#johnny is such a creep and we love him

[3amfanfiction]

hi hi three! i hab an idea for you :3

imagine ur dog runs away and you winds up in the hands of johnny. thankfully the little (shit) baby has a collar with your name and digits so johnny gives you a call and immediately becomes obsessed from the sound of your voice. when you come over to pick up your dog with cash in your hand, he declines. instead of cash he would like your underwear (or whatever payment you see fit that is freaky and weird because he is freaky and weird)

I took my sweet time answering this but thank you sm for the prompt, red! It's a short little thing but I hope you enjoy it <33

~~~~

He just slipped out the door. YOUR DOG JUST SLIPPED OUT THE FUCKING DOOR.

You were spun and running before the thought finished processing, chasing after the fluffy tail that was quickly disappearing into the dark.

"Peep!" you shouted, frantic at the thought of him getting lost. You quickly broke out in a sweat in the muggy summer air as you chased after him, each step putting distance between the two of you no matter how hard you fought against it.

"Peep," you called once more as his little paws disappeared, making the most of his bid for freedom as he left you in the dust and scurried away.

"Shit," you cursed, stumbling over an uneven piece of sidewalk, your gaze dropping as you staggered trying not to fall. You picked back up and continued in the last direction you saw him but it was too late. He had successfully eluded capture and was lost in the evening darkness.

You stumbled to a stop, hands on your knees as you fought for air, peering through the gloom to try and find him.

It was a discouraging hour later that you trod back home, exhausted and filthy with no dog in sight.

—

The next day was stressful. You popped out every chance you got to look for Peep but to no avail. You were just settling into the evening when you got the call. A guy by the name of Soap had your baby.

Unique name choices aside, you knew it had been worth it to put your number on the back of Peep's tag. That someone would find your baby wandering and bring him in. He was too much of a sweetheart for people to ignore him for long.

You rushed out of the house headed towards the address the guy rattled off. Not too terribly far from where you were, thankfully. You were glad Peep hadn't kept on running. He could've ended up in the next town over.

The nondescript house you walked up to wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It looked kept up with the other houses in the neighborhood and the yard was free of detritus. The only thing of note was paint supplies set up on the porch, placed on top of a tarp to protect the wood.

Walking up the stairs you fought to catch your breath. You'd made quick time of getting over here and now your lungs were trying to catch up. You paused for a moment, hands on your hips, only for the door to open without prompting. He'd clearly been watching, waiting for you.

The man who opened the door was striking. A shaggy, grown-out mohawk met with the stubbly beard on his face, the whole set-up making him look wild and unkempt. His blue eyes glowed in the darkness as if lit with some inner light that shined through them, causing an almost manic appearance.

And he was big. Taller than you with biceps that looked like they could crush a watermelon.

Still, you offered up your brightest smile. "I heard you found my dog, Peep?"

He smiled at you like he'd won the lottery. "Aye, hen, that I did. Wee little pup came right up to me when I was bringing in supplies. Awful loveable, isn't he?"

"He is," you agreed, always happy to talk about Peep, "He's never met a person he didn't like. If you stand still long enough he'll be pressed right up against your calf." You smiled warmly his way, not catching the way his face lit up at the expression, "I can't thank you enough for finding him. I'll take him off your hands and I'll definitely be keeping better track whenever the door is open."

You reached into your pocket, pulling out cash for a reward when he interrupted you. Times were tight so it was a sore hit to be losing the money but Peep was worth more than a few missed dinners the next couple of weeks. You'd make do, you always did.

"Nae, bonnie, I dinnae want your money. But there is something else I would take as a reward."

You frowned but put the money back in your pocket, trying not to look this gift horse in the mouth. "What would you like?"

"I'll take that pair of panties you're wearing right now."

Your spine stiffened in shock. Your underwear? He wanted your underwear. What was he, some kind of pervert? You frowned at him, unsure if he was pulling some crude joke.

"You've got to be kidding."

"Nae, honest as the day is long. Your underthings for your pup, simple trade."

You thought about kicking up a fuss, yelling and telling him he was a pig for even asking. But then you thought of the alternative. He still had your dog and you were short on cash.

It wasn't the worst thing you could do. People sold their underwear all the time. It was a thriving business. Just never one you thought you'd find yourself in. Were you seriously going to do this? Give some pervert your panties to get your dog back?

Well, when you put it like that.

You bit your lip in discomfort as you bent down. You were thankful you were still in your skirt from the day, reaching up under it while keeping everything hidden and easing the fabric down from around your hips. By the time they were off, you were blinking back the flood of embarrassed tears.

It was just a plain cotton pair but from the way Soap's eyes lit up you'd think it was fancy lingerie you'd just pulled off. Something with lace and bows and too many ribbons.

He held his hand out eagerly but you pulled them back, clutched tightly to your chest. "Peep?" you warbled.

"Ah, right. Just a mo'—" before he disappeared inside, leaving the door propped open in invitation if you were bold enough to take it.

You weren't and were quite happy to stay out on the porch.

He was back in no time with Peep firmly leashed and held by his big hand. Peep started dancing as soon as he saw you, eager to say hi after being away all night and all day.

"Baby!" you started forward only for Soap to throw out a hand expectantly. With a nervous swallow you dropped the panties in his hand as you sunk to greet Peep. "I've missed you, you can't go running out the door like that, sweetheart," you chastised.

Standing up you thanked Soap again only to see him quickly pulling the panties away from his face. You ignored it and thanked him for finding Peep and moved to take the leash.

"One more thing."

You froze, your fingers not quite grasping the leash. One more thing? He already had your underwear and your dignity, what more could he possibly want?

He shoved the underwear in a pocked and held out his newly freed hand, palm up and open, cupped as if to receive a blessing. "Want you to spit."

"Excuse me?" you stuttered, taken aback by the request. You thought he couldn't get any weirder but you were obviously wrong. Spit? For what purpose?

"You heard me. Spit and I'll let you take sweet Peep back."

You fought with yourself. You couldn't spit in his hand, could you? Although, it wouldn't hurt you any to do it, it would just be awkward. This whole meeting had already been awkward enough, what was a little more.

With trepidation you leaned over his hand and sucked your cheeks, working up a glob to deposit in his hand. You pulled back with a grimace, wiping you lips as you backed away, tugging Peep from his hand at the same time.

You watched the way he was looked at his cupped palm as if it was the holy grail.

"Now get out of here. I've got plans for this and I don't want it drying. Unless, of course," he turned a lascivious smile your way, "You'd be interested in coming inside?"

Absolutely not. You'd hit your limit of strange for the night. Saying your goodbyes you edged off the porch, eager to be back in the safety of your own home. Away from this sleazy heel of a man.

But now he had your name, phone number, and what you looked like. You'd be seeing him again whether you wanted to or not.

[oceantornadoo]

when you first start talking to simon riley, you want to check yourself into an insane asylum.

you like to think you’re cool, you’re chill, you’re nonchalant. but he takes eight hours to text back, sending you a “come over.” text at 7pm like he hadn’t just ignored you the whole day. you complain to your friends, of course, which is a terrible move when they tell you to drop him and if he wanted to, he would! and you think he does (want to), he’s just so insanely nonchalant about it. so the next time he comes over, chinese takeout in hand after not texting you back since 8am, you go a little crazy…

you open the door for him, stepping back awkwardly when he tries to peck your forehead. he practically shrugs it off, toeing off his boots before setting the food down on your table. “got tha’ dish ya like.” you nod, forgetting his back is to you. simon unpacks the boxes with precision from the bag, not stopping until it’s all laid out on the table. you’ve been quiet for a while, unusual since you’re the talker of the bunch, and that creeping feeling that’s been sliding up his skin finally sets its hooks in him. he turns around curiously, brows furrowing at the sight of you still standing by the door, biting your lip with a timid look and wet eyes. “love?”

you shake your head with a watery smile. “can we talk?” simon follows you as you walk to your couch, feeling like he’s been dropped into an op with no details. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, just that you’re hurting and he seems to be the cause of it. “i just…don’t get it. how you’re acting so normal.” you’re twisting your hands together. “somethin’ happen, love? got me confused.” you give him that small, weak smile again and it’s like you’ve stabbed him in the heart. “you- you barely talk to me all day and then you just come over here like it’s nothing. it’s just so hot and cold and i’m wrecking myself over it when it’s so clear you don’t care. i’m just so confused, si.”

simon runs through his memories. he texted you good morning, you texted it back, then he went about his duties for the day until he was finally free to ask about dinner. hadn’t even picked up his phone in the meantime, security risks or just plain busyness being the cause. “‘ve been busy, sweetheart. ‘s why i asked t’ come over when i was done.” you shake your head, biting your lip. “it’s the modern day, simon. everyone’s on their phones. i don’t think you’re as into this as me, and that’s fine, but i just want to know!”

now simon’s the one shaking his head, pulling out his phone. he might not be tech savvy but he does know this move from johnny, the fucker constantly complaining about his screen time. he pulls up the screen time tracker and turns it to you. “not everyone.” you’re a bit shocked to be honest. his screen time is ten minutes for the entire day. a few in the morning when he texted you and nothing until nighttime, when he texted you again. you’ve never seen anything like it.

“‘m not a big texter an’ we don’t use personal phones for work, so it’s jus’ a brick i leave at home or lug around. ‘s nothin’ on you. been thinkin’ about you all day, to be honest.” your mouth is open, honestly. any other man would have never shown you their minute-by-minute screen time, would have begged off the “busy” excuse while having been on social media for four hours. simon, by all standards, is genuinely different.

“so, you do like me?” he nods stiffly, gloved hands reaching for you. you slide into his lap easily, tucking your face into his neck to hide your heated cheeks. you’d even shed a few tears over this, how embarrassing. “‘course i like you, sweetheart. an’ im sorry if it didn’t feel like it. let’s have it out, yeah?” you nod into his skin and he takes a deep breath, pulling you closer to his heart.

from that day on, you compromise with phone calls. when he’s got a few minutes and you’ve hit a lull at work, he’ll call you. it’s better than any text in the world - hearing his gruff voice asking questions about your messy coworkers or dinner plans. not so nonchalant as you thought.

-

i wish this was from personal experience but unfortunately for me, it’s closer to the men not responding for days but having a screen time of six hours.

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I’d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[luxcuriousao3]

Summary: You're Kyle's old friend, and you've had a crush on him for ages. Too bad he has no idea, and leaves you high and dry to fuck some other girl. Thankfully, Price comes to the rescue. Word Count: 2140 Warnings: sfw, emotional hurt/comfort, alcohol, can be read as platonic Price/Reader Notes: This was supposed to be about Gaz showing off his hot gf to the 141 and making them jealous... but he was not cooperating lol. So now we have this. If I ever continue this, it will be a Gaz/Reader/Price love triangle, but who knows if I'll get the inspiration or have the time lol. As it is right now, it's just a moment of Reader being sad and silly and Price being the gentleman we all know he is. (Masterlist)

Gaz hasn't done a modeling gig since before he signed up to join the military, but he keeps in contact with the friends he made during that part of his life. One of whom (you) happens to have had a crush on him for years.

You've never said anything, though, and Kyle either knows and ignores it, or is completely oblivious. Either way, when you meet his team for the first time, you entertain their lingering stares in a way you wouldn't usually, hoping it will make Kyle jealous. Hoping it will make him spontaneously realize that he's been in love with you this whole time.

No such luck.

Kyle is a gentleman, making sure you're safe and comfortable and having a good time, but he doesn't pay you any special sort of attention, playing pool with Soap ("Call me Johnny") and not turning away the girl who sidles up next to him, asking him to teach her.

You maybe, possibly, definitely drink too much to try and soothe the ache in your heart.

Kyle and Pool Girl leave together when you're only two drinks deep and can convincingly act the part of "sober friend who is definitely fine with being abandoned for you to go fuck a stranger, Kyle, absolutely, I'm going home soon anyway." Soap-Call-Me-Johnny slides into the seat across from you and next to Ghost ("If you call me Simon I'll shoot you.") He starts trying to chat you up, and he's at least a lot more personable than his masked teammate, who has been sipping his pint and staring at you unflinchingly for the last half hour while you pine for Kyle from afar. You're not entirely sure why Ghost was observing you so intently, but if you weren't already well on your way to tipsy-town, you'd be severely creeped out. As it is, you figure he's trying to a) decide where he recognizes you from or b) make you so uncomfortable you leave. Or maybe work up the courage to hit on you. Unlikely, given he hasn't said a word to you this whole time since introductions were made, but not entirely impossible. Unfortunately for him, if that's what he's going for, you're not biting. The whole silent and mysterious schtick is so not your thing.

Johnny, on the other hand, is definitely trying to hook up. He is not subtle about it at all, despite his superior officer being right next to him. But he, too, is not your type—charming and handsome, certainly, but too... energetic. You prefer a proper, refined gentleman—it's why you'd fallen for Kyle—and while Ghost is stoically silent, Johnny talks so much you can barely get a word in edgewise.

You think about giving Johnny some friendly advice that he should... not talk less, but perhaps leave openings for other people to respond. But based on the way Ghost is hanging off every one of Johnny's words, you're pretty sure you'd get a knife to the gut for your trouble.

Those two end up heading out together a while later, leaving you alone with Kyle's Captain—Price, you think. It's a bit hard to remember with how fuzzy your head has gotten, and Probably-Price seems to notice how done in you are just from a single look.

"Going to have to have a talk with Kyle about leaving a woman alone and vulnerable like this," he says as he gently loosens the death grip you have on the stem of your empty cocktail glass. You blink sluggishly at him, wondering if he's joking, but he seems genuinely upset on your behalf—lips pursed beneath his mustache, a furrow between his bushy brows, blue eyes flinty. His eyes aren't beautiful like Kyle's—big and deep and brown like a well-steeped cup of tea, or an expensive mahogany table, you can never decide which shade is closer—but you find yourself staring at them anyway.

In the dim lighting of the pub, they're more grey than blue, hooded and adorned with fine wrinkles at the edges, ones you didn't notice earlier but do now that you're up close. You know he's older than Kyle—and thus yourself—by a fair few years, and you feel a bit like a misbehaving child being caught out by their father.

"Sorry," you murmur, looking down at the table as you're suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry. You blink again to try and keep the tears at bay, but a sniffle escapes. Embarrassed and dizzy, you lay your head on the table with a groan.

"Didn't— didn't mean to so— to dr— to get so. Drunk," you finally manage to get out, words halting and slurred. Your embarrassment only grows worse at how badly you stumble through a single sentence.

"S'alright, love," Kyle's captain says, laying a comforting hand on your upper back and rubbing slow circles on it. It's grounding, and you focus on his touch, trying to still the spinning in your head. After a moment, he speaks again. "Let's get you home, hmm?"

You nod, peeling yourself off the table and trying to hop down from the raised booth. You realize what a stupid idea that is a second later when your spindly heels fail to hold up your drunken, uncoordinated weight—so much for having a model's grace—and with an undignified yelp, you face plant onto the floor.

Or you would, if Kyle's captain doesn't catch you the second you stumble, his big, warm hands landing on your waist as he redirects you to fall into him instead.

"Easy now," he says, deep voice rumbling in his chest—which is quite broad and solid, but not uncomfortably hard like the male models you usually work with—beneath your ear. You shiver at the feeling of the vibrations traveling across your skin, and it takes you a moment to realize you're turned on by it. You cringe at yourself, taking a deep breath to try and clear your mind so you'll stop acting so sloppy—but instead, you just get a deep whiff of Price's scent. That only makes your situation worse, because he smells good—like some sort of spicy cigar smoke, the top shelf whiskey he'd been sipping on, and good old English oak.

"You smell nice," you tell him, because you're drunk and have zero filter left. The regret is instant when you realize what you've said, but Price doesn't seem to mind, based on the low chuckle that escapes him.

"Thank you, darling," he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice. At least one of you is having fun.

Kyle's probably having lots of fun with Pool Girl, a voice in your head reminds you none too kindly, and the tears escape before you can stop them this time.

A calloused thumb wipes the salty trails away, and Price grips your chin gently, tilting your face up towards him.

“What’s all this for, then?” He asks, and just like before, he truly seems to care. It’s that that makes you crack, you think. That and the alcohol.

“I— I got all dr-dr-dressed up for— for him and he— he w-went home with P-Pool Girl!” You sob, lips quivering and shoulders shaking. You probably have snot dripping down your face. Good lord, you’re a mess. You’re a mess and you’re probably embarrassing Kyle in front of his Captain—what if Price tells him how sloppy you’d gotten and Kyle never wants to see you again? Suddenly desperate, you clutch onto the man’s sweater-jacket, fingers twisting into the fabric as you stare at him with big, panicked eyes. “P-please don’t— don’t tell him or— or m-make him scrub the— um, the— the loos!”

“Oh, he’ll be on latrine duty for months, alright,” Price says darkly, and you wail. Loudly. Price immediately tucks your face into his neck to muffle the sound, petting your hair as he tries to calm you down. “Shhh, lovie, s'alright. You haven’t done anything wrong. M’gonna take you home now, yeah? Can you tell me where your place is?”

Through your tears, you tell him the address of the little flat you share with your roommate. You’re not well known enough yet in the modelling industry to get paid the big bucks, so you’re stuck with the other girl for now, no matter how nasty she can be.

You don’t remember most of the drive there—you think you must have fallen asleep at some point—but you come back to yourself when Price gently shakes you awake after parking in front of your building. He walks you to the door, putting up with you hanging off his arm like a limpet so you don’t fall again. There’s another blank stretch in your memory, but then you’re lying in bed, still in the outfit you had spent so much time picking out tonight, only for Kyle to barely look at you twice. You groan in embarrassment, pulling your legs up to your chest so you can curl into a ball and hide from the world—or you try to, but you abruptly realize someone is holding onto one of your feet. You shriek in fear, sitting up sharply—and then promptly plop back down when you’re hit over the head with vertigo so bad you almost lose your three (four?) espresso martinis and… however many shots you had. It’s definitely not good that you can’t recall, but at least you don’t have work tomorrow.

You suddenly remember that there is someone in your room and they are holding your foot hostage, so you do the only thing that you can think of in that situation—you try to kick them. From the loud oof you hear, you’re successful, and you feel momentary pride that you’ve wounded your would-be attacker—at least until he speaks.

“S’a strong kick you got there, love. Kyle teach you that?”

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out, because you recognize that voice. It’s Kyle’s captain. The man you’d confessed your crush on his subordinate to, cried all over, and made take you home. And now he’s here, in your room… holding your foot. For some reason. Drunkenly, you ask for clarification. “Why are you trying to steal my foot?”

There’s silence, and then a loud, booming laugh. He lets go of your foot, standing up so you can see the pair of heels he’s holding in his hands. Your heels. That you had been wearing. He was taking them off of you. To steal them.

“Wait, don’t— don’t take those, those are my— my, um. Lou— Loobtons. Loooobtons. Loo-ee-batons? Lubes. Um. My red bottoms… don’t take them. Please?”

“Nice as they are, darling, I’ve no need for high heels,” Price says, still chuckling, and sets the heels down the shoe rack next to your closet. “I’m not takin’ ‘em. Just didn’t want you getting your bed dirty.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking several times in a row, and then nodding. “Right… that— that makes sense. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Price echoes, and his face is kind of blurry because there’s two of him and you’re not sure which one to focus on, but you think he’s smiling. You wish you could see it better—he probably has a really nice smile. The two Prices move closer, leaning over you and turning you on your side.

“Um,” you say, because what else are you supposed to do in this situation? It’s starting to feel like all those anti-rape ads you always see. “Do I need to kick you again?”

Rather than be offended, Price just chuckles again, and you can’t help but calm a little bit at the sound of it. When he pulls a blanket over you rather than climb into bed behind you, you relax fully.

“Oh,” you repeat. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “And if you ever feel afraid like that, trust your gut. Better to overreact and be wrong than underreact and face the consequences.”

Price’s voice is darker now, harder, and you think you’re seeing a glimpse of the man that Kyle must know. It’s a bit intimidating, but also kind of hot, and you nod obediently. It’s good advice, after all.

“Thank you for helping me,” you say quietly. You may be drunk, but you still have manners. “You’re really nice, Mr. Price.”

A beat, and then you giggle at the unintentional rhyme, finding it hilarious in your drunken state.

“Call me John,” Price says, pulling up the blanket a little more when you shiver, so it’s right under your chin.

“Okay, John,” you agree easily, and then close your eyes. You’re exhausted, and heartbroken but trying not to think about it, and still really dizzy. Sleep sounds like exactly what you need right now. “Night night.”

“Goodnight, love,” John answers. You hear his footsteps walking away, but you’re out before he even reaches the door.

[dckweed]

tiktok made me do it!gf vs tf141 bf

You had it coming.

After weeks—months, even—of pure chaos, unhinged pranks, and emotionally distressing text messages, your boyfriend and the rest of Task Force 141 finally decided it was time for payback.

And when they team up against you?

Yeah. You're fucked.

Captain Price – "hate all of you"

You were getting ready for bed, hair up, pajama shorts on, about to relax after another beautiful day of causing chaos.

Then—

A crash downstairs.

You freeze.

Your heart stops.

Your phone is across the room, out of reach. The only thing you have? A baseball bat by the door.

You tiptoe toward the hallway, bat in hand, when you hear it—

Heavy footsteps. A low, gruff voice muttering, "Spread out."

You panic.

No hesitation. No thinking.

Just action.

The moment a shadow rounds the corner, you let out a battle cry and SWING—

BANG!

“FUCKIN' HELL, SWEETHEART—"

John hits the floor. Hard.

You stand over him, panting, bat raised, fully prepared to cave his head in until—

"SURPRISE! PRANK, BABY, PRANK—"

Soap, Gaz, and Ghost leap out of hiding, dying with laughter.

You stare, still panting. "I hate all of you."

Price groans, clutching his definitely bruised ribs. "Jesus fuckin’ Christ, love. When the hell did you get so quick?"

You glare. "When you taught me to take out a target before they take me out, John."

Soap, wiping tears: "Taught this one right, sir, she did it so well!"

Ghost, nodding approvingly with Johnny’s thought. "Genuinely impressed."

You flip them off and stomp away.

Price groans again. "Right, lesson learned. Don’t fuck with the missus." The boys help him up off the floor, snickering when he grabs his ribs and winces.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "baby it’s me!"

Gaz thought he was so fucking smart.

Late at night. Dimly lit street. You walking back from your friend’s place.

The perfect setup.

Soap and Ghost wait nearby, cameras rolling, as Gaz sprints toward you from behind, gloved hand reaching for your arm.

Then—

CRACK!

Gaz eats a fucking fist to the jaw.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, a "holy fuck—" leaving his lips.

But you’re not done.

You grab his wrist, pivot, and slam him against the nearest wall.

Gaz groans. "BABY, IT’S ME—"

You freeze.

Blink.

"Kyle?"

"YES."

You look up—Soap and Ghost, cackling their fucking lungs out, recording everything.

"What. The. FUCK." You shove him for good measure.

Kyle, still dazed: "Okay, maybe—ow—maybe we took this too far—"

Footsteps come shuffling out of the shadows, his partners in crime showing themselves. "SHE FUCKIN’ ONE-PUNCHED YOU, BRO."

Ghost drops a meaty arm around your shoulders, you state up at him as he squeezes you like he’s a proud father despite the glare on your face. "Respectfully, I think she owns the competition now, you’re a deadman, Gaz."

You storm off. "I hate you all."

Gaz just leans against the wall, rubbing his jaw. "I think I saw God for a second."

Simon "Ghost" Riley – “live this life now"

Ghost doesn’t scare easily.

But when you scream like you’re about to commit a murder, he flinches.

Which is a problem, considering he was the one trying to scare you.

It had been perfectly planned—dimmed lights, a low growl in the dark, creeping footsteps…

Then?

BAM.

You launch yourself at him, tackling the motherfucker to the floor.

Your knee slams into his gut.

Your elbow connects with his face.

Ghost groans. "Bloody hell, love—"

"STAY DOWN, FUCKER—"

"IT'S ME—"

"I KNOW IT’S YOU, SIMON, BUT I LIVE THIS LIFE NOW—"

Soap and Gaz start to die laughing in the background, recording all of it. You growl in anger, vowing silently to get them all back.

Ghost grumbles, rubbing his side. "Jesus, you fight like me, love."

You glare. "You taught me this shit."

Soap, wheezing as he clutched the back of your couch. "Bro, she fucking bodied you—"

Ghost, sighing as he brings himself upright. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, I’m taking the piss outta her."

You roll your eyes. "Just wait till you let your guard down."

Ghost suddenly regrets everything.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "kicked me in the soul"

Soap’s plan? Simple.

Hide in your closet.

Wait for you to walk by.

Jump out.

Scare you.

Have the boys film it, visiting under guise of watching a football match.

Easy, right?

Fucking wrong.

Because the moment he jumps out, screaming—

BAM.

You scream right back and kick him in the fucking balls.

Soap collapses.

Like a fucking ragdoll.

His entire life force leaves his body.

Soap wheezes in pain, clutching himself tightly. "AGH—FUCK—"

"WHAT THE FUCK, JOHNNY?"

"WHAT THE FUCK, ME?? YOU FUCKING KICKED ME IN THE SOUL."

Meanwhile, outside the doorway Gaz and Ghost are FUCKING DYING.

"YOU KICKED HIM IN THE NUTS??" He had the phone in hand, his only job,

Ghost was bent over, hands on knees laughing at his friend, his only job to stop you if things went too far. "I CAN’T BREATHE."

Soap groans, curled into the fetal position. "Babe, why—"

You cross your arms. "Serves you right, dumbass."

"I THINK I SAW JESUS."

Moral of the Story:

TF141 thought they were getting revenge.

Instead?

They just got their asses kicked.

And now?

They sleep with one eye open.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

MW Reaction to You Taking the BDSM Test

Warnings: Implied Smut, MW Characters Being Down Bad & Feral, Mean! MW, Rough! MW, Dominant! MW, Submissive! MW, Teasing, Petnames, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Ghost

His laugh is gruff from over your shoulder. A glower, if you listen closely enough. His hands, rough and calloused with the weight of his atrocities, clamp down on your shoulders. He squeezes them. Tight. Tighter.

“You don’t need a test to find out what you’re into, Love.”

He stands closer. From your position on the couch, you can feel something hard pressing between your shoulder blades. He rolls against you, his grip tightening. You whimper, wince, and he lets go a hum.

His hands drop from your shoulders to the front of your shirt. There, he grips the seam and rips it open. You jump, gasping, the buttons flying off into god-knows where — corners of the room, pinging off furniture.

His hands are on your chest, kneading, needing. He’s rough. He needs you now — he can’t even stop to remember to be gentle.

“I can do that,” he lowers his lips to your ear. His breath is hot.

“And more.”

König

König had sat with you while you took the test, curious to see what you’d choose — what your heart truly desired.

Of course, despite how close the two of you were, you did try to retain what little of your dignity you could by choosing answers that didn’t make you look insane. Or nymphomanic.

Little did you know that König could see right through you, his lips stretching into a smile whenever he saw your fingers itching to choose the highest values for kinks he absolutely knew you had (whether you were aware of his knowing or not).

When the test was over and you got your results, you thought you’d walked it. “See?” You showed your results to König. “Told you I wasn’t into anything—“ you searched for the term he’d used. “Extreme.”

“Oh, Maus,” König said, almost growling. Purring, perhaps. His eyes were narrowed, feline. “We both know that’s not true.”

König took your phone and placed it somewhere out of your reach. Frozen with anticipation, you gave no fight as König took you by your shoulders and laid you down, pressing you into the floor. He brought his thighs over you, caged you beneath him. His hands either side of your head, he smiled.

“You needn’t be evasive with me, Darling.” His hips dipped down. Something hard pressed against your abdomen. König’s eye twitched. ”Now then, let’s see how many of your answers were true, shall we?”

Soap

Johnny looks at you with what you could only construe as confidence. A challenge. You could feel the sly remark creeping up his throat as you tried to explain away the results of your test, trying not to paint yourself as someone whose answers suited them a little too well.

“Oh aye, Bonnie — I believe you,” came Johnny. With all the genuity in the world. “I just don’t think you do.”

When you gave him a queer look, his smile grew.

“What I’m sayin’ is you know there’s more to sex than that test’ll have you believe.”

Johnny shifted closer to you, eye-level with you. His hand came up to your chin, taking it between his fingers. He held you there.

“And I’d be more than happy to show ya what you’re missing out on.”

Valeria

“Looks like mi Cariño’s had a little too much screen time.”

She’s on you before you can even escape to your lock screen, a viper-strike hand plucking your phone from your grip and throwing it over Valeria’s shoulder. It cracks, somewhere, but her frame is all you can see as she pushes you to the floor.

“Seems like you’ve forgotten your place,” she grunts as she forces you to the ground, watching you fall flat on your backside. The carpet is enough to cushion your fall, but there isn’t a material in the known universe that can withstand the fire in Valeria’s eyes.

“Seems to me that you need to be reminded what you like.” Valeria bites her lip, coming to stand over you. Her shadow roves over you, almost as if to grope you, feel you.

She brings her boot onto your chest. Keeps you down.

“And where you like it.”

Price

“So you think I’m vanilla, Hm?” Price’s voice carried a weight you were not unfamiliar with, but the way in which he spoke suggested something unknown. His ankle sat atop his knee, arms crossed over his chest.

You’d gotten him to take the BDSM Test — “For science!” you’d told him. And, to nobody’s surprise, John’s results had come back relatively tame. Yours, however, were a different story.

John leaned back in his chair, his cigar lying in the ashtray, embers fading.

“Why don’t you come over here,” John said, voice low. He spread his legs, patted the expanse of his covered thigh. His eyes glinted with all the light of a black mirror.

“And teach this old dog some new tricks.”

Horangi

Hong-jin had seen your results by accident and had decided that teasing you about it would provide him with enough of a distraction to stop himself from salivating at the possibilities they opened.

Sure, it started off tame. The odd comment here and there about you seeming to be ‘tied up’ with whatever task you were doing, that you were doing such a good job of completing your work, etc.

Anything to get you hot under the collar.

And, luckily for Hong-jin, it worked. You came to him, frustrated and very much in need of relief.

Hong-Jin hummed, putting you on his lap. He ground his thigh between your legs, calling you his “Good little pet — behaving so well for me.”

His eyes almost seem to glimmer as he tells you how much he should reward you for being able to hold out for so long. Something to the tune of an oddly specific interest you knew you’d never told him. But that’s alright; your scores told him everything he needed to know.

Alejandro

He was NOT expecting the answers you got on your BDSM test. And you weren’t fully prepared for what you found on his.

Yes, Alejandro leans towards taking the dominant role in bed. Sure, not all the time, but enough that one look at the two of you could definitively conclude which of you wore the pants in bed.

Which, until tonight, neither of you had questioned.

“You know, Corazón,” came Alejandro. He sat beside you, not looking away from the TV. “It couldn’t hurt to…test some of our weaker areas.”

You looked at him, eyebrow raised. Then, it clicked.

“Oh,” you said, leaning closer, smiling. Knowing. Alejandro looked down at you. You could see him biting back a wide grin.

That night was spent with Alejandro bottoming while you went to town making him cry, whimper and beg for more.

Rodolfo

You’d assumed that Rodolfo’s results would be, at most, rather banal. In spite of his military background, he was gentle — loving — when it was just you, him and the late hours of the night.

So, when you saw his results and discovered that, oh you’re kind of depraved, actually (in a loving, non-judgemental way; you just weren’t expecting how much his results told you he was into), you wanted to test Rudy’s limits.

A whole day of teasing, complete with a healthy side of blue-balling, had, eventually, caused Rudy to grab you and drag you into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. He threw you to the bed, his strength masked by his lamb-like disposition.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said. He stood over you, arms crossed over his chest. “And I know why you’re doing it. You’re trying to make me cave — trying to get me to ruin you.”

You couldn’t have put it better yourself. But he could. He approached you, came down to your level, crawling over the bed. You backed up until you hit the headboard (for the first of many times, you suspected), and Rudy, with a dark glint in his eye, gripped the headboard behind you, trapping you.

“Trust me, Amour,” he said, bringing his face level with yours, his voice low.  “With the way you’re acting, you’ll be lucky if there’s anything left of you to ruin by the time I’m done with you.”

Graves

Bless your cotton socks — you’d forgotten to close the tab on Graves’ phone that had your results splashed across it. Hence, Phillip was having a good old laugh about it now in the confines of his office. Though, the longer he studied your results, the stronger the throbbing between his legs became.

Of course, he sought you out. And of course, he made now secret of your faux pas. And, of course, you tried to explain it away. ‘I took it for fun’, ‘It was for a laugh’, ‘I didn’t t think you’d find it—‘

“Ah, there we go. The truth, coveted as it is,” said Graves, smiling from ear to ear. He stepped over the threshold of your bedroom, backing you up against the edge of the bed. He kicked the door shut behind him. No escape.

“Now,” he drawled, approaching you. “You’re gonna show me exactly what you’re into, where you like it,” He stood chest-to-chest with you now, watching you lose your balance as you fell back onto the bed. He all but pounced on you, taking your wrists and pressing them into the mattress.

His eyes were ablaze with a lustful vengeance as he pressed down on you. Into you.

“Or I’m gonna fuck it outta ya.”

Gaz

“Didn’t know you were into…” Gaz squinted, looking over your results from over your shoulder. He went quiet.

“Oh…” From the corner of your eye, you saw his face turn pink. Then red. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

“Y-yes, well— uh— that’s a very…colourful scorecard you have there!”

Smiling, a hint of mirth in your eyes, you turned to him. You could see he was nursing a rather pressing, growing problem, and you sought to relieve him of it.

“How about you come and help me make it a bit more colourful, hm?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes widened. His tongue tied as he tried to form words — a word — anything !

Your smile grew. So did Gaz. “Oh, come on, Gaz! Big military man like you scared of a little fun?”

Let’s just say, Gaz also found himself taking the test shortly after you’d ruined him.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[mrsparrasblog]

Tf141 x Introducing your Boyfriend after they fucked up.

So I was thinking about a reader who kinda fell in love with her whole squad. You didn't want to.

At first, you fell in love with Johnny, the obvious choice. He was always flirting with you, calling you all these cute Scottish pet names like "hen" and "bonnie", and taking you on dates.

It was perfect until your feelings grew for the stoic, fatherly captain. He was mature, so much more mature than Johnny. He fixed your half-house when you were on leave, always checking if you were safe and making sure you drank enough. It was the perfect combination between Johnny's golden retriever behavior and his strong personality. It was okay in your books to fall in love with two men. It wasn't the first time it happened to someone, right?

You thought you were crazy when the scary lieutenant found his way into your overcrowded heart. He was like a guard dog for you, protecting you from all the creeps on base. And how couldn't you fall in love after he protected you from two men at the bar? Many men said, "I'd burn the world down for you", but the fact about Simon was he really would.

You thought you finally lost it when you were cuddling with your best friend Kyle again, like always. He grew up to be your safe space after a while. You never thought there would be more than platonic love. He was your platonic soulmate until you were pinned under him, getting fucked, with slow thrusts while he repeated over and over again how he loved you since day one. Yes, you're in a fucked up situation.

How could you approach this? After overthinking for straight months, you finally managed to tell them. "You can't love us all, that's batshit crazy," they mumbled, and god, it broke your heart as much as theirs. They never thought about a poly relationship before, but they all loved you and none of them wanted to give up their spot in your heart.

it took you several months to get over this embarrassment. The feelings never left, but you found a new boyfriend who was completely different from all of them. That was good, right? After a while, they got you to introduce your boyfriend to them after a deployment in an overpriced bar your lawyer boyfriend picked in Canary Wharf - The first mistake in their books. Of course, John fit in there with his neat whiskey but come on, this wasn't the place for you guys.

Johnny was the nicest of all of them; he at least had the courtesy to greet your boyfriend and be nice to him. You just didn't realize how he pulled as many jokes as possible, making you laugh for hours, how James couldn't. He was just nice, nothing to worry about, James, you said to him all over again.

Simon took his hand and almost broke it while shaking it, his 6'4" frame towering against your 5'6" boyfriend. He always had a grip on James, whispering in his ears, "And how is a twig like you able to protect my girl?"

By accident, your tires were slashed. "No, James, why should John have done this?" you rolled your eyes. Even worse, your boyfriend didn't know how to change a tire, so you stood there in the rain changing that damn tire while James stood under the umbrella until John came up, "Lovely, go sit in the car, I'll change it." He pulled his sleeves up, flexing his muscular arms while he fixed your problems like always. He was your husband after all, at least in his books.

Kyle hit it off when he walked towards James and whispered in his ear, "I bet you don't satisfy her, does she still taste sweeter than cinnamon there? Does she still get the whole bed soaked in squirt? Does she beg for you?" You didn't believe James when he told you Kyle said that, your Kyle, your best friend? The nicest man on earth ever.

"You're paranoid, James. I think it's better if we call it off," he accused all of your friends of things they never would even do. How could you be with someone so jealous?

"Mhm, broke up with James," you said.

"Was too boring for you, Bonnie",

"was too short for you and couldn't even throw a proper punch",

"couldn't fix a damn tire",

"you deserve someone better, not some jealous loser, what do you even want from a lawyer?"

[iateyourparents]

change | j.g.

pairing: johnnie guilbert x fem!reader

summary: your boyfriend changes your style.

warnings: use of y/n, i have no idea how actually emos dress like so it’s based on pinterest and my imagination, bad writing and grammar(i’m sorry, english isn’t my first language)

an: i actually didn’t plan on writing for johnnie but few people were asking for him, so hope you like it guys <33

pictures are from pinterest:)

“Hi guys, welcome to my channel!” You did quick intro to your video “Today I’m here with Johnnie!” said boy waved to the camera “And he will…”

“I will change y/n’s look to emo girl for today!” he explained with huge smile.

“Exactly! Are you excited?”

“Yes!” he nodded vigorously “I’m sure you will look great. And how you feel about it?”

“I’m kinda scared.” you laughed “I believe in your abilities to not make me look like a monster, but I think emo is more like dark colors, chains and strong make up. And that’s totally different from my everyday style. But I also can’t wait to see how I will look.” you kissed johnnie’s cheek.

“Hot, for sure.” he moved his eyebrows suggestively and you laughed “I have really nice outfit prepared for you. And yes, it’s more dark than what you wear everyday but you will look lovely anyway, you could make trashcan look like the best designer’s clothes.”

You felt blush creeping onto your cheeks and you quickly said few more things to the camera and then you and Johnnie went to your bedroom where he already had prepared everything, from clothes and shoes to make up products and jewelry.

“Oh, let me also mention guys, that it will be the first time ever when Johnnie will do my make up.” you told your viewers “But I have good feeling about it.”

Finally, Johnnie started styling you. At first, he gave you the clothes he wanted you to wear. It was red tube top with black, web like, thingie on the shoulders, black leather pants and pair of black high boots that actually were from your closet.

Then he also added jewelry and showed you and your fans the bag he wanted you to hold when he will be completely done.

“So now, make up.” Johnnie sat you down on the chair so everything could be seen by camera “I need you to look up baby.”

He started with eyeliner, and to be honest, it turned out great, then he did your lips with deep red lipstick and asked you to contour your face and do brows the way you do it everyday.

Then he positioned you and the camera so you could show off the whole look.

“So what do you think love?” Johnnie asked when you were looking into the mirror.

“I like it, not really something I would wear everyday but it looks good.” you smiled at your boyfriend.

“I think you look fabulous baby.” Johnnie kissed you.

Then you made an outro for the video and you both decided to order something for lunch before you would have to go out to meet with your friends.

“I think I will go in this.” you told Johnnie. You saw how he looked at the outfit and you knew he liked it.

“I’m glad you like it.” he looked proud of his work.

“Would you want me to dress like this more often? I can see that you like it.” you tilted your head, waiting for his answer.

“I think you look hot but I also love your everyday style. I wouldn’t be opposed to you dressing like this more but only if you feel good with it and not because of me. I actually like it when I look like I look and you are in your cute, light colors outfits.” he shrugged with a smile and kissed your lips.

“Yeah I also like it.” you agreed “I saw a comment saying that together we look like golden retriever and doberman.” you both laughed at your words.

“I love this comparison. That’s really accurate though.” he shrugged.

[elexaria]

poly!ghoap x reader where you’re working in a hostile workplace and have a creep shitbag of a manager who always lingers around you. his hands always manage to find their way to the small of your back, his chin resting on your shoulder as he’ll sway. it’s unnerving, i mean, the man is damn near old enough to be your dad. you’ve asked him to stop, but he never listens.

and one shift, he takes it too far. he corners you in the storage closet, getting all touchy feely. you break free and instantly take off, sobbing as you drive back to your apartment. the boys come home late, carrying bags full of takeout as they idly chatter to themselves.

normally, you’d be curled up on the sofa reading your book, beaming ear to ear as you greet them. but instead, you were nestled on the bathroom floor, pale and sickly looking as your bleary eyes wearily glance up and simon and johnny. simon looks furious, almost as if he knows what happened just based on his instincts. johnny kneels besides you, large hands soothing your back gently as he coos, “hey…. what’s up, hen?”

you explain everything, how your manager just keeps on pushing himself onto you, how you’ve complained and complained and nobody seems to give a shit. the pay isn’t even great, but jobs are scarce these days so you persevere to make ends meet, so you can pay the rent on the apartment. oh reader, you should have mentioned this a whole lot sooner …

simon and johnny exchange glances, simon’s lips drawn into a straight line as he glances back to you, nodding at you. “what’s this bastard’s name, and where does he live?” he asks, no, demands. you shake your head, sniffling. “i… i don’t know where he lives, si…. don’t bother, yeah? it’s.. it’s no probl—“

johnny presses a gentle kiss to your temple, giving your back one last gentle rub before getting up, nodding at simon. “we’ll be back in a bit, love. help yerself to some chips, yeah? don’t wait fer us.” he says with a chuckle, winking before disappearing back out the front door with simon.

the next morning, you wake up to breakfast in bed from both johnny and simon. johnny cuts up your pancakes, playfully making aeroplane noises as he gently feeds you. simon leans against the wall opposite your bed, clearing his throat. “don’t worry about work, yeah? we’ll look after everything until you can find a better job. you won’t have to worry about that prick ever again.”

you glance over at johnny, raising your eyebrows out of shock. he nods, bashfully grinning as he playfully nudges you. “aye, we mean it. oh, don’t worry— we didnae hurt the wee fella.” with an impish grin, he glances back at simon, who’s lips twitch with a slight smirk.

[peachesofteal]

Simon and Johnny love a good game. 

They get bored, when they're not at work. Climbing the walls and lurking for long hours in the gym, at the bar. You can only watch so much television, can only read so many books. They try to broaden their horizons when it comes to cooking, but so far, they're slow learners. 

But games. Games can be fun. Not board games, metal pieces and paper money, folding maps and cards. No. 

Simon loves a cat and mouse game. The most dangerous game. A game that ends with catch but never release.

And Johnny's always more than happy to oblige him. He's even better at it, in a way. Simon skulks and sticks to shadows, where Johnny roams in the sun, smiling at old women and babies, chatting up whoever's behind him in the check out line. Finding a mouse is never hard for him.

Tonight’s mouse is a touch too skittish for Simon’s liking. Even though he enjoys them scared, the last one pissed herself when he threw her over his shoulder. He wasn’t a fan.

Still, Johnny likes you. Simon would never deny him, though you do throw a curveball.

You’re scared, but you’re smart. You pick up on them sooner than your predecessors, head half turned over your shoulder, clocking the shadow from the corner of your eye. Survival instincts lead you to stick to the crowded street, avoiding the left you’d usually make to head home to your apartment. You zig, cross to the other sidewalk, you zag, weaving through couples and groups of people taking their time, you have your keys between your knuckles.

You’re managing until you make the fatal error.

The train.

Why do they always think a confined, underground space is a good choice?

One time they chased a mouse through a fucking tunnel.

Made her pay for it, at least.

Simon laughs out loud, Johnny chuckling in his earpiece. “She was doin’ such a good job.”

“Just as well. I’m getting hungry for dinner.”

“Are you having fun?” Simon cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest, and you shake your head rapidly, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. His cock grows heavy, and he squeezes it over his pants, Johnny licking his lips. Fuck. He loves it when they cry.

“Fun?” You croak, confused little wrinkle in your brow. “Wh-what?” Your mouth is hanging open too, and without thinking, he rams his fingers into it, shoving them back past your tongue until you gag. Johnny clicks his tongue, strokes your jaw before cupping it, immobilizing the hinges and forcing it wide.

“Want to have a bite before we get ‘er home?” There’s another man in the same car, on the other end, watching. He hasn’t said anything, done anything, moved at all. He’s only watched. A sick fuck like the rest of them. Simon knows he won’t intervene, so he pulls his fly down. The man pretends to glance away.

“Have you sucked a cock before?” You make some awful hissing noise like a strangled cat.

“C’mon bonnie, hold still.” Simon forces himself past your teeth. You’re shaking so hard it’s like your bones are rattling, and when you stay frozen, Johnny guides you, dragging the heat of your mouth back and forth on Simon’s cock. It’s hot, and wet, and his toes curl. It’s like getting high, like a cigarette after a huge dinner. Euphoric. Satisfying.

The man at the other end of the car turns to give the situation his full attention, but not to stop him. Instead, his hand creeps down the front of his pants.

“Aww mouse, I think he likes ye.” Johnny’s cock is also hard, swollen against his thigh, and he rips your tense grip free from the seat to press it to his erection, kissing your temple. “It’ll be my turn, when we get home.” You try to jerk free, thrash, but it only forces the blunt tip of Simon’s cock deeper, and you start to gag uncontrollably. Johnny’s practically shivering with excitement.

“Don’t puke.” He grunts, fucking your face, slamming deep as he pumps his cum down your throat. You moan, eyes slipping closed. Defeated. Trampled under foot. Poor little mouse.

It’s adorable. You’re helpless. There’s too much going on, him, Johnny, the fucking creep still rubbing away at his crotch, and he feels bad. They should be taking better care at this point. They always need to butter them up before setting them free in the maze.

“Lights out, Johnny.” Fingers find those pressure points on your neck, and then the next thing they know, you’re slumped over, asleep on Johnny’s chest. What a cutie.

“Think we can keep her for a bit?” Simon rolls his eyes.

“We’ll see.”

[oceantornadoo]

ch13 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: allusions to torture. reader has some ptsd. SMUT.

also i did not edit this srry

masterlist | next

“Again.”

Johnny sighs to his right, but Simon ignores it, too concerned with the man in the chair in front of him. “Say it again.” The man in the chair (Richard, 34, nephew of a Price uncle, twice-removed or some bullshit) spits out a glob of blood on the floor before clearing his throat. “The night the weapons were stolen I was at home with my wife. We watched a new episode of one of those trashy American shows, The Bachelor, that dropped that night. I was off-shift. Came in at 6am because of the Mrs. Price emergency.” Simon’s eyebrow twitches under his mask. Three days after getting his sister back and this is what sniffs out the rat? An American show Johnny loves to pirate? He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Johnny catches his eye and he can’t fault the man for the grin on his face. When Simon turns back to Richard, red in the face, he’s pretty sure the man’s figured it out. “The Bachelor drops Mondays.”

Richard sputters, twitching. “We were catchin’ up from the week before.” Simon shakes his head, glancing at the papers on the table to his left. “You had off every other night that week and only got to it by Sunday? Tellin’ me the wife keeps up with the drop schedule but waited six days?” He walks closer to Richard, gloved hands gripping the man’s jaw tightly. He presses his fingers into the bruise near his mouth, pressing hard until he breaks.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m in debt, man, 50,000 Euros. No one knows so when I lost to the guy at that shithole of a bar and he offered me a job, I couldn’t say no! He said it was just a few documents, wouldn’t hurt anyone…” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Before Simon can grab a tool from the wall, Johnny clears his throat. “Let me, sir. Gaz called. You’re needed at base.” That could only mean one thing. Simon nods, swallowing thickly as he leaves the room to the sound of screams. 

It’s a half hour drive back to the Castle, but it feels like eons. Simon changes his gloves and mask with the limo partition up, even swapping his sweatshirt out for your benefit. The smell of blood fades when the fabric is removed, bundled into a trash bag he leaves in the car. When Simon double checks his phone, his hands are shaking. Another oddity of the week, too miniscule to dwell on.

It’s been three days since he last saw you, cuddled up in Price’s arms like an injured stray. For all Simon has tried to protect you from, the insults of childhood and your shared shitty father, it worries him to think you got hurt despite his greatest efforts. There’s no doubt that you’re a strong woman, but he’s not sure what Shepherd did to you and no matter what, there’s only so much a person can take. The guilt that’s been following him since the marriage is heavy like a chain, weighing down his every motion. Did he marry you off too early? Was Price the wrong pick? Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in his head, only stopping when the car pulls up to the Castle.

It’s the perfect home he would have picked for you, given the chance. Sophisticated wealth, nothing flashy or too pretentious. Gaz mentioned that you redecorated, and he can see parts of you in the artwork, in the new chairs meant for casual conversation instead of just functionality. You’ve turned the base into a home and the guilt creeps up again thinking of how you might have never returned to it.

“Mr. Riley.” The door guards nod at Simon as he walks through. He feels out of place in his hoodie, used to his lax uniform in Manchester. Price styles himself more as a businessman than Simon ever has. He hides the scars with gloves and a mask but he doesn’t delude himself into thinking of himself as a professional. He’s more like the head of a wolf pack, barking and snarling at anyone who gets too close. Nothing like Price and he’s glad for it. You deserve someone who can give you a semblance of a normal life, pretending like he’s going to work at an office instead of meeting illicit weapons dealers on the edge of town.

Gaz is waiting for him in the foyer, immaculate in a deep blue button-up. It’s the first time he’s seen the man shaved, a testament to the bonds that you forged with Price men that were tested in the past week. “Ghost.” Gaz nods, leading him through the Castle. “How is she?” Gaz walks slower than usual, seeming to need more time before bringing Simon upstairs. “She’s…recovering. Been talking with a trauma therapist the Captain trusts.” Simon nods. He can’t imagine what they put you through, why John ordered him to find a new set of clothes when they found you. Everything he learns is a strike against Phil, whenever Simon finds him. John promised him retribution.

“How is she physically? They hurt her?” Gaz stops in front of the stairs, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “She’s skittish. Can’t approach ‘er from behind, got t’ give ‘er plenty of warnin’. I only saw her last night when she came down for some food, ‘s the first time she’s been out of the room. The Captain’s given me a temporary title while he’s taking care of ‘er.” It’s not temporary. Simon can sense it, leadership senses setting off alarms. Loyalty, initiative, intelligence - Gaz has it all. A fine replacement if he’s ever seen one. Too bad Johnny hates him. 

Simon nods, ready to see his sister. Before he can step up the stairs, Gaz clears his throat. “If you can, sir, convince her to drink some water? Last night, all she could do was look at the glass.” Christ. What did they do to you?

When Simon climbs up the stairs, you’re lounging in the sitting room, swathed in clothes too big for you. The couch you’re on is out of place, tugged from its original spot so the back is now against the wall. Tactical. He ensures his steps are loud so you sit up with a smile instead of a shudder. “Si!” You grin and his heart stops at the fact you still have the ability to. They didn’t take everything. “Hey, love. Can I hug ya?” You nod, setting your book down with your arms reaching up. “I missed you.” You murmur as he hugs you. The angle is awkward as he towers over you but he doesn’t particularly care, sitting down next to you while keeping you in his arms.

“How ya doin’, kid?” He asks when you release him. Simon slips off his medical mask into his pocket. On closer look, you’re wearing John’s clothes, the name of some obscure London footie team emboldened on the chest. He can hear the man’s voice come from behind the closed bedroom door, likely on a phone call. “I’m okay. John got me a therapist and she’s really helping. She specializes in kidnapping victims and immediate solutions and…yeah. Isn’t that a bit weird, saying I’ve been kidnapped?” On second look, you don’t look your best. There’s circles on your eyes and faded bruises on your jaw, like someone grabbed it and forced it open. Instead of answering, Simon brushes the soft skin of your neck until he can find your pulse. You don’t jolt like he expected you to, instead curling into the feeling of his familiar touch. 

“I knew somethin’ was wrong ‘fore Gaz called. Had this dream of you screamin’ my name, askin’ for my help from somewhere far. When I woke, I just knew. Ready to tear the world apart f’ you, kiddo. You’re still my little sister to protect.” A tear escapes your eye. He brushes it away, then squeezes your cheek like a grandmother would before pulling back. “I’m still lookin’ f’r others who were involved. They’ll get what’s coming for ‘em.” You nod, catching his hand before he pulls back completely. “Thank you for that, Si, but also, I just- just need you here, you know? I think your presence here will do a lot more for me than being an avenging angel.” He gets it, he does, but he didn’t get to kill Shepherd. He was John’s but Phil is Simon’s and no matter what, he will be found. “Think there’s a way f’r us to split it?” It. His time. Your wants, his needs. 

You squeeze his hand and nod. “I think so.” You croak out. Simon can sense the need for levity, so he starts telling you about how Johnny almost got himself blown up a few weeks ago when dealing with a Chinese chemical supplier. Simon’s not usually the joker between you two but he channels the infectious energy of his husband, in pursuit of making you laugh. You finally giggle when he mimics the windblown look on Johnny’s face, even putting in the effort to mimic his mohawk with his hands. It’s goofy and reminiscent of your childhood, the ghost of Tommy making a rare appearance in the corner of the room. Your kidnapping has sent Simon off the edge and out of character, desperate to do anything to repair what has been broken.

The bedroom door creaks open and John’s heavy footsteps follow. “Hi, sweetheart.” John approaches the couch head on, kissing your forehead before nodding at Simon. “Simon.” He nods back, not feeling the need to put his mask back on. “John.” “What is this?” Your eyes flick between the two of them, brows furrowed. Simon looks at John, who shrugs. “What’re ya talkin about?” You frown at Simon’s words, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Since when is there a bromance? What did I miss?” John sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Simon reaches out to ruffle your hairdo, smiling when you screech and bat his hand away. “‘S called mutual respect, sweetheart. Not sure what a bromance is.” You mock John’s sigh, rolling your eyes. “You’ll be wearing friendship bracelets by the end of this year if you keep going on this trajectory.” The men lock eyes with twin glances of horror.

“On that note, you good if I pop in downstairs, sweetheart? Gaz needed help on something.” A look of understanding passes between you two, a look Simon has felt time and time again with his husband. It’s like a punch to the gut in the softest way possible. “All good, I’ll be here with Simon.” John nods, kissing your forehead before taking a few steps back towards the staircase. Before he can leave, Simon clears his throat. “John, you have any condos or safehouses in the area you aren’t usin’?” John’s eyes flicker with a different kind of understanding. “Enough space for two, I gather?” Simon nods, ignoring how you’re kicking his shin. “For a month or two, at least.” You kick him harder and he shoves your foot away in a playful push. “I’ll see what I can do.” John responds, nodding before heading down the stairs. 

“You’re stayin’?” When he turns to look at you, your lip is quivering. He sighs in faux exhaustion before tugging your legs on top of his. “‘Course I’m stayin’. Can’t let my baby sister fight alone.” You shyly wipe your eyes before meeting his own. “What about the business in Manchester?” He shrugs, acting like he didn’t spend hours on the phone with his best men last night. “It’s what I’ve got men for. Plus, you can show me ‘round.” Instead of squealing or jumping him, you give him a small smile. It feels older and mellow, something he hates. “Thanks, Si.” He squeezes your foot. He wants to bring up the water drinking, but you seem a little fragile right now. He’s got time now, something he won’t miscount. “‘S what I’m here for. Now tell me the rest ‘f y’r redecoratin’ plans. That entryway could use some work.” You grin and he’s reminded of the toothy five-year old, playing hide and seek in the Riley house of horrors. A survivor, through and through.

-

Every day passes faster than the last. You find out your therapist, Marie, is actually Dr. Marie Laswell, Kate’s wife. She promises you that despite their marriage, everything you share is confidential and stays between you. It’s hard work, recounting everything that happened in your daily meetings. John is there, kissing your forehead and cuddling you after nightmares, like the perfect gentleman. As the adrenaline drains and you find yourself living again, you crave more than that.

You want to go back to your last fight. You know it could be self-sabotage, but in the confines of the Castle, it’s like nothing can harm you. John only has guards you know working. Terrance stops by once or twice, telling you he got promoted. Simon visits whenever he can. Your reunion with Johnny is heartfelt and strong. Gaz feels like a son now, protective and firm about your security. All of these facts coalesce into a suit of armor, knowing that as long as you don’t leave the building, you are safe.

Marie tells you it’s not the healthiest mindset. You remind her progress is progress. She sighs in a way that reminds you of her wife.

The one-month anniversary of your kidnapping creeps up on you, haunting the corners of your mind. There’s an ache deep in your heart to return to normal, no matter what he said about finding a new one. You want so badly to change without looking over your shoulder. On rainy days, there’s a phantom ache in the side of your arm that Phil sunk a syringe into. He’s still in the wind, a fact that agitates Simon more and more. Small wins happen too. There are days you don’t need John at home, content with phone calls throughout the day and a long dinner at night. You’ve gone on two (2!) walks by yourself, passing through the park across from the Castle as guards trail behind you and at the corners of the park. You’ve progressed to Gatorade and flavored carbonated water but still jump at unknown touches. Except, of course, John’s.

Every night runs like clockwork. You shower, John standing outside the door like a protective hound. Then you slip on a robe and let him in, brushing your teeth and finishing your routine together. He leaves to ‘check something’ and always returns with a new non-water liquid he wants you to try, like a new Gatorade or flavor of tea. In the time he’s gone, you change. You’ve graduated from speed-changing to taking your time, rubbing lotion on your body before slipping on pajamas. When John comes back, you cuddle and talk, and then lights out.

The same damn routine. Every. Night. You feel like a nun.

The anniversary passes without little fanfare. John takes the day off, unusual but part of the new normal. Gaz is left in charge again, a fact he’s getting more used to. When you wake in the morning, something else new happens.

Morning light warms your eyelids. John’s arm is a comfortable weight around your waist, his forearm hair rubbing the patch of your stomach exposed by your raised shirt. Something pulses low in your belly. When he turns to pull you closer into him, your stomach flutters. His face tucked into your neck, the weight of him searing as his body is half-slung over yours. It’s a welcome change from how you usually find yourself on top of him, like he’s pinning you to reality. A body scan reveals wetness between your thighs and a keenness between your lips.

When you cant your hips slightly, chasing that fluttering feeling, his cock twitches in his sweats where it’s against the outside of your thigh. You tilt them higher, fighting against the weight of him, and smile when his cock twitches again. “Go t’sleep.” He groans, rough and sleepy into your ear. Instead of listening, you push your thigh outwards to the heavy weight of him.

“Watch what y’r doin’, pet.” Pet is new. Unlocking a new nickname sends a thrill down your spine. You ignore the connotations behind it. “John…” You whisper, injecting an extra breath of air into your speech. He pulls his head up, hair mussed and eyes blurry. He’s beautiful.

He props himself up on his forearm, giving your own arm freedom to move. You do so, sliding it from his neck to his torso, snaking down to follow his happy trail. “What d’ya think y’r doin’?” You run your fingers through his trimmed body hair, only dipping slightly into the elastic of his boxers. “I want to feel you.” You blink at him with wide eyes. He pulls his core backwards, letting your hand drop on the mattress. “Y’r not ready.” You frown, scooting back into your pillows so you can properly meet his eyes. “I think I get to decide that, John.” He closes his eyes, sighing. “I was readin’ an article and-” You huff, pulling back further until you’re sitting on the opposite side of the bed. 

“This is the problem we have, John. You trust external sources more than me.” If he was a weaker man, he’d look whiplashed. Unfortunately, you got a husband prepared for anything, a man who can argue at the drop of a hat. “I’m jus’ sayin’, sweetheart, maybe we wait. I don’t want t’ hurt ya.” You scoff, pulling your knees to your chest. “Can you trust when I say you won’t hurt me? That I can handle myself and know my limits?” He’s silent for a second too long.

You launch yourself out of the bed, heading for the bathroom. He’s faster than you, weak from weeks of lethargy, beating you to the punch to stand in front of the door instead of tugging you back into him. “Stop.” You place a hand on his chest, intent to push him away, but all he does is cover it with his own. “Can you jus’ wait for a second?” That’s when you take a second look at your husband. How he’s panting like he’s out of breath, even if you know he goes for runs every day. His pupils are blown and feral, a predator in the wild. You stand for a bit, letting your palm track how his breaths go in and out of his chest.

“Deep breaths for me, baby.” How nostalgic it feels, the roles reversed as this time it’s you talking him off a ledge. His breathing calms after a minute, eyes going tame as he squeezes the life out of your hand. When he’s calmed, he speaks. “The last time you ran from me after an argument, you were taken from me.” Your heart breaks a little at the weakness he lets you see. Your hand slides up into his beard, brushing over the rough strands as you look in his eyes. “I wasn’t running, John. I just needed some space.” He shakes his head in disagreement. “Ya don’t know what it felt like, seein’ you step into tha’ car an’ gettin’ a call hours later that you were gone.” You nod, biting your lip.

“You’re right, John. I don’t know. And you don’t know how my brain works. You don’t know how harsh grips trigger me but yours never have.” Understanding brews in his eyes, cloudy like a cup of coffee. He pulls you in closer by the waist, lining you up until your pelvises meet. “I get it, sweetheart. I trust you.” You exhale a breath at his words.

“I didn’t take ya on tha’ trip months ago because I was meetin’ a new supplier an’ I didn’t trust him. You know firsthand now how dangerous my world is. I know you’ve lived this life, but London is more cutthroat than Manchester could ever be. ‘M not sorry f’r smotherin’ ya, because at least y’r safe. ‘S my number one concern in this world.” It’s terrible, how you don’t care that he’s admitted that he smothers you. How all you care about is how he knew what you were referencing, even if it was from months ago.

“How do I know you want me for me?” Another concern of yours from your fight before the kidnapping. He shrugs, giving you a wry smile. “Guess you’ll have to trust me.”

You drag him into the bathroom, jumping onto the counter and pulling him between your legs. You practically maul his face, kissing him with unrestrained want. His admission flipped a switch in you, a longing that’s been asleep for a while. It wakes up when he pulls you closer to his pelvis, your clothed cunt rubbing against the outline of his cock. You’re still wet from earlier, your folds sticking to airy fabric. 

“Didn’t want it like this.” He breathes behind your ear. John sucks a soft patch of skin there, licking at the sweat from your sleep before trailing down your neck. “Wanted t’ eat ya out f’r an hour ‘fore even pullin’ my cock out.” You run a hand down his rigid back muscles, pulling at the fabric until he lets you tug it off. John laves his tongue at your neck, alternating between sucking and nipping at your sensitive skin. His hands grip your hard, thumbs inching closer and closer to your core. You’re wearing shorts without underwear, a perfect combination that he soon discovers. “What else?” You moan, leaning your head back until it hits the mirror behind you. It’s perfect, knowing there’s nothing but a wall behind your back. It calms the worried part of your brain, letting you fully focus on the moment.

“Then I’d let ya suck my cock, get it nice an’ warm in tha’ mouth of yours. Let you rub y’r cunt against me.” You whine at the image, nails digging into his back as he continues making out with your neck. Finally, he tugs your sleep shirt off, trailing downwards to suck at your tits. He squeezes one while sucking the other, pulling hard enough to make it hurt. There’s no part of him you can reach, the angle of it awkward and wrong. The solution is to trail your free hand up your thigh, passing his hands to push the fabric of your shorts aside and thumb at your clit. “Wha’s this, hm?” He murmurs, switching to your other tit. “Wanna be ready f’ you, John.” The wetness seeping from your cunt makes it easy to slip a finger in, stretching yourself in preparation for your husband. He’s letting you set the rhythm in a way he usually doesn’t, and you love him for it, something you don’t think too hard about.

“Let me?” He asks and you nod immediately. He replaces your hand with his own, sliding two thick fingers into your hole. You clench immediately at the intrusion, more out of tension than fear. John stops, glancing up at you from where he’s leaning down. “Need me to stop?” You shake your head, moving your hips forward so his fingers slide in deeper. “It’s just been a while.” John is still stopped, searching your face for something. “I trust you, John. I need you to say it back or this won’t work.” His eyes don’t leave your face, nodding slowly. “I trust you with my life, baby. An’ I trust ya with yours. You gonna let me stretch you out?” Instead of answering, you start to grind slowly, fucking yourself on his fingers. His gaze drops down, watching your cunt squeeze him tight. 

“How’d I get so lucky, hm? Perfect wife, dropped right into my lap.” John makes you work for it, angling his thumb so your clit hits it with every grind. It’s the most work your body has done in months and you love it, love the burn in your muscles as you command them to work. “This is goin’ t’ be a lot shorter than I wanted it t’ be, pet. Can’t focus when y’r mewlin’ f’r my cock like this.” You whine at his words. John pulls his fingers out, a string of slick trailing after them. He rubs them against your chest, pointed nipples scraping against your own wetness. The friction makes you delirious and needy in his arms. “John, I need you.” He hums, that same hand pushing down his sweats to reveal his cock, thick and heavy in his hand. He gives it a pump and you watch him spread your slick around it, mixing with his precum to make it even smoother.

“Last chance, baby.” John lines his cock up with your cunt. He rubs it up and down, catching on your clit every other time. “Shut the fuck up and fuck me, John.” His name on your lips is punctuated with a gasp as he pushes into you. You let out a string of curses at the intrusion. No matter how many times John has given you his fingers, the blunt width of his cock is so much more. It’s been over a year since you’ve fucked someone, and it’s never been like this. It’s never been dark blue eyes filled with trust and care, flicking down every so often to watch his cock go in and out. It’s never been dangling over the precipice of an orgasm so fast, the speed of it hitting you like a lightning strike. He fucks you through it, his hand on the back of your neck, forcing you to look down at where you’re joined. You watch your tits and stomach bounce at his movements and you watch as he hungers for it.

John’s a talker. This you’ve known, but it’s never been like this. 

“Look at you, taking my cock so well. Fuckin’ made f’r it.”

“Y’r cunny’s so tight, baby. This all for me?”“So desperate for it, pet.”

“Such a good girl for daddy. C’mon, say it.”

It makes you clench and mewl and claw at his back. He tries to kiss you but all you can do is let your mouth fall open and pant against him. Your first orgasm left you weak-willed, eager to follow his instructions. You nod your assent to every word, sweat dripping into your eyes. The second orgasm builds slow in your core. It burns with every thrust, every brush of your clit that John’s thumb makes. You lean your head back so it hits the mirror, suddenly realizing that your actions echo each other in the mirror behind John.

Your mouth is open. Sweat makes your skin glisten. You settle your weight on your hands and arch your back, a glimpse of your tits visible in the glass. It means you look almost whorish but it doesn’t matter because it’s for your husband, whose muscled back ripples with every thrust. That’s the image that sends you over the edge, whining John’s name as you fall off the edge. 

“Where, baby?” John meets your eyes with a burning question. You look down at the creamy ring around his cock, the slight of it sending another hazy spark to your core. “Inside.” This time John’s the one cursing, dropping his forehead to your collarbone as he watches himself come inside his wife. Finally, with his soft cock still inside you, John slows to a stuttering stop.

“Oh fuck.” John looks up at your panicked words with a matching expression. “Somethin’ hurt?” Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? No. I just remembered I stopped taking my birth control because of what happened. I haven’t been on it in over a month. And Plan-B’s really mess up my cycle.” John laughs. Your husband laughs, with his forehead on your collarbone and his cock inside you, pushing his cum in further. “This is not funny, John!” He shakes his head before meeting your eyes. “I got a vasectomy.” You blink. “What do you mean, you got a vasectomy?” He drags a hand down his face. Instead of answering, John eases out of the tight hold of your cunt. He fishes for a washcloth somewhere near, running warm water over it before swiping at your inner thighs. “When we had tha’ conversation about Gaz. Didn’t want it to happen after tha’ an’ not be prepared.” You squint in confusion. “I timed it with your period.” You bark out a laugh of disbelief.

“You’re fucking crazy.” He looks up at you with worry etched into his face, like he’s done something wrong. All you do is smile and pull him in, kissing his nose like he’s adorable. “I hate you.” You say, laughing. “You love me.” He murmurs against your skin. You don’t refute it, shutting him up with a kiss.

-

Phil watches and waits.

Her husband keeps leaving her alone. Phil’s camera screens flicker, shots of her through windows and from the park. The brother is closing in but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s so close to completing his mission. He must watch and wait.

-

one. chapter. left.

i barely edited this so if you see any mistakes no you didn't

-

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[beloveds-embrace]

So glad you asked for more roommates cause I’ve been brooding over it for the last 2 seconds since you asked.

Now just see the vision rq, it’s still kinda early into her moving in but yk they still want her BAD anyways she brings home a guy thinking they were gonna and now she just has four military men questioning and intimidating her tinder date…

I love writing for the roommate au sm so i am always happy for shared thoughts! 🙂‍↕️💕

Roommate au masterlist

The date had started innocently enough- or at least, you thought so.

It wasn’t like you were expecting the boys to be home. They’d mentioned a late training session, and with how demanding their schedules were, you figured you had the apartment to yourself for the evening. So, when your Tinder match, Matt, suggested coming over to watch a movie, you agreed. What harm could it do? Maybe it’d even turn to more. Hell, you hoped it’d turn to more.

Matt was nice enough, you supposed. Decent-looking, polite, and he hadn’t said anything off-putting yet. But as the two of you settled on the couch, popcorn in hand and the glow of the TV filling the room, your front door clicked open.

Your could practically feel a ball drop in your stomach.

The sight of Price stepping through the door, his shoulders hulking under his coat, was enough to send your nerves spiraling. He stopped mid-step, sharp eyes locking onto you and your date.

Behind him, Simon followed, pulling down his hood, but balaclava not yet removed. Johnny and Kyle weren’t far behind, their conversation halting as they took in the scene.

The air turned thick, tension palpable as four pairs of eyes honed in on Matt, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable by the second. You honestly couldn’t blame him.

“Didn’t know we were having company,” Price said, his tone low and deceptively calm as he shut the door behind him.

Your voice caught in your throat. Honest to God, you felt like you were a soldier who’d fucked up in front of him. He just had that Vibe. “I… I thought you guys wouldn’t be home until later.”

“And who’s this?” Soap asked, his smile wide as he nodded toward Matt. It didn’t feel friendly and even you could tell.

Matt shifted nervously, offering a small, awkward wave. “Uh, hi. I’m Matt. Nice to meet you guys.”

The silence that followed could’ve cut glass.

“Matt,” Simon repeated, his voice flat, his imposing frame seeming to block out all the light in the room. To you, he’d never felt that scary before… more like a particularly grumpy giant whose toes were always freezing. “And what exactly are you doing here, Matt?”

“I- I’m just hanging out with her,” Matt stammered, looking at you for reassurance. “A date.”

Kyle crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall, though his eyes never left Matt. “Funny. We don’t remember her mentioning anything about a date.” He almost spat the word out.

You shot to your feet, hands up in a placating gesture. “Guys, seriously, it’s not a big deal. We were just going to watch a movie-”

“And you thought bringing a stranger into the house without telling us was a good idea?” Price cut in, his tone clipped.

Well, he wasn’t wrong about that…

Matt’s eyes widened. “I’m not- I mean, I’m not dangerous or anything.”

“Oh, aye? That right, then?” Soap drawled, stepping closer, his easy smile taking on a sharp, menacing edge. “And how d’ye reckon we’re meant to trust ye, Matt? Could be anyone. A thief, a creep, someone tryin’ tae take advantage of her.”

“I- … what?” Matt looked at you again, desperation in his eyes and voice.

“Relax, Johnny, it’s-” you tried, but your voice wavered under the weight of their combined stares.

“We’re just looking out for her,” Kyle said, his tone deceptively smooth as he grabbed a chair and spun it around to sit on it backward. “You understand, don’t you? We are her roommates.”

Simon didn’t say much- he didn’t have to. The way he loomed was enough to make Matt visibly sweat.

Price, meanwhile, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are she let you in? She’s trusting. Sweet. Too sweet, if you ask me. Makes her a target for the wrong sort of people.”

“I- I’d never hurt her, sir-” Matt stammered, his voice cracking slightly.

Price’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. He looked unimpressed, more than anything else. “Good. Because if you did…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the unspoken threat hung heavy in the air.

“Okay!” you blurted, stepping between them. You gave up; you knew this date has gone to shit. “That’s enough. Matt was just leaving.”

Matt didn’t need to be told twice. He practically bolted for the door, not even stammering a quick goodbye before disappearing into the night.

As the door clicked shut, you turned to face them, your cheeks burning. “What the hell was that?”

“…you can do much better than him.” Kyle huffed, drawing you to sit down beside him on the couch even as you pouted glared. “Much, much better. Ain’t that right, John?”

Price nodded, sighing. “He was trembling like a leaf, love. Men like him? Not worth your time.”

Simon simply stood there, his eyes fixed on you. “Next time,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. “Let us know before you bring someone here.”

You sighed, pressing a hand to your forehead. “…You’re all impossible.”

Though by the end of the night, you still found yourself between Johnny and Kyle, and finished the movie anyways, date forgotten.

[nastybuckybarnes]

Mouse Trap

Pairing: Ghost X Reader

Summary: Ghost's little mouse finds herself stuck in a trap. Who better to save her?

Warnings: Violence, Language, Angst, Fluff, kinda unhinged Ghost?, Torture ig, murder, Injuries, self-hate kinda i guess

Word Count: 2.5k

A/n: I'm literally in love with this little series, i think it will forever have a special place in my heart

~*~

Days go by since Ghost last saw you, since he fucked you, and the skulls seem to disappear once again.

His little street mouse has disappeared without a trace.

Ghost is a man of logic. A man who can use the information at hand to come to the most realistic conclusion.

And, in this case, you've realized what a fucking nutcase he is and have decided you never want to see him again.

I mean, what else could it be?

His sour mood is taken out on anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to get in his way.

And today is no different.

His brows are permanently furrowed and his grip on his riffle is unwavering as he and Soap do their rounds.

The Scot is quiet for a long while before deciding to try and poke the bear.

"Still nothin from yer mouse?" He asks, knowing damn well the answer.

Ghost says nothing, doesn't even address the fact that the man has spoken.

"You ever think of... lookin for her? I mean, she doesn't exactly spend time in the safest areas," he presses.

If Soap hadn't spent as much time with the bigger man as he has, he wouldn't have noticed the slight falter in Ghost's steps.

Sure, he'd looked for you, but the idea of you being hurt or even killed wasn't one he entertained.

In his mind, no one would be stupid enough to touch what's his, but people have certainly tried before.

His world shifts slightly, the tension in his shoulders changing. He's no longer worried that you're hiding from him, no. Now he's wondering who would take you and where they'd hide you.

Those are the thoughts that occupy his every waking moment for days, until he finally gets his answer.

While combing the streets for any sign of you -or the hostiles he's supposed to be looking for- there's a gift from God.

On the ground, in what looks alarmingly close to blood, is a skull drawing. And a trail of the same blood-like substance leads him better than breadcrumbs.

"Soap, on my six," he murmurs into his radio, carefully following the blood trail as it leads deeper into the city, into enemy territory.

Soap is quick to meet up with the Lieutenant, eyes and ears peeled as Ghost comes to a halt outside of an old office building.

"Wha're we doin' here, Lt?" He asks quietly, watching his back as Ghost picks the lock.

"Savin' my mouse."

The lock opens with a soft 'click' and he shoulders the door open, staying low and scanning the first room quickly.

He motions for Soap to follow and the Scot does, sticking close as the slowly sweep room after room.

As they go up the stairs, Ghost slows, tilting his head to the side as he hears the sound of muffled voices not far away.

He follows the sound, being extra careful as the voice gets louder and louder, until he can make out the words.

His stomach drops the tiniest bit as they approach the third floor.

He's done this countless times, this should be no different.

But it is different.

You're in there. He has no room for error. Not when your life could be on the line.

A man is speaking, and Ghost takes that as his cue to creep into the hallway.

Soap grabs his shoulder, giving him a strong look.

"This could be a trap. We should call the rest of the team."

The skull-faced man only stares at him for a long while then tugs out of his grip.

"S'not a trap, Johnny. She's in there. You wanna leave, go. M'not leavin without her." With that, he turns back to the hallway and moves forward.

Though he has his doubts, Soap follows closely behind, staying silent as the voice gets louder.

Other sounds are able to be heard now, too. These ones confirming Ghost's suspicions.

Feminine grunts, groans, and cries of pain.

At the sound of your voice, a switch flips inside of the large man and he's quickly and silently moving forward, taking down any hostiles in his path. Anyone that stands between him and you is promptly killed, dropping to the ground with quiet 'thud's.

The man that's been torturing you drops his knife onto the table and yanks your head back by your hair, forcing you to look at him again.

"I'm gonna ask you one last time, doll face: who sent you?"

Your eyes roll in your head for a moment before finally focusing on him.

It's been several days of this, if not longer, and you're starting to worry that your Ghost, that Simon, isn't coming for you.

You still stay strong, saying nothing.

This only seems to aggravate him further. He drops your head and walks back over to his table of torture toys, looking for something suitable for what he has planned for you.

Your eyes flutter to a movement in the doorway of the room, and you feel your heart fill with hope as one of the guards gets yanked into the hallway.

Familiar eyes peer into the room, immediately locking on yours, and you feel safe.

He's here. He came for you.

You knew he would.

He presses a finger to his lips, urging you to stay silent, and you give him a soft nod of understanding. Your eyes flutter back to your kidnapper, and you watch as he picks up a pair of pliers.

He clicks them together a few times then turns to face you, a wicked grin on his face.

"If you're not going to use that tongue, there's no sense in having it, is there?" He asks rhetorically.

He steps forward, grabbing your jaw roughly, and then he's collapsing on top of you, his blood spilling across your face.

You let out a startled scream, jerking your head back as he rolls onto the floor.

The room is suddenly filled with chaos.

A gun is pressed to your head, and Ghost has another man in a headlock, his eyes on yours.

"Keep those eyes on me, Mouse," he orders, making sure your gaze is locked on his as he snaps the mans neck.

"Don't come any closer!" The man holding the gun to your head warns, pressing it against you harder.

You wince but your eyes never leave Ghosts. Not even when he produces a small blade and whips it at the man beside you.

Ghost steps toward him as he writhes on the ground, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt and ripping the blade out of his eye socket.

"That's for lookin' at her. Imagine what m'gonna do to you for touchin' her," he snarls, big hand nearly crushing the man's windpipe.

You stare at them as Soap comes to your aid, freeing you from the rope binding you to the chair.

"Maybe, if you apologize nice and proper, I'll let you live," Ghost whispers, his eyes empty and hard as he looks at the man.

"Look at her with your good eye and tell her how sorry you are."

The man's head whips around to you and he stutters out an apology.

"Now, tell me how sorry you are."

He turns back to Ghost with his mouth open to apologize and you flinch as another gunshot rings out, and then he's crumpling to the floor in a heap, blood pouring from both eyes.

You stare at his corpse, at the dead man who threatened your life, then slowly bring your eyes up as the man who saved you approaches.

"How's she lookin', Johnny?" He asks, crouching down in front of you as Soap presses some gauze to your thigh tightly.

You whine at the pain, and Ghost gives one of your hands a squeeze.

"Not great. Bleedin' real heavy. We can drop her off at one of the med tents and-"

"Not happenin'," Ghost interupts.

He pulls you from the chair and carefully lays you on the floor, working with Soap to try and slow the bleeding as much as possible.

Your head spins as the adrenaline slowly leaves you, and you lift a hand in search of your big soldier.

"Simon," you whisper, vision going blurry.

Soap's eyes shoot up to you, shocked that you know the Lieutenant's real name. He can't help but wonder what exactly would happen when Ghost would go on patrol alone. How many nights were spent with you if he's trusted you with his name.

Ghost grabs your hand in an instant, his eyes over yours.

"M'here, Mouse."

Your bottom lip quivers and tears streak down your temples into your hair.

"Tired... so tired," you whisper.

He shoots Soap a worried look then gives your hand another squeeze.

"I know, but you can't sleep yet, Mouse. We'll stop for a coffee on our way back to base, how's that sound?"

You frown, edges of your vision slowly going dark.

"Simon," you whisper once more, pushing your hand up to dust over his masked face.

Soap watches, eyes full of wonder as Ghost, the man who just murdered over a dozen people, is soft and gentle with you.

Your fingers smooth over his masked lips, and then your hand is tumbling down beside your head and your eyes are falling closed.

"No, none of that. Eyes on me, Mouse. On me."

You try, you really do, but you just need a moment to rest. That's all. Just one moment.

~*~

You're in and out of consciousness from that moment forward, finally fully coming to in a dimly lit room.

You're groggy and confused, blinking several times to get the fog clouding your vision to go away.

When things finally clear up, your heart jumps in your chest and you look around frantically.

This isn't familiar.

None of this is.

"Easy, Mouse. You're safe. M'here."

Except that.

Your eyes dart over to the source of the sound, finding those familiar piercing eyes.

Instinctively, you relax and reach for him, stopping with a hiss when something tugs at your arm.

"Easy, love," Ghost murmurs, reaching out and taking your hand in both of his.

Tears well up in your eyes and you look away from him, shaking your head.

"'S'alright, little one. M'here. Not goin' anywhere anytime soon."

It's true. He has no intention of leaving your side until you allow it. Something he has made explicitly clear to the members of his team.

You look up at him with big teary eyes and his icy heart cracks in his chest.

"Don't make me go. Not back to city, please," you beg quietly.

His gaze softens and he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment before tugging his mask up over his lips and leaning down to kiss your knuckles.

"You're not going back there. Not if I have any say in it."

Your breaths start coming in faster, more shallow, until you're hyperventalating, one hand grasping at the gown on your chest.

Everything is too much. Too constricting, too enclosed.

You can't breathe.

"Hey, hey! Eyes on me."

You obey, your eyes finding his once more, and he nods encouragingly.

He brings your hand to his chest, flattens it against the thin shirt, and you can feel his heart beating against your palm.

"I want you to breathe with me, Mouse. In... and out."

You slowly copy him, slowing your breathing to match his and keeping your hand against his warm chest the entire time.

Eventually, the feeling of his skin only one layer away is too distracting. You slide your fingers up to the small area of skin between his shirt and his balaclava, stroking it gently.

Your breath hitches at the feeling of his flesh against yours, and you lean toward him, desperate to feel more of him.

He leans forward and takes your other hand in his and you stare in awe, pressing your palm against his. His hands are rough, calloused and hardened, but they feel so good, so right against yours.

You slide your fingers up his forearm, tracing the scars, veins and tattoos while your other hand wraps around the back of his neck, slipping under the back of his balaclava and tangling into his hair.

"Simon," you whisper, tugging him closer by the nape of his neck.

He leans in, scarred lips tilting up in a soft smile at the sound of his name on your tongue.

He presses his forehead to yours, his eyes falling closed a moment after yours.

Carefully, he nudges his nose against yours, then tilts his head to slot his lips against yours.

You kiss him back softly, tugging away after a moment and drawing your brows together.

"What?" He asks softly, his free hand coming up to stroke your cheek.

"Where do I stay? Here?"

He shakes his head, pulling back a bit more after pressing one more kiss to your mouth.

"You'll stay with me. Unless you'd prefer your own room."

You're shaking your head before he's finished speaking, and he nods knowingly.

"Then you'll stay with me. We should only be here a few months longer. Then you can come home with me, if you'd like."

He'd be lying if he said he hasn't given much thought to the future. But after this? After nearly losing you before he truly got to have you? He's not willing to let you leave his side.

You only nod, eyes full of awe and adoration.

He gives you one more kiss, then gets up to get a med officer to check on you.

~*~

You spend a few days in the medical wing, and then, once you're given the go-ahead (under the ever-watchful eye of Ghost), you're changing into military-grade pants and a black t-shirt, and sitting patiently while Ghost laces up your boots.

"We match," you say proudly, beaming up at him when he rises to his full height.

He grins down at you through his mask, his eyes crinkling around the corners, and presses his forehead against yours sweetly.

"That we do, Mouse. Now, lets get you on your feet again."

He takes your hands and gently helps you to your feet, steadying you when you try to put weight onto your injured leg.

Your face screws up in pain, but you push through it, taking a few careful steps with his help.

"You sure you're ready?" He asks warily, watching you intently until you glare at him from the corner of your eye.

"Ready. Want to leave."

He nods, wrapping an arm around your waist and all but lifting you off the ground every time you try to step with your injured leg.

He leads you through the base, his glare sharp enough to have the onlookers scurrying out of sight.

Ever since he brought you back, bloody and wounded in his arms, you've been the talk of the base.

Who are you? Why does the Lieutenant like you so much? Can you be trusted?

That last question has plagued even some of his closest friends.

But as he helps you to the barracks, you lean further into him, you trust him at your most vulnerable, and he knows deep in his soul that you are someone he can trust.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he unlocks the door to his quarters and pushes it open.

The trek took far more energy than you'd like to admit, and you eagerly take a seat at the desk against the wall.

"You hungry?" He asks after a moment of silence, watching you as you look around curiously.

You nod, glancing up at him when he takes a step to the door.

"I'll be back in a minute. Try not to get into any trouble while I'm gone." He can't help but grin when you cross your arms over your chest.

Without another word, he exits the room, leaving you alone to explore.

You do exactly that, carefully taking in your surroundings.

There's a bed, a real bed, against the far wall. Across from that is a small wardrobe.

On the opposite side of the room is a door, and you find yourself limping over to it curiously.

You push it open and flick on the light, your eyes widening when you see the bathroom.

A proper bathroom, with running water that probably gets warm.

You turn the faucet on, watching in awe as it takes only a few moments for steam to start billowing. Your eyes follow the steam until they meet your own reflection in the mirror.

An audible gasp leaves your lips, and you lean forward, staring in a combination of disgust and horror.

You've seen your reflection since hiding out, but never quite so clearly.

The stitches at your hairline are crusted with blood, and you have bruises all over your face. Dark splotches that paint your skin in a way that makes your stomach churn.

How could Simon stand to look at you like this?

You splash some of the water on your face, hissing when it's a little bit too hot. Not a problem you thought you'd ever have.

Turning it down, you wait unti lit cools slightly to try and scrub your face clean, to make yourself more presentable for him, to look pretty.

No matter how hard you try, however, you can't clean the evidence of the torture from your face.

Hot tears streak down your cheeks and you turn your back on your reflection, angry that you ever dared to look at yourself.

At least before, you didn't know what you looked like. You didn't know what your Ghost had to look at, to touch, kiss.

"Mouse?"

You sniffle and wipe your cheeks quickly at the sound of his voice, opening the bathroom door a crack.

He takes one look at your face, at your red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and he's pushing his way into the bathroom and inspecting you for injuries.

"What happened?"

You shake your head and tug on his balaclava gently.

"I want one."

His brows furrow and you can almost see the gears in his head trying to process what's going on.

"What?"

"Please. Want one... like Ghost."

He cups your cheek gently, big warm hand soothing your aching skin.

"Why? I like seeing your pretty face. Dont want you to cover it up if you don't need to."

This makes you tear up once more and you tug out of his grip, turning your back to him and hiding your face in your hands.

"Need to," you whisper thickly, "not pretty. Not now."

He's appalled by your words, stepping in front of you and gently pulling your hands away from your face.

"Where'd you get an idea like that?"

You sniffle and shake your head, avoiding his eyes.

"Broken... ugly..." Your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror and you glare at what you see, your bottom lip quivering as you try to hold back your tears.

A surprising rush of emotions floods him and he takes a few moments to breathe and steady himself.

He's not used to this whole softness thing. Not great at it, either.

"You think I'm ugly? I've got more bumps and bruises than you can count, little one. Scars, too. Does that make me ugly? Should I forever keep my face hidden from you?"

You frown up at him and shake your head quickly.

He could never be ugly, not to you.

"Then why are you any different? I see these," he strokes the mark on your cheek gently, "and it makes me want to protect you. It reminds me that you're fragile. Delicate. It makes me angry that someone would put their fucking hands on you, but thats it."

He pulls you into his arms and lays a few kisses on the top of your head.

"You're precious, Mouse. So very special, and so beautiful. M'more than happy to prove it to you if you don' believe me."

His voice drops a bit lower, as do his kisses, and you can't stop the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth.

"There she is, there's my pretty girl," he whispers, kissing your lips briefly then pulling back once more.

"Now, you need to eat something and I need to debrief with Price. Rest while I'm gone, because you're not gonna be doing much sleeping when I get back."

[rememberwren]

A Girl (Not Mine) || 1

Ghost is a little obsessed with Soap and a lot obsessed with Soap's girlfriend--you.

About this: ghoap/fem!reader, suspension of disbelief regarding anything military related is actually necessary for enjoyment, canon-typical trauma for Simon, intrusive thoughts, slut shaming, voyeurism, fingering, accidentally seeing nudes not meant for you, poor writing unless you squint, try squinting. 4k

-

“I’m so glad I got a girl to think of, 

Even though she isn’t mine.”

-

The first time Johnny mentions you, the 141 is fresh from a month-long leave.

Ghost has a love-hate relationship with time spent off duty. He’d like to enjoy it—to do fuck all, to hike through Clayton Vale twice in a day if it suits him, to drink tea for every meal. But all leave does is remind him of the glaring emptiness in his life, the one he usually fills with violence. So he spent the month climbing up the walls and crawling out of his skin, waiting to be called back like a dog brought to heel. 

Here was his comeuppance for craving something to fucking do instead of relaxing the way Price had told him to do. Now they were on their way to San Lorenzo in Ecuador dealing with Ghost’s least favorite flavor of criminal: drug cartels. 

It’s too close to Mexico. Too close to that which he would forget gladly if it didn’t come with the loss of so many valuable skill sets. He’s crawling out of his skin for a whole new reason, watching the water fly by beneath them, deep in memories. 

Ghost takes all those feelings, fears, remembrances and swallows them whole. Lets them sink to a sour, dark place in his belly. He sits tense on the helo, still except for the rise and fall of his chest, his rifle a familiar weight across his knees. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes, swallowing against the rising nausea. 

He only has half an ear on Garrick and Johnny’s conversation beside him, but it is all he needs to follow along. 

“—lass of my own now,” Johnny is saying around a laugh, his accent thick enough to chafe at Ghost’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine, one that leaves him feeling raw but not necessarily hurt. “So no more picking up the barflies back in Hereford.”

“She making an honest man out of you, Tav?” 

“Aye, you could say that.” Johnny sounds proud of the fact. It all is so far from anything Simon has experienced in his life that he feels no distant stirring of empathy, not even a muted sense of familiarity in the words. Honest men do not exist. 

Not to mention, Simon’s never had a woman (willingly) and he never will. 

“You love her?” Garrick asks, earnestly interested to hear the answer. Ghost couldn’t care less.

“Aye. There’s something special about her.” 

“What, she’s cool with anal?”

Johnny crows with laughter, and now Ghost does feel something: annoyance, cloying, creeping up his spine like a spider in a web headed for the wiggling maggot of his brain. 

“Will you two ever shut up?” he snaps. “Not a moment’s fucking peace since we boarded.”

“Sorry LT,” Johnny says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Ghost cuts his eyes toward the other man, assessing for honesty. Johnny’s face is too expressive: brows lifted, eyes wide and earnest, mouth tipped into a tiny grimace, like the thought of irritating Ghost gives him real pain. Between the two of them, Ghost can’t help but think that it’s Johnny who needs a mask if he wants to survive in the world. 

Ghost doesn’t have the energy for this. He goes back to watching the scenery pass by. They are over trees now: thick lush jungle, the scent of which he associates with pain—plenty of which was his own. Plenty of which he caused to others. 

“What about you, LT?” Johnny asks, calling out over the sound of the helicopter blades. “Do you have a woman back home?”

Ghost lets his head turn, slow and dangerous. Johnny’s audacity never fails to surprise him. “What do you think, Johnny?”

“Honestly?” 

“Go on, then.”

“You look like if yeh’ve got a woman, she’s probably locked in yer basement.” 

(right where she’d belong.)

Garrick slaps Johnny’s thigh, his face mottled with panic. He hisses under his breath, something like, There are faster ways to die, Tav! Less painful ways, too, Ghost thinks. He fixes Johnny with a dead stare. The silence stretches, growing long and thin and dangerous, like the blade of a knife, until Johnny looks away. 

“Think less about my private life, Sergeant,” he warns him. 

“Not often you tell me to think less, LT.” 

Ghost just grunts, finished with the conversation, returning his unseeing eyes to the trees and slipping back into his own memories. 

-

That should be—well, not the end of it. He expects Johnny to become insufferable about it; that’s just the other man’s way. Still, Ghost had never expected to see you. 

He’s doing paperwork in the rec room, too stifled by the tiny, enclosed space of his office to remain there. Paperwork and debriefing are always his least favorite parts of an op. Give him a gun with which to kill and he will gladly kill; give him a pen with which to write and he spends half the time thinking about burying it in his own eye. Garrick and Johnny are there nearby fucking around on their phones having finished with their easy portion of the work ages ago. 

A phone is what Johnny thrusts beneath Ghost’s nose. It takes all of his mental fortitude not to flinch away from the unexpected action (or, more likely, not to rip Johnny’s arm off and beat him half to death with it). His eyes flicker down to the screen on instinct and—there you are. 

You have one eye squinted shut, your hand up to create a visor against the overbearing sun. The picture shows you from the bust upwards, and Simon sees it for approximately one full second before he grips Johnny’s wrist in a brutal hold and forces the hand and the phone away. 

It’s already too late. He’s committed you to memory. The way your hair sits, its color in the blistering sun. The curve of your lips (fuckable, he thinks against his will) as you give Johnny behind the camera an exasperated smile. The arch of your nose (images now—fingers pinching noses shut, forcing mouths further down his cock just to watch them choke and struggle)—

“Get that out of my face,” he grits out through his teeth. His thoughts won’t stop, not now that the floodgates have been opened, and it makes him feel like a dog backed into a corner, frightened-violence rising up in the back of his throat like bile. 

—the smooth line of your throat (and his hands around it, choking the light from your eyes just to fuck you when you’re soft and pliable and he doesn’t have to listen to you crying and begging)—shut UP!—

“It’s just my girl, sir,” Johnny laughs, his own eyes flickering back down to your image on the phone, like they are drawn to you. Like it is hard to look away. Ghost doesn’t have that problem—he has some  discipline left. “And it’s not as if she’s naked.” 

Ghost grips the pen in his hand so tightly that the plastic shell cracks. He’s barely keeping it together, sick and afraid and horrified and angry that Johnny has done this to him—has done this to his own girl—

His voice is rough when he croaks out: “What makes you think I care to see her, Sergeant?” 

“‘S it wrong to share the most important person in my life with the other most important people in my life?” Johnny says, eyes too guileless to be taken seriously. 

“Share less,” he snaps. 

“Been saying that to me an awful lot lately, sir.” 

“A good Sergeant would take my words to heart.” 

“A good lieutenant would know a futile lesson when it’s biting him in the arse.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Johnny. As much as I hate paperwork, I’d write you up—gladly.” 

Johnny gapes. “What for?”

Ghost grins without mirth, mask stretching around his features. Even grinning cruelly like this, his face feels unused to any expression that is adjacent to happiness. He swears darkly: “I’ll find a reason.”

It would send anyone else running. Even Garrick looks fearful, though fascinated: the same look a man wears when he’s watching a car crash in progress. But if sense were dynamite, Johnny wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose. Instead, he just flops down on the couch close enough to flutter the pages in Ghost’s lap. Close enough for their knees to brush. 

“Jesus, you’re a tadger today,” Johnny says quietly, boot knocking against Ghost’s, a touch he feels all the way up his leg. “Shove off some of that paperwork on us. What’s the use of being a lieutenant if you can’t lord it over your sergeants?”

“I’m sorry, us?” Garrick asks. 

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities, Johnny,” Ghost says coldly, gathering his papers. His elbow brushes against Johnny’s ribs, the firm, burning warmth of the other man’s body. He jerks away. He’ll take the stifling seclusion of his office, that makeshift coffin, before he subjects himself to any more of this. “You’d do well to follow my example.”

-

Ghost resolutely does not think of you. Not during quiet lazy moments on base, not during the frustration of training recruits, especially not during the eerie calm of missions. You do not cross his mind. 

His dreams are another thing altogether. 

There are the dreams where he hurts and the dreams where he is hurting, and he doesn’t know which are worse. He only knows that they are made worse by your strange presence: your body bent and being broken in by others; you, bent and being broken in by him. He wakes in cold sweats, jaw aching from gritting his teeth in his sleep. 

He hates himself for this last place where he cannot execute control: his subconscious. 

-

“Mail?” Johnny asks cheerfully at the sight of Garrick seated on the bench outside the DFAC, a stack of papers and letters laying on his lap. 

Johnny is sweaty, gray t-shirt clinging to his toned body as he (for once) keeps a companionable silence at Ghost’s side. They have been training recruits all day—work which Ghost considers far beneath his pay grade, but which he can’t refuse when ops are so slow to arrive and when he is so eager (desperate) to keep busy. Ghost lets himself sit heavily on the bench a safe distance away from Garrick, sweat cooling on his own body. 

He’s not ready to be alone yet. 

He’s allowed to do that. To want company. Of all the people on base, Garrick and Johnny (and Price) might be the most tolerable of the lot of them. During the rare moments when the pitiful piece of humanity left inside him craves companionship, this is the least painful method to mainline it. 

He ignores the lack of letters for him. There is no mail for Ghost—there never is. 

Garrick passes Johnny no less than four envelopes. Johnny’s soft smile as he flips through them speaks volumes. Ghost can guess who they’re from: his mother likely, who writes as often as she can. One of his various sisters, surely. Take your pick.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny flip through the letters and settle on one in particular, thicker than the others, tearing it open and tugging the letter out. 

The pictures slip from the folded piece of paper and fall to the ground. 

Johnny dives to grab them, but all it does is bring Garrick’s attention to them more. Even Ghost’s interest is piqued, his dark eyes giving up pretending to watch the recruits limp back to their barracks to shower before dinner and following Johnny’s hasty movements instead, watching the hot flush that crawls up the back of his Sergeant’s neck. 

“What are those?” Garrick asks. 

“No’ a thing.” 

Garrick lights up. He practically tosses his letter to the side. “She sent you pictures?” 

“Possibly,” Johnny says smuggly, the images—old fashioned Polaroids, a nice touch—pressed to his chest. His eyes narrow at the expression on Garrick’s face. “Don’t even think about it, Gaz—!”

Garrick pounces. The two begin grappling, both of their faces split into wide grins. Johnny can only defend himself with one arm, his other protectively clutching the photographs to his bosom. They take each other to the ground and Ghost watches, half interested and half irritated, wondering who will win. 

The pictures go flying—and fate’s invisible bitch of a hand causes them to land at Ghost’s feet. Garrick and Johnny freeze.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, the same way he knows that he’s going to. Ignoring their renewed struggles on the ground as they fight to untangle themselves and stand, he leans down and reaches for the photographs.

The white of the Polaroid’s edges contrast nicely with his dark gloves as he gathers the pictures together like a deck of scattered cards. 

“LT—“

They’re relatively tame. Perhaps you knew the high risk of sending them. In one you are kneeling on a bed amongst a sea of mussed, white sheets, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that you have tugged down between your parted thighs to offer yourself some modesty. It is painful to flip to the next one, but pain calls to Ghost, lures him in. In another you’re wearing some strappy lingerie but still covered artfully by the sheets, both hands covering your eyes, a grin on your face like you are mid laugh. Did Johnny take these photos of you himself? Did a stranger? A friend? Another shows your side profile, back arched, topless, every inch of you curved and poised. 

You’re (a filthy little slut) so fucking pretty. 

“Give ‘em back, LT, please,” Johnny asks gently, like he expects Ghost to tear them to shreds. Or confiscate them. 

Ghost drops the photographs to the bench, wishing he could scrub the images of you from his mind. He shouldn’t have picked them up in the first place. It’s adding fuel to the fire of his broken brain, and he knows that he will pay for it dearly. 

Johnny is talking. “—shy, she’d just die to know you saw.”

“She’ll only know if you tell her, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. His mouth feels numb, his brain the quiet granted by white noise, a conglomerate of screams. 

Johnny frowns. “Suppose so. You alright?” 

“Since Ghost saw—“ 

“No, Gaz.” 

Ghost watches the two of them enter the building. 

His hand burns, where he has palmed the picture of you topless. He stands and slips the Polaroid into his back pocket. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call out for Johnny and give him the picture back—he could find some excuse, and Johnny would believe him, he knows it—but he doesn’t. He makes for his room, feeling sick with himself. He isn’t hungry. Not for food. 

-

Ghost is compromised. 

The thought replays in his mind over and over again as he drives to Price’s house in Solihull. You and Johnny have crawled beneath his skin and infected him, dug your way into his DNA and are affecting everything from his decision making capabilities to his dreams. He knows that going anywhere where you both will be is a mistake, but it’s one he can’t seem to help hurdling himself toward at high speed. 

Nothing will happen, he tells himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He only does what he allows himself to do—no more. The others will be there at least, Garrick and Price and Johnny himself. Physical barriers between him and you. Human meat shields, if necessary. Ghost wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you. (But who would stop him if he tried? Who could?) You are safe, he tells himself. 

He is the last to arrive, dragging his feet up the concrete steps to the two story brick historical home that Price owns. He lets himself in the way that Price told him to and can tell by the eerie silence of the house that everyone is already outside enjoying the well-landscaped yard. Already he sees the evidence of you: a purse (go through it) laid neatly on the dining room table. He sets his keys beside it but does not touch it. 

Ghost doesn’t bother trying to delay the inevitable. Every part of him wants to run, but that’s all he’s ever wanted his whole life. He’s used to it by now, used to being forced to walk toward the thing which terrified him. He squares his shoulders and slides open the patio door, slipping back out into the muggy heat of the afternoon, face mask in place, hood up.  

The landscaping is one of the best features of Price’s house. The privacy fence is tall and appealing to Ghost’s seclusive nature, the lawn neatly clipped. There is a hedgerow running along the southern edge of the fence that is meticulously maintained. Flower beds lined with bricks rest along the house full of geraniums and phlox. The patio is smooth stone with an inlaid fire pit that would be crackling if the weather were any milder. An iron-wrought table sits nearby surrounded by chairs, and seated there are Garrick, Johnny, and Price. 

You are over by the flowers, kneeling in the soft grass, picking phlox just a few shades darker than the sundress you’re wearing, the one that skims your soft thighs. Ghost’s eyes roam over you and away all before your head even turns at the sound of the door opening. 

“LT,” Johnny calls, lighting up. “You made it!” 

“Didn’t think you’d show, Lieutenant,” Garrick says with a smile. 

“As if he’s got something better to be doing than spending time with us,” Johnny crows. 

“Jesus, will you two leave the man alone? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already regretting coming,” Price says. Ghost inclines his head, grateful for the backup. 

He hears your approach, the soft sound of your flats against the patio stone. You are small (weak) compared to him, craning your head up to look in his eyes. He hates the dark part of his brain that calls you easy prey as he watches you twist the phlox stems between anxious fingers. 

“You must be Simon—” Johnny shakes his head a little, subtle, visible only out of the corner of Ghost’s eye. “—ah—Ghost? I mean—” 

“I don’t care what you call me,” he admits.

“Ghost,” you settle where it is nice and safe. “It’s nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says flatly, hoping you will not mistake it for a compliment. 

Garrick snorts. “Never shuts up about you is more likely.”

There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so you sit on Johnny’s lap, legs crossed demurely, skirt riding up around your upper thighs. He wonders about the softness of your skin, wonders if his calloused touch would hurt you or if you’re used to Johnny’s by now. He could make it hurt. The thought doesn’t come with any zing of pleasure, just the cold apathy of fact. Has Johnny ever tried that? Has he ever—

Ghost’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, curling around the iron armrest of the chair. He takes a measured breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Those thoughts aren’t his own. They come from the dark part that Roba seeded inside him, that part with creeping vines too deep to root out. That part with thorns. 

He could hurt you, the same way he could hurt anyone, he tells himself. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. 

He does only what he allows himself to do. No more. No less. 

You and Johnny stand, heading into the house to retrieve a round of drinks for everyone. Ghost watches Johnny’s hand dip low on your back to the curve of your ass as he guides you through the open door, shutting it behind you. 

“Are you alright, Simon?” Price asks around a cigar. “I know meeting new people isn’t exactly in your repertoire.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t have to be your mother to care about you.”

“Garrick—get lost,” Ghost barks. 

The iron chair legs screech against the stone of the patio as Garrick stands hastily. “Had the same thought, sir. Hedges look lovely this time of year.”

When Garrick is properly out of earshot, pretending to find amusement in the neat hedgerows along the fence line, Ghost says: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I— can’t be left alone with her.” 

“With—? Soap’s gal?”

Ghost grits his teeth in shame and nods. 

“Do you know her?” 

Ghost shakes his head in the negative, but it’s not necessarily true. He knows a thousand women just like her, soft and unexpecting. The betrayal always cuts deeper than his cock could reach (estoy preso, somos lo mismo, por favor).

He stands, chair legs dragging against the stone. “This was a mistake. I need to leave.” 

“If you say so,” says Price, knowing better than to argue. “Go around the side. You won’t even have to see them.” 

“My keys are inside. I’ll be quick.” 

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” says Price, his eyes dark and lips downturned as he watches Ghost stalk to the patio door and slip inside. 

-

He braces himself to see you and Johnny in the kitchen, but when the door slides open near-silent, neither of you are anywhere to be seen. Like a fool, he considers himself lucky. Quiet as his namesake, Ghost goes to the table and picks up his keys, palming them. 

That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable muted slap of flesh on flesh. 

(Go look.)

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but that is his modus operandi these days: failing himself, doing what he isn’t meant to, seeing what is not for his eyes. His feet carry him silently to the door, which is cracked open just wide enough for him to see through into the room. It is a guest bedroom judging by the bland decor, the queen sized bed. Johnny has you sprawled on it, your sundress hitched up around your waist, his fingers buried to the final knuckle inside your cunt. Ghost can hear the way it squelches from all the way outside the door, knows that you must be dripping down Johnny’s wrist. 

“Keep quiet, love,” Johnny pants, one hand over your mouth (he’s not doing it right) to muffle the whines and groans trying to slip past your lips. “Needy little thing, aren’t yeh? Squirming in my lap, making my cock hard right there in front of my Captain, in front of my Lieutenant—“

You whine something back, but it is lost into his palm. 

“Don’t have time to get my cock in you,” Johnny sighs, twisting his fingers inside you, hooking them to press against that tender spot past your pubic bone that has your knees knocking together. He shifts his palm down to grip your neck, your panting breaths filling the room. “But you can bet this dress is coming off as soon as we’re home, do y’hear me?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, and it has Ghost’s cock throbbing. 

This is not for him. He thinks about Johnny’s words from months ago: that you are shy. There’s no chance you would ever want to be seen like this by him. Reaching out, he grips the doorknob and quietly tugs the door closed, til the sound of Johnny’s palm slapping against your clit is muffled behind the wood. 

He takes his keys and is gone before you ever know he was there. 

-

Johnny texts him later that night: 

Why’d you leave early, you numpty? We wanted more time with you. 

Ghost doesn’t respond. He’s too busy spiraling in his own flat, losing control every few minutes and slipping back into that place of pain and blood and dirt. 

An hour later, Johnny ends up adding, My girl wants me to say she was glad she got to meet you. Only Jesus knows why! Ghost definitely doesn’t respond to that. But he doesn’t delete the messages either.

[mistyorchid]

General Store

Old Man!Logan x fem!reader

warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, fluff, established relationship, age gap, reader is 21+, some suggestive actions/comments, pet names (doll, baby). wc: 739

an: I really appreciate all of the <3 Meet-Cute (and my blog in general) has been receiving lately. Since your comments have been so sweet, I thought I'd write a fluffy drabble for y'all. My asks & DMs are open. Thank you all for the support.

When you run out of your favorite ice cream, you know it's time to make a shopping trip to the closest general store. You smile, fondly remembering lazy Sundays with Logan. He'd never admit it, but the sweet taste of chocolate ice cream helped ease his nerves; Twilight Zone reruns were no joke.

Logan turns on the radio, switching through static until he hears the baritone crooning of Johnny Cash. Every time the truck hitches over a bump, Logan steadies you with a firm hand on your thigh. At least that's how he justified it inching closer to the hem of your skirt. His cocky smirk earns a playful slap on his arm, but you secretly love the way he makes you blush, even after you'd been dating for months.

He pulls into the neglected parking lot and kills the ignition, lovingly staring at your profile as you move to unbuckle your seat belt. The universe had shown him mercy when you spontaneously came into his life. Your boundless grace and empathy made his house a home. You once gifted him handmade framed embroidery that read, "God bless our smelting plant."

Logan's thoughts are interrupted by the faint click of the unlocked passenger door. "Not on my watch, doll," he exhales, rushing out of the driver seat and jogging to retrieve you. You reach for his hand, cautiously stepping down from the truck. Logan knows you can open the door yourself, but he always upholds the dying art of chivalry.

"Thank you," you smile, stabilizing your descent by placing your left hand on his white beater. "Sure thing," Logan responds, knowing you just want to feel his broad chest.

A quaint bell rings as you enter the store that alerts the cashier. "Howdy, welcome in! Milk's half off today," he chimes. Logan doesn't miss the way the young man's eyes widen as you saunter ahead of him to the frozen aisle. Hell, he doesn't blame him. You never wear a bra when it's this hot, instead opting for a lightweight tank top. The cool air blasting from the open freezer door makes the hard outline of your nipples difficult to ignore.

"You want our usual or this new flavor?" You ask, prompting Logan to ignore the cashier's gaze. He lengthens his stride and stands over you, peering into the freezer. The carton you point out has an adorable illustration of a bunny as its mascot.

"Hmm . . ." Logan ponders, leaning into the frigid air to grab the carton. "It's cute, reminds me of you. I say strawberry."

You trace your bottom lip, pretending to be indecisive. "If you say so." A sweet blush creeps onto your face, subtle enough to be missed by anyone but Logan.

The cashier's eyes linger on your tank top as you both return to the front counter. You're too busy checking out other items in the store to notice.

"Good choice, we just got that flavor last week. Cash or card?" The young man redirects his attention to Logan, who he assumes is paying based on the fact that he's holding the ice cream and already has his wallet out.

"Do people out here really use card?" Logan asks, puzzled by his question. He remembered a time when he'd have to write a check to pay if he didn't have enough cash.

"My dad's the same way," the cashier chuckles, trying to establish some common ground with you. Logan's eyes narrow at his lame attempt to relate to his girl.

My dad. This prick thinks you're his daughter.

He throws more than enough cash onto the counter before muttering, "Keep the change." Logan tries his best to finish the transaction without leaving three scratch marks over the young man's uneven stubble.

You notice that Logan is brooding as you link your arm through his, more than usual. The cashier's words stun him into an icy silence, clearly bothered by their implication.

Before you cross the threshold of the door, you pull the collar of Logan's beater and kiss him hard. He gasps into your mouth, fingers moving to glide through your hair. Your tongue darts along his upper lip, deepening the kiss.

A thin string of spit connects your lips as you slowly pull away. "Mmm, almost as sweet as this ice cream, baby," You tease, savoring the cashier's shocked expression as you both hear the doorbell ring.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Helloo !! How was your day ?? <3

I was wondering if you could write something about a sneezy medic? I have terrible dust mite allergy and I can’t stop sneezing all day, like 5 times a day I get an attack and sneeze 20 time in a row ToT (also I have a dad sneeze which doesn’t help). I’m so embarrassed about it v.v

How would 141 react?

Achoo!

Pairing: Task Force 141 x Medic!Reader (Platonic)

Warnings: Allergies, lots of sneezing, teasing, mild language, fluff, concerned Price, men being menaces.

Author's Note: Oh no, love, that sounds miserable! Sneezing fits like that must be exhausting, but I bet the 141 would have plenty to say about it. Hope this makes you feel a little better!

Summary: You’ve always had terrible dust mite allergies, and unfortunately, that means sneezing fits are a regular part of your life. The boys react in their own ways—ranging from teasing, concern, and utter indifference.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The day had barely started when you felt that telltale tickle in your nose. A familiar sense of dread settled over you as your breath hitched. Not again. You quickly grabbed a tissue from your pocket, barely managing to brace yourself before—

"Achoo! ACHOO! Hh’CHH! Hh’NGTCH!"

It came in rapid succession, each sneeze shaking your entire body. You managed to catch them in the tissue, but there was no stopping the fit once it started. Your head snapped forward over and over, each sneeze loud and forceful, as if your very soul was trying to escape through your nose.

John Price, who had been sitting at the table drinking his morning coffee, sighed heavily. "Bloody hell, love. That sounds miserable. You taken anything for it?"

You sniffled, dabbing at your nose. "I did, but it never fully works. Dust mites are evil."

Price rubbed his temples and set his mug down with a sigh. "We need to sort that out. Can't have our medic sneezing their lungs out every damn day."

"Not like I can help it," you muttered, rubbing at your nose, already feeling another sneeze creeping up.

Across the room, Ghost barely spared you a glance from where he was cleaning his knife. At first, he didn’t even react. But after the *tenth* sneeze in a row, he finally raised a brow.

"You done?" he asked flatly.

You barely had time to shake your head before another sneeze overtook you. Ghost simply sighed and continued sharpening his blade, waiting it out with patience that somehow made you feel even more self-conscious.

"Goddamn, that's a *lot* of sneezing," Soap said from the couch, grinning like an absolute menace. "You always sneeze like that?"

You groaned, rubbing at your eyes. "Unfortunately, yes. It comes in fits. Usually twenty sneezes in a row."

Soap let out a loud, delighted laugh. "Twenty?! Jesus, that's impressive! We should start taking bets!"

Gaz, sitting beside him, smirked. "I got twenty-two sneezes today. You in, Johnny?"

Soap leaned forward, looking you over like a man studying the odds at a horse race. "Nah, I'm thinking eighteen. Feels like an eighteen-sneeze kind of day."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "You guys are the worst."

Gaz chuckled and tossed you a pack of tissues. "Hey, at least we're making it fun. Bless you, by the way. In advance."

You snatched the tissues with a glare, but the next sneeze cut off whatever retort you had.

Price shook his head, clearly unimpressed. "You're all children," he muttered before turning back to you. "Seriously, though, we need to get you something for this. Air purifiers, antihistamines—hell, maybe one of those allergy shots."

You gave him a tired smile. "That’d be nice, but I’ve kind of accepted my fate."

Price huffed, clearly not satisfied with that answer. He muttered something under his breath about how "his medic shouldn’t be suffering like this" before pulling out his phone, likely to research solutions himself.

Meanwhile, Ghost continued watching you silently. The moment you slumped in exhaustion after the latest fit, he got up without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, he came back and placed a steaming cup of tea on the table beside you.

You blinked at it in surprise. "Ghost…?"

"Drink," he said simply before returning to his corner like nothing had happened.

Soap whistled. "Aw, big scary Ghost taking care of our poor sneezy medic. Never thought I'd see the day."

Ghost shot him a glare that could have frozen hell over, but it only made Soap laugh harder.

By the time your sneezing finally subsided, you were left exhausted, nose red, and head pounding. But despite the teasing and judgmental stares, you had to admit… having these guys around made it a little less miserable. Even if they were menaces.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜