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chuluoyi · 11 months ago

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the secret wife

- nanami kento x reader

follow the first years’ misadventures as they find out that apparently, the infamous 7:3 sorcerer is also a dutiful and loving husband in private!

genre/warnings: crack, fluff, the first years are simply chaotic, an attempt at humor, gojo cameo (he’s so insufferable), mentions of pregnancy, nanami being the best husband there is

note: based on an anon's suggestion, this is a spin-off to love entries' wife (so gojo is married to love entries reader naturally!) this is full chaos and crack omg so sorry and isn't proofread bc i’m kinda tired so pls forgive any mistakes and my dry humor :')

general masterlist

On one fine, sunny day, which was supposed to be a calm and relaxing afternoon...

“Hello? Yuji—”

Megumi could've sworn, they weren't usually this nosy.

“Gojo-sensei! It's urgent!”

Call it indulgence, because Nobara's curiosity just got the better of her.

“Oh? What's—”

“Does Nanamin have a wife!?”

And Yuji... well, he just needed answers, because the three of them were now in the ‘Mom and Baby’ section of department store, having just witnessed a monumental sight of their esteemed mentor, Nanami Kento—

—with a remarkably stunning woman hanging onto his arm.

“Huh?” Gojo's confusion was evident from the other line. Oh, yeah. Yuji had decided to cut to the chase and call him too, hoping for a swift clarification.

Okay, so why were the trio—plus Gojo on the speakerphone—hiding behind a pillar just to spy on Nanami and his very possible wife? Let us rewind 30 minutes before...

Yuji considers himself to have an exceptional eye and taste for women.

And 30 minutes ago, when he fell on his butt on the rough, hard asphalt in the jammed Shibuya crossing after accidentally getting shoved by the crowd, and encountered a kind, vivacious older woman—you, who extended a hand to help him up, he was even more convinced of that.

“Are you alright, Itadori-kun?” your soft voice entered his ears, catching him off-guard, and Yuji was certain of two things then.

One, that you were just like a literal angel descended from skies above, all dolled up and pretty with your flowy sundress.

“Ah, uh—” he stammered, eyes darting everywhere and anywhere at once as his palm started sweating after clasping your hand. “I-I am…”

And two, for the life of him, he had no idea who you were.

But it registered late in his mind to ask as he was busy controlling his ragged breathing and instant crush, and before Yuji knew it, you graced him with another kind smile and went on your way.

And did he feel so miserable afterwards.

. . .

“She’s sooo hella pretty, Fushiguro! And she knows me! Me!”

Megumi sighed, eyeing his friend in disgust. Truthfully, all he wanted was to return to the dorms and collapse onto his bed, and not listen to his friend’s incoherent ramblings.

"You sure you weren't imagining things?" Nobara questioned with slight irritation. "After you embarrassed us in front of Gojo-sensei's wife a while back, please think more before you act."

"I'm not, I swear! She said my name!"

"Itadori, can you please just not?" Megumi grumbled, having enough of this ruckus. "I want to walk back in peace."

And so tucking away his pout, Yuji walked in silence just as his best friend asked, and he was really going to leave it at that when suddenly he caught the sight of a familiar pristine coat and the sundress from earlier. “Oh?”

"Isn't that Nanami-san?" Nobara also spotted him, her eyes widening when she saw you, who was happily beaming as well as Nanami's light chuckle. "And wait, who is—?"

"That's her!" Yuji burst out, pointing decisively in your direction. "That's who I was talking about!"

Oh, no. Megumi dreaded it already. He could already see the utter catastrophe—

"I'm going after them!"

"Wait, Itadori! Me too!"

Too late. Before he could stop them, Nobara and Yuji had followed the pair. Reluctantly, Megumi trailed behind them too, albeit wearing a vexed scowl. Yet despite his misgivings, he couldn't deny that the things he saw over the next 30 minutes were genuinely unexpected.

Nanami consistently led you to a quieter spot away from the bustling crowd, his hand holding yours firmly. He would occasionally throw you a smile, or when you didn’t hold hands, then he’d wrap an arm around your waist. And to the trio's bewilderment, they also saw him tenderly brushing his lips against your head while on the escalator.

Soft and gentle. It was a side of Nanami Kento they had never witnessed—either with anyone else or even himself.

The two of you ventured through home appliances, visited food stalls, and eventually... the ‘Mom and Baby’ section.

"Do you want to rest for a bit?" Nanami's voice held a touch of concern as his hand settled on the small of your back, and seeing that, Nobara positively swooned.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," you responded with a reassuring smile. "Let's head over there. I'd like to see that next!"

Watching you and Nanami meticulously going through strollers and cribs like a pair of would-be parents was apparently too mind-blowing for Yuji and Nobara, leading to the decision to call Gojo right then and there. And, as they say, the rest was history.

"Last I heard, Nanami wasn't married," Gojo answered resolutely. "If he is, then it's the ultimate betrayal because he never told me!"

"But we see him with a woman! At mother and baby care section!"

Gojo hummed in thoughtful manner. "Okay, students. Now I'm tasking you to see this to the very end! Keep me on the line!"

With that, Operation: Uncover Nanami's Wife was officially underway, and frankly, the way the three of them were clumsily tailing the 7:3 sorcerer made Megumi want to facepalm. How was it that Nanami hadn't noticed their rather conspicuous attempts at all?

Now you were fawning over baby clothes, cutely trying not to squeal as you picked a little blue and yellow overalls. "Kento! Kento! Look, how cute!"

And all of them were floored once again when the expression on his face softened, as a warm smile adorned his lips. "Yeah, they are."

"Is she pregnant? She doesn't look it..." Nobara remarked, squinting and frowning, still watching the two of you like a hawk.

"Or maybe they're shopping for someone else?" Megumi suggested, earning teasing grins from Yuji and Nobara, to which he quickly rolled his eyes, as they chorused, "Looks like you're curious too!"

After a while, you moved from the clothes to sections stocked with mother's necessities. Yuji leaned against one of the racks, pressing his ear against it, with Nobara and Megumi crowding behind him, attempting to catch a snippet of your conversation with Nanami.

"I think we should get some heat packs and these pillows—"

"Oh, Kento! You're such a worrywart, I still won't need them for a few more months—"

"Wait, what?" Yuji whipped his head around in surprise, causing Nobara, who was leaning on him, to stumble and inadvertently collide with the racks.

"Eh? Huh!?"

Unfortunately, the racks weren't sturdy enough, and the force caused them to sway dangerously. Nobara, sensing her imminent fall, instinctively grabbed Yuji's arm to steady herself. However, he got tugged instead and their combined weight exacerbated the situation, leading to the racks quickly toppling over and a deafening commotion ensued—

Crash!

"Careful!" Nanami immediately pulled you behind him, a protective arm around your shoulder, sensing your shock from the sudden crash. He was on high alert, expecting some sort of attack of cursed spirits, but instead, he was met with the most astounding sight of the bickering culprits amidst the fallen racks.

"Kugisaki! What are you doing!"

"You dumbass! Why didn't you stop me from falling?!"

"Itadori-kun...?" Nanami called out in utter disbelief, his mind couldn't fathom as to why the first years were here. However, his attention quickly shifted to Megumi, who was seething and sending his friends a glare so hard it could drill a hole into them.

Then, the boy swiftly fixed himself into a low bow in front of him, ashamed, disregarding Yuji and Nobara's groans altogether. "Nanami-san, I'm very, very sorry on their behalf."

"What are the three of you doing here?" he inquired, and poor Megumi seemed at a loss, huffing as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of where to even start.

Meanwhile you were full of worry for the fallen kids. "Oh my gosh, are you alright?"

For the second time today, you tried to help Yuji to stand on his feet, and this time, he really had a good look over you.

It wasn't exactly noticeable due to how loose your dress was, but now he could see that under it, your belly was slightly rounded—an unmistakable baby bump.

Amidst his shock and pain, Yuji couldn't bring himself to take your hand as he inadvertently let this slip, "N-Nanamin! You knocked her up!"

Nanami blinked. You gaped. Megumi and Nobara went pale in sheer horror, ready to murder their friend on the spot for his extreme height of rudeness.

“Itadori-kun,” Nanami cleared his throat then, and if he was offended, then he chose not to show it. “First of all, I’m sorry for not introducing you sooner. This is Y/N, my wife, and yes,” his tone hardened slightly, “She’s carrying our first child.”

“S-so you are married!”

“Yes, that was what I—”

“What the hell?! NANAMIIII!”

Oh, the freaking phone. After his fall, Yuji’s phone ended up on the floor, and of course, Gojo did hear all of the entire madness, evident from how his voice blared from the phone.

Nanami frowned, unwittingly reaching out towards the phone. “Who—?”

“NA-NA-MI!" Gojo screeched in righteous exasperation, and the former immediately pulled away from the phone with a cringe. “How could you?! I invited you to my wedding! Are you a hermit or something—how could not tell anyone!? Didn’t you say I can officiate—”

“I said no such thing. Please refrain from saying outrageous things, it’s both annoying and misleading,” Nanami stressed, growing more irritated by the mere sound of Gojo's whining voice and feeling his patience waning rapidly.

"Aren't we friends?! How—!"

"Should I find you instigate one more of this... shenanigans with the kids, I won't hesitate to report you to Yaga and your wife," he interjected then with clear irritation, and right that second, Gojo shut himself up.

Yuji, Nobara and Megumi couldn't help drawing that one conclusion in wonder: So, that's what Gojo-sensei is afraid of.

Nanami swiftly ended the call with a flick of his finger, returning the phone to the still mystified Yuji. Turning back to the trio, Nanami's irritation simmered as he glanced at the mess of broken goods on the floor, as well as noticing the approaching clerks.

"You three..." Nanami started, his voice rising slightly, unfaltering even as the three of them flinched. "Do you realize what you've done? Are you so idle that you can ditch your assignments?"

"Kento, don't be too harsh," you rebuked, placing a hand on his arm with a frown on your face. Nanami sighed, looking over the situation once again. It was a whole rack of baby necessities destroyed; plates, glasses, and whatnot scattered across the floor.

Nobara bit her lip in anxiety. “Oh my god, who's going to pay for all this damage?” She could already imagine the staggering amount this mess would cost. This is worth millions, anyone can go bankrupt.

There was only one person who can and will. Immediately, both Nanami and Megumi turned to her with a shared resolve.

"Gojo," Megumi blurted.

"He will be charged for everything," Nanami added with spite.

Epilogue

"You just love those kids, don't you, Kento?"

That night, when both of you were ready for sleep, Nanami had one hand caressing your still growing belly, and you teased him with a chuckle.

"Huh?" your husband looked at you in mild confusion as he stopped stroking you. "What do you mean?"

You giggled again. "You said to put it on Gojo's name, but in the end, you were the one who covered the damages first."

Nanami huffed lightly. "That's because I can't get the kids in trouble. But mark my words, I'll make sure Gojo pays up later, by force if I need to." He made a face when he remembered just what a massive bill it was. "That's too much money to be spent carelessly. We have our child and our future to consider."

"You're always like that," you sighed fondly, taking his hand and placing it back to the swell of your belly. "Always on the first line of defense for the students." Your smile widened. "It makes me think... just how lucky our kid will be with you as their father."

"On the contrary, I'm counting my blessings that they'll have someone as soft as you for their mother," your husband retorted with a smile, kissing your temple. And your heart melted into a puddle by his affectionate gesture.

"That's too sweet... ah, yeah," suddenly, you were reminded of a critical thing. “Kento, have you ever considered telling everyone else that we're married? At least to people at school?”

Nanami always wanted privacy for safety reasons most of the time, and you understood that, but seeing that Gojo and the first years knew already, you thought it might be the best time to let everyone know.

"I honestly don’t see the need to, why?"

"People like Gojo are confused—"

Your husband rolled his eyes then. "Don’t worry, dear. People like Gojo exist to spread the word so we don't have to."

#nanami kento x reader #jjk fluff #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento #jjk x reader fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami kento fluff #kento nanami #jujutsu kaisen #kento nanami x you #nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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percheduphere · 1 year ago

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LET'S TALK ABOUT LOKI'S SHOES (ACTUALLY, HIS WHOLE WARDROBE)

Production costs aside, clothes tell the audience about how characters think of themselves.

Loki's shoes in the S2 finale raised a lot eyebrows, but I find them quite fitting: they are comfortable, practical, and most importantly, they are humble. The camera brings this to our attention to communicate his evolution in character.

Loki has always dressed well, often times ostentatiously. Whether he is at war, passing as a Midgardian, or held captive as an Asgardian prisoner, Loki communicates his social class and sense of superiority through clothing. For him, clothing armors his fragile sense of self and against others' opinions of him. He intends to be perceived as deadly charming but ultimately unapproachable.

His attire in the first Thor movie is roughly equal parts green and gold, signifying his royal status. His style is dressed down for his brother's misadventures in Jotenheim, yet overall both silhouettes are lofty, princely, but not hardened or threatening.

In Avengers, Loki's look has more black and leather, with exaggerated emphasis on his shoulders meant to intimidate as he assumes the role of villain. The silhouette is very hard, heavy, and edgy. Gold detailing is prevalent as well. Combined with the goat's helm, this is Loki's most pretentious outfit, which speaks to an undercurrent of low self-esteem and a compulsive need to impress. There's no mistaking he is the main antagonist of the story.

In Thor 2, Loki's attire is similar to Avengers but the overcoat is exchanged for a less bulky version (perhaps conveying he is less guarded now that the effects of the Mind Stone are no longer influencing him). Loki's role likewise pivots from the harsh lines of a villain to the more flexible edges of a reluctant villain-turned-ally. This aligns with his character arc when he protects both Jane and Thor, seemingly sacrificing himself.

In Thor 3, Loki's silhouette is streamlined even further. The overcoat is done away with in favor of what appears to be a leather doublet, pauldrons, and vambraces. Gold accents are minimal. While stylish, Loki's attire is more practical than showy, and his helm serves the dual purpose of protection as well as weaponry. At this point in his arc, Loki has become a full antihero, joining his brother's side in rescuing as many Asgardians as possible, and eventually dying in a vain bid to protect Thor from Thanos.

The TVA does something very fun and interesting in taking away Loki's ability to dress himself. Since Loki cannot use his magic in the TVA, he is forced to wear the same clothing as his captor/advocate, who eventually becomes his best friend and peer.

Perhaps, on a subconscious level, this helped Loki to feel included. We know by his pwn admission that Loki fears being alone and desperately craves a sense of belonging. At the same time, he intentionally dresses to put people at a distance, thereby protecting himself from potential rejection at the cost of isolating himself further.

When Mobius gives him that TVA jacket for the first time, Loki seems uncharacteristically pleased. It is not an attractive jacket by any means, yet he neither scoffs at it nor refuses to wear it. Instead, Loki puts it on and is content when Mobius says it looks "smart" on him. He continues to dress like Mobius and, indeed, mimic some of his mannerisms such as placing his hands on his hips. Without clothing meant to push people away, Loki opens up, has more fun, and makes friends.

Loki's choice of attire as he assumes the mantle of God of Stories (and time) is fascinating. Setting aside the clear design inspiration from the comics, Loki's silhouette is soft, remarkably so. His colors are earthy hues of green, and the only bit of flare are the light gold trimming and crown. The look brings to mind the garb of sages and wise wizards rather than royalty or warriors. He's powerful yet approachable because there is humility in his bearing. And that humility springs from a well of healthy self-worth, self-love, and a deep love for others.

The shoes are not meant to be attractive. They are meant to help him ascend the throne, nothing more.

#loki #mobius #lokius #loki season 2 #loki spoilers #loki series #loki meta #my meta

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slater-baby · 6 months ago

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Hi slater I saw that you do requests now and I can’t stop thinking about this prompt so I RAN to your ask box

Imagine if Simon had like a girlfriend or wife that he hid from the 141 bc he’s scared to put her in danger but then he accidentally ends up mentioning her anyway? Imagine how cute their reaction would be :(((((

Anyway I love Texas Red rn literally what I sleep eat and breathe <3 hope you’re doing well lovely

- 🐙 anon

Im gonna call u Octo Anon cause somehow that goes well in my mind lol hope you enjoy the story!! Tags: drinking, recreational drug use (weed), drunken confessions, banter, newlyweds, pure tooth-rotting fluff, whipped!Simon

Six months.

It had been six painfully long months since they’d been sent on this blasted deployment. A deployment which, to no short degree, went off the rails the minute they hopped off the transport. They’d been stuck in the ass end of the Mexican jungle, working a joint operation to see a few two-bit traffickers into their maximum security cells in the United States.

Thinking back on it now, it was far from the most dangerous operation they’d ever been sent on, but if the misadventures they’d had had been any less hilarious, he might have been inclined to say the short deployment would live on in his nightmares.

First, a private had accidentally locked the keys to one of their armored trucks inside the car. Price had been livid, shouting loud enough that the enemy might as well have had their direct position on UAV. Needless to say, it took three hours, two crow bars, and five men over 220 to crack the doors in time to make it back for evening mess.

Then, Soap’s detonators had fizzled out halfway through an infiltration.

“Fuck do you mean they’re blitzed?!” Simon had yelled through the heavy gunfire, ducking behind a tree trunk when a bullet came whizzing by his face.

“Means the cap’s fucked,” Soap had yelled back, crouching in a pile of wires that were all too complicated for Simon to understand.

“Get it fuckin’ fixed, will ya?! I got thirty men out here, and I’m not burying ‘em until we’re back at base—”

“Have some patience, LT—”

“Patience?!” Simon had growled, pinning Johnny with a pointed stare, “Another word, MacTavish, and send you out there myself.”

“Just—” Soap grunted, stripping another wire, “Got my wires crossed or something—”

A blaze had consumed the battlefield, a shockwave big enough to make Simon stumble on his feet rocking the earth. A tense quiet had ensued, punctuated by falling tree limbs. The gun shots had halted immediately. Panting, he’d looked down at Soap’s confused face.

“Oh…” the sergeant had chuckled, holding up the detonator for Simon to look at, “Guess it was the yellow wire then.”

And even after all that, there were no shortage of stupid mistakes on base that had nearly cost him his sanity. A few privates suspiciously AWOL (who’d eventually been found blind drunk at a tequila bar after a five alarm fire and an intense search of the entire base). An air raid siren that malfunctioned the minute the lot of them were finally down to sleep. And to cap it all off, a session with a group of green recruits who wanted to observe a few SAS soldiers in their prime. One thing led to another, and when an errant misfire at the gun range nearly landed in Simon’s foot, he would have swum all the way back to England just to get a night of peace and quiet in his own damn house.

However, all’s well that end’s well, he supposes. No use in complaining about it now—especially when the mission had bore such impressive fruits. In the end, all three of the targets they’d been searching for had gone away in cuffs, and to top it all off, the leader of the cartel in question was coincidentally at the meeting they’d raided just hours ago—an absolute miracle by all counts.

Another success. Another name crossed off the Most Wanted List. And another long night of celebration before they headed back to Europe. All things considered, it couldn’t have ended better.

Though, that isn’t to say they were any more professional than they’d been when they’d gotten here.

“Soap,” he’d groaned, deadpan.

“C’mon, Ghost, lighten up,” Johnny had drawled, sticking the smoke between his teeth.

“What the hell is that?” He’d pointed to the smoke in question.

“Nothin’, LT. Just…” he’d shrugged, lighting up, “…not baccy.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon remarked, pinching his nose bridge, “Y’know, Price’ll have you by the balls if he sees you smoking that.”

“Not if I offer him a hit first,” Soap answered, blowing a ring of smoke, “Old bastard’s got back pain, y’know…”

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Simon had shaken his head, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. Beyond the fence of the base, he’d seen the chirping night bugs, glowing fireflies illuminating the woods just on the other end. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen another cloud of smoke waft throughout the air. His fingers had tapped against his bicep. His profuse scowl fell with a single twitch of his lip.

“Fine,” he’d relented (all too excitedly), “Give it—before I decide to write you up myself.”

Needless to say, one hit turned into a second…turned into this.

“No—no, that’s against the rules,” Kyle wheezed, bent halfway over in his chair while Soap sat on his knees in the chair across the table, squinting aggressively down at the cups of beer on Kyle’s end.

“It’s fuckin’ not, ye git, now yer just being dramatic—” he wobbled on his knees, barely able to catch himself on the edge of the table before he fell off the chair.

“Hate it break it to you, lads,” Price smirked, feet kicked up against the table while he sipped on a finger of whiskey, “But beer pong ain’t exactly meant to be played sitting down…don’t even know what rules you’re yapping about…”

“Shut up, Price,” both of them had drunkenly snapped, and Price acquiesced with two raised hands.

Somehow, the night had come to this. The four of them in the basement of the watchman’s tower, surrounded in all the army fanfare one could expect. Open bottles of Jack Daniels. Old posters of bikini models on the concrete walls. Metal music blaring through a tinny bluetooth speaker.

Soap had bought too much weed for his own good. Which—when combined with a near lethal dose of liquor—had all of them blazed off of their faces. Captain, included. At least, if they got written up, their leading officer’s signature could bail them out. Not like the MP wouldn’t keep their mouths shut for a few hits, anyway.

Now, Kyle and Johnny were an hour into a game of beer pong, adding a new rule seemingly every second just to keep things interesting. First, you had to drink two cups for every point the other person scored. Then, you had to balance a shot of tequila on your shoulder when you threw. And now, you had to be sitting in a chair that was at least a foot away from the edge of the table when it was your turn.

The two of them were so smashed this round alone had taken them forty five minutes at least. And—judging by the way Soap was wobbling on his knees—it would be another forty five minutes at the very least.

“Just fucking throw already,” Kyle giggled.

“Shut up, Gaz, m’allowed to take my time—”

With a look of sloshed concentration, Soap inelegantly chucks the ping pong ball across the table, arm wound up like a baseball pitcher just to get it in the cup without a bounce. It smacks Kyle in the chest, knocking over a cup of beer, and before he can even curse, the wheels of the chair slide out from under him, and Johnny lands face first on the concrete floor.

The sound of it is so loud it rings around the walls. The laughter that ensues is so raucous the boys on watch duty upstairs are no doubt getting an earful.

“Fuck—” Gaz wheezes, clutching his stomach.

Simon manages to stifle a laugh with another sip of beer. But when Price suddenly jerks forward, a spray of whiskey leaving his mouth, Simon can’t contain his own laughter for even a second longer. His chuckles are deep and hoarse, a sound that was so scarcely heard Soap stops his whining just to straighten up in awe.

But, hell, even if the three of them are staring at him like he’s grown a second head, Simon can’t stop it. No, he laughs until he’s nearly blue in the face, coughing around the remnants of the beer in his mouth.

“Damn,” Kyle peers curiously over at him, drunken gaze so amusing it only makes him laugh harder, “Looks like you broke him…”

“Not broken,” he manages brokenly, clearing his throat to try and appear a bit more sober, but he’s far too sloshed to hide the way that he smiles, “Y’just look like an idiot is all.”

“M’not an idjit—”

“Just proves his point,” Price chips in.

“Whatever,” Soap sighs, standing up and dusting him off, “You bastards’re no fun anyway…”

For a second, the conversation drops out and only the music on the speaker can be heard. Idly, Simon looks down at his watch, however, with that simple movement, his head spins viciously, and he takes a deep breath just to steady himself.

“Anybody got a pack o’ menthols?” Kyle suddenly chimes in, “Already smoked through mine…”

Simon hums, propping his hip up to reach into his jeans pocket to rifle around, “Think I got another pack…”

“Which brand?”

“Newport.”

“Braw,” Soap reaches over the table, “You lads want another round?”

“I miss Nando’s,” Gaz sighs, lazily fiddling with the beer bottle in his lap.

“Fuck, that sounds good,” Soap hazily leans onto his shoulder, eyes closed, like if he thought hard enough, he might be able to conjure the taste of it on his tongue. Truthfully, Johnny was a bit too drunk to conjure up anything beyond the taste of Don Julio, but even that seemed a little far fetched at the moment.

They’d been doing this for a while now, going back and forth with all the things they wanted after deployment ended. It was a mindless game, one they probably wouldn’t even remember in the morning. Hell, even Simon was getting loose in the lips, droning on and on about some magical dish he’d been aching for. Honestly, it was so surprising to see him open up that the three of them were all but speechless to reply, listening intently as he stumbled through an incoherent explanation. Hell, at this point, they’d listen to him talk nonsense so long as his coworkers got a glimpse into the mysterious life he lived when he was off base.

Over the years, the most he’d talked about was the gym that he frequented, and which groceries he bought for dinner. In all honesty, it was hard to imagine Ghost outside of those two particular scenarios. Ghost, lifting weights for hours on end, some acrid black metal blaring in his headphones. Ghost, puttering through the grocery store with a surgical mask on, trolley chock full of sad TV dinners and beer cans. To Johnny, it seemed like Simon only came out of his shell on base, amongst his friends. But as a civillian…

Yeah, Johnny can practically imagine him sitting in his darkened flat, scarfing down protein bars and counting down the days until they were back on the job.

Coworker gossip aside, all the food talk was making Johnny’s stomach rumble, and the fact that they’d be back in the UK just past one in the morning was not helping the vicious craving he had for Peri Peri chicken.

“I miss sausage rolls,” he slurs. God, when had Kyle’s shoulder gotten so comfortable? Somewhere between pint three and four?

“Jaffa cakes,” Price offers.

“Fuck,” Kyle groans, head thrown back against the sofa cushions.

Simon mumbles something underneath his breath. It’s slurred and nearly incoherent. Johnny peaks open a single eye to look over at where he sits in his stool, leant up against the wall because he was too drunk to sit up straight anymore. Idly, he laughs. God, if only the guys on the other side could see him now: the infamous Ghost, blackout drunk next to some faded Playboy poster.

Fuck.

Soap has half a mind to take a picture of it if only so that he could tease Simon about it when they were nursing hangovers on the plane tomorrow morning.

However, Simon doesn’t make to speak up again, and the rest of them don’t comment. Instead, they continue sipping on their final drinks, all of them watching with rapt attention as the ceiling fan makes another circle.

“Miss my couch,” Price suddenly chimes.

Another few seconds. Another few circles.

“I miss steak pie,” he suddenly finds himself drawling eyes unwittingly closed, “The one my ma used to make…”

“Chicken dippers—the kind you put in the oven…” Gaz responds, “And fresh chips.”

“Chicken noodle soup,” Price hums, “Mum used to make the best…”

Just imagining the taste, Johnny could burst into tears. God, it’s been a long six months, eating nothing but mess hall mashed potatoes and MREs. He’s just about to chime in when Simon’s arm shifts against the wall and he manages a slurred sentence.

“Pasta and shrimp,” he says, voice unfocused like the reply was completely unconscious, “With…white wine and butter…”

At that, Soap furrows his brows—even with his eyes still closed. Simon drank white wine? Simon “Ghost” Riley, the man who wore a literal human skull on his face and had a tattoo of an AK-47 on his forearm, drank white wine and ate shrimp pasta when he was off duty?

Hm.

Never guess a book by its cover, he supposes.

Another silence ensues, one that’s punctuated with the somber, quiet atmosphere of the early morning and months without comfort. Now that the beer has dried up, and the battery on the speaker had died, there was nothing left except for a quiet yearning for a place that wasn’t here. A place that was faraway and over seas, full of life and love, as well as all the people who were waiting for them to come back.

“I miss doing the laundry,” Price says, voice…unreadable.

“Miss going grocery shopping,” Gaz huffs quietly.

“I miss…” Johnny beings, nearly falling asleep, “I miss going home.”

With that, it all drops dead. There’s no more fanfare, no more celebration. Not for what they’d achieved or what they’d done. There was only reality, cold and hard, weighing on their shoulders like a barbell.

That is, until Simon makes a long sigh, clumsily leaning his elbows on his knees. He swipes over his face, tired and smashed.

“Fuck,” he says, “I miss my wife.”

At that, three pairs of eyes shoot open all at once. Suddenly, sleep seems like a faraway dream. And even if his head spins, Johnny straightens up in his chair.

“What?” Kyle asks, voice so sharp Soap would have thought he was sober.

“Miss my wife,” Simon drawls, taking a breath, “It’s been…six months.”

“But…” Soap furrows his brows, sending Price a questioning look from across the room. Even the Captain seems puzzled, sending Johnny an eager nod in approval.

“But…you have a wife?” Soap manages, wiping his eyes to see Simon’s exposed smile even a little bit clearer.

“‘Course I fuckin’ do,” he answers, nearly falling off of his stool when he straightens back up, “She’s waitin’ for me back home. Doesn’t know I’ll be back tomorrow…”

“But you have a wife?!” Kyle edges, leaning forward on his elbows like this was astonishing news. And Johnny does, too, because of course it fucking was. His lieutenant? Married? Had hell frozen over?

“What?” Simon glances around the room, lips pulled into a clumsy scowl, as if the answer were obvious, “Price has a wife. S’not all that weird…”

“Had,” Price corrects, taking another gulp of beer, “Divorced last year.”

“Whatever,” Simon flippantly waves his hand, leaning back into the wall like he could pass out at a moments’ notice, “Fuck the lot of you. My wife is...Fuck, I miss her.”

“No—didn’t mean it like that, it’s just…” Kyle swallows, trying valiantly to wrack his brain for any singular instance where Simon could have mentioned a girlfriend, “Never heard how the two of you met.”

“I didn’t tell you?”

“Guess I just forgot,” Gaz lies through his teeth.

“Mm…” Simon swipes his palm over his stubble, head lolling, “Met her a couple years ago. She lived across the hall. Y’know, neighbors ’n all that shite…”

As Simon readies himself to speak another word, Price leans forward, too, the three of them watching with equal amounts of bewilderment as Simon explains his supposed “wife.” If he was being truthful, Johnny still didn’t believe it. To have a pretty little thing waiting for him at home, cooking him dinners with white wine and grilled shrimp…sue him if it all feels like a grand lie. Another joke Simon would play on them.

“She brought me biscuits when she moved in,” Simon huffs, eyebrows raised like he was imagining the taste of it himself, “God, they were so good…I miss that. Her biscuits. She makes ‘em so good. Cherry pie, too…She makes ‘em on movie night. Whole batches of ‘em. She doesn’t even complain when I eat ‘em all. She just makes more. Fuck, she’s too sweet…”

Simon rubs his fingers over his eyes, mouth closing—like he didn’t have an entire audience captivated with his drunken slurs.

“And…?” Gaz prompts, practically unblinking.

“Well…I mean, when I opened the door I hated it,” he snorts, unconsciously smiling, “‘Cause I don’t want some neighbour makin’ a racket when I get home from work, y’know?”

“Yeah.”

“Totally.”

“Completely understandable.”

“But then…” Simon rubs over his lips, eyes hazy, “Had to return the container. ’N so I went over one night, and she was makin’ dinner. Said she didn’t have any friends in the city, and…I felt bad so I ate with her.”

Kyle scrunches his face, sending Soap a questioning look. He leans over to Johnny’s ear, letting out a conspicuous whisper.

“Some romance this is,” he jokes, chortling.

Soap’s inclined to agree. The most romance he could imagine for his lieutenant would be a hookup in the bar bathroom, nothing more. Home made cookies and white wine dinners with the girl next door seems like a pipe dream…

“So you got with her cause she cooks well?” Price asks, smirking.

“What?” Simon’s lips curl into a snarl, and he glares in Price’s direction, “What makes you think that?”

“Nothin’ just…” Price quirks his head, smirk widening into a smile.

“No,” Simon growls, passionate but much too inebriated to make it eloquent. Price chuckles, raising his hands in faux surrender, “S’not that, she’s just…she’s so good to me.”

“So, then,” Kyle stifles a laugh, “You got with her because—”

“Don’t talk about m’wife like that,” He warns, rolling his eyes, “She’s too sweet for that. Didn’t let me kiss her until the third date…”

“So you dated her?” Soap asks in awe, “Like, for how long?”

“For…” Simon concentrates, taking in a low inhale, “Until December…Before we came out here.”

At that, the three of them send each other confused looks, brows scrunched.

“So she was dating you until you came out here?” Kyle pushes, “I thought you said that she was your wife…”

“She is,” he hums dreamily, a small smile overcoming his scarred lips, “Went to the courthouse ’n everything. Gave her my last name. She said she didn’t wanna let me go until I made her mine…’n so I did. Don’t tell her, but I like it like that. Her havin’ my name. It sounds prettier with mine right next to hers.”

“Yeah?” Price chuckles, hiding behind his bottle, “’N what’s her name?”

Simon lolls his head to look at Price, clumsily readjusting himself in his seat. He crosses his arms over his chest, trying and failing to look as intimidating as he is when he’s sober.

“Not telling you,” he sighs, “You lot would just fuck with her…”

“No, I swear we won’t,” Johnny scoots up in his seat, “Just…c’mon, Ghost, what is it?”

Simon’s eyes are pensive as he looks down at Soap, worrying his cheek. That is, until he opens his mouth.

“Definitely not tellin’ you, MacTavish,” he grunts, “Don’t want some git like you hittin’ on my wife…”

Soap’s face falls, unduly offended. Price and Kyle, however, only laugh just that much harder, practically spitting up liquor with every noise. Johnny, however, can only cross his arms in anger.

“Whatever, s’not like the lass even exists anyway,” Soap rolls his eyes, gesturing towards Simon’s inebriated state, “What’s next, Simon? Gonna say she goes to another school or some shite?”

“Just ‘cause I got a pretty thing at home doesn’t mean you have to be jealous, Johnny,” he defends himself, “Just upset that I got a girl who loves me ’n you don’t…”

“M’not jealous—”

“No, no, Johnny’s right, Simon,” Price interjects, shoving Johnny back with a hand against his chest, “it’s just…no offense, but you haven’t talked about her…well, uh—not that much, anyway. And her being your wife…I mean, I don’t quite believe it.”

“What, gonna ask me for pictures or something?” Simon screws his face up in disgust, “Yeah, right…Try ’n cop a look and I’ll lay you flat.”

Before Johnny can ask for said pictures (let alone what kind of photos Simon had of his supposed “wife”) John nails him with a look, zipping his mouth shut.

“No, not that just…” Price shrugs, gesturing towards Simon’s phone on the table, “Call her or something. Tell her you’re coming home tomorrow. Sure she’d love to hear from you.”

“No, not right now,” Simon groans, resting his arms on the table, “Fuck…she gets mad when m’drunk. Doesn’t want me out late. She gets scared when she’s at home alone, wants me there to keep her safe. She needs me at home, y’know…She doesn’t sleep well when she has the bed to herself. Can’t be sloshed like this…”

“Well,” John smiles, “All the more reason to tell her you’re coming home tomorrow, yeah? It’ll be fine, just…call her.”

Simon seems to debate it for a moment, wavering in his spot on the stool. Meanwhile, Price, John, and Johnny all watch with rapt attention, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Simon reaches to tap at his phone screen, navigating through the apps on pure muscle memory, they’re on the edge of his seat. But when he taps a contact, the ambient sounds of a tone ringing, they’re nearly vibrating—that is, until the ringing halts with a spur of static.

“Hello?” A female voice answers.

Instantly, all three of them go from lounging in their chairs to leaning over the table in utter disbelief, staring down at the screen with unblinking eyes.

“Hey, love,” Simon calls, the word slipping out of his mouth like it was second nature.

“Simon?” You ask, “Is that you?”

Your voice peaks around his name, some ambient shuffling in the background as you no doubt stood up from wherever you’d been sitting before—delighted to hear from him.

“Yeah, it’s me, love.”

“Hey,” you say in response, an awed giggle exiting your mouth, “I—I thought that I wouldn’t hear from you for another week…”

“No, just…finished the mission early. Cuffed the bastards like…five hours ago. It’s just me ’n the boys now.”

“Really?” You exclaim, a broad smile in your voice, “You’re not lying?”

“No, love, I was jus’ calling ‘cause I wanted to tell you I’ll be home tomorrow.”

Simon’s voice is softer around the words, kinder. Almost like he thought the rough baritone of his voice would grate on your ears. Well, that, or he was just too drunk to hide how infatuated he was with you. Hell, the smile on his face—small and imperceptible—was almost so telling Johnny would have thought you were standing right in front of him if he hadn’t heard your voice coming through the speakers.

However, Johnny’s a little too busy to articulate that particular thought right now. No, his jaw was firmly on the table, listening to Simon sweet talk his wife through the phone line.

Simon had a wife.

Simon had a bloody wife and he didn’t fucking tell them.

The mangey bastard, Soap whips his head around to look at Simon, about ready to curse at him before you speak up again.

“So it all went well? You’re—you’re not hurt are you?”

“No, just tired…” Simon huffs, “Wanna fuckin’ sleep, and…I wanna go to Gregg’s when I get back.”

At that, you can’t contain the flowery laugh you release. It’s so melodic Soap has a hard time connecting Simon’s monologue with the vision of you he’s getting now.

Pretty thing like you showed up at his flat, a box of cookies in hand, with that sweet voice and beautiful laugh and Simon didn’t jump at the chance? Fucking unbelievable.

Though, looking at the man now, Johnny has no doubt that Simon was about ready to get down on his knees and kiss the ground that you walked on. Literally. He seemed about drunk enough to do it, too.

“Simon,” you scoff, “Are you drunk?”

At the dreaded question, Simon sighs all too obviously, closing his eyes, “Yeah.”

You don’t get angry. No, you only giggle to yourself once more, a quiet exasperation in your voice.

“Babe,” you huff, and Soap imagines that you cross your arms, “Y’know, you can have Gregg’s any time you want…Don’t you want a dinner at home before we leave for Italy?”

“Italy?” Kyle raises his eyebrows, whispering.

Johnny does the same. Only, the alcohol catches up to him before he can pretend to be subtle.

“You’re going to Italy right after ye get home?” He asks Simon, nearly yelling.

“Shut up, Soap, m’talking to my girl right now,” Simon grunts, too sloshed to be mad.

“Who was that?” You interject, but before Soap can reach for the phone, Simon clumsily shoves him away.

“No one you should talk to, love,” he shakes his head like you could see it through the phone, “Just…yeah, you’re right.”

“Okay, then,” you laugh, “Well, what do you wanna eat? I’ll have it made before you get home.”

Simon considers the question for a few seconds, like it was of monumental importance to him. When he speaks, he speaks precisely…even if it is slurred with alcohol.

“Can you make that—that pasta? Y’know, like, with the shrimp and the wine…”

“You mean white wine pasta?”

“Yeah, that one…”

“White wine pasta…” Soap furrows his brow, releasing a disbelieving chuckle, “Dinnae know you liked white wine, LT…”

“I don’t…”

“Then why do you want it when—”

“It’s in the pasta,” you laugh, barely able to get through your words without being interrupted, “He doesn’t drink it.”

“Oh,” Soap says stupidly, tempted to introduce himself, if only so that he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself in front of his friend’s wife. But what would he say?

Oh, hello, Mrs. Riley. Sorry, we force fed your husband weed and menthols until he was too high to remember not to tell us about you?

Yeah, he should save the formalities for later.

“Well,” your voice is staticky through the phone, “If that’s it, then I guess that’s fine. You sure you don’t want me to make anything else? It’s been six months."

“I know,” he professes, like it was some grand hurt in his heart, “Fuck…I miss you.”

You only laugh, voice sickly sweet and cloying, “I miss you too, baby. Know when you’ll be home?”

“We’ll be at the airport late…Probably after one.”

“Want me to pick you up?”

“Yeah,” he sniffs, wiping at his face, “Don’t wanna bother with the transport…”

“Got it,” you hum, “I’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” Simon relents, but before he can forget himself, he suddenly perks up, huddling closer to the speaker, “Hey, love, wait a minute.”

“What?”

“When you drive there, promise me you’ll be careful, yeah? The car’s still…fucked,” he explains simply, almost like he couldn’t come up with a way to describe it when he was so drunk, “Just—check the power steering fluid. Make sure it’s topped off. You’ve been doing it like I showed you?”

“Yeah, but…” you make a small noise, “We’re kinda running out…”

“That’s okay, love. Don’t worry about it,” he answers, “So long as its topped off I’ll know you’re safe. I’ll take care of it when I get home…��n I’m not so tired.”

Once again, you chuckle, “Got it, Simon.”

“See you tomorrow?” He asks.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow, baby.”

“Good,” he finishes, letting out a long sigh, “When you get to the airport, wear that white dress. The pretty one, y’know. That way I can pick you out of the crowd.”

“Simon, you don’t have to make an excuse to get me to dress up…”

“Yeah, but…” he smiles down at the phone, looking all too sick and in love, “Want you to look good before we leave for Italy.”

“Don’t worry about that, Simon,” you snort, “I’ll give you a whole tour of all the clothes I bought while you were gone.”

“Can’t wait,” he supplies, eyes closing around the words, “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

“I love you,” he says without even thinking, staring down at your screen name with blackened pupils, “Sleep well, love.”

“I’ll sleep better once you’re home,” you tell him emphatically, “I love you, too, baby.”

With that, the line goes dead, and all that remains is Simon’s swaying form and his friends’ locked jaws. The three of them are so stunned they can barely speak, looking back and forth between Simon’s face and his phone like all of this would suddenly start making sense the more they wracked their brains about it.

“M’fucking knackered,” Simon suddenly says, planting his hands on the table top, “Can’t be too tired when I get home tomorrow…”

“Wait—you said you’re gong to Italy when you get back?” Kyle questions, grabbing Simon by the sleeve when he gets up to leave.

“Yeah,” Simon answers—like it was just common sense. Kyle, however, can only roll his eyes.

“Well, what for?”

“Our fuckin’ honeymoon,” Simon shoves Kyle’s hands away, “Just got bloody married and you think I wouldn’t treat my girl right. You lot are fuckin’ twats,” he shakes his head, climbing the stairs before any of them can say another word, “Bloody cavemen. The lot of you.”

They watch, stunned, as Simon scales the stairs, clinging to the hand rail like he’d go tumbling down without it. And judging by his clunky steps, he really might. However, when the door up top opens with a squeak and is slammed closed right after, Soap figures he can leave the man to his own devices tonight. Slowly, the three of them exchange looks between each other, all equally puzzled as the next.

“Honeymoon?” Kyle whispers.

“Simon’s a newlywed?” Price hisses.

Above, they hear Simon’s footsteps plod away, getting lighter and lighter as they go. At that, Soap can only laugh disbelievingly, shaking his head.

“Fuck me,” he curses, staring down at the table in awe. He looks at all the empty bottles, at the brimming ash tray.

“You think if he sleeps it off he’ll forget?”

“Better hope so,” Price sneers, standing from his chair, “Otherwise, he might accuse you of hitting on his wife again.”

Soap deadpans once again, glaring at the captain, “I was not—”

“Yeah, tell the newlywed husband that,” the Captain waves over his shoulder, “Who knows, might pummel your face in before you get back to Edinburgh. Sure the cashier at Nando’s would love to see that.”

“Whatever,” Soap rolls his eyes—not for the first time.

Kyle’s hand claps down on his shoulder, and his friend sends him a widening smile.

“You’re fucked, mate,” he supplies simply.

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thewritetofreespeech · 8 months ago

Note

Could I request Lucifer finding out his s/o was once engaged but got divorced because her ex-fiancé cheated on her with another woman? The worst part? After finding out how much of a greedy, incompetent, and selfish woman his new wife is, her ex now wants to get back with her.

Lucifer x Reader - Running into an Ex

He usually didn’t like going up to the human world, but it seemed he was making exceptions for [Y/N] more & more. His will was weak when it came to their requests. Though he justified it by it only being fair for them to go on their dates ‘up top’ from time to time as they spent most of their time in the Devildom.

Plus with all the mischief, misadventures, and just plain in-fighting between him & his brothers, they could use a break.

They had just finished dinner at a restaurant almost as nice as Ristorante Six when someone called [Y/N]’s name out on the street like a common beggar. “I thought that was you. How have you been?”

“I’m…fine…” Lucifer could tell they were uncomfortable. Clearly this person was someone they knew but was not thrilled to run into. Sensing this would take a moment, Lucifer waved off the car waiting for them and told them to take another lap. “What are you doing here? I thought you moved.”

“Keeping tabs on me, eh?” His fake laugh was insufferable. “I uh…moved back with my wife last year. With the economy crash and everything, it was just better to stay back home.”

“Oh. Your mother didn’t mention it.”

“You still take to my mom? Well, I guess that makes sense. You two were always close. You look….great, by the way.”

“…thank you…”

The tension and conversation were getting tighter. To the point that Lucifer felt obligated to step in. “We should get going, [Y/N]. We don’t want to be late for our travels tomorrow.” He’s never wanted to return home immediately so much in his life, but he wouldn’t open a portal, or ruin [Y/N]’s trip, like that.

“Yes. We should go-“Wait [Y/N]. Can I…talk to you for a minute before you go? You don’t mind right, do you my guy?”

Lucifer glared at the man, but turned to [Y/N] who nodded and said it was alright. He nodded back and pressed his hand to the small of their back to let them know he was still there, but moved off to the side to give them space. Not that he couldn’t hear every word with his demon hearing.

“You really do look great by the way.”

“What do you want [X/N]? Shouldn’t you be home with your wife.”

“Gah…don’t say it like that…” The man scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand. Clearly a man defeated. “Look, I know now what I did to you was wrong. I shouldn’t have broken up with you, or our engagement. I just….had cold feet about the marriage thing.”

Lucifer was shocked. He didn’t know [Y/N] had been engaged. But, if what the man said was true, then he could see why they didn’t mention it to him. It sounded painful.

“You didn’t seem too un-keen on the idea when you jumped right in to marry the woman you cheated on me with.”

“Grass is always greener…” Lucifer sneered at the man’s second untimely joke. He then stepped closer to [Y/N]; raising Lucifer’s hackles. “I wanted to let you know I made a mistake. What I did…who I’m with now…it’s all wrong. I wanted to reach out to you but I could never get a hold of you since everyone said you were abroad or something.” Yes, or something. “When I ran into you now, I knew it was fate. Please. Give me another chance.”

[Y/N] wrenched their hand away from them but stood their ground. “You think I would give you another chance after what you did?! I can never trust you. Besides, you’re married now. What are you doing to get a divorce and jump into another marriage just like that? Out with the old in with the new? Oh, I’m sorry, out with the new in with the old.”

“Hey! I came to you and told you I made a mistake. That I’m unhappy and I want to try again. The least you can do is consider it!”

“ ‘Consider it’?? So I’m doing you the favor here. In case you missed it, along with you being married, I’m here with someone as well.”

“That guy?? He’s too posh for you. A guy like that is just using you probably for sex or arm candy. Make him look more down to Earth. Do you really want to be with someone so far out of your league that you just feel inferior all the time? You should be with someone on your level. Like me.”

“I can assure you sir, the levels [Y/N] would have to stoop to be on your level would require excavation equipment to access.”

The man seemed startled by Lucifer’s sudden reappearance in their conversation. Also likely from his looming figure. Not his demon form, but not his full human disguise either. The full weight of his anger and disgust at this insect talking to [Y/N] like that making him seem probably 10 feet tall to the man.

“Please cease this horrendous display of accosting people on the street who had the unfortune of knowing you and go home to your wife. You may have regretted your decision in a mate, but I have not. There’s no way in hell,” [Y/N] snorted once at that, “that I am going to let you talk to them this way or ruin our evening any further.”

As if summoned by his magic, the car pulled up again beside them and Lucifer opened the door. “Come my love. We have no longer a need to be here anymore.” [Y/N] slide in and he closed the door, before turning to face the man again. “And should you ever be stupid enough to contact [Y/N] again with these ridiculous notions and your own inflated ego, I will personally see to it that you are torn limb from limb by wild dogs by the time I’m through with you.” His eyes flashed red once. Obviously startling the man who almost fell into the street before he rounded the car and got in on the other side.

“I’m sorry I never mentioned him before.” [Y/N] apologized as they drove off.

Lucifer shrugged. “Having met him, he doesn’t seem like a man worth mentioning.” He reached out his hand and clasped it with their own. Such a horrible person would not ruin their evening. And he would see to it that [Y/N] never thought of them again, as he would do everything in his power to make sure they felt love and adored. Second to no one.

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers)#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me scenarios #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #lucifer #lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me x reader #scenarios #imagine

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brainddeadd · 1 month ago

Text

The Proposal

When a sudden immigration issue threatens to deport you back to Canada, you devise a plan: convince your charming but infuriating neighbor, Quinn Hughes, to marry you. What starts as a wild scheme leads to unexpected feelings, hilarious misadventures, and a deeper connection.

this was originally going to be a series but my brain went pooft

Your life is officially a disaster. All it took was a single letter from immigration. Due to some bureaucratic nightmare, your visa is expiring, and you’re suddenly at risk of being deported back to Canada—a place you haven’t lived in years. Your job, your friends, your entire life is here now. You pace your apartment, chewing on your lip, heart racing with panic. There has to be a solution, some way to stay.

That’s when the idea hits you—crazy, reckless, and entirely illegal.

You need someone to marry you.

But not just anyone. It has to be someone local, single, and trustworthy enough to go along with this scheme. Unfortunately, your options are limited. And then you think of your neighbor: Quinn Hughes.

The thought makes you groan aloud. Sure, he’s gorgeous—with his sharp jawline, quiet charm, and infuriating smirk—but the two of you are more like frenemies than anything else. Your relationship consists mostly of snarky comments in passing and the occasional argument over his terrible parking. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And besides, if anyone can convincingly pretend to hate you while still marrying you, it’s Quinn.

The Proposal:

Later that evening, you find yourself standing outside Quinn’s door, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek. The moment he opens it, dressed in a hoodie and gym shorts, you blurt out, “I need you to marry me.”

Quinn blinks, stunned. “What?”

You take a deep breath. “It’s not what it sounds like. It’s just… immigration messed up my visa, and if I don’t fix this soon, I’m going to be deported. The fastest way to stay is if I marry a U.S. citizen.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “And you thought I was the best option?”

“Yes,” you say, trying to sound confident. “I mean, you’re already in my life. Sort of. And it’s not like you have a girlfriend or anything, so…”

Quinn’s lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. “You do realize this is illegal, right?”

“Only if we get caught,” you say quickly. “Look, it’s just a piece of paper. We don’t have to actually act married. We just have to fool immigration long enough for me to get my green card, and then we can… annul it or whatever.”

He studies you for a moment, as if weighing the insanity of your request. “What’s in it for me?”

You rack your brain for something to offer. “I’ll stop giving you shit about your parking.”

Quinn chuckles softly. “That’s it?”

“And… I’ll buy you coffee every morning,” you add, desperate.

He lets out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You owe me. Big time.”

Your heart leaps. “So that’s a yes?”

Quinn shrugs, looking both amused and resigned. “Guess I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Hilarious Misadventures Ensue:

From the moment Quinn agrees, things spiral into a series of chaotic events. You and Quinn suddenly have to act like the perfect couple, and it’s harder than you anticipated—mainly because the two of you are polar opposites.

1. The Wedding: You decide on a quick courthouse wedding to make it official. There’s no fanfare—just you in a white sundress and Quinn looking mildly annoyed in a button-down shirt.

“I feel like we should say something meaningful,” you whisper as the judge prepares to officiate.

Quinn smirks. “Like what? ‘Til deportation do us part’?”

Despite yourself, you snort, and the judge gives you both a strange look. You manage to keep a straight face just long enough to exchange vows—if you can even call them that—and sign the marriage license.

“Well, Mrs. Hughes,” Quinn teases after, flashing a grin. “How does it feel to be married?”

“Like I made a huge mistake,” you reply with a playful glare.

2. The Fake Instagram Life: To sell the story, you both agree to post a few couple-y photos on social media. The problem? Neither of you are exactly Instagram-savvy.

Quinn’s first attempt is a blurry photo of the two of you holding coffee cups. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, frowning as you groan.

“It looks like a hostage situation, Quinn.”

After several failed attempts, you finally manage a decent photo: you sitting on his lap, laughing as he pretends to kiss your cheek. It’s fake, of course. Completely fake. But the way his hand rests on your waist feels a little too real.

3. Immigration Interview Disaster: The immigration interview is the real test, and it’s an absolute disaster.

The officer asks simple questions: “How did you two meet?” “What’s Quinn’s favorite food?”

You both answer at the same time, giving completely different answers.

“Spaghetti,” you say.

“Chicken tenders,” Quinn mutters.

You shoot him a look. “Since when?”

“I told you that last week,” he whispers back, exasperated.

The officer narrows her eyes, and you and Quinn exchange panicked glances. Somehow, you scrape through the interview, but not without promising each other to actually learn more about each other next time.

Feelings Get Complicated:

What started as a transactional arrangement begins to shift. The longer you spend time together—watching TV on his couch, cooking dinner side by side, sharing space in ways that feel dangerously domestic—the more the lines blur between what’s fake and what isn’t.

One rainy night, you find yourself curled up against Quinn on the couch, his arm casually draped around your shoulders. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you wonder if he feels it too.

“This was supposed to be fake,” you whisper, almost afraid to say it aloud.

Quinn’s hand brushes your arm, sending shivers down your spine. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But it doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

You look up at him, your breath hitching as his gaze drops to your lips. Before you can overthink it, he leans in, capturing your mouth in a soft, tentative kiss. It’s not rushed or rehearsed—it’s real. And it’s everything you didn’t know you wanted.

The Inevitable Realization:

Over the next few weeks, everything changes. The fake touches—his hand on your back, your fingers laced through his—become second nature. Quinn starts leaving his toothbrush next to yours. You start falling asleep in his bed more often than not.

And then, one morning, it hits you. You’re not faking anymore.

You sit across from him at breakfast, watching as he scrolls through his phone, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. It’s terrifying, how easy this has become.

“What are you thinking?” Quinn asks, glancing up from his phone.

You smile softly. “That maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.”

Quinn’s eyes crinkle with amusement, but there’s warmth there too—something deeper, more genuine. “Guess we’ll have to stay married, then.”

You laugh, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Hughes.”

And for the first time, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.

#quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes fanfic #° braindead writes #nhl x reader

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holy-puckslibrary · 5 months ago

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─ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜.

pairing(s) — fwb!MATTHEW TKACHUK x reader wc — 3.2k synopsis — best not-boyfriend boyfriend ever! (read the request here) note — bestie, your brain? marvelous! this was an absolute joy to write, and i hope this captures your vision!!! thank you for the request <3

main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — hints of a debut-inspired ensemble; complicated, grossly intimate situationship + emotional constipation; angst (not really) to fluffy fluffy; tswizzle references; suggestive section: "heavy petting" but nothing explicit / fade to black; brief alcohol mention + consumption; brief mention of food (no specifics); and ~emotions~

I. it’s getting so much clearer…

Matthew regrets making you a key.

Majorly.

If he’d known the can of worms he was opening when he unceremoniously dropped them in your lap one night, he would’ve listened to his brother; you don’t give girlfriend privileges to women who aren’t your girlfriend. It only leads to hurt feelings, broken console controllers, and unnecessary trouble.

However, it’s highly unlikely this is the “trouble” to which Brady was referring.

Rooted in the entryway, he surveys the damage.

Beads of all shapes, sizes, and colors sit in a sea of jars. Some have spilled out under the coffee table and couch, others have made it all the way into the kitchen. Knotted balls of elastic are sprinkled throughout the chaos, as are multiple pairs of scissors, skeins of embroidery floss, and shards of construction paper. There are markers everywhere, but for some unknown reason, the crayons and sticker sheets are in nice, neat piles. A white feather boa is draped over the entertainment center and there’s a pink one curled by his feet. And, in the eye of the storm, is an anxious lump frantically stringing together DIY jewelry and muttering along to the megamix blaring through the room; he doubts you even heard him come home.

“Sweetheart, is there a reason it looks like a craft store threw up everywhere?” Matthew shouts as he gingerly braves the hurricane.

Something crunches under his shoe, and from the sound alone, he knows it would’ve been worse than stepping on a Lego if his feet were bare.

He also knows that if the music were even a decibel lower, you would be pissed beyond belief. How dare he move freely through his own home without first checking for rogue pieces of plastic? His ears are ringing, but he’s grateful for it. From many years of mistakes and misadventures, he's learned you won’t get on top if you’re mad, regardless of how much groveling he does. And he's got one foot in the doghouse after last weekend as it is.

“T-minus two days ’til Taylor, Matthew,” you grumble from the floor. “What do you think?”

You’ve been at this for weeks. It gets worse the closer the concert gets. The mess and your mood.

Matthew isn’t stupid, and he knows you better than he lets on. You panic under the weight of your own (often unrealistic) expectations. You need everything to be perfect, or the entire world crumbles. This, Night One of the Florida dates of the Eras Tour, is, understandably, no exception. If anything, the pressure’s dialed up to eleven.

In stressing over every little detail, you’ve made yourself miserable. Watching you unravel makes his chest feel strange.

You won’t ask for help. You don’t want it, either.

But, he can’t let you flounder. For his own sanity, he can’t do it. And he does care about you. Maybe not in the way everyone assumes or hopes, but he does. He’d do almost anything to lighten your load.

Yet, Matthew treads lightly. If he’s too forthcoming, you could get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to spook you, and he can’t have any wires getting crossed. What’s so good about your situation is how markedly uncomplicated it’s been. He refuses to be the one who fucks it up for everyone.

So, he does what he can, and he does it without making a big deal about it.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he sinks down onto the floor beside you. You’re perched on one of the obnoxious throw pillows you insisted he order to “spruce up” the space and make it look less “bachelor pad-y." As if that’s not exactly what it is. He takes this as rare permission to do the same, placing one under his hips and cuddling another to his chest as he stretches out on his stomach, phone in hand.

Well, as stretched as a person can be in the middle of an obstacle course.

Between the second play of “cowboy like me” and the third of “Tim McGraw,” his various feeds dry up, and he’s spammed his contacts into oblivion. You're still chugging along, like a Sad Girl automaton locked in an endless glittery assembly line.

At one point, you murmur, “Give me your wrist."

And he does.

Matthew’s taken aback when you loop elastic around it to get a measurement.

He’s confused, but not for the reason one might assume. He’s painfully familiar with the friendship bracelet phenomenon and the giddy exchanges, having been force-fed hours' worth of tour content over the past year, but he never thought you’d rope him into it.

The buzz under his skin is oddly auspicious, watching you clip the appropriate length before reaching for the pile laid out near his head.

It’s not long before you make the same request again. However, this time, you slide on a custom creation. You fiddle with it for a moment, then turn back to your station to begin the next one on the list.

“And in which era does she cosplay as a camp counselor?” Matthew teases as he thumbs the letter beads.

They spell out a moniker he’d honestly find offensive if you hadn’t looped the song one too many times. He wonders if you’ve made yourself the matching one.

You emit a sound that haunts his nightmares and side-eye him in a way that would’ve made a lesser man disintegrate.

“If you don’t want it, give it back so I can give it to someone who will appreciate my time and effort,” you bite with your hand outstretched, palm up and open expectantly.

Matthew shoves it away, suddenly defensive. “I never said that.”

The sun slips behind the fence an hour later, and the sky bathes the house in purple-pink hues. As he gathers ingredients in the kitchen, Matthew watches the slow-moving clouds absentmindedly. He hasn't felt this content in a while.

Arms full, he wades through the arts and crafts on the way to the backyard.

You’re still in the den, still hunched over in the same place he found you in. He shakes his head when he passes you, knowing he’s got an hour (at least) moonlighting as a masseuse in his future.

You don’t startle or acknowledge him until the grill set you bought for his birthday clatters to the floor.

“Why’re there two cowboy hats getting glitter all over my patio?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. And hating it. Vehemently.

You fix him with an unamused glare. Your brow quirks, and your hands still. Then, you blink at him very slowly. Like he’s an idiot. Like he just asked a stupid question—because he did.

Matthew’s head wags so intensely that his neck cracks.

“Oh, hell no.”

II. it’s coming undone…

Matthew scowls at his reflection.

“—looks so fucking stupid.”

He can’t tell if he looks worse with or without the fur-trimmed, shimmery cowboy hat. And, honestly, it's a little distressing. After temporarily ditching it, he tugs at his curls. Then, the hem of the jersey.

Resigned, he reaches across the bed for the homemade accessory. Wearing it will make you smile—and it gives his dignity something to hide behind.

Twitter’s going to have a fucking field day.

Your panicked voice spills out from the hotel bathroom, “Really?”

“Of course, it fucking do—”

His tirade of vanity grinds to a screeching halt at the sight of you, backlit and wilting.

“That’s not—ah, fuck.” Matthew digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What I meant was—me, it looks stupid on me. Not you. On you, it looks… It looks…”

“It looks, what?”

It looks like he’s glad none of your friends were available because he won’t have to pretend you’re less than you are.

No lectures, no goading, no scrutiny. Just you.

“Right.” That’s the word he settles for. “It looks right.”

The emphasis chips away at what little believability the underwhelming affirmation had. That much is evident from the insecurity bleeding through your makeup.

“Right,” you parrot. Skeptically, you drag out the vowel long enough that it disappears into the bathroom with you.

Before the door clicks shut, Matthew’s already berating himself for whatever just happened. For acting like a complete doofus with a foot shoved down his throat.

His mind is as quick as his tongue is sharp. He’s got confidence for days and a cocky demeanor primed and on-call, one that most women find endearing. Yourself included. He’s never had an issue dishing out pretty words or flirting before, especially not with you.

With you, banter came easy. Sweet or salacious, it didn’t matter. The bob and weave, from platonic chatter to something charged and suggestive, is effortless. And it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. It's innate. He should be able to uphold his reputation in his sleep.

What’s gotten into him?

(You’d say the power of Taylor Swift, or some shit. Which is why he doesn’t open the floor for discussion. Among other reasons.)

Matthew makes the executive decision to put things right. To redeem himself, to feel more like himself.

His palms are hot and tingling as he sets off to do what he does best. Something fool-proof. Something that’ll erase the past ten minutes from the collective consciousness. Something to scratch an itch...

He won't make it through three and a half hours without catching a public indecency charge.

Not with you looking like that.

“I was thinking,” Matthew trails off as he comes up behind you in the en suite bathroom. His hands land on the counter, one on either side of you. “We should fool around a little bit before we leave.”

With his chest flush to your back and his chin propped on your shoulder, he blatantly checks you out.

You, albeit begrudgingly, find it flattering. On principle, you roll your eyes.

You snort. “Funny."

Sarcasm pinches his face as he unintelligibly mocks you.

Whatever witty retort he had died on his tongue when you lean forward to put some eyeliner in your waterline, inadvertently pushing the curve of your backside right into his growing bulge.

Matthew turns you to face him without warning.

The kohl pencil goes flying, dotting the pristine space as it tumbles to the floor. Its final resting place is unknown; you’ll follow the smudge-crumbs later.

Later, when he doesn’t have you pressed tight between the harsh edge of the counter and his chest.

Later, when the dull ache in your arched back dissipates.

Later, when his attraction isn’t so painfully tangible.

Later, when he isn’t looking at you the way he is now.

You’re sinking in a shade of blue you don’t recognize. It’s stormy, vast and disquieting. Like any collision, you’re unable to tear your eyes away even though you know you should. It betrays an aura of foreboding, yet somehow, Matthew’s charged gaze carries a soothing effect. It's hypnotic in an stomach-twisting way.

“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.” He breathes the words through the slight part in your lips, his voice rich and thick like honey.

“W-We need to be quick—”

Matthew buries his face in the sweet-smelling crook of your neck. Intent on shutting you up, he succeeds with infuriating ease once he’s latched onto your throat. He nips and sucks whenever you protest, and soon, you don’t even bother trying anymore.

Why lie and deny when what you want feels this fucking good?

When your nails dig impatient little half-moons into his forearms, Matthew bares his teeth with a triumphant hiss.

He grins against your skin, humming atop your erratic pulse.

“Better hurry up and spread ‘em, then.”

Matthew’s between your dangling boots as soon as you’ve hoisted yourself onto the counter. Kneading the soft skin of your thighs, inching up and in with eager hands, he doesn’t slow or stop until the white Self-Titled sundress is bunched up in the hinge of your hips.

“That’s my girl.”

III. it’s delicate…

“All Tequila, No Crime” isn’t as diabolical of a cocktail as it sounds.

Spending $100+ to taste test it and three other signature mixed drinks is.

A robbery, if you ask him.

What's downright criminal, though, is your inability to finish a single one. A “Last Great American G&T” with a few sips missing, a half-finished “Midnight Mule,” and a watered-down “Blue Debut” sit abandoned amongst an assortment of sweet treats and small bites.

As he waits for what he ordered, Matthew picks at the vibrant fruit salad. He’s about to pluck a honeydew star from the pile stacked high in a bowl fashioned from a watermelon rind when the back of his neck prickles.

“Knock it off.”

You blink, bemused.

Matthew, having watched your reaction in a reflection, rolls his eyes.

Back still to you, he clarifies. “You promised you wouldn’t make this a whole thing.”

“I'm not.”

“You've never been a good liar.”

“Isn't that a good thing?” you deflect.

You turn your attention back to the lively stadium, watching as it fills with laughter and anticipation. You're hoping he'll take the hint and drop it, that he won't pull the night apart at the seams.

He abandons the sprawling buffet table in favor of the plush recliner beside yours. Once settled, Matthew slides a plate of your favorites across the small table between you.

“Don't change the subject.”

The cement under your boots makes for a captive audience as you sail into dicey weather. “I know—I know what I said, and I'm really trying my best, but can you blame me? I mean, c’mon, Matty. Look where we are.”

“A Taylor Swift concert?” Matthew does what he does best.

You know his tells and his tricks. You indulge neither.

“My first Taylor Swift concert. Ever. I came out of The Queue From Hell empty-handed and shit out of luck, yet here we are. The Eras Tour. And not way up the nosebleeds or side-stage with an obstructed view. A suite. A private, fifteen-person suite—for just us. You did that.”

Matthew shifts uncomfortably. He scratches the shadow clinging to his jaw. He looks everywhere, at everything. Everything except you.

“So?”

The probe is firm yet reluctant but not inherently dismissive.

“So,” you heave a labored sigh of unease. “—so, how could I not? This ‘whole thing’ is the kindest, most thoughtful gesture anyone’s ever done for me. It means the absolute world, and I know you know that.”

A thick, paralyzing quiet descends on the balcony.

He does know that, which is what makes it so terrible. He knows, he knows, he knows. Matthew knows; he wishes he didn’t. For years, he successfully kept it at bay because… because you can’t just un-know something like that. Even entertaining the thought felt too big a risk. It jeopardizes the delicate peace only willful ignorance can safeguard.

“Alright, alright. Jesus, sweetheart. Can't have you emptying the tank before the show even starts,” Matthew teases as he thumbs the tears away. “How d’ya know I didn’t pull some strings just to put an end to your perpetual pity party?”

He’s trying to lighten the mood. Hoping to inch away from the emotionally dense zone of uncharted territory, hoping you’ll have mercy—or take pity—on him and his plight of avoidance.

And you do.

Ever the benevolent people-pleaser.

You take your foot off the gas. You retreat to the status quo. You yield, but for a good cause.

Good and right aren’t synonymous. And we can’t will them to be. So, instead, we choose our battles and bide our time.

There’s no reason to rain on tonight’s parade.

“Thank you,” you acquiesce.

Mathew smiles.

This ceasefire, this tacit truce, is as fragile as rice paper. It feels as though, if someone pushed too hard from either side, they'd go right through it unchallenged. But, for now, it's enough.

He takes your hand and squeezes. “And for the hundredth time, you’re welcome.”

IV. it’s been a long time coming…

He gets it now.

Truthfully, he understood after the very first bridge of the night. There’s just something about the intimacy of the spectacle; it's… indescribable. With thousands from all walks of life gathered in a single stadium to celebrate nearly two decades of singing, crying, and growing up together, it wasn't difficult to get swept up in the magic.

For someone who’d consider themselves fan-adjacent at best, he wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything, let alone goosebumps, misty-eyed.

He can’t even imagine how extraordinarily special it must’ve been for you, a lifelong fan, to partake in the world’s most cinematic sing-along. To luck out with your opener of choice, to be surprised with your favorite song during the acoustic set—you could probably die happy. Matthew can still feel your tear-streaked cheek against his shoulder and your shakey hand clasped in his. And he’ll remember the warmth of your joy for the rest of his life.

He, however, doesn't have to imagine how much the experience took out of you.

“Hey, hey. Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You’re one minute into a five-minute Uber ride, and he’s already had to nudge you twice.

Curled against the cool window like a cat, you groggily protest, “I’m not. My mind is alive, promise.”

He snorts. “Then why’re your eyes shut?”

“They aren’t!”

They absolutely are.

Matthew tugs you across his lap with a smile pulling at his cheeks.

“Sounds like you need to get yours checked, Matthew Brendan,” you quip into his chest before drowning the backseat in delirious giggles.

In the golden glow of the streetlamps, his smirk rests against your temple.

Here is the moment. There have been hundreds like it in the years since you met. Lighthearted banter and late night laughter spill over into the early morning hours, all of it utter nonsense he wouldn’t trade for anything. It should be perfectly ordinary, but it's music to his ears.

The cowboy boots he swore he wouldn’t carry home rest against his similarly sore calves. The ziplock bag, once bursting at the seams with bracelets, is empty and folded in his back pocket, and his arm is full from elbow to wrist. The glitter he contested clings to him like a second skin, there to stay.

And he doesn’t hate it.

💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌

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retrotrait · 4 months ago

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Do you accept the challenge? I'm creating a story centered around a single mom and her daughter. Help me build Elizabeths Highschool world.

Calling all HS Years Lovers!

Meet Mom, a widow who's been swiping right since dinosaurs roamed the Earth, and her daughter, a straight-A student with a PhD in feline care and zero in romantic experience. Mom's idea of dating is still stuck in the ‘80s, and her daughter’s future is looking like it’ll include more cats than dates. Together, they’re on a quest to find love—or at least a decent cup of coffee—while avoiding the looming shadow of becoming a real-life cat lady. Will Mom find her Mr. Right before she becomes a cougar in the worst way? And can her daughter find romance without mistaking every guy for a stray? Stay tuned for a series of hilariously awkward misadventur

UPDATE

Only two open submission left! this is the last week if you want to send in a sim⭐ Thank you again to everyone who submitted!

#sims 4 #ts4 #the sims 4 #sims #simblr #sims 4 challenge #ts4 challenge #ts4 simblr #Failing at Romance Challenge

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rainybubbles · 1 year ago

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Which love tropes are COD men ?

Ghost, Gaz, Soap, Price, Alejandro,Rudy, Keegan

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC. )

G H O S T :

Right person, wrong time

-It was an ordinary encounter, perhaps in a quaint grocery store or a bakery.

-He, a familiar face, gradually wove himself into your routine.

-Initially, only glances were exchanged : your curiosity met with his suspicion.

-But as time flowed, recognition blossomed, evolving into a delicate dance of shared secrets.

-There were playful glances.

-Some to mock this harsh client, some to exchange silent greetings, and at times some to secretly admire one other.

-There were also your doodling on his napkins when you gave him his pastries or pieces of bread.

-At first he remained oblivious, but over time, these doodles found a place in his home.

-Secretly kept in a box.

-It became an intimacy that defied words.

-Slowly the spark between you melted his ice barriers.

-The reason Simon were a regular or even in your country, was a year-long leave- a medical hiatus, owing to a wounded leg.

-Anger and fear consumed him upon hearing this news.

-Work was a means to escape the looming solitude within, it allowed him to not think

-Thus, he stumbled upon your bakery, where the comforting scent of freshly baked cookies invoked nostalgia, but of a sweet, rather than bitter kind.

-It reminded him of his mother.

-One year.

-The realization struck when he noticed your pastries were now baked within the walls of his own

kitchen, and your fragrance clung to his clothes, no longer limited to your bakery.

-At that moment, he made a decision.

-Because he knew he would not settle in here.

-He would not live here or stay here.

-And he knew he could not contact you again.

-And he couldn't bear to ask you to wait for him, knowing he might never return alive.

-So one fateful day when you saw him walking perfectly fine, you understood.

-He was healed. A year had passed.

-You stood so close that your lips nearly brushed against each other.

-On the verge of a kiss, he whispered softly "goodbye" instead of "I love you", as if the fact to not pronounce it could erase your feelings with time.

-Yet, in the years that followed, both of you wondered "what if we had dared that kiss ?".

-Right person, wrong time.

G A Z

Friends to lovers

-You both shared a profound friendship.

-During this friendship, you harbored a silent infatuation for Gaz, but you never acted upon it; it ebbed away gradually.

-It all began on a mundane summer night.

-Conversing upon unassuming plastic chairs, the balmy summer night caressing you, and laughter exchanged, you both reveled in the moment.

-Unexpectedly, Gaz felt a gentle warmth, briefly mistaking it for a passing delight, he didn't grant it much thought.

-Months later, in a dimly lit bar with the 141, Soap regaled the group with his comical misadventure- a disastrous date with a man convinced he was a vampire, who attempted to bite his ear. Amid the laughter, he posed a question, "Who is your ideal date?"

-"Myself," Ghost replied.

-Gaz and Soap chuckled.

-"You're a cocky bastard, L.T,." Soap said.

"Just confident Sergeant."

-"I'll choose Beyoncé or Donald Glover," Soap declared.

-Gaz grinned and was about to select a celebrity too, but he halted himself when your image was the only one that filled his mind.

-He parted his lips and fabricated an excuse before excusing himself for some fresh air.

-Perhaps he was intoxicated.

-Yes.

-Why would he... why would he divulge such feelings when you had been friends for years...

-He contemplated how at ease he was in your presence.

-How you supported him through the darkest days of his PTSD during his leaves.

-How you delved into the intricacies of PTSD, your fervor for your hobbies, and the way your smile etched a subtle crease on your cheek.

-How... how it transcended platonic boundaries.

-He retrieved his phone, prepared to send you a message.

-But fear seized him.

-Then he sighed. He was a soldier, a valiant man, prepared to wage war even in matters of the heart.

-He sent a message.

-And deleted it.

-And sent it once more before locking his phone and returning to the teal ambiance of the bar.

-When he settled back in his seat, Price wore a knowing smirk.

-"It was about time, son," Price smiled."

S O A P :

Unrequited love

-Soap was akin to a radiant sun, drawing people into his orbit effortlessly.

-Gazing upon him unveiled an entire solar system, one that included the 141, his beloved family, and a constellation of friends, all revolving around him like celestial bodies.

- It was as though every shared moment had forged an invisible gravitational pull, igniting a constellation of emotions within your heart.

-The magic lay in the details-how he remembered your favorite song and serenaded you in his car, never allowing his gaze to wander from yours.

- He ensured your seamless integration into the group, an attentive listener in moments when you believed no one else was.

-His smile, an ethereal response to your mere mention, bespoke the devotion he held for you.

-Thoughtful gifts crafted solely for you, tender touches, and sincere compliments on your attire, each detail etched itself into your soul.

-You believed in the possibility, for the very first time, of experiencing love's tender embrace.

-It was a sublime euphoria.

- Then, as suddenly as a meteor strike, reality set in Soap had found love elsewhere.

-At first, bitterness filled your heart.

-You wondered if there was a chance, a missed moment... Yet, he had another partner, then another, and another, and another.

-But never you.

-You recognized your own selfishness.

-In a lifetime of wanting nothing, you yearned for his affection now. Tears welled in your eyes. Then, a text arrived.

-He shared news of a successful date. As you gazed at your reflection in the mirror after reading his message, a smile tinged with tears danced upon your lips.

-You understood that your feelings were your burden to bear, not his. Despite the agony it brought, you genuinely celebrated his happiness.

-With a sigh, you locked your phone, only to feel a gentle hand on your shoulder. "I know, love. Come here," whispered a voice.

-You found Gaz.

-You sobbed in his arms when you recognized his glance.

-His glance was the same as yours: an unrequited love

-"I'm sorry, Gaz."

-"It's okay."

-"I'm sorry, I wish..."

-"Don't finish that sentence," Gaz gently admonished.

-Soap resembled the sun, but you had forgotten that drawing too near to the sun could result in burning.

P R I C E :

First love

-Not his first lover, but unquestionably his first love.

-During high school, Price embodied the quintessential sportsman, often hailed as the golden boy.

-He was orchestrating a fundraising endeavor for the grand ball when a cacophony of voices reached his ears from an empty classroom.

-It was your partner who had left you in the lurch, callously disregarding your feelings.

-Your partner had callously remarked how he was fully aware that you lacked alternative companionship.

-And he took perverse pride in this knowledge, exploiting your social anxiety, knowing you wouldn't dare to present yourself alone at the ball.

-As this asshole exited, you crossed paths with Price.

-You nodded your head in acknowledgment, you extended your assistance upon noticing Price's dedication to decorating the ball. His acceptance was unspoken yet understood. Moments passed.

-"Are we going to ignore the elephant in the room ?" you inquired.

-"Why should we? It was evident he would ditch me. I only asked him because I didn't want to go alone. I... was just hoping that he could endure my presence until the ball."

-"Well, if you seek a partner for the ball, I happen to know a certain sportsman who is kinda handsome " Price joked, clearly referring to himself. Your laughter echoed through the room.

-"Thank you, but there's no need. Just helping with the decorations allows me to feel involved. Besides, I'd likely faint amidst the crowd and festivities," you confessed. Price nodded, his understanding unspoken but profound.

-Yet, every evening after school, he would find you, ostensibly seeking your assistance with the decorations.

-Initially, you took it at face value, only to realize that Price had a deeper motive when he requested your help in crafting delicate paper flowers, while you knew there were already real flowers for the big day.

- It became apparent that Price had orchestrated this ruse to enable you to savor the ball in your own way.

-The bond between you grew stronger.

-Through strokes of paint, collaborative DIY projects, and shared tasks, your afternoons transformed into cherished moments.

-In your final session before the ball, you thanked him.

-Price smiled.

- Then he went to the ball with the girl he promised to go with.

- The night was enchanting.

- However, at the stroke of 2 AM, a gentle rap on your door interrupted your dreams, as Price stood there, asking you to dance in your garden, so you would not faint because of the crowd.

- You laughed and told him it was too dark and you were in pajamas.

- But he just smiled and said he could dance in your room to some Lou Reed vinyl.

-And so, you danced, clad in pajamas, in the intimate confines of your room. A shared kiss sealed the night.

-Your relationship spanned two beautiful years.

-When Price enlisted, he ardently desired to maintain your connection.

-But you didn't want it.

-You knew you couldn't keep a long-distance relationship.

-Thus, you chose to part ways, preserving your shared memories.

-To this day, Price keeps a paper flower, a symbol of your connection, beside a photograph of the 141 on his office desk.

-Whenever "Walk on the Wild Side" graces his ears, a nostalgic smile graces his face.

-Oh, how he yearns for the bygone days.

A L E J A N D R O

Second chance

-In the whirlwind of a bitter and hasty love affair, communication had faltered, leaving you forever in the shadow of Valeria.

-Her name echoed incessantly, revealing the less flattering facets of your character.

- You had never thought of yourself as a jealous person, but this situation had brought forth that dormant emotion.

-The realization that you no longer recognized the person you had become, coupled with the painful understanding that Alejandro's love was not returned as you had wished, led to a painful breakup.

-The break-up was far from clean; it left a trail of emotional wreckage in its wake.

-However, in Las Almas, gossip spread like wildfire.

- Years later, in a new school in Las Almas, fate reunited you with Alejandro.

-He wasted no time in offering a sincere apology the moment he recognized you as the teacher.

-He confessed that during your past relationship, his heart still clung to Valeria, though he had only recently ended that idea.

- He knew he could never return to her, and he had come to accept this truth. You nodded, uncertain of what more there was to say.

-As the days went by, children inquired about Alejandro's work whenever they spotted his gear.

- Uncertain about how to proceed, you took a chance and asked if he could stay.

-A warm smile graced his lips, and slowly, after finishing his patrols or shifts at the base, he began to visit the school to lend you a hand. He always carried sweets in his pocket to spoil the children of Las Almas.

-In this closeness, Alejandro began to discover the remarkable person you were.

-Of course, you had always been extraordinary, but he had never truly taken the time to explore the finer details of your character, to uncover the nuances that made you unique.

-He had admired you before, but now he was certain that he loved you.

-He willingly offered his assistance in preparing your classes, often took charge in the kitchen, and eventually mustered the courage to ask you out on a date.

- Your response was hesitant; you weren't entirely convinced or ready to rekindle the past. He simply smiled and assured you that it didn't matter. He would stay by your side.

-A year later he was still here.

-You eventually agreed to that one date, though you insisted it wouldn't signify much.

-Yet, one date led to two, and then three, and soon, a multitude of shared moments. Alejandro was ready to release his grip on the past, for he saw a brilliant future ahead with you.

R U D Y

Slow burn

-He had always harbored deep affection for you, yet he refrained from taking action due to your existing relationship.

-However, the magnetic chemistry between you two proved impossible to extinguish.

-When you found yourself single once more, he stood by your side to mend your broken heart.

-During your dates with other people, Alejandro would sigh, exclaim, and even wager with Rudy's mom.

-With each passing year, Alejandro's wallet grew emptier as he found himself increasingly indebted to Rudy's mom.

-Rudy was someone who was confident, but he hesitated to initiate, feeling unworthy.

-The trust and friendship you shared were truly precious to him.

-Despite the flirtations, tender touches, whispered endearments, and warm embraces, it seemed both of you were hesitant to immerse yourselves fully in your love for one another.

-Several years after your initial encounters, following a demanding and challenging mission, Rudy reached his breaking point.

- Pulsing with adrenaline and weariness coursing through his muscles, he instinctively made his way to your residence.

- As you opened the door, a radiant smile graced your face.

- "It was about time, Rudy," you remarked.

- And with that, he kissed you passionately, the door slamming shut as your garments gracefully found their way to the floor.

K E E G A N

Neighbor next door

-A flooding breached your common wall, necessitating a decision to share his bathroom with you, given that yours lay in disrepair.

- It marked the beginning of your mutual acquaintance, for you both were individuals who seldom engaged with other neighbors.

-Following this event, the elevator became a stage for exchanged smiles.

- Whenever he spied you struggling with groceries, he would gallantly come to your aid.

- You, in turn, brightened his door with thoughtful notes, a balm to soothe the weariness stemming from his deployments.

-Laughter echoed through the hallways after you collaborated on a playful prank targeting your cantankerous neighbor.

-It was a bond forged without the need for spoken words, a silent understanding that linked you both.

-Gradually, two keys melded into one, opening the door to a new chapter in your shared sanctuary.

_____

I also thought about

Konig : childhood friends to lovers.

And Alejandro : ennemies to lovers.

And Ghost with a fake pretend relationship because of his trust issues, I think it could be one of the way for him to open up slowly and safely in his mind.

If you want more : COD masterlist

My masterlist

#call of duty x reader #cod x reader #ghost simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rudy x reader #keegan russ x reader

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