i’m dizzy #writing about this man is actually #so bad for my mental health #johnny suh x reader #johnny suh x you #nct johnny #johnny suh smut #johnny suh scenarios #nct blurbs #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 blurbs #c.fics

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countcvnt · 1 year ago

Text

Experiment

[Chapter Three: Safe House]

[Poly!Task Force 141/Fem!Reader]

[Ch. One] [Ch. Two]

Summary: When you are finally comfortable enough to nap, memories still come back. This time... you're left more sad than in pain. Warnings: Sadness, mentions of torture. Also, as always, this isn't really beta'd so there may be mistakes! Word Count: 3.3k A/N: COVID Brain Go BRRR! I know Ghostie baby has been the center of attention.... BUT IT'S SAD AND IMPORTANT.

“Ghost,” You look up at the beast of a man, “You can go shower if that’s what you wanted to do.” He turns slightly, looking at you over his shoulder. “I mean, why else would you walk into the showers? I can handle myself.”

Ghost blinks. He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”

You immediately pick up on what that means. ‘I would rather stay with you.’ You don’t question it further. You stick by Ghost as the two of you finally reach the cafeteria and the sound of people inside sends you into a panic. You freeze. You look at all the people and your chest is tightening.

“You good?” Ghost turns and notices your fear.

“Uh,” You can’t look at him. Your eyes are jumping from person to person. “I haven’t been around this many people in… a while.”

“Look at me,” He steps in front of you, careful to not touch you. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna let-”

You interrupt him. “I know-” Your eyes move to him and you freeze. Your stomach turns. Suddenly you feel like your brain is running at hyper speed. He was so close to you… The sounds around you are being drowned out and for a brief moment, it’s just the two of you.

“Hey,” His voice is low. His hand gently touches your shoulder, “Are you alright?”

“Simon-” Your heart jumps into your throat. Your head is spinning. “Your name…”

You can feel his grip on you tighten. His eyes widen, only momentarily, but you catch it. You hear him exhale like he’s just been punched, and see his mouth upturn slightly under his mask. The smile drops fast. You wonder why, but you’re too torn up to ask about it. You pinch the bridge of your nose and flinch at the sudden bustle around you again.

“Let’s get some food and get you out of here.”

You nod. You trail behind Simon as he grabs you some food. Other soldiers are staring, but you notice when Simon stares back, the soldiers are suddenly very interested in their food. The both of you walk from the cafeteria to the room you were at earlier.

Simon opens the door, lets you in, and you walk towards one of the chairs. You sit. Simon brings over your food and gently sits in front of you. You thank him quietly.

“Everything alright?” John asks. His eyes watch you closely.

“My head hurts.” You pick at the food, “I remembered Simon’s name.”

John looks proud. “Good!” He’s enthusiastic, but his voice is low. “That’s a step in the right direction.”

“I guess.” You nod. You can’t help sound defeated.

“How come dae ye sound sae dowie?”

Your face contorts. “What?”

“Why are you sad?” Gaz asks you. “It’s good you’re remembering.”

You sigh, picking at a granola bar. You scrunch your face up and look at Gaz. “My brain has been fucking picked apart and put back together. You four seem to adore me- Or what used to be me… And I can barely remember your names! Soap- I don’t remember your name! And,” You point at Price, “you had to tell me yours.”

Soap walks over to you, “Johnny. Name’s Johnny.” He gives you a soft smile. You’re melting. You look up at him, scraping through your brain. It hurts to even think. You want so badly to know him. To know all of them. But you don’t. Not anymore.

“What was it I did here?” You ask them. Price goes to open his mouth, “And don't-” you put your finger up, “ask me what I remember. Because all I know is Laswell hand picked me-”

“You remember Laswell?”

You nod. “Well, yeah. I remember her hand picking me for… something. After that it's a little fuzzy. I think- Actually I know I was a computer gal. But that's about it. What did I do here?”

“Exactly what you think you did. You never really had to be on the field, you were behind the scenes. Helping us get in and out of places.” John informs you.

“Do you-” You stop yourself. “I don't know what happened. To me. Like,” you bite the inside of your lip as Simon tenses, “do you know how it happened?”

“You were in the safe house—”

Simon immediately excuses himself. Your heart sinks. A feeling of nausea washes over you. The door slams as he leaves and you flinch. Gaz places a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes shut tight.

A hand is wrapped around your forearm. You are being dragged down a hallway. Screams rip from your throat, pleading, begging. You claw at the masked guard pulling you towards the unknown.

“I promise!” You're sobbing, “I'll be good! I won't fight anymore!” It’s ironic, really.

The bright lights of the facility are blinding. The guard reaches a large double door and walks in, tossing you inside. You slide across the floor, a loud cry escaping you.

“Hook her up.” The guard is blunt. Done with you. Done with your bullshit.

“Hook me- hook me up?”

A female scientist walks out from a secluded booth. She says nothing to you. She pulls you up, and the guard points a gun at you, with intent to get you to cooperate. You do. She leads you to a chair and sits you down. You look up at her with tears in your eyes, your cheeks soaked from the tears that previously fell. She doesn't lock eyes with you.

“Please,” you whisper, “please help me.”

She does not.

The scientist begins to hook you up to a monitor. She quietly asks you to open your mouth, and you do so. She places a guard in between your teeth and you clamp down. Your bottom lip quivers.

The woman walks back into the booth. The guard exits the room, the door slamming behind him. You flinch.

“Ye okay?” Soap asks you.

You pull back, harshly. You’re standing up in a matter of seconds, tears threatening to spill. You turn to look back at the door that had slammed and you want to scream. You look back at Soap, Gaz, and John, pouting. Your bottom lip quivers and you want to hide. You want to go back to your room. But you don’t want to be alone. You can’t.

“You need to rest.”

“No.” You huff. “I can’t be alone.” You admit it out loud. It doesn’t make it any better.

“One of us can stay with you.” You’re tired of Price’s reassuring tone. It’s no longer reassuring you.

“I’d hate to keep you from your work, I- I just need to eat or something. Need to calm down.” When you get knowing looks from Soap, Gaz, and John you groan. “Fine. I need rest. Um,” you look at Price, “will you stay with me?”

“Of course.” He gives you a soft smile. “You two know what to do.”

The way John says it, it’s like he doesn’t want you to know what it is. Or, doesn’t want to worry you with it. You go with the second option. John’s hand presses to the small of your back, and you feel yourself relaxing. The two of you leave the room and begin heading towards what you can only assume is John’s room.

“Is Simon mad at me?” The words fall from your lips, you aren’t thinking.

“He’s not mad, love,” Goosebumps rise on your skin as Price says ‘love’. ‘There that word is again…’ “Not at you.”

“But he is mad?”

Price falters. “He just needs space right now.”

You don't push it further. You only nod. You understand to a certain extent. You want to understand more though. You want to know what has him so upset. It has something to do with you, and that's all you know. You get to John’s room and he opens the door for you, motions for you to walk in. He doesn't grab for you, he doesn't push you. You're thankful for that.

“I'll be here, you lay down and rest.” John sits down in a chair in the room and you stand there awkwardly.

“Okay.” You walk towards the bed and lie down. You close your eyes and huff. Your eyes open back up and look towards John. He's watching you. “This is weird.” You admit. “It feels too familiar.” John shifts in his seat. “Can you like, I don't know? Maybe just lay down too?”

“On the floor?” He asks you.

Your expression drops, you give him a deadpan stare. “No, over here silly. It'll be okay.”

You, as he gets up and walks over to you, realize you haven't been in an intimate situation for at least four months. You aren't sure what kind of situations you were in before the facility, but you are sure you didn't do anything in there.

You scoot over slightly for Price. The bed shifts and he lays beside you. He seems the most comfortable around you since your arrival back. You can't tell if he's acting or not. You aren't sure how you would react to someone in your situation, so you don't think too hard about it. Instead, you lie in bed, your eyes shutting.

“Y’know,” your voice is soft, “I forgot how nice and warm people are.”

John lets out a quiet laugh (you can't tell if he's nervous). He pats you on the back as you roll onto your side. “Go to sleep.”

You don't fight it. You know John is going to keep you safe.

“You can take that off.”

Simon huffs at you. “No.”

You roll your eyes. “We're stuck here, for God knows how long, and you're going to keep your mask on? Simon, I startle easily, don't come at me when I wake up to you wearing that and attack you.”

Simon lets out a breathy laugh. It isn't forced. “Who the hell said we are sleeping in the same room?”

You are hurt, momentarily. “Well—” You pause. “Whatever.” You cross your arms and begin to walk towards the kitchen. “I'm making myself some food.”

Simon stands up and walks behind you. “Hey,” he walks in front of you, stopping you in your tracks. “Do you want to sleep in the same room?”

Your arms fall to your sides. You nod. “I know there are several rooms here. But, I’d feel more comfortable with you in the room. I can handle myself.” You put your hands up, eyes widening, “but I feel better with you by my side.”

Simon nods. “Okay.”

“So you’ll need to take that off.” Simon stiffens as you point at his face. “Not now,” you laugh, “but definitely before we sleep. Anyway, it’s probably all sweaty.”

You walk past Simon and towards the small kitchen. You begin to scour for food. Anything. There isn’t too much, but when you find some rice canned vegetables, you go with it. You begin to heat everything up and ask Simon if he’s hungry. He answers with a ‘hm’. You groan, looking at him.

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“I nodded.”

“Can’t hear that brain rattle.” You smile at him. Your stomach flips as he smiles under his mask. You focus back on the food and once it’s heated up you bring it to the small table. You grab a couple of bowls and place them on the table. Simon grabs one. You open your mouth without thinking. “Sorry, it’s not the best… It’s all we had.”

“Beats MREs.” Simon pats you on the back and sits down. You sit across from him and look at the empty chairs. Simon watches you closely. “What are ya thinkin’ about?”

“Nothing.” You wave your hand in the air. “It’s silly.”

“It’s probably not.”

You sigh. “Just thinking about John, Kyle, and Johnny. What if we weren’t in this situation? What if we were all… home? Together?”

“Together?” Simon pulls the bottom of his mask up, revealing his mouth. Shivers run down your spine. “Is that how ya want it to be?”

You nod. “All of us. Yeah. But—” You scrunch your nose, “It can’t be that way.”

Simon doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t respond. The both of you finish your food and he pulls his mask back down. Simon picks your bowl and walks it to the sink. “You’ve had a long day. You should sleep.”

“You have too, Simon. We should both sleep.” You stand up from the table. You turn to him and stare. Simon looks back at you, and you assume he realizes you aren’t going to bed without him, and he sighs.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

You smile at him. You find the room with the biggest bed and decide that would be the best room. You look at the neatly made bed and then at yourself. You’re sweaty, a little bloody, and definitely dirty. Simon sees you examining the bed and hums. You look up at him. “We have no pajamas.”

Simon, “Guess we sleep—”

“Sleep in our clothes.” You nod at him. He smirks. “What?” Your stomach is flipping.

“You, sleep in that nice bed, in your dirty clothes?” Simon laughs, “You’d rather sleep on the floor, I know you better than that, Ace.”

You roll your eyes and pretend you aren’t dying over how he said that. “Fine.” You cross your arms. “We’ll make a deal.” You look up at Simon, “I’ll just sleep in my underwear, but you have to take—”

“Wait,” Simon puts a finger up, “so I’ll be in my underwear too?”

“Well yeah, I’ll feel the dirt specks from your clothes if you sleep in those.” You cross your arms. Simon groans. “I’ll, like, close my eyes or something—”

“I trust you,” Simon interrupts you.

Your world is rocked. You nod. “I trust you too.” It is true. You trust all of them. Your heart flutters in your chest at his words, though. There has always been trust there, in yours and Simon’s relationship. Hearing him say it; it leaves you breathless.

You take a step back from Simon and begin to undress. He tenses. “What are you—”

“Getting ready for bed.” You strip down to your underwear and walk over to the bed. Your whole body burns, in a good way. You pull the covers back and lay down. Simon follows your suit. You feel back watching him, so you look at the ceiling. You hear him stifle a low laugh as he realizes what you’re doing. You look at him, with an angry face, only for heat to bristle across your cheeks.

Simon, with his balaclava still on, was stripped to his underwear now. He’s big. In more ways than one. You cross your arms and try to look just angry, while not seeming sexually frustrated at all. Simon makes his way towards the bed and his hand goes towards the bottom of his mask. He grabs it and you are hit with anticipation.

“Oh, you’re gonna watch me now?” He asks, smug.

“Well, yeah, you—” You are struggling. Simon is enjoying it. “I’m just going to sleep!” You yell, frustrated. You grab the covers and pull them up and huff. Simon laughs, briefly, before there is silence filling the room. The bed shifts and the covers move.

You peek over your shoulder to find big eyes, blond lashes, and smeared black face paint staring back at you. Your heart is in your throat. “Holy shit,” You whisper, “you’re so…” You are awestruck. You roll over onto your back, Simon’s face is inches from yours. He’s holding himself up with his forearm. You keep from kissing him. You’re trying to be professional.

“So what?” He asks, curiously. Still smug.

Angelic? Heavenly? Other worldly? You feel weird calling him those things. “Handsome.” You can’t help but look hungry for him. Simon smiles. He lays down and looks up at the ceiling. You can’t help but stare at him.

“You’re staring.” He closes his eyes.

You look up at the ceiling. Your eyes are wide and you aren’t sleepy anymore. You’re gripping the covers tightly, heart pounding in your chest.

“Simon?” You whisper to him. He immediately answers with a grunt. “Um, this is going to sound crazy…” You trail off. Simon looks at you, urging you to continue. “I sleep with a body pillow most of the time… I’m very comfortable with uh, cuddling. I wanna say now, that I may latch onto you in the middle of the night.”

“We can nip that in the bud now?” Simon cocks his head.

“I can cuddle you?”

“Opposite, actually.” His movements are quick for someone so large. His arms wrap around your waist and he’s pulling himself into your space. You don’t mind. Your skin is on fire again. “This okay?” He asks you.

“Perfect.”

Simon rests his head on your chest and you stop breathing momentarily. You are unsure what to do with your hands. Simon is resting peacefully on your chest and you aren’t even sure what to do with your hands.

You do the first thing that comes to mind. One of your hands finds his hair, and plays with it. Your fingers gently pull at the short blond strands, and your fingernails run over his scalp. Simon groans. The both of you freeze.

“I can stop.” You sound more embarrassed than you had tended to.

“Don’t.” Simon doesn’t look up at you, he doesn't move. “Please don’t.”

You smile to yourself. You begin to hum softly. Simon has you locked in a death grip. You aren’t getting out anytime soon. And you don’t mind. You fall asleep on your back, you and Simon holding each other as close as possible.

You have no clue of what’s to come.

The calling of your name brings you back out of slumber. The franticness of the voice wakes you up abruptly. Your eyes shoot open and you feel tears smeared on your face. You look beside you and find John Price.

“You’re okay. I’m here.” He soothes you.

“Simon—” You want to vomit. “I need to see Simon!”

“Whoa, whoa!” John doesn’t grab for you as you get up, but he does follow you.

“Please!” You turn towards John with tears in your eyes. “I need to see him. Now.” John grabs his radio and radios Simon. No response. You turn towards Price’s door and swing it open. Price is sure you almost ripped it off the hinges. “Where could he be?”

“He’s probably blowing off some steam—”

You don’t let him finish. The gym. It’s your first thought. You had seen it earlier. You take off running towards the gym. You slide to a halt when you reach the gym doors and intentionally keep yourself from ripping the door off. You spot Simon doing pushups and take off running once more.

“Ghost!” Your voice cracks. He stops. He stands up when he sees how frantic you look. As soon as he’s on his feet you launch yourself towards him. Simon catches you, easily. He’s knocked back slightly.

You mumble something into his chest. “What?” He questions you. Price enters the gym and spots the both of you. Simon looks at Price with confusion, he shrugs back, a look of shock on his face.

You pull back and look up at him with tears in your eyes and wet cheeks. “I remembered… The safe house…” Simon immediately tenses. “Me and you— It was me and you.”

You bury your face back in his chest and try to keep from crushing his ribs. You don’t want to squeeze him too tight. Simon lets you hug him. You feel him hug back and you relax into his arms. A soft sob escapes you.

“It was me and you…”

Everything is slowly coming together. Simon was with you, that night in the safe house. But they took you… Simon was obviously the better option considering how fucking big he is. But they hand picked you.

You try to not think about it. Instead, you just hold Simon tighter.

_____________________

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#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader #john price #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #x reader

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