#soap x reader comfort

[lazybutsmexy]

Emotionally Supported Bird

Pt 3 of Emotional Support Bird Pt. 2

Ghost x fem!reader x Soap (Canaryverse)

Warnings: nightmares, hurt/comfort, pure fluff. She/her pronouns used.

Summary: She knows exactly were to find solace in the middle of the night.

Word count: 450~

Y/n woke up with a start, her chest heaving as she tried to fill her lungs with oxygen. Nightmares were far from uncommon in their job, but lately hers have left her stricken with grief. Her dreams were permeated with a sensation of impending doom, as if her own life was being taken away, or grief as her mind procured the most horrible ways her loved ones fell around her. 

She shivered even if her body felt scorching hot, and covered her eyes with her forearm, applying pressure in an attempt to silent the loud buzzing in her brain. The buzzing eventually stopped, but her heartbeat remained pounding against her ribcage, and the sound seemed to echo in her empty barrack. 

Y/n bit her lip as she realized she wasn’t going to get any more sleep in these circumstances.  Slowly so as to not make any unnecessary noises, she shrugged the blankets off her body and stood up. She quietly made it out of her barrack and peered into the one next to hers, the click of the knob alerting both men inside. 

Both Simon and Johnny relaxed when they saw it was her, but immediately tensed up once more when they studied her sullen expression. 

“Can… Can I sleep with you guys…?” Y/n knew she didn’t need to appear strong to them in the privacy of their barrack, but she couldn’t help but try to hide the shakiness of her voice, her teeth worrying into her lower lip. 

Simon wordlessly lifted his blanket and patted the empty spot next to him, and she walked into the room, shutting the door behind herself. She climbed into his bed and snuggled closer to him, immediately burying her face in his neck. He held her close, feeling her thundering heart against his own chest, and the dampness seeping through his shirt where her eyes pressed down. 

He looked at Johnny with a frown, who wordlessly got up from his bed and got in behind her. Simon moved both Y/n and himself to give him more room, and Johnny got comfortable on his side, his whole body pressing against her back. 

She now laid squished between the two men she loved the most, their legs tangling with hers, and their calm breathing grounding her and allowing her own heart to settle. Her fingers clutched the front of Simon’s shirt as his cheek rested at the top of her head, and Johnny’s hand found its home on her hip, his fingers sneaking under her sleeping shirt and tenderly rubbing the skin below.

She felt as if she was wrapped up in a cocoon, her lovers’ warmth invading her senses and lulling her into a dreamless sleep.

A/N: This was mostly self-indulgent, but I supposed you may need it too :)

[joonieskinks]

simon ghost riley is sometimes a little blunt (warning: smut)

You adore him for who he is, but it still unnerves you with just how blunt he can be at times.

It usually happens privately with just you:

“In about 5 minutes, I’m gonna eat you out.” He says as you are in the middle of The Goblet of Fire on the couch. You almost choked on your popcorn.

Or you’re doing laundry in the morning. “We need pineapple juice next time we’re out, want you to enjoy swallowing next time you’re suckin me off.” Jaw dropped.

He does it in front of the team too- and sometimes it’s even worse:

You accidentally dropped your lip balm onto the bar floor while fishing it out of your purse and bend to pick it up.

“Haven’t seen that angle in a while, dove. It’s been too long since we done doggy.”

It’s a never-ending series of eyebrow raises when Simon decides to open up his mouth and you’re around, needless to say. You brunt all of the embarrassment and the deep blushes, Simon couldn’t give a shit. He didn’t even clock it when John, Johnny and Kyle would all give him shocked looks. Man just owns it. Completely unbothered.

“Youre wearin the skirt you wear when you wanna get fucked. That your goal?”

“Simon!” You hiss, you can feel the red hot heat rush to your face.

But he just stares back at you, waiting for your response. You can hardly believe how composed he is when his Captain is right there glaring at him.

“So?”

“I need another beer.” John excuses himself, he can’t even look you in the eyes right now. Kyle joins him shortly after making a run for it, but you’re left with a quiet Johnny patiently waiting for you to respond. Eager, almost. Joy.

“You can’t just say things like that in public, especially not in front of your friends!” You lecture, pulling down your skirt in the process.

“Why? If you wanted to fuck, you could’ve just said so, love. Give me 2 to down this pint and I’ll meet you in the toilets, yeah?”

“Simon!” You smack his thigh.

“Can I watch?” Johnny asks excitedly.

“No!-“ “Fine.”

Johnny’s face lights up while yours gives Simon a death stare.

“Do you want it or not?” You roll your eyes and throw your purse over your shoulder.

“You two are ridiculous.” And they watch you walk away.

Simon only shrugs, pounding back his beer before coming after you. Doesn’t make a difference to him if he fucks you here and now or at home and later.

“… so is that a no?” Johnny asks with puppy eyes.

[dmitriene]

tf141 as a delivery company, all four boys working so good that all people around you buzz with praises towards them, saying that if you search for someone to help you with some furniture to the new home, you should immediately select their company, and since you just moved to the neighborhood, why not.

it's johnny who you meet first, he's delivering a new bed, because the house is completely empty, and sleeping on the floor is not your best choice, so ordering a bed was a first and most important option, while the other furniture was on it's way.

the first thing you notice is his baby blue eyes, bright pebbles that shine in the morning sun when you greet him, slightly disheveled and dressed in some ordinary pajamas, too sleepy to notice the way johnny's gaze trails down your body and round curves, until asking where you need the bed, bonnie, because he's sure you won't be able to place it yourself.

johnny wonders if you'll let him suck at your cunt as a payment, thoughts clouded with how you'll could have looked sprawled on this new bed, scrabbling at his messy mohawk, mattress stained with a puddle of your syrupy slick and his drool, writhing prettily with your sleeping shorts dangling at your ankle.

too pretty for your own good, especially when you flash him a beaming smile on his way out, thanking him for his work with flattering tone of voice, and johnny glad you can't see the heavy boner between his legs, hidden beneath the baggy fabric of his working pants, staining his boxers with sticky precum.

then you meet kyle, prettiest boy you've ever seen, fitting to be a model rather than delivery guy, holding a heavy box with bedside table in his hands, honeyed eyes crinkling in bright smile when he asks you where he can place it, since you zoned on his face for too long, and unbeknownst to you, it got him much flustered.

he's a sunshine, a golden boy with how fast he works with his veiny hands, saying that you'll give him less than an hour and the table would be ready for you to use, still wearing a warm smile that makes you melt, nodding dumbly, just watching how kyle works, all but focused on the task in front of him, brows creasing.

his shirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of his lower back, skin smooth, and it's you who wonders about having fun with him, propped on his lap, toying with his most likely lengthy cock, all wet for you, imagining if he would let you play with him, or he'll flip you up and rearrange your glossy cunt till you're dumb.

kyle leaves you with a new furniture for a less than thirty minutes and winking at you when he stands at the doorway, leaning aside on his hip, saying that if you'll need more help, you know where to find him, and his name as well, and this leaves you with suddenly sodden panties and unspoken fantasies.

at the end, you meet simon and john, two bulky men that helped you with your new couch, a big thing that is better than the old, dusty one, and indeed worth of having two big men inside your house, crouched on the floor to settle the furniture up, telling you to not worry about a single thing, lass.

simon is more silent, efficient at his work and seems brooding, but his dark gaze softens everytime he meets your eyes as you check up on them, his hand caressing the small of your back briefly, just after john patted you there in reassurance, too close to the swell of your ass, murmuring that it's their work and you don't have to try and stick up to help in your own house.

cerulean eyes soothingly cold, with comforting smile hiding beneath his facial hair everytime your fingers touch, making you shudder briefly, almost praying so they'll won't notice how you eye them, how your cheeks tingle, but they both do.

wondering how you'll look seated on this plush couch, stripped bare and stretched around john's fat cock, with simon's throbbing girth down your tight little throat, an obedient housewife for them, sweet darling that could help them relieve after hard work, and perhaps, since you're living all alone, they could make you theirs.

it's the moment all of the boys are out on the weekends evening in some town pub, drinking glass after glass of warming, tart liquid, when johnny breaks up in slurring about what a cutie he meet when delivering some really big bed, and when kyle joined next, and then simon, john's eyes squinting as he strokes at his mutton chops, your appearance coming up like pieces of puzzles through their talk, everything fell into place.

all along, they were dreaming of the same bird, in the same house in a small neighborhood, sweet darling with giddy smiles and too longing gazes, and since they're such a good team, why won't they're help you a bit more this time, one for one.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ghostwhippet]

From Scratch

Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny

No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.

One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.

He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.

Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones. 

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to. 

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour. 

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching eagerness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together. 

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier. 

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours. 

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge. 

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth. 

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once. 

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?” 

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits. 

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?” 

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Masterlist

[rainyrambles-overcod]

this one was a fairly popular one on my other old blog, so I shall bring it here:

Imagine getting into an argument/fight with one partner!John Mactavish, but nothing can seem to bridge the two of you just yet. No horizon yet in sight for forgiveness, each party stubborn set in their perspective no matter which side was in the right.

Imagine putting space between the two of you come bedtime, settling on the couch, unable to kick him from the bed, or lie beside him.

Imagine waking up sometime late into the night, hours after falling asleep but hours still to sunrise. Tangled into your blanket on the couch, but unable to move your legs due to the weight of your partner draped over them, kneeling despite his bad knee, unable to stay separate from you for even one night. Curled over your feet like a kicked and saddened puppy, sleeping despite the obvious discomfort in his limbs.

A puppy. He’s literally a puppy.

[killerpancakeburger]

KNIGHT IN SHINING KHAKI

Gif by @bastardcompany

SUMMARY: You've angered the wrong officer. You think you're a goner when Johnny sweeps in to save the day.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader ("her" is used to refer to reader once, that's it) (+ Reader's hair is long enough to grab)

TAGS: Civilian!Reader, Depressed!Reader, Insecure!Reader, Angry!Soap, Protective!Soap, GuardDog!Soap, canon violence, hurt/comfort, swearing, blood mention. Ghost makes an appearance as a matchmaker lol. The love is requited they're just insecure idiots. Making Shit Up for the Plot/military inaccuracies.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

A/N: My original prompt for this was: civilian!reader sees Soap in action and gets Horny. No Scared Just Horny.

Then I found out that Soap canonically beat up an officer. I am also obsessed with this video.

Part 1. Part 3.

This is it, you thought to yourself. 

This is how I die.

The day had unfolded like any other. Your shift was over and you were locking up your office, as usual. Your attention was focused on your hands’ motion, your guard dropped, your back exposed.

This explained why, when the stranger grabbed your hair and bashed your head against the door mercilessly, you didn’t see it coming in the slightest. The fact that you had zero combat experience while the person manhandling you was a decorated military officer obviously made matters worse, but at the moment of the assault, you didn’t know that.

The thud of the collision was eclipsed almost immediately by the pain exploding in your face. Half-stunned, all you could comprehend at the moment, every single signal sent by your brain was compacted in one word: suffering. Sharp, all-encompassing. You yelped, your hands vainly pushing against the cold, hard surface to get away.

“I've finally found you, you little snitch. Didn’t think you'd get away with it, now did you?”

Despite the blood thumping in your ears, and how groggy the hit on your head made you, his words reached you perfectly. They were seeping with fury and disdain. His voice didn’t ring a bell, so you tried to turn your head to glimpse him, if only at the corner of your eye, and he granted you some leeway to do so.

Perplexity filled you as you finally caught sight of your aggressor: you've never seen that man before.

“I don't even know who you are,” you winced.

Talking back in your situation would be judged stupid and reckless by a majority of people. Laying low assured more chances to avoid harm.

However most people hadn't been mugged at knifepoint like you had been, and most people valued their lives way more than you did.

Once the confusion and incredulity subsided, the pain still vivid but manageable, you were left with frustration and anger towards your interminable bad luck and the man behind you. His aversion was harder to take seriously when it seemed to have no foundation.

The grip on your hair tightened, making you grit your teeth.

“I'll refresh your memory, then.”

One part of you managed to be pleased to know that this mystery would be solved; the rest was ringing alarm bells when hearing the underlying threats in his tone.

“Weeks ago, you filed a report for embezzlement.”

You frowned, having no recollection of his claims, before a memory emerged. You saw them in flashes: the sudden, abnormally high spendings, the certificates full of anomalies, the incoherent dates; all this lead you to complete a reporting form, just as your job required you to. It was just a formality. You hadn't even even paid attention to the name attached to the expenses, therefore the officer was still anonymous.

Your aggressor scoffs menacingly, easily reading on your face that you remembered.

“They're gonna strip me of my rank and throw me in jail because of you. I'll make you pay even if it’s the last thing I do.”

That last sentence was finished in an almost shout, making you flinch, wishing you could pass through the door.

You quietly resigned yourself to your fate. No one was coming for you. You were no stranger to the inner workings of the military - no one would dare cross an officer that high-ranked for your sake. 

I've lived a good li- well, no. A pretty shitty life, actually. But at least I can say I did the right thing.

Just as you closed your eyes and braced yourself, hoping this wouldn’t drag on, a Scottish-accentuated roar resonated in the empty hall.

“Get yer hands off her-”

You had never heard Soap sound so enraged, nor his pitch so gravelly. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, blended with gratitude. Tears stinged the corners of your eyes.

All of a sudden the unyielding grip on your hair was gone, the sound of something violently hitting the wall punctuating your newfound freedom. 

“-ye fucking bastard!”

You immediately turned around to see what was happening, leaning against the door behind you. Your legs were too shaky to be reliable. The harmed side of your face was throbbing in pain as you took in the scene with wide eyes.

Johnny had pinned the officer against the wall with one forearm across his chest. He dealt him a punch to the face powerful enough that the resulting thud made you grimace, despite not feeling any sympathy for his target.

He managed to administer a second blow before his adversary snapped out of his stupor, and the advantage he gained from taking him by surprise ran its course.

As your assailant defended himself with the strength of someone backed into a corner, you couldn't help but fear for Soap's safety for a moment. Despite knowing that one's rank didn’t reflect their fighting prowess, a rush of anxiety passed through you at the idea that he could lose that confrontation.

Nonetheless, he quickly put your mind at ease as his skills proved to be largely superior. The gap between the two was deep enough that it was obvious even to a neophyte like you.

Paralyzed, you couldn’t do anything but stare at the display of violence with a mix of morbid fascination and sadistic satisfaction. Honestly, if you could borrow Soap's body, you would without a doubt inflict the same treatment on that man. Maybe worse. Fair payback for the threats, the smashing of your face, the probable trauma you'd get from this. Maybe not that fair. But maybe for once you'd stop trying to act like a paragon of virtue.

You should have been scared, you realized. You had never been involved in a fight before. You had never witnessed firsthand the brutality Johnny was capable of, despite being aware of it, between his status as a soldier and the reports you read. The dog tags jingling from his neck and the khaki of his uniform were like so many visual reminders that he was a killing machine. His ferocious wrath, his yelling and his punches should have made you cower in fright.

However the only feeling inhabiting you was safety, as paradoxical as it sounded. Soap was safe, you were convinced of it, consciously or not.

This whole ordeal felt like it lasted an eternity and a minute at the same time. You blinked and out of nowhere, Johnny was straddling the officer on the floor. Blows kept pouring in but they were one-sided - the sergeant had gained the upper hand. The rhythm of his strikes seemed attuned to the beatings of your heart. Each resonated inside of your ears with your skull as their echo chamber. The noise was loud enough to cover your own thoughts.

As you focused on your breathing, you managed to slow down your heartbeats, and the blood-fueled pump between your ribs no longer felt like it could burst out of your chest at any moment. You failed however to contain the tremor in your hands.

You chose to focus on Soap's hands instead. They were soaked red from blood spilled, but not his. Specks of crimson sprinkled his hair, his face, his neck, his t-shirt.

There was a certain sort of lethal beauty to this brutal display that you couldn't help but contemplate in reverent silence: the way his bicep swole when he threw his arm back before hitting his target. The tightening of the muscles beneath the tanned skin of his arms. His icy stare. The harsh line of his jaw. His stern, inflexible expression, one he usually wore in meetings or after Price gave the order to leave.

The expression of someone who would stop at nothing, provided a bleak little voice in the back of your mind. The idea didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

“Not gonna make him stop?”

The familiar grunt of Ghost's voice almost made you jump out of your skin. You pivoted and the behemoth of a lieutenant was there, in casual clothes, right by your side. You had no idea when he arrived or how long he's been standing there, quiet like a shadow.

Something dark flashed in his brown eyes as his gaze lingered on the hurt side of your face.

“Why would I show mercy to someone who would have granted me none?” you scoffed bitterly.

“Someone's bloodthirsty.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You turned your attention back to Soap and Ghost did the same.

“I doubt he would listen to me.”

“He would,” stated the masked man, with the assertiveness of someone announcing a conviction. 

“But if ya don't believe me…”

A beat, then.

“Oï, Johnny!”

The shout was nonchalant, like it was something he did often, calling off his sergeant from some prey like the Scotsman was his personal attack dog.

The effect was immediate.

Soap abruptly froze, blinking a couple times as if awakening from a trance. Then he perked up, and turned around, eyes searching. The first sound that left his lips was a call of your name. His gaze latched onto you and didn’t let go as he stood up and rushed towards you. The naked vulnerability, the raw openness in his voice and on his face were so earnest that they felt like a Cupid's arrow shot straight between your lungs. It left you devoid of speech and motion, so as Johnny reached for you, all you could do was try to convey your reassurances through your eyes; that you were mostly fine, and so grateful, but worried for him, that he made everything better-

His arms closing around you made the outside disappear, and suddenly the whole world came down to Johnny, and only him. His embrace was enjoyable for a second before the pressure of his body against your face woke up your contusions. You let out a muffled cry of pain and he released you immediately, swearing and apologizing. However his hands didn’t leave you, grasping your shoulders.

“C'mere hen, lemme have a look at ye.”

“Oh, I'm fine, you should worry about-”

Your voice pathetically died in your throat as he cupped your face, leaning over, way too close for your heart to not start stammering uncontrollably.

The combined attention of his fingertips on your skin and the turquoise of his eyes roaming your visage turned your cheeks into a blazing inferno.

Unable to maintain eye contact, your gaze wandered over his own injuries, a split lip and a couple of bruises.

Suddenly he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index, tilting your face one way and the other. Your skin flared up at the contact, pleasant yet nervous tingles scattering all over your body.

“Ye sure he didn’t hit ye on that side? Yer a wee bit red.”

You bit back a whine of complaint at that comment. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

“Yer makin’ it worse, Johnny.” sneaked Ghost, the amusement manifest in his voice - at least to you.

Soap looked up to him, frowning in incomprehension, indignant. 

“The hell ya on aboot L.T.? How am ah makin’ it worse?”

You panicked.

“Shut up Riley!” you hissed, in a desperate attempt to put a stop to his shenanigans, forgetting that you were supposed to be severely intimidated by the masked man.

That drew a gruff chuckle out of him. Your sudden outburst caused Johnny to release you.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you two even here, anyway?”

You were kind of proud of your ability to change the subject.

“Was comin’ tae get ye fer a game,” smiled Soap, and it reminded you of a pet proudly presenting its owners with its findings.

“This one wasn’t coming back, and neither of you were answering your phones, so we figured somethin’ went wrong. And we were right. This poor fucker is wanted. Called in reinforcements to deal with him.”

Footsteps’ noises caught your attention. A group of soldiers in uniform seized your aggressor and brought him to his feet, before unceremoniously shoving him in the direction opposite of you.

“Gotta tell Gaz the game ain't happening tonight.”

By the time you took in what Ghost had said, and turned away from the procession, he had already disappeared.

“This isn’t over,” menaced the officer, passing by your spot as he was hauled away. “When I get out-”

“Shut the fuck up,” snarled Soap instantly, protectively positionning himself in front of you.

“Found yourself a faithful guard dog, uh?” the other man taunted.

One one hand, that last remark wasn’t so far from the truth - he had been acting a lot like that: barking threats, baring his teeths, standing between you and the menace, reducing a man to a bloody pulp for hitting you…

But on the other hand, letting that piece of shit talk to Johnny this way was simply out of the question.

Before thinking, you found yourself walking in front of the sergeant and retorting.

“What, jealous he's ten times the man you'll never be?”

Fortunately for you, he was dragged away before he could snap anything back. That didn’t prevent you from regretting your snarky comment immediately. It had been a purely impulsive urge, the kind that could make you feel heavy remorse for days, if not years. As if this seasoned combat expert needed your aid to defend himself. The idea was ludicrous.

You didn’t get a moment to mope around however, as Johnny proceeded to grab you by the hips and press you flush against him with a jubilant smirk. You couldn’t do much except prop yourself with both hands on his pectorals to avoid stumbling.

“My hero.” he praised like a smitten damsel in distress.

“Look who's talking.”

You lowered your gaze despite yourself, mumbling your reply, a half smile on your lips, embarrassed but amused.

“Going after bastards is mah job, not yours. You gutsy little thing.”

You refrained a sarcastic laughter at the nickname - gutsy and little were two things you have never been called, as far as you can remember. But you weren't about to argue with the man who just saved your sorry ass.

His fingers pressed into your flesh, sending tickles at the bottom of your spine.You were about to ask him to let you go, the position too incriminating for this public setting, when you noticed how dilated his pupils were. He had to be high on adrenaline from the fight.

You may have let yourself get lost in the blue pools of his eyes, until his expression turned grave.

“Ye sure yer good? Yer too calm about this. No need tae put oan a brave face fer me, aye?”

The genuine, serious concern in his eyes made the inside of your stomach twist.

“I'm good. You arrived just in time,” you assured.

How peculiar it felt to be the one to comfort Johnny, rather than the opposite; that the lionhearted, superhuman sergeant Mactavish might even need such a thing; that he might require it from you, of all people.

“He didn’t get to do much.”

His pretty features contorted into a scowl at the reminder of your attacker.

“That sonuvabitch… raising a hand on ye in broad fuckin’ daylight… if he ever touches ye again, I swear I’ll…”

As he kept fulminating against your assailant, you couldn’t stop an endeared smile from spreading on your lips. Listening to one of Soap's rants brightened your mood; it was familiar. The sincerity in his words and his tone was welcome. He wasn’t able to fake those emotions even if he wanted to; they spilled out of him like a waterfall. His honest worry and righteous ire towards someone who hurt you was… flattering, in a sense. It made you feel cared for, like you mattered.

Then red started dripping.

“Johnny… your nose is bleeding.”

He wiped it negligently with the back of his hand, only succeeding in smearing it over his face. You couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Bend over. It will stop faster.”

“Buy me dinner first.”

He punctuated his quip with a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows. You rolled your eyes.

“Let's just go to medical already.” you grumbled, starting to walk decisively, albeit stiffly, in the right direction.

“Aye, aye,” acquiesced your savior, jogging a bit to catch up to you.

[starsofang]

To Be Loved is to Be Seen

johnny mactavish x f!reader

word count: 5.2k

tw: NSFW content, abuse (from other partner), hurt/comfort, smut, oral, p in v, happy ending, bad scottish accent (i tried)

Johnny hated your boyfriend. In fact, if he could string him up on a pole and castrate the bloke himself, he’d do it with a damn smile — that was how much he loathed him.

To get you to realize how shitty your boyfriend was felt like a near impossible task. Alas, you didn’t know Johnny, but Johnny certainly knew you. How could he not, when he’d spent every morning and every night, hearing your shouts and pitiful whimpers of defeat through the thin walls of your neighboring apartments?

He knew your boyfriend had spouts of anger, could tell from the sounds of drywall cracking on occasion, or the sounds of things clattering in a messy heap on the floor, sometimes shattering, sometimes rolling around after a particularly loud thud.

Your boyfriend was a nuisance that didn’t know how to care for a woman, and he made a show of it every night when Johnny heard him.

Now, Johnny was a respectful man. He’d never hurt another person unless they were deserving — perks of being in the military, it made that excuse much easier to use.

But your boyfriend? He was more than deserving. He was practically asking for Johnny to bash his pathetic face in, cowering beneath Johnny as he pleaded and begged for him to stop.

Johnny just had to figure out a way to slowly slip into your life, befriend you as a friendly neighbor, so he could kick the damn reality into that pretty head of yours. After all, Johnny would never hit you. Johnny would never call you names. Johnny would never make you cry in anguish.

The opportunity arose when he went to collect his mail and saw you standing there, fumbling with your mail key in frustration. Faulty lock, he assumed, but that was perfect for him.

“Need some ‘elp?” Johnny asked you, and when you perked your head up in surprise, he was already plotting murder in his mind when he saw the ugly bruise being sported underneath your eye.

“Oh. Yeah, actually, stupid thing never wants to unlock,” you said, and your voice up close and not through a thin wall was like sweet nectar from a flower.

He smiled with a nod, politely stepping up to your mailbox. You handed him the key, and he eagerly placed it in the lock. Wiggling it around a bit, it took him a few moments and grunts of concentration before the mailbox popped open.

Your face lit up in delight and you profusely thanked him, taking the key from his hands. Your hands were soft and warm, he noted when the two of yours brushed during the exchange, and he felt his heart swell with affection.

Such pretty hands on such a pretty girl should be kissed and held with nothing less than care. They shouldn’t be the victim of a fighting match, where it was obvious you were the losing opponent every time.

“No’ a problem. Johnny,” he introduced with his hand outstretched, and when you flashed him that smile as you introduced yourself back, he made it his absolute mission to make sure this wouldn’t be your last interaction.

The next time you saw Johnny, it was when the two of you were leaving your respective apartments at the same time (really, Johnny had been listening on for signs of when you’d leave as an excuse to leave his own place).

You lit up when you saw him, once again thanking him for helping you with the mailbox. Your eyes fluttered over to his door that he was in the process of locking, and you realized dumbly that he was your neighbor.

“I didn’t know you lived next to us, Johnny!” Us. The word made his eye twitch. “You’ve never introduced yourself.”

“No’ around all tha’ much.” He shrugged, and you hummed in understanding.

“I see. I’ve got to get to work, but it was nice seeing you, Johnny. Don’t be a stranger!”

He watched you go, feet leading you down the hall and towards the elevator of the building. He stood frozen in place, the breath in his lungs caught when he noticed the bruising on the back of your exposed calves from the skirt you wore.

A knock on his door days later had Johnny grumbling to himself, and when he checked the time, it was nearing midnight. He’d normally be on guard, what with his whole military career, but the only people that ever visited his place were Simon, Kyle, or Price.

Opening the door, it was neither of the three and instead, you. Sporting comfortable pajamas that swallowed you whole and made him want to scoop you up and keep you safe.

“Hi, Johnny! Were you sleeping?”

He was, but that didn’t matter.

“Nah, wasn’t sleepin’. Ye need somethin’, love?”

You threw him a sheepish smile that could melt any man’s heart. It was a wonder how your own man couldn’t see that. “I, ah, ran out of sugar. Baking’s my hobby, y’know? Silly me, I forgot to buy some from the shop.”

“…S’midnight.”

“…Is that a no to the sugar?”

Johnny huffed out a laugh, a smile perking on his lips. You were cute, it was to die for.

“Nah. ‘Course ye can have sugar. Tha’ all you came ‘ere for?”

You chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating something Johnny wasn’t aware of. Now that he thought about it, your shitty boyfriend wasn’t anywhere in sight, and he hadn’t heard any noise from your apartment earlier.

“Well,” you began, inhaling before slowly exhaling. “Okay, no, I don’t need the sugar. I have plenty of it, actually. It’s just, ah…”

“Go on.”

“My boyfriend went out with some friends tonight and I don’t really want to be alone. I get nervous when I’m by myself, y’know?”

Your boyfriend knew this, and didn’t even bother to bring you with? Wasn’t texting you throughout the night to give you sweet reassurances, telling you he’d be home soon? Was he even out with his friends?

“Ye dinnae have any girl friends to call?” Johnny asked carefully, not wanting to make you feel unwelcome, but also wanting to tread on a thin line. He couldn’t jump to the opportunity, or you might think he’s weird and eager.

When you shook your head with a defeated look on your face, his own heart shattering rang in his ears. The fact you had no friends to confide in, to go out and enjoy yourself with, it didn’t sit right with him.

Silently, he opened up his door a bit more to welcome you in, and you flashed him a pretty smile before eagerly prancing inside.

His apartment was a bit underwhelming, and there wasn’t much that showed he was even living in it besides the furniture to show as evidence. You didn’t seem to mind as you took it in, smile gracing your features when he gestured towards the couch.

“Ye wan’ a drink, lass?” Johnny asked you, and when you saw him standing in the kitchen, he helped up a bottle of alcohol and a bottle of juice. He was offering you a choice of either, but you didn’t see the harm in drinking a bit and letting loose.

“Why not?” You shrugged, pointing to the left hand that held the liquor. He beamed at you, satisfied by your answer and promptly began to pour you and him a drink.

“So yer boyfriend jus’ up and left ye for the night?” Johnny asked as he sat next to you on the couch, placing the glasses on the coffee table in front of you.

He watched as you eagerly took a sip of the liquor, unable to contain the amusement when your nose wrinkled up as you swallowed it down.

“Yeah, I guess so,” you sighed, lips pouting a bit in the form of a frown. He tried not to stare. “Said he needed a night off. And he deserves it, y’know?”

Johnny raised an eyebrow at you, slowly taking a gulp from his own glass before placing it back down. He definitely didn’t think your boyfriend deserved a night to himself, nor that he worked hard in the slightest.

Hell, Johnny could hear the two of you have sex on occasional nights through the shared walls, and that certainly didn’t sound like your boyfriend was working hard. If anything, it was pitiful and sad.

“Deserves it,” he hummed, and you whipped your head to look at him, causing him to snicker into his glass as he took another sip.

You looked conflicted, taking your bottom lip between your teeth again. It puffed up, causing it to turn a bright pink, and he willed himself to keep his gaze on your eyes rather than your mouth.

“He… works hard,” you defended.

“We all do,” Johnny retorted.

“Everybody deserves a night out.”

“Have ye had a night out then?”

Silence.

Johnny might’ve been pushing it too hard. After all, he knew more than you were aware of. He was sure you had no idea how thin the walls were and that he was practically a third person in your relationship issues.

“Consider this yer night out,” Johnny claimed with a warm smile, and it seemed to work because you smiled back, downing the rest of your drink.

“Thank you for keeping me company, Johnny. I know it’s late. You’re sure I’m not bothering you?”

Oh, you could never bother Johnny. He was practically head over heels just from seeing you for the first time and hearing your voice. Love at first sight, he thought, he was completely enamored with you.

“No’ a bother, dove. We’re neighbors. It’d be smart to be friends, aye?”

“Friends?” Your tone was excited and he wanted so badly to be more than that. “I’d love to be friends! Officially, now that we’re technically drinking together, right?”

You gave a playful nudge to his shoulders with yours and he felt his entire being soften with delight. He smiled at you, eyes crinkling into little crescents as he nodded in agreement.

Friends he could do. Being friends meant he would have more opportunity to try and shield you from harm, the harm being your boyfriend, and even if it took patience, he’d wait for it.

The two of you found yourselves in a flurry of conversation, the bottle of liquor dwindling down until there was nothing left. Time seemed to slip away between you, and when the clock hit 3:00 AM, a series of bangs came battering at Johnny’s door.

They were loud and angry, relentless and never ending until Johnny forced himself off of the couch to swing it open.

Your boyfriend’s face came into view and Johnny wished he could rearrange his teeth in that ugly scowl of his.

“Is she here? I heard her voice,” he demanded, and your head peeked out from behind Johnny. Guilt and shame shined in your irises, and it was as if all of the joy you felt when spending time in your newfound friendship with your neighbor had vanished into nothing.

When your boyfriend saw the sight of you, he put on a sickeningly sweet smile. If he was trying to play off his anger until he got back into your apartment, he was doing a poor job of doing so. Or it was because Johnny already knew about his true colors.

“I’m home. Let’s get you to bed, yeah? It’s late,” your boyfriend cooed, and Johnny had to stop himself from sneering at the venom that dripped beneath his tone.

You nodded silently, shuffling by Johnny and out of the threshold. Johnny and your boyfriend watched as you entered your own apartment, disappearing inside and leaving the door open.

Johnny knew what was going to come, and as much as he wanted to stop it from happening, he knew he couldn’t. Not yet.

“Thanks for, ah, taking care of her while I was out. Let’s not make it a habit,” your boyfriend practically spat, and Johnny gave him an unphased smile.

“Only if ye stop makin’ it a habit to hit ‘er every chance ye get,” Johnny replied back in the same tone, keeping his smile on his face. It was a threat, a warning, and Johnny wasn’t ashamed to make it clear. “I see another bruise on ‘er body, I’ll fuckin’ kill ye.”

Your boyfriend must not have had many people retort back to him. His face morphed into a stunned one before flashing in anger and annoyance, and when he went to snap back, Johnny shut the door in his face before he had a chance to.

He made sure to stay up the rest of the night, eyes staring at the ceiling from where he laid in bed. He kept his ears locked in to the shared wall, listening in for a single sound of fists connecting with bone or a broken wail out of your lips.

When he heard nothing, he knew he’d gotten through for now.

You’d visit his apartment when your boyfriend wasn’t around. You’d come to enjoy his company, and even went as far as going against your boyfriend’s wishes of never seeing Johnny again. You told him it was because he was your only friend, and he’d accept you with open arms every time you came knocking.

The back and forth went on for months. Johnny was even more smitten than before, and his patience for claiming you as his own was slowly slipping.

He hated seeing you sad when you’d come on nights after a bad argument. He hated seeing the tears flowing down your cheeks, smothering your delicate skin with dewy shine, reddening your pretty eyes and glossing them over with heartache.

The heartache you felt would transfer on to Johnny.

He didn’t understand why your boyfriend didn’t treat you like the lovely canvas you were. Didn’t cover you with love and affection, instead covering you with black and blue. He tainted you with colors that didn’t clash with the beauty of your skin, when you deserved to be painted with skies of pink.

Johnny knew you deserved better.

When you came on a particular night, face swollen with tears of sadness and blood, he nearly saw red. Such a delicate thing to be so cruelly used as a personal stress reliever should never have happened, and Johnny was at his wits end.

“Leave ‘im,” Johnny ordered when he brought you inside of his apartment. He stood in front of you in the vacancy of his bathroom, a warm washcloth nursing your wounds with tender hands, grimacing every time you winced from pain.

“I can’t,” you whispered, and he shook his head.

“Bullshit. Leave ‘im. A pretty bird like ye doesn’t deserve this.” When you said nothing and stared down at your hands in your lap, he pushed further. “So many men out there wouldn’t lay a finger on ye. They’d never hurt ye. They’d never hit ye. I’d never do that.”

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and he allowed it, locking your gazes with one another as a heavy silence filled the room. Your eyes remained filled with unshed tears, glistening in the dim lighting of his bathroom. To you, you looked like broken mess. To him, you looked like you held the entire night sky in your eyes.

Everything happened so quickly, Johnny’s mind nearly didn’t comprehend it. One second, you were staring, the next, your lips had crashed into his without a second thought.

Even with a split lip that tasted faintly of metallic blood, he thought you tasted divine. It was as if sweetness exuded from all parts of you, painting him with a sugary high that he could never get enough of.

One hand strayed to your hair while the other rested along the bathroom counter where your hips rested. Your own hands fisted the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, as if scared he’d fade away.

He planned on going nowhere. This was all he ever wanted, from the moment he heard you for the first time as his neighbor from behind the walls of your apartments.

When he first heard you belting out a song he didn’t know the name of in the security of your own place, presumably when your boyfriend wasn’t around to quiet you down.

When he ran into you at the mailboxes and finally learned your name. When he heard your speaking voice that wasn’t filled with anguish, trembling with shaky tears.

Johnny pressed into you further, consuming every part of the kiss with an eager passion. When he heard the faintest whimper melt from your mouth into his own mouth, he would’ve killed the entire world to hear it again.

“Dinnae be quiet,” he breathed into your lips, smile curling against them. “No need for tha’. Can be as loud as ye want here.”

Your eyes blinked prettily at him from where your foreheads connected. His thumb grazed along your cheek in such a tender manner, it pained your heart in the best way.

Your boyfriend never touched you that way. Never treated you that way. Never loved you that way.

Johnny returned his mouth to yours and you fell back into the clumsy dance of lips and tongue, like a waltz the two of you were learning with one another.

It was intense and fierce, yet gentle and passionate at the same time. You felt dizzy, your mind clouding with nothing but want and desire.

It was wrong of you to do this. Johnny was your friend and neighbor, and you had a boyfriend.

But then you thought back on everything Johnny had been making you realize — a man who loved you would never treat you how your boyfriend treated you. He’d treat you how Johnny was treating you now, soft and caring, pouring his heart and soul into every delicate touch.

On late nights when you stayed up, Johnny was there with the door already unlocked for you. He’d make you laugh, make you smile, he’d heal the inner child you desperately needed to seek. You’d lost her along the way, and Johnny was there to remind her.

“Johnny,” you breathed out, and his smile returned.

“Wha’ is it, dove?”

“I—“ You inhaled sharply, trying to collect your scrambled mind and piece together the words. “I want you. Please.”

Johnny sucked in his own breath, eyes piercing into yours. They flickered along the features of your battered face, and even in this state, he graveled in your beauty.

“I can make tha’ happen.”

Johnny laid you on his bed as if you were the most precious thing to cushion it. His hands roamed your body like mapping out every roll and curve, keeping it noted in his head for future endeavors.

He took his time with you, placing gentle kisses along every bruise, bump, and scar that your sorry excuse of a boyfriend had left embedded in you to remember forever. Johnny didn’t look at them in disgust like you expected, no — he ravished them like fine china, careful and precise, spending as much time needed to ensure each and every one was cherished.

His hands were eager yet patient as he stripped you of your clothes, making sure to take his off in the process so you didn’t feel uncomfortably exposed.

He only thought of your best interests, and it made you feel desired.

“Look at ye,” he breathed, hands slowly gliding down the plains of your stomach and to your thighs. He carefully parted them, eyes dropping down to the glisten of your cunt, taking it in. He sucked in a breath, thumbs stroking along your knees.

Your hands lifted to cover your face, embarrassment filling you to the core. He tsked, lifting a hand to grasp your arm and pull it from your face. He pinned it lightly to the side of your head, peering down at you.

“None of tha’,” he pleaded. “Wanna see ye, bonnie.”

You nodded your head, silently agreeing with him. He took his hand off your arm, flashing you a pleased smile.

He returned to caressing, cascading rough hands down your sides, to your hips, to your thighs, until they traveled back up. The touch of his fingers was light against your core, testing the waters.

“Oh,” you gasped, air getting caught in your lungs. He smiled again, all teeth and all crinkly eyes, before delving his venture further.

His index found your clit and he began a slow and antagonizing pace, circling and stroking, eyes focused on your face to piece together your reaction.

Your eyes were fluttering at the ceiling, breasts rising and falling with every staggered breath.

It was a sight to see. Johnny felt his chest swell with pride that finally, after pining after you for months, feelings hidden away in the dark, he was the one making you this way.

His finger slipped down, seeking the wetness that seeped shamelessly. He scooped his finger in the mess, lifting it to his mouth to wrap his lips around it.

You watched, eyes dazed and hazy. You shouldn’t have enjoyed the sight, but it burned a fire in you.

His smile turned into a bashful grin when he popped his finger out of his mouth, and before you had a chance to breathe, he slipped that same finger inside, prodding you open.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered pathetically.

“Yeah?” he breathed. You nodded dumbly. He huffed out a laugh, curling his finger in a way that had you squirming. “Look bonnie like this. Ye my pretty girl, aye?”

You nodded again, hands fisting his bedsheets beneath you.

“Won’t ever hurt ye,” he continued, and before you knew it, his second finger joined in. “Won’t ever make ye cry. Too pretty to cry, aren’t ye?”

“Johnny,” you pleaded. He pumped his fingers slowly at first, but the sound of his name on your lips urged him to increase the pace.

It was heaven hearing it come from you, and combined with your sweet moans? He was hearing church bells in his mind.

You squirmed beneath him, panting and writhing like the pretty thing you were. He wanted more, he wanted to hear you.

Johnny dove his head down, fingers still buried to the knuckle. His tongue poked out to press flat against your clit, lathing you in bliss and making you see stars.

Your boyfriend never made you feel this way. You were on a cloud, floating peacefully in the skies above.

He could never pull the desperate moans out of you, he could never make your thighs tremble like you’d just run a marathon around the world.

Johnny’s mohawk was soft on your fingertips when you grasped them. You held back, only gripping softly.

“Pretty girl, ye can grip harder than tha’,” he assured when he came up for air. You stared down at him with wet eyes, filled with hazy pleasure. He wouldn’t return to using his mouth until you followed his order, so you did, grabbing a fistful of hair and lightly pushing him against your cunt.

He groaned in approval, burying his face between your legs and eagering fucking his fingers in you.

The stimulation caused your back to arch, a moan bursting out of you. The sound surprised you. You’d never heard yourself sound so wrecked, especially before the main event.

This was how sex was supposed to feel. Cherished, adored, and downright sinful.

The knot in your stomach seemed to tighten, and your thighs clumsily squirmed around, encasing his head between them. You panted breathlessly, the sounds filling the room with an unforgivable act of immorality.

“Johnny, Johnny, I—“ Your words were cut off by your own broken sob, and he feasted harder, urging you to your breaking point more and more.

It was too much. You wouldn’t be able to hold back, nor did you want to. This feeling was too blissful to pull away from, so you allowed yourself the moment of selfishness.

When it hit you, your entire body convulsed. Your stomach tightened and clenched, thighs gripping tight around Johnny’s head, quivering with every movement.

“Tha’s it, dove. Good girl,” he praised. You keened, eyes squeezing shut as your climax came over you.

His fingers slowed their pace but didn’t dare leave your body as he pulled you through the last drops of your orgasm. When he felt you had enough, he swiftly pulled them out, staring up at you with eyes pouring with admiration.

“Look at ye,” he whispered, reaching a hand out to stroke over your cheek. You hadn’t realized they were wet with tears until he stroked them away with a thumb. “Gorgeous girl. Tha’ okay?”

“Absolutely,” you breathed, voice broken.

You regained your breath, chest no longer heaving like a panting dog, and you came out of your clouded haze.

“Let me make ye feel even better, aye? Can fill ye up, wanna feel ye, please, bonnie—“

You nodded before even making up your mind, but really, you didn’t need to. It was already made up the moment he let you into his home and offered friendship.

Johnny climbed over you, careful not to crush you. He hovered, face aligned with yours and a smile on his face. You stared at him in awe.

That smile of his could light up the whole world if he allowed it. It lit up yours, after all.

His hand dove between your bodies, and when you felt the head of him slowly press to your entrance, you sucked in a breath.

He took his time, slowly easing into you, filling you and leaving you with greedily wanting more and more.

“Oh god,” you groaned, and he followed after. His eyes were squeezed shut as you took him in fully, and when he bottomed out, he forced them open to gaze down at you.

“Look at me the ‘ole time, aye? Wanna see ye,” he said, and who were you to deny it?

Johnny began to move and you had to force your eyes open every time they threatened to flutter closed. He filled you from an emptiness you weren’t aware you had until now, and you never wanted it to leave.

Just like with his fingers, he started off slow. He didn’t want to hurt you, but the more he stared at the pleasured, fucked-out look on your face, his resolve broke and he found himself losing control.

One particularly hard thrust had you gasping, hands scrabbling for purchase on his biceps, and that was all he needed to snap.

Hips thrust erratically into you, plunging deeper and deeper every single hit. The noises were nothing but dirty, a mix of sinful slaps and shaky moans filling the atmosphere.

“Takin’ me so good, bonnie,” he sighed, hand cradling your cheek as he continued his relentless torture. “Made for me, yeah?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, fingernails dipping into his skin and marking him with crescent shaped indents. “All for you, Johnny, nobody else.”

“Tha’s right, sweet girl.” His head tilted down to graze his lips along your jaw, peppering loving kisses up to your ear. “Dinnae need tha’ bloke of yours anymore. ‘M gonna take care of ye.”

That sounded divine. You wanted all of that and more.

“Please,” you begged, though unsure what for.

Johnny smiled against your skin before pulling himself back up. He grabbed hold of your legs, gently pressing them up so your knees were level with your chest.

His eyes never strayed from your face, not even when he went back to giving you everything he had in the way he fucked you.

He was proudly marking his territory, taking everything you had while giving you everything in return.

You couldn’t compress the moans that escaped you with every brutal thrust in your cervix. He was hitting every damn spot in you, as if he had your entire body already mapped out.

“Gonna take ye away from ‘im,” he grunted, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs where they pressed against your chest. “Never gonna let another man hurt ye again.”

You cried, tears pouring down your cheeks in rivers. Your body was so overwhelmed with the pleasure he brought you, but god, you wanted all of it. You were going to make sure you took it all.

Johnny continued his string of praises as he glided in and out of you, your cunt molding around him like the perfect fit. He was fast and hard with his actions, yet his words were sweet and tender, only ever showering you with things you needed to hear.

“Ye gonna give me another one, pretty girl?” he asked, his own voice nearly failing on him from his own pleasure.

You nodded quickly, eyes locked on to his. He grinned in approval, cocking his head to the side.

“C’mon, bonnie. Ken ye can do it f’me.”

Those words of encouragement were enough to have you clenching around him, body succumbing to your second orgasm. You felt absolutely divine, head completely spacing out and relieving itself of any worries or stress.

“There ye go,” he cooed, unstopping of his thrusts. He chased his own release, sweat beading along his forehead and dripping down his temple. “Such a good girl, bonnie.”

You whimpered, body spent and exhausted. You didn’t stop that from allowing him to seek out his pleasure. The thought of him filling you, of fully claiming you as his stirred a wild thought in your mind, and you needed it.

“Please, Johnny,” you whined, and he let out a breathless chuckle. It vibrated you to the core.

“Dinnae worry, dove, I’ll give ye what ye want.”

It didn’t take him long to find himself. His movements became less precise and more sloppy, hands slipping from your thighs when his grip became unfocused.

Warmth filled you from the inside and you reveled in its comfort, sighing shakily. He pumped himself in you a few more times, making sure to get out every drop, before stopping to catch his breath.

Johnny looked gorgeous like this. Glistening in sweat, lips parted to suck in air, cheeks flushed pink from the warmth that took over the room.

You couldn’t stop your hand from lifting off of his arm to gently caress his cheek. When he felt your touch, he smiled, leaning into it.

Your heart nearly burst in fondness.

Johnny cleaned you up and let you change into his clothes, which you happily put on.

The two of you laid in the comfort of his bed, his arm tucking you into his side, your eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“I meant everythin’ I said, dove. ‘M gonna take ye away from ‘im, ye won’t ever have to deal with ‘im again,” Johnny said softly.

The thought of leaving your boyfriend was scary, but the thought of leaving behind Johnny after this was scarier. You knew what the obvious choice was.

You had to trust him. And trust him you did.

“Okay,” you whispered in return, and when he turned his head to smile down at you, you’d happily go along this journey into the unknown with him.

finally got around to writing smut like i’ve been planning on and what better choice than mr mactavish himself 🙏🏻 hes so yummy i wanna eat him

[sevs-corner]

Tf 141 and their s/o having auditory sensory issues

A/N: Just putting it out there that this isn't tied to any condition, just their fav lil human just being too overstimulated or under-stimulated when it comes sounds (this is also unserious and just me thinking of scenarios thats happened to close to my own experiences lol) Masterlist here!

Johnny, despite his playful disposition, is actually quite acutely aware of your mannerism and behaviors as you hang out with him and the rest of the guys.

Not in the way of being hyper-aware of it, just noticing how you've picked up on certain habits whenever he finds himself around you.

Just like how you're inseparable in wearing those bluetooth earphones he gave you for Christmas one time.

He notices that you have plugged them inside your ear holes so often that he wonders when you even charge them. He sees how you put them on instinctively whenever you two go out on one ear. He sees you plug it in deep whenever he's vacuuming around the house or when the neighbors are mowing their lawn. He sees you have them on when they get too rowdy while watching a game.

Point being-- you were never seen without it. Why?

One day, he casually brings this up with you while the other guys were out on an errand.

He loves watching you sway your hips to the beat of whatever song you're listening to-- but now he's just curious, interest piqued per se.

Before he let his thoughts spiral, he stood up from his chair by the kitchen nook and approached you with the intent of wrapping his arms around you and swaying to the beat of your rhythm.

"Bonnie," he kisses your temple, "wha'cha listenin' to?"

You giggle at the tickled feeling of his kiss and the way his arms slightly tickled your sides, all the while letting go of the pan for a moment to remove your earphones and let it hang around your neck.

"Just some Dennis Van Aarssen jazz music," you hum, "wanna listen to it too, bubs?"

He shook his head, instead letting his one hand wander to the ear piece you removed and fiddling with it before you plugged it back in once more.

"Just wonderin'..." he mutters, "why ya' got this on all this time? Did ya' love my christmas present that much?"

He tries to smooth it over with a joke when he felt you tense in his arms, but this made those thoughts he tried to push back in his mind resurface-- making him more concerned as to why you reacted like that.

Could it be your way of coping? Or dealing with some sort of stress the four of them can't see? Or a problem you haven't told them about and you're using it as a means to avoid it?

"Bonnie," he stops swaying with you and lets you turn to face him in his arms, and he could see that unsure look on your face, brows furrowed and lips being chewed on-- he knew he had to be concerned now.

"Bonnie, please." he tries a plea to make you open up. "You know you can tell me right?" He starts rubbing his hands up and down your forearms to both comfort you and silently urge you to talk to him.

This makes you breath out a shudder, hand going to your other ear to remove the ear piece that was still playing some music. With a tap, you paused it and finally look up at Johnny, face painted in concern with such gentle, reassuring eyes that you couldn't bear to hide it from him- or the rest of the guys- about why you did so.

You guessed he finally took notice of often you wore it, with or without them-- too many times that you figured that they charted it enough to become a cause of concern for them. It doesn't help the fact that you felt like you got caught red-handed and are now supposed to confess about something you weren't even quite sure of yourself.

So, you try to explain, despite how messy your thoughts and feelings are.

"I just," you fumble, "well, you know me, right? I like music-- just a whole wide variety of it and it just always help, i don't know, help with my moods?" You strung your sentence along, hoping it was coherent enough for Johnnny to understand, and once he nods- giving you the confidence to keep going- you continued.

"It just helps me with working, y'know? Keeps me motivated and focused and all that." You fingers start wringing themselves in sweat and nervousness. "I just-- I don't know specifically why, I guess? It kinda just occupies my mind? Sometimes helps with blocking out with some stuff too..."

Johnny nods in understanding, licking his dry lips before talking as he felt his throat run dry at the thought of your last words.

"So besides liking it," he starts slowly and he sees you nod in confirmation, "it... helps you with work, keeps you focused and finish, aye?"

You nod again.

"But," he dry gulps, "it's helping with blocking out stuff-- what are those stuff bonnie?"

You bit your lip, avoiding eye contact by burying your face in his chest and you can hear him coo, patting your head and wrapping his other arm- still around your waist- tighter.

"We can wait bonnie," he whispers with chin on your head, "but just know that we're always here for ya'."

"I know," your voice muffled in his chest and you feel it rumble in a chuckle.

"Ya' can take your time with it," he reassures you, hand going from your head to your back, rubbing it slowly. "no need ta' tell me now-- was just curious, y'know?"

You smiled onto his chest, and take a moment in his embrace-- to sort out your thoughts and feelings that you've been keeping under wraps from them.

"We're back!"

Your calming moment gets interrupted by the three arriving back just in time for lunch, storming their way to the front to kitchen to greet you two in excitement yet that gets halted as they see you in the position you were both in.

"Darlin'," John immediately puts down his stuff and goes to approach both of you, eyeing Johnny who just shakes his head as he tries to search a response from him.

"What's going on?"

You feel another hand on your back, and you turn to face him to reply-- "just talkin'."

John takes note of how your eyes looked more dimmed than usual, and was about to ask again until Simon came in with a scoff.

"Cut the bull luv," Simon crosses his arms, "we all can tell somethings wrong."

You sigh back into Johnny's chest, a bit irritated at how quickly Simon picks up on things. Johnny glares at the brit who just raised an unimpressed brow at him, as if telling him to be a bit more gentler with his approach. Simon just shrugs, standing on his point as he juts his head to the side, signaling that they should take the conversation somewhere else.

Johnny rolls his head but nods anyways at the silent conversation they had. Kyle, seeing the exchange, picks up on and vocally propose to postpone lunch to chat for a bit.

All of you nod and transfer over to the living room, where you were quite practically made to sit in front of all four of them-- well, make that three while Kyle sits besides you, holding your hand in his as he absentmindedly traces shapes on it.

"So," John starts and directs it to you, "what's goin' on?"

You hum, unable to make eye contact with any of them as you try to clear your mind by fiddling with Kyle's fingers.

"It's with those earphones bonnie wears all the time," Johnny starts for you after some silence on your end, "just asked 'em about it and found out the reason why it plugged in their ears so much."

"Was he talking to you Johnny?" Simon grumbled into his ear, grabbing onto said man's neck to pull him up to his mouth and Johnny feels a shiver go down his spine as he replies a soft, "no."

"Then let her talk."

John agrees and this time, urges you to make eye contact with him by tipping your chin upwards to his gaze, to which was now eye-leveled with you as he sat crouched on the coffee table.

"You can tell us anythin' darlin'," he reassures, "you know we just wanna help you, right?"

You nod in response and finally got the momentum to talk-- to admit it.

"I told Johnny that it helps with blocking out some stuff," you explained softly, "those stuff being my thoughts that are like distracting sometimes or like, when my surroundings gets too loud and it feels like too many stuff is going on inside my head in one moment."

Once you see John and the others nod, you guessed they wanted to know more and let you continue first.

"It..." you gulp, "also makes me feel, I don't know, less perceptive of my surroundings? It feels like I take in too much and having something playing in ears and blocking out all that just helps with limiting that." You cringed at your explanation. "Like sometimes, I don't mind the noise but sometimes it also just-- gets too much, and I just found that by using these earphones are my way of coping about it."

You gripped onto the cord earphones, as you felt stifled by the fact you were relying on something so much to get by your day. To you, its frustrating-- having to rely on something just to "normally" go about your day, and without it, it feels near impossible.

You then felt a hand lay on top of yours, the one that was tightly gripping the cord so much so that your fists had gone white. You lifted up your head to Simon kneeling besides you, unfurling your hand gently before intertwining it with his, and you could feel yourself relax more significantly than before.

The tension of expressing all that tightening your body and with Simon's simple gestures, he released all of that.

"So you get overstimulated by noise?" Kyle asks besides you and you shrug.

"I guess? If there was one way to put it-- then, yeah."

"We're sorry we didn't notice it sooner darlin'," John apologizes for everyone, "you know we could have helped you with that, right?"

You nod hesistantly, "I do... its just I think its silly."

"I don't think its silly," Johnny mutters, "I think its something we should try and address, really."

You stare at him, shocked for a moment.

"Its a problem you're facing luv, then we'll definitely take it seriously." Simon brings your attention back to him by placing his hand on our cheek and gently turning it to his direction. "Got that?"

You nodded more confidently this time.

"Need a verbal confirmation from you, luv."

You let out shaky smile, whispering a small--"yeah, got it."

The boys feel a bit heartbroken at your problem, seeing how much its affected you and how blind they've been to reacting to it. They feel partially responsible, knowing that they were sometimes the cause of that "noise" you want to block out, knowing they weren't the quite the silent type whenever they stay at home with you. From loudly talking during meals to cheering and jeering at their sports teams to just obnoxiously doing chores around-- they felt awful. Just picturing you looking at those earphones for comfort, and feeling to burdened to tell them about it so you try dealing it with your own.

And you did. Only because it was weird- to you- to ask someone to lower their voices when it came to talking in their own home. If they couldn't be comfortable in their own home, their safe space, then where else would they?

It was quite a conundrum you were stuck so long on that relying on those earphone was the best way to deal with it-- for the moment. Until you figured out a way to tell them.

Which eventually arrived you to this moment-- explaining all of this to them like an embarrassing story of pissing your own pants like a little kid.

"Darlin'," John starts with a heavy breath, "you know its not a hard ask right? We're your partners-- we're supposed to care for each other."

"I do too," you mumble, "that's why it felt weird to ask of you guys to adjust for me when you're already doing so much."

Their eyes soften at this confession.

"And we'll do more," Kyle states, "if its for you, I don't mind doing the little things you ask of us, sweetheart."

The others agree and you pout.

"I can't do that."

"Then we'll do it for you whether you say so or not." Simon decides for you, wiping the unshed tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. "I can tell, don't worry luv."

You roll your eyes at the exuding confidence of Simon's ability to read people and you hear him chuckle at your reaction, feeling him pinch your cheeks too in retaliation.

"Brat," he teases, "I'll let you off this time."

You then feel his touch let go from yours and somehow, find yourself in the arms of John who was gazing at you with such empathetic eyes that you feel bad for feeling like this.

But that thought was immediately removed from your head with a poke at the side from Kyle, "none of that sweets," he says with a cheeky grin.

John supports by adding onto it, "don't overthink 'bout it darlin'." He presses his forehead against your pounding one, but soon tides over as you find yourself matching your breath and pace with his.

"We promised to take care of you and we'll do that, okay?" He looks for your confirmation and you mutter a small, "yeah" in response.

"Just gotta tell us sweets," Kyle approaches from behind and wraps you in a hug as well. "don't feel like you gotta rely on somethin' else to make it through yourself."

"Let's take baby steps, a'ight?" Johnny huffs with a smile on his face, jumping in the hug as well. "we can work through it together, right LT?"

With his insinuation, Simon rolls his eyes and joins the hug as well with you in the middle.

"Together," Simon promises snarkily, tightly wrapping his arms around everybody only for you all to loudly complain and dissipate from the short-lived group hug.

Simon lifted his hands up in mock surrender while you pointed a glare at him.

"Just sayin'," he puts it other there, "you can just tell us to shut up and we wouldn't mind."

The guys stifle a laugh at how the picture of you doing that to them looked like in their heads-- and they just can't imagine you, of all people, doing that.

If you could, you would have already slapped the smirk of this man's face but you just poked your tongue at him instead.

"I could never do something that mean," you sneer, "unlike you."

This makes them crack-up again, and this time-- it makes you smile too, and Kyle catches it. Quickly pointing it for the others to do the same with only John standing back and observing all of his partners playfully get along once more.

He's happy that they finally got you to tell them of that lingering problem that on the back on everyone's mind but, tackling it was a different story. A bit of a tricky situation that comes with much planning and adjustments on all sides-- which all of you were willing to work on.

But as long as it made sure that you were happy, loved, and care for-- they were willing to spend game nights lowly cussing at each other and sending silent death glares.

Maybe it might be even more fun for them that way.

A/N: a bit of a half assed ending ngl, i feel like makin a part 2 to this before it this one gets too long and flesh it out a bit better ksahdkjsfakhhsa (but we'll see where this goes)

[deunmiu-dessie-sideblog]

“si, look at me.” simon's gaze meets yours as you turn his head towards you with a delicate hand. he can’t stop the small gasp of mesmerization that escapes him; the deep pools of love and devotion that smolder in your eyes look unfathomable, like a vast sea of water out in a sweltering desert. as your palm cups his face, simon feels his heart surge and ache at the sight of your captivating, teetering smile.

you tenderly glide your thumb over his skin, longingly. “if you don’t let go,” you shift closer--- melting him despite the bleak, glacial weather, to press your supple lips against the underside of his jaw, breathing in the spice of his cologne. “if you don’t forgive yourself; unless you forgive what happened, you can’t possibly move on.” you murmur, withdrawing your hand from his cheek and planting it against his chest, where his heart, that seemed to beat solely for you, lay pumping a mile a second. “johnny's death is not your fault.” and while simon had heard those exact words, many times over — this time he truthfully believed it. 

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Emotions are hard for Ghost

     Simon was staring into his cup of tea, it was barely warm at this point. He wasn’t a very emotional man, never have been, but lately he’s been having a lot to figure out when it comes to his emotions. Than he has to figure out what to do with the emotions. It was simpler when he didn’t feel much of anything, he glanced up to see Johnny skating in his journal from across the table. Simon thought that letting himself feel things again at least had it perks, he could admit to himself.

     “Johnny,” Simon spoke softly, just enough to draw Soap’s attention from what he was doodling.

     Johnny just hummed in response but did look up at him with a raised eyebrow.

     “I think-”Ghost started to speak.

     “Oi, there’s no I when it comes to our relationship LT, it’s just we at this point.” Johnny gave Simon a cheeky smile as if he was waiting for this moment.

     Simon gave Soap a look before continuing. “Fine, then WE have a crush on Y/N”

“You’re damn right we do! They’re everything we want and need in a partner. Now the question is how are we gonna get a date with them?” Soap had an excited look about him now that they were on the same page.

“Let me get a new cup and we can plan.” Simon stood up from his chair to get himself a new warm cup of tea. 

[brokenpieces-72]

Nightmare Comfort

Note: So when I made the poll for the missing part of the gangster au, I got 20% of people who wanted both, and then the nightmare comfort and normal release were an even split of 40%. So you're getting both.

TW: Violence, interrogation, nightmare, blood, let me know if I miss anything

“Fuck…” you groan.

“You’re a little shit.” Nolan grunts, spitting. “You want me to get ugly?”

“You were being pretty?” You question, trying to hide the amount of pain in your voice.

You hear a gun cock. Your blood goes cold. You go very still. “Tell me where!”

“I swear to fuck I don’t fucking know!”

“Tell me where Makarov’s file is!” He yells.

“I don’t fucking know!!”

BANG

You bolt upright in bed, clutching your chest, wincing from the bandage. In the darkness you see the shape of the stray scurrying away from the bed. You're in a cold sweat as you take deep breathes, trying to steady and ground yourself. You toss back the blankets, and hurry out of your room. The living space is barren so you hurry to their rooms, cracking their doors open. Gaz, Soap, Price and Ghost are asleep. Your heart is still beating hard though. A dream... all a dream.

You wish it were only a dream. The truth is Nolan had done a number on you and the marks were there to stay. You were reckless and didn’t take care of yourself. If Alex and Charly hadn’t made it in time you’d be dead. Dead over something that didn’t exist. You could’ve lost everyone who was asleep right now. They wouldn’t be in safe beds, they would be in the water.

You’re not gonna be going back to sleep anytime soon, so you curled up on the couch instead. The cat curls up with you. The pain is still there, the weapons are in your mind despite never seeing them. You can’t help yourself from imagining the others in the same state as you were. Your bruises were still visible, you’d seen them when you’d got to take a shower. Too soon for a pain killer since your last.

You absently pet the cat, as the dark apartment remains still around you. Very slowly your eyes drift close, and you aren’t about to bother moving. Too cozy where you are. If anyone could come through the door you could be ready. But sleep consumes you easily enough.

When Simon woke up he went to the kitchen and saw you on the couch. You were groaning softly, the cat having already hopped away. Ghost noticed you started to toss and turn. Coffee could wait. He went over to you instead as you started to get louder. Simon started to shake you awake.

You awoke and went to attack the random figure that had appeared at your side, seemingly out of nowhere. Ghost was faster, catching your wrists, but his instincts were faster than him. He ended up pushing your wrists and almost getting on top of you. With the darkness you could quite make him out, and are about to call for help. He uses a hand to cover your mouth.

"It's me!" He says, voice low and gravelly. You stop using your free hand to try and shover him off as you start coming back to reality. Your hard breathing starts to slow and soften while your heart pounds in your chest. Ghost stares down at you wait for you to steady yourself. As Ghost's weight on top of you starts to ground you, you also start to wince. Eventually the soreness is hard to bear, so you pull his hand off.

"You're on my bad leg." You whisper. Simon doesn't get off but readjusts himself, so the weight of his knee isn't pressing on anything sensitive. You do a small check around the dark room. God what time is it? Early probably. You can't make out any of the digital clocks from the couch. You don't notice Simon is still staring at you.

"Broken?" He asks after a moment of you two just breathing and waiting.

"No." you answer. Your head was hurting though. Ghost got off of you, letting you sit up. You stretch because the couch, while comfy isn't exactly great on your back.

"What are you doing out here?" Ghost asks, keeping his voice down. You shrug.

"No reason." You say. "Couch is comfy."

Ghost can tell you're lying. He's worried about you. Being a cop couldn't have been easy, he knows you've been fired a gun before. Seeing Makarov point a gun at your already beaten and weakened state nearly set him off. Ghost has to remind himself that you're not a child anymore, not some naive rookie. By now you had a good enough taste of this life to be taken seriously. After everything that has happened, that you caused he also knows you don't want to be a problem. Joining them, you crossed plenty of bridges, but by now you've burned quite a few.

Simon sits next to you on the couch, and you can feel it sink to his weight. He debates talking to you about how you're not alone, and never have to be. Sure he's private but you don't have to be. The whole Nolan thing was this life rearing it's ugly head.

Regardless you need rest. Those injuries aren't gonna heal if you're thrashing around in your sleep. Simon stands and offers his hand to hekp you. "Get up."

You do as he says and he sits down in your spot. He gently tugs you back down on the couch, but you feel him moving you around. You realize he's reclined on the sofa and is laying you on top of him.

"Ghost what ar-"

"Lay down." He orders. You don't argue and do as he says. Why was your face warm? Why was he so warm? "Close your eyes, try to sleep."

You try lifting your head so you can question him, but he pulls your head back down to his chest. You can feel his heart beating, calm and steady. Man, talk about a big step. Ghost went from standing in a corner in the same room as you, to being your comfort pillow.

"Don't you have stuff to do?" You asked.

"Not really. I wake up early out of habit." Ghost said, his voice low. "Used to do it to avoid my father, a run in the mornings, go to school, work, etc."

"Your father?" You asked, rolling over on to your stomach. Ghost sighed and pulled your head back down. Why did he let that out? Guess it was easier to tell you now, otherwise you'd probably go searching for answers on your own. Better to hear the truth from him. By now he'd told Johnny and Price, Laswell had seen the reports, you probably had too. Something about your weight on top of him made him feel he should air out some issues, if only so you understand who you were sleeping with... there was a better way to phrase that.

"Learned I shouldn't call him that. He used bring in wild animals to scare me, an addict, and would encourage my brother to do the same." Ghost listed off. A brother too? You wondered if any of the others had siblings they didn't talk about. "Abused me and my mother."

There was a span of silence as if he'd told you the whole story and was letting you sit with it. You'd seen a few abuse cases, that had resulted in murder, from both sides. Sometimes the victim fought back and other times the abuse got deadly. You felt like there was more than what Ghost was telling you. Ghost was a private man, so maybe he just didn't want to say anything more. You let yourself relax into him. Simon isn't one to act violently without cause.

A hand drifts to your head, calloused fingers playing with your hair. The sound of your hair being played with and Simon's heartbeat filled the otherwise quiet ambience of the room. Did he think you were asleep already? How much time had passed since he finished telling you what his dad was like? You couldn't help but feel the rest of the story was important. Thinking of what he's told you and where Simon was now, there were a few blanks. You couldn't think of the right question to ask next.

"Is that how you met my dad? Calling the cops on him?" You asked quietly. Simon is still quiet.

"No." He said, and the hand that was in your hair, was resting on your neck. His hands are a little cold. Simon's thumb over your soft neck is soothing for both of you. "He's dead. Killed him after he killed my mother."

Now it's your turn to be quiet. Simon killing his father. You could see it. There was motive too. It wasn't something you wanted to pry open further. With how calm Simon was, you assumed it must have gone far deeper, and his mother's death was the final straw. You thought back to when you came to live at the hideout for the first night, and the stray that had practically become the house pet. Simon's comment about black cats being targeted simply for their fur colour. Hated simply for something you can't control. As you lay there you there you felt the urge to say something, the statement lingering in the air awkwardly.

"Thank you." You said. Thank you. Thank you? Wow that's all you can think to say? You don't even know why you said it, whether it was for his comfort, his acceptance of you, or for killing his piece of shit father. It was a mix.

"Go to sleep." Simon grumbled, and his thumb stroked the back of your neck. You stretched as much as you could without hurting Simon or yourself, before shutting your eyes again.

Kyle woke up and came out to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks immediately once he saw you and Ghost on the couch. Kyle debated backtracking to his room, not wanting to disrupt... whatever this was exactly. At least he hadn't turned on the kitchen light yet. Before Kyle could think of a next step though, Simon spotted him. Simon nodded.

"Are they okay?" He asked quietly.

"They are now." Simon answered.

"I'll go pick up breakfast." Kyle said, returning to his room to get a jacket. He wasn't going to interrupt this moment. Kyle left without another word, intending to get the usual.

Price had slept in a bit, needing some extra recovery time himself. There were no plans until everything calmed down, and Makarov played his next hand. Kyle sent him a text saying he was picking up breakfast. Price hoped Kyle at least put the kettle on before he left.

When Price got changed and came out to get something to drink he found you still sleeping on Ghost's chest. Was that what Simon meant when he said you were a cat? Ghost gave his boss the same nod as he did with Kyle, and Price returned it.

"Painkillers or nightmares?" Price asked.

"Bit a' both." Simon said. "Told her about my record a bit."

It was his tale to tell, and Price wasn't about to put any restraints on what Simon could and couldn't say. Price didn't talk about Simon, because there wasn't anything people needed to know about him. Simon was plenty old enough to decide what he wanted people to know about him.

"Much sleep?" He asked. Simon shrugged. He hadn't been keeping track. Price checked the clock and decided to head out for his morning coffee. The kettle would wake you like an alarm clock. You needed more rest.

Of course Johnny came out and saw the scene, the earliest rays of the morning giving a low light to the space. He paused mid step and Simon looked up at him. Like Kyle he debated going back to his room.

"You two want privacy?" He asked.

"We're fine Johnny." Ghost said, rolling his eyes. Then Johnny took his phone out. Before he could take the photo, Simon stared him down. Johnny looked up, and his cheeky grin disappeared.

"They're sleeping. Don't make me get up." Simon warned. Johnny raised his hands and stepped back. Okay. He'll just chill in his room until breakfast comes.

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving @cutiecusp @shikigami-the-paper-spirit @theotheronedotorg

[totallynot-mac]

Overworked

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x Fem!Medic!Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley

After a few rough nights of work, Johnny and Simon take care of you.

➛ Content Warnings :: Personal Negligence

➛ Word Count :: 2.2k

You practically fell into your chair, your body slumping forward onto your messy desk at first contact. You groaned, your hand harshly rubbing your eyes, willing yourself to stay awake. The seemingly infinite mountain of paperwork practically leaned over you, foretelling yet another late night.

Grumbling to yourself, you mourned your lost sleep, past, present, and future. Luck had not been on your side when it came to sleep; the chaos of being the head medic at the base prevented you from getting anything more than 6 total hours of sleep in the last 48 hours. This was the first downtime you were given, a break at the tail end of a long and tiring shift, and you found yourself overwhelmed with paperwork that was already long overdue.

Your eyes drifted to the mug of inevitably cold coffee in front of you, the cartoony ghosts almost taunting you with their happy little smiles. The mug was originally a gag gift, given to you by one of your boyfriends, Johnny, a joke playing on your other boyfriend's callsign, Ghost.

The thought of your boyfriends made you smile almost mournfully. Along with taking your sleep, your unfortunate circumstances caused you to miss the small amount of time you got with your boyfriends every night.

Simon, as a lieutenant, got very little time off, almost matching you in the amount of paperwork he had. One bonus though was his ability to adjust his own schedule, so what little time he had off usually lined up with yours and Soap's.

Johnny or Soap, on the other hand, was currently recovering from a minor injury, pushing himself in the gym to get back to where he was before. Much of his free time was spent in the gym, either running through his routine or sparring with Gaz.

All this, combined with your strict but unpredictable schedule, ended with very little time to spend together outside of mealtimes and sleep. With you eating in your office and sleeping at odd hours whenever you can, you missed your opportunities to see either of them the last two days. Despite having been apart for much longer periods, you missed them, their absence fighting your motivation to finish this paperwork.

You pushed yourself off of the desk with that thought, a soft groan escaping your chest as you arched your back, stretching out your spent muscles. You pulled your old coffee towards you as you stood up. Your mug, as predicted, felt cold to the touch, the cool liquid splashing around as you carried it toward the nearby sink and coffee maker. Pouring the cold coffee down the drain, you placed your cup under the coffee maker, replacing the old grounds with fresh but probably stale ones.

The sound of a knock on the med bay door made you jump, your whole body flinching at the sudden noise.

You turned your head as the gentle noise of the door opening sounded through the room. As you turned your head, you summoned whatever energy you had to replace your exhausted look with the cheerful persona you wore to reassure your patients.

Relief filled you as a familiar mohawked head poked its way through the crack in the door, his excited smile contagious as the tension in your body already began to melt away. A genuine smile crossed your face, and your shoulder relaxed.

“Johnny.”

Johnny slid into the room, gently closing the door behind him as he spoke. “Hey Hot stuff.”

He made his way across the room, his arms wrapping themselves around you and pulling you into his body as soon as you were in reach. You felt yourself melt into the touch, resting your head on his chest and wrapping your arms around his waist. You could feel his chest vibrate as he spoke, the feeling soaking into your body and warming your chest.

“We missed you, Love. When are ya done? Me and Simon wanna eat with you tonight.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer before he noticed the brewing coffee on the table behind you.

“Lass, you drink that now, and you know you won’t be sleeping tonight.”

You could practically feel his frown, the disapproval in his voice causing guilt to bubble in your stomach. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to finish up tonight-” a yawn interrupted you “-no break for me yet. You and Si shouldn’t wait up.”

Johnny pulled away from you, his hands raising, cupping your cheeks and angling you toward him, worried eyes examining your face. “Bonnie, how much sleep have you gotten?”

You looked away, suddenly self-conscious of how exhausted you must look, deep purple bags under your eyes, flyaways starting to separate from your standard issue bun.

You could do nothing but shrug in response to his question, despite knowing the exact answer, the number having rung through your head all day.

Johnny’s brow furrowed at your answer, one hand falling to your waist, the other moving to your chin to tilt your head around, no doubt examining your paler expression and dark circles under your eyes.

He shook his head slightly, a frown painting his face. You let him guide you toward a nearby cot, your eyes confusedly flicking between him and your mug of coffee as he led you away from it.

The back of your knees hit the cot, causing you to startle and sit down. Johnny towered over you, his eyes not leaving yours as he grasped your cheek in his big hand. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as you basked in his presence for just a moment more.

“I’ll be right back, dove. Stay here, okay?”

“I have paperwork-”

“Stay. Paperwork can wait. For now, just listen to me, okay?”

You slowly nodded, confusion rushing through you, but you listened. As he walked out of the medical room, he looked back, giving you a look before disappearing through the door.

You sat there, looking down at your nails, idly picking at the skin around them, willing yourself not to get up and just continue your work.

You startled when the door opened again, not ten minutes later. Johnny entered the bay, one of the other well-trained medics in tow.

You looked between the two in confusion, the medic giving you a kind but sad smile, while Johnny moved toward you, stopping between your legs and lowering to look at you.

“Price has given you the night and morning off. You’re gonna come with me, eat something, and then we're gonna go to bed. Understand?”

His tone left no room to argue, and his eyes showed a steely stubbornness you rarely saw from him.

Your eyes widened as they darted back and forth between the two.

“But I have-”

“Price has given me permission to do what I can on the tardy paperwork and has given you an extra two days to do the rest.” The medic chimed in, a kind man by the name of Oliver.

Your eyes widened further, relief and realization soaking into your thoughts. You gave Oliver a smile, muttering a “thank you so much” as he nodded in acknowledgment.

Johnny quickly captured your attention again as he grabbed your thighs, settling you on his hip like you might a child. You yelped and wrapped your arms around him, before allowing him to guide your head into his neck.

The shock quickly wore off, exhaustion taking over and forcing the tension from your body, the sway of his steps causing you to practically melt into his hold.

You had barely realized anything had happened by the time you reached the room.

Ghost’s room to be exact. You both tended to bunk with him whenever you slept together, his bed being the biggest due to his size and rank. It provided ample room for the three of you to spread out, but you all ended up on top of each other by the morning anyways.

He softly set you on the bed, pulling back to look at you again. You could feel your eyes starting to droop, the familiar setting lulling you toward sleep. His hand returned to your cheek, his thumb rubbing it slowly as you leaned into his touch, a sad smile returning to his face.

“Our beautiful girl. Been working so hard and barely has time to take care of herself, isn’t that right.”

You sleepily nodded, his words and soft touch making your brain all the more fuzzy with the exhaustion your body was slowly succumbing to.

You knew that he wanted to reprimand you for putting yourself second, not taking care of yourself firstly, but he knew you were in no state of mind, or awake enough to care.

Besides, punishment was Simon’s job ;)

He instead slowly began taking off your clothes, giving you instructions to move every once and a while as he did so. You were so focused on his fleeting touches that it wasn't until he turned around to grab something for you to sleep in that you realized someone else was in the room.

The maskless face of your second boyfriend came into sight, as he crouched in front of you, a worried and slightly frustrated look painting his face. You gave him a sleepy grin, a happy whine of “Si” escaping you. His eyes softened, a soft smile replacing his frown, before he brought a plate of toast into your field of view.

“Lovie, you need to eat before you go to sleep.”

You childishly whined and turned away a bit at the idea of having to do something, too exhausted to do anything but lay down between your boyfriends and sleep for hours, days if they’d let you.

Ghost gently pulled your face back, stroking his thumb under your eye, much like Soap had done, as he chuckled.

“I know I know. But you need to eat love. When was the last time you even ate?”

As if as a response, your stomach let out painful gurgles, causing Johnny to let out a laugh from behind Simon.

He had returned with one of Simon’s shirts, one of your favorite ones due to how soft and well-worn it was. He stepped up beside you and gently pulled your arms through one by one, flipping the shirt over your head and body.

Johnny walked away once again as Simon picked up a piece of toast, bringing it to your mouth, allowing you to take a small bite. The taste of warm toast, covered in butter and cinnamon sugar met your taste buds, made better no doubt by your hunger.

Johnny then returned wearing nothing but a pair of clean boxers as he nodded to Simon before taking the piece of toast from him, taking his place in front of you and slowly feeding you the rest.

Before you realized, the food was gone, and Simon was back now, joining Soap in only boxers, as he picked you up off the bed.

You quickly latched onto Simon, pulling yourself as close to his warmth as possible.

Behind you, Johnny climbed into bed, pulling open the blankets, allowing Simon to slide your figure in. Johnny quickly pulled you into his body, so Simon could climb in after you, effectively sandwiching you in warmth and safety.

You swear you had never felt this exhausted, your limbs now heavy with lead as Simon scooched closer to you, pulling you onto his chest placing his arm around you and Johnny, who now had his arm loosely draped over your waist.

You struggled to fight your exhaustion, wanting to stay in this bubble of happiness for a while longer, but the gentle cooing of Johnny behind you, and the feeling of Simon’s deep breathing beneath you slowly lulled you into a deep sleep.

BONUS :: The sound of hushed yelling awoke you, and you quickly became aware of your boyfriend missing from in front of you. Johnny was cuddled ever closer, his figure surrounding yours, as he always did in the morning, but the spot in front of you, while still warm, was lacking the body of Ghost.

Cracking your eyes open, you could see your missing boyfriend standing in the doorway, nothing but a pair of pants and his mask hastily thrown on. His hushed voice and that of who you could only assume was a private sent to fetch one of you, barely reached your ears, only allowing you to hear random words.

A few like the repeated use of “she” and “medical” by the private are what caught your attention, and you mentally prepared yourself to have to get up for what was probably once again, not a real emergency.

What surprised you was when Ghost closed the door in the private’s face, saying something to him about “talking to Price” before leaving the man standing in front of a closed door mid-sentence.

He quickly removed his mask and pants, getting back into the bed, and looping his arm back around you and Soap.

You cuddled closer to him, looking up at him with tired eyes, confusion written on your face.

“What was that about?”

He grunted slightly, ushering your head back down to lay on his chest.

“Nothing for you to worry about. It's your morning off, go back to sleep.”

And so you did.

[dmitriene]

cw: pregnancy, rushed plot writing.

being simon's riley high school sweetheart, you just stuck to each other, somehow, there was something in him that pulled you easily, as if a treat shown in front of the grabby child, the way he kept himself aside from all the commotions and class gangs, his stoic, brooding facade, his eyes, usually so heavy and dark, gleaming tawny under the morning sun, never looking at you with hatred, something addictive.

a silly, simple crush, but it's transcended years, always close to each other, a brief exchange of greetings, sharing a book, helping with homework, sitting together because it's more comfortable this way, quieter, and then exchanging clumsy kisses on the back of the school building, where nowhere can see, find out about your little secret, a weakness of simon.

when you both graduate, simon suddenly dissappears, not a single word uttered, as if you never knew each other, as if you didn't mattered, and perhaps, that was it in the reality, just a childish mess of love, a complex thing you lose interest in, making you move on forward, looking over small, cheap polaroids where you two are hugging, making faces to each other through laughter and little kisses, something now forgotten.

years later, you meet an attractive, sweet man in the towns pub, when deciding to travel in scotland, clean your head a little bit, look at mesmerizing, incredible landscapes and get close to other's people culture, that's how a first taste of whisky suddenly ends in a bed of an cheesy, charismatic scott, johnny, not just a stranger with deep ceruleans that stole your breath, but your husband, the father of your baby.

johnny is military, you know well, deciding to step away of all this business as much as you can, and also because of him, he wants to shield you, not burden your and the baby with fear of wars, terrorism and endless missions, when he comes home, there's never soap, it's just johnny, always back to you with wide, lopsided grins and arms spread wide, scooping your precious baby in his beary hold, while peppering your scrunching from giggles face with kisses.

your new, perfect life that's snaps so easily, when your calendar starts missing days of johnny's comeback, the red circled date is far away from the current day by now, and there's not a single message from him, planting a gnawing, chilling feel that makes you walk back and forth all over the house, bouncing the baby in your hands, cooing worried, but suppressed to soothing lullabies, until you hear a knock to the door.

but instead of your husband, there's a masked, beefy man, an envelope in his gloved hand, a situation too forbidden, and a voice too familiar to you, apologizing for the death of his friend, simon riley, a man you remember by his eyes alone, even through painted with sorrow.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[soleilapproves]

Imagine Price being a regular at a bar where the reader is a part time singer. Reader is a college student trying to make some extra cash so they take up a singing job where they need to entertain the crowd on the weekends.

Reader bumps into Price on the way to the bar and he is absolutely mesmerized. Like, who is that divine human being?

Reader rushes to the bar cause they’re late and they don’t really see what Price looks like because of it. They’re setting up stage when Price enters into the bar and he zeroes in on reader. Reader doesn’t realize it and is busy doing sound checks.

Reader entices Price like a siren with their voice and he is enamored. He would make direct eye contact with the reader every time they sang. Eventually he talks to reader and they hit it off. He was lucky enough to ask them out on their last day as a singer.

He was reader’s first older boyfriend so they’re a little shy but he takes them out of their shell. They go on late night bike rides and spend a lot of time in Price’s loft apartment. Price doesn’t use his phone a lot so he suggests taking polaroids to remember their time together.

Obviously the relationship doesn’t last because Price is always being transferred to different places. But he chooses to stay good friends with the reader. And by that he means sleeping with them whenever he happens to be in the same city. This goes on for years even until reader graduates college and is about to get married.

Every year, around the same time, he would meet the reader at the same bar they used to sing at and the night would end the same way- in Price’s hotel room. Reader would tell their fiancé that they were going out to hang out with their friends for the night and not to worry if they don’t return until the morning.

After reader gets married, they stop contacting Price and straight up ghost him out of guilt.

A decade or so later, reader’s daughter comes across a box of polaroids that reader and Price took together once upon a time and she asks who he is. Reader brushes it off saying that he was once someone they dated.

Ultimately choosing to hide the fact that the man in the pictures could possibly be their daughter’s father.

-•-

I was listening to Brooklyn Baby by Lana while writing this. I hate infidelity related plots but I can’t help but enjoy it when it’s done in such a way 😔

[alkaline-wtr]

141 x sick!reader headcanon

Description: They take care of you when you're sick. Genre/Warnings: 141 x sick!reeader, fluff, comfort, headcanon

** This is bad, oops. But here is a little bit of sick comfort because, I am sick right now and procrastinating Chapter 6 of 'We Will Survive' Enjoy.

GHOST: Whenever you're sick Ghost jumps straight into his 'doctor' role.

Rather than giving you a hug and rubbing your back soothingly like you hoped he is up poking and prodding you, asking you more questions than you care to answer.

"Yer not warm."

He says placing his calloused palm on your forehead.

"How 'bout yer head, does it hurt? Throat sore? How 'bout here does it hurt when I do this?"

He asks pressing on your side with his fingers.

"Si."

You groan swatting his hand away.

"Can't you just... Will you make me tea?"

Ghost sighs and kisses the top of your head.

"O' course love."

GAZ: The morning you wake up with a scratchy throat and a relentless sinus headache, is when Gaz is quick to take over the daily chores and responsibilities.

Cleaning and cooking are his top priorities. Anything that can keep you in bed and stress free he's on in.

Sometimes you think he's trying to heal you through food and drinks alone.

Bringing you teas, water, and softer food or soups for breakfast and lunch. For dinner he'll order takeout from your favorite place and ends the night in bed with ice-cream and your comfort show or movie.

Gaz is a sole believer in resting both your body and mind during days like this and he takes his domestic duties seriously in order to guarantee you a comfortable and clean space to relax and recover.

SOAP: Soap is known to be a bit overbearing when you're not at your best. Smothering you in affection, fluffing your pillow, and crowding your space on the couch with anything he thinks might help you feel better.

You're restricted to the couch, surrounded by water, juice, snacks, plushies, and even objects of entertainment like a game, or a book to read.

Any move you make to shift into a more comfortable position or get up to use the bathroom Soap is by your side immediately asking what you need or how to help.

You always appreciate his care and concern, but it would be nice to use the bathroom for a couple minutes in peace, without Soap knocking lightly on the door to ask if you want him to run you a bath.

PRICE: Price isn't the type to go overboard and tend to your every need. He'll start the day off giving you a simple breakfast in bed, and some medicine before bed rotting with you the rest of the day.

You both nap on and off all afternoon. He holds you in his arms brushing your hair with his fingers gently and leaving plenty of kisses on your cheeks.

It is a slow and quiet day, the TV plays softly in the background as you laze around curled into Prices chest. Curtains pulled shut to leave the room dark and obscure any sense of time you might have. As far as anyone is concerned the world is on pause and it's only you and John today.

You being sick, means he's sick too. He won't be leaving your side, and you will be resting and recovering together.

[karlachismylife]

Wrote the intro the day I started this work and decided to leave it since it reflects the shitstorm in my head quite well, eh.

Okay Idk what it is with me today (I actually do know, I'm having a bad fucking night as a consequence of my own actions but I prefer not to think about it), but I just thought about task force 141 and reader that has such a bad withdrawal after their orgasm that they actually cry and not in a fun way (cue my lack of understanding how crying in bed can ever be fun, but i'm not here to kinkshame)

CW: NSFW (so minors and ageless blogs DNI, I'll block you), but there's barely any sex, hurt/comfort, body image issues, low self-esteem, chubby/fat!reader, written with afab!reader in mind (but most parts can be read as gn), potential mental health issues (?), thoughts of selfloathing and selfharm, smoking mentioned once at the end. Very self-indulgent and I'm definitely unwell, so yeah. It's also more focused on reader's inner shitstorm than the guys in many places so idk if this even really is enjoyable...

Starts as a single piece, then splits into individual blurbs/drabbles/oneshots + some polyamory cuz I'm spoiling myself today having done nothing to deserve it, lol.

They vary in size and tone since I've been writing them through several ups and downs in my own mental state, so please don't take this as a sign of which characher/combo is my favourite. I'm greedy, I like everything.

This is unfair.

Like, you just had wonderful sex, probably came more than once in a short period of time, ears stuffed with cotton, limbs weak, head spinning... and it keeps spinning, sweet tingling on the skin turning into nasty rushes of cold, muscles too tense, but it's not a cramp.

You feel like shit, every possible hormonal and neuromediator crash downing on you, a hollow, depressing weight in your chest instead of a sweet afterglow. Sweat and cum feel disgusting on you skin, your skin feels disgusting, strangling, your whole body seems revolting, too heavy, too sluggish. A sticky, suffocating heatwave on your nape, but your chest is cold and covered in goosebumps, a feverish feeling clogging every pore. Nausea wrenches into your stomach and stops just before you can relievingly barf and get rid of this parasite inside.

You simply want to dig your nails into your own shoulders instead of his and rip the skin and meat off, free yourself from this burden (you're the burden). Each second as he stays blissfully unaware, holding you tightly with his big hands and panting into the crook of your neck, drags on like a hundred hours of pure torture - the torture of being yourself.

Throwing up feels like an appropriate reaction to how unappealing and ugly you feel.

You're spiraling. You couldn't fucking keep your own messed up emotional outburst - completely unreasonable and unprovoked, by the way - to yourself, and now it's going to be noticed. You'll ruin someone else's fun. Make it all about yourself when you've already been nothing but doted on, cared and provided for. Fucked so good that your body is still clenching around that magnificent cock deep inside you.

And you're fucking crying, like an ungrateful, egotistical brat. Never having enough, unable to provide something as simple as a hole to make someone else happy without fucking it up.

Ghost notices immediately. There's nothing that can escape this man, and definitely not his love's distress. He's not reacting immediately for a sole reason: he's frozen in fear, horrified that he made you cry. How - he's not sure, he always takes great care to stay within limits, never allows himself to push you further than you both agree on. But what if he slipped up? What if he got carried away? Did he cause pain? Did he say something hurtful in the heat of the moment?

"Fuck. Hey, hey, lovie... look at me... wha's wrong? Did I... did I hurt ya?" Good thing you're hiding your face and your red eyes so desperately that you can't see how distressed and downright terrified Simon looks, lost at the sight of your tears. When you shake your head and attempt to push him away to hide your pathetic sobbing, he somewhat calms down and brings his big calloused hands to cradle your face, gently prying your own palms away and holding your puffy cheeks tenderly. His thumbs brush your tears away as he holds you, holds you through the growing rage fit of touch aversion, through the shudders and actual wailing. At some point he moves his palm to cover your eyes, a dry, dark blinder to keep the world around you shut out, help you concentrate on his voice.

He's not talking, just humming, a familiar, deep, grumbling noise that soothes all the flashes of anger, hate and disgust in your brain. You're tired now, like you're always are after such an intense outburst, and as you go limp, he finally pulls away, only to pick you up - barely a strain, a direct spit in the face of your own insecurity - and bring you to the bathroom. A warm shower evens your distorted body temperature out, his hands running over your body and cleaning all the stickiness away bring back peace with your own skin. After a quick rinse Simon holds you, your head cradled against his chest, until you make a weak attempt to help him wash too - he lets you trace his body, that perfection you adore with all its old wounds, sores and scars, for a bit, and then finishes himelf.

Gives you fresh cotton underwear and his hige T-shirt, still holding you around your shoulders and keeping the comfortable pressure even while he changes the bedsheets, kissing your temple as you find it in yourself to help.

It's only after you settle on top of him, nice, clean comforter protecting your back against the world, head on his chest right next to his heart beating in a steady rythm, he finally breaks silence.

"Need anything else, lovie?" Just like that. No prying, no occusations, nothing that would put you on the spot. You can ask him to bring you the moon soaked in unicorn's milk, and he'll just nod, kiss your hand and start dressing up, already calling Johnny to ask where the fuck did Scots hide their last horned horse and if he happens to know where they enlist astronauts.

"Just you."

His grip on the small of your back tightens and you feel his uneven, scarred lips graze the top of your head.

"Ya've got me. Always."

Soap is running hot like a furnace, still shivering and panting after what he considers the best sex he has ever had (every time with you is). He lifts his face, buried into the crease of your neck previously, and starts peppering you with slightly sloppy, grateful kisses - your neck, your jaw, your lips, your...

When he tastes your tears and opens his unbelievably blue eyes to see your expression contorted in disgust, he panics. Pulls away immediately, hands both itching to grab you and shake a reason for that look on your face out of you and too scared to touch you in case this hatred is directed at him.

"Whit's wrong, leannan? Are ye a'right? Ye didnae lik' it? Shite, lass, Ah'm so sorry, Ah didnae mean tae-" He stops yapping only when he notices the way your lips tremble as you try to plead with him, sobbing that it's not his fault.

"'M sorry, I ruined it... I'm so sorry, sushine, I just... fuck I wish I wasn't so bloody sick in the head and ugly..." Speaking out loud only worsens your anger, directed solely at yourself, and you try to wipe your eyes furiously. As the tears keep rolling, your frustration only grows - maybe if you yanked your own hair really good or slapped the disgusting pudgy cheek you've despised ever since chidhood as everyone kept pointing out how big they were...

"Ye didnae just call the love of mah fucking life ugly." Johnny's voice is a mix of a harsh order to cut your bullshit and pure disbelief. His huge paws wrap themselves around your wrists, stopping you both from harming yourself and covering your face. You're forced to look at him, and as you do, you see his handsome face flushed with a passionate anger at the intrusive thoughts in your head, heavy frown in his thick eyebrows and the sea in his eyes dark and deep enough to drown a whole fleet. You'd be scared if it wasn't obvious how hurt he is underneath it all - like a kid whose favourite plushie just got mocked by his classmates.

"It's just a toy," adults would say, and they would be bloody wrong.

"Tis not a toy, tis mah friend."

You're his friend. His love. His heart, his soul, his everything - he whispers that frantically, kissing you over and over, hot palms running over your body, wiping the cold, the stickiness, the goosebumps away. You don't have time to think, to spiral again, you're drowning in that exact sea that's spilling from his eyes, staring at you with pure devotion - a sea of affection, admiration, love, love, love.

Johnny nuzzles up to you like an animal seeking comfort, hides into your chest, right after he kisses your sweaty double chin, breathes in deeply, lets go of your soft shoulders only to grab two handfuls of your tummy, kneading it, warming up the stale blood, squeezing your big thighs between his and getting lost in the frenzy - he honestly doesn't even remember already that he was comforting you, he's fully in the worshipping mode, leaving you no chance to dip even a single toe into the self-conscious thoughts again.

You'll just have to stay there, every single tear lapped up from your face, and accept every greedy touch and word of a man utterly in love with you. Even the messed up parts.

Gaz keeps his cool despite how distraught even the thought of your sadness makes him. First of all he moves aside to give you space, makes sure you're not hurt, asking in his usual kind - unbelievably kind, so much that you burst into tears again, feeling undeserving of such unapologetically soft treatement, tone.

"Shh, shush, gorgeous, you're not hurt, are you? It's okay, c'mere, jus-st like tha', very good, love," praises keep spilling from his tender lips as he carefully helps you sit up, simply dragging you away from the damp from sweat and everything else spot on the sheets. He ends up balancing half his bare ass off the edge of the bed, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest as he feels you already coming back from that hopeless place as soon as your body gets stuck between clean, dry and a bit cool sheet and Kyle's firm lean body of a litearal god - or a prince, at least.

His deft fingers are already at work, massaging your scalp, chasing the tension away, but the second he feels you grow uncomfortable with the repetitive movement, he stops and retreats to simply holding you in a steady, reliant embrace. You know he's good with his words, that's how he got you, swept off your feet completely and made you swoon with sweet compliments, hilarious snark and smart talk.

You just don't expect him to do it all over again in the face of your burdened mind crumbling in the paradise.

"Talk to me, angel. Let me inside that pretty head, hm?"

It takes this sweettalker just a couple of words to coax whatever that ugly, slimy knot in your throat is, out. You sob, retelling Kyle every single thought that has been stuck in that coagulated mess in your head, spill the bile that has been burning your retching throat, out in the open, for him to see the disgusting ugliness of your insides - matching your outside.

Somehow throughout your choking trade his soft, careful hand never leaves your back, rubbing circles of different radius and intensity into your skin to keep the aggression at monotonous touch at bay.

"Must've been some terrible person to overbear your spirit and plant all those lies in your mind, angel." You don't catch the meaning of his words at first, glancing at him confused and whoozy after you exploded with self-deprication. Those dark, calm eyes look at you no different than before: quiet, calm reverence and determination. A thread of spider's silk, thin as a hair, but stronger than steel, his love does not waver. Were you in the right state to actually pay attention, you would've seen it only grow.

"Well, beautiful, this isn't how I planned to start writing poetry, but since you insisted... maybe I can think of a diss track about you."

"A diss track?.." Poor you, so upset that you can't catch onto the mischievous glint in his eyes and that silly smooth sarcasm slipping into his words. You're actually half a step away from believing he would diss you, destroying that already non-existent self-esteem once and for all.

"Yup. Gotta diss-tract you from all that bullshit in your head for good. Unless you'd rather me fuck it out of you instead?"

You cannot not smile at that, even if it's a weak, timid smile. Kyle's face still lights up as if he sees an actual angel, bringing the good grace or whatever.

"There ya go. First step of the mission? Success. Permission to continue? I repeat, permission to continue?"

"You spend too much time with Simon. Permission granted..."

Price undrstands what's going on before he even hears your first sob, the tension in your body and the change in your breath telling him all he needs to know. There's enough experience in this man for the both of you, he has learnt to read people and immediately accomodate them in a way that serves a common goal so long ago that it's a secong nature already.

Your comfort is that common goal.

With a grunt, he rolls you over, planting you firmly on top of his warm, burly body. Untucking your head from his hairy chest, he holds your face and does not let you concentrate on anything but his stern, focued gaze under those bushy eyebrows - but there's still that undeniable tenderness in his eyes that's always there whenever John looks at you.

His voice sounds usual too: a calm, commanding, but not harsh tone, not a loud bark any of his subordinates would hear, yet still an order. "Look at me, darling. Tha's right, look at me, look at your John. You shut whatever's going through that troubled mind of yours out and let me take care of the rest, a'right? Can you do that for me, darling? I know you can. I'll do all the thinking for ya, eh?"

Giving control over to him feels natural at any other moment, but right now you're too deep in the trenches of the war with your own mind, hissing at you with pure disgust for being so selfish. Really, now? Had to use this sweet, caring man for your own needs, and now you're dumping all your perverted, fucked up baggage on him too?

"Nuh-huh, ya're still thinking. Told ya to cut if off. You know that's not you thinking right now, dontcha? You're a smart one, love, ya know shit like this happens. And when shit happens, who are you going to to deal with it, huh?" His deep voice rumbles in his chest, seeps into your clogged ears, fills your skull with the unyielding determination and leaves no room for your own dark thoughts.

When you hesitate to answer, John slides his rough palms over your back, tracing your soft rolls and landing onto the pudge of your hips, squeezing lightly to remind you who's in charge and what your task is. "Who is there for ya to deal with shit that happens, hm, darling? Need ya to tell me."

You want to hide, escape his demand for an answer, but he keeps you firmly in his embrace, a gaze of steel unmoving from you. It almost makes you tear up again, almost feels mean of him to put you on the spot, when all you want to do is curl up in a dark corner and stay there for all eternity. But the love you have for this man overpowers even the seething hatred you bear for yourself, so you give up and murmur meekly: "You..."

"Tha's right, darling, it's your John. I'm here to deal with everything that bothers ya. Everything, ya hear? Tha's me job. Your job is to stay wit' me 'n' not overthink, eh? Especially not when it's just hormons making ya feel bad." You have nothing else left to do, other than sniffle into his chest and melt under a warm kiss he plants on your crown. "How about a cuppa, eh, darling? And something just as sweet as ya for a bite. Ya'll feel better in no time, I promise."

Ghost and Soap cancel each other's panicking out. As soon as both you and Simon slip out of the sweet afterglow, falling backwards each into your own pit of self-doubt and spiraling, Johnny starts babbling, terrified at the thought of both his beloved people feeling worse after being with him. His slurred, panting words and frantic kisses help Simon shake of his own horror - in return, he squeezes Johnny's shoulder to slow the worried mutt down and redirect his energy into helping you. Soap tenses up under the firm touch of his Lieutenant, then relaxes again, leaning into him for a moment to collect himself - they charge from each other, mere seconds of feeding off each other's energies in the middle of a time-limited mission with the highest stakes: your well-being.

They exchange glances, no words needed after the way their work together almost makes them mindreaders to each other, and turn back to you as you lay there, face painfully contorted in an attempt to keep the black foamy bile you feel rising in your throat from spilling. Slow, sticky, angry tears run down your flabby cheeks, and with each millimetre they go, your scalding wish to gouge your eyes out with your bare hands grows, just to punish yourself for being ungrateful after two perfect men spent so much of their time making you feel good.

"Dinnae cry, bonnie. Ye're a'right, ye're 'ere, wit' us. Right, LT? We're nae gonnae let ye marinate in whitevur got ye so upset." The pressure from inside your body that threatened to burst you open into a messy explosion of bile and rot, gets evened out from outside by Johnny's tight hug. He squeezes you up to the painful point, cradling against his broad chest, holding the fort while Simon leaves the bed, but not without kissing both your palms and holding them against his lips until he feels the cold leave your fingertips.

"Oi, Johnny. Help lovie get in 'ere," he calls out several minutes later out of the bathroom. Soap, who has been holding you and allowing you to sob against his heart this whole time, stroking your sweaty hair and murmuring every word of love he knows, scoops you up immediately. He pads over with you in his arms to where a warm bath is already filled thanks to Simon, and when you react to the temperature with another wave of tears, they both reach out to the tap simultaneously.

"Is tha' a'right, bonnie?" You make a strangled noise as Johnny finally sets you down into much cooler now water. It soothes you, makes you feel instantly cleaner, smaller, lighter. Breathing gets easier, that swollen blob of anger and disgust shrinking down in your chest and allowing you to inhale bathroom's damp air normally. You open your mouth to apologize and get cut off before even a single syllable leaves your mouth.

"Don't," Simon's voice sounds gruff, but even his murky reflection in the rippling water looks genuinely soft towards you. They're both perched on the cold bath edge, naked and seemingly not caring about that at all. "Jus' let us take care of you, yeah, love? Tha's what we're here for. Tha's what we want to do."

"Well, actually, there's one more thing," Johnny interjects, causing you to finally lift your sullenly lowered head and look at him, Simon's big palm using this moment of distraction to press onto your back in silent support. "Can Ah make ye a foam beard? Please, bonnie? Ye jus' 'ave the prettiest sweetest cheeks fur tha'."

Soap and Gaz feel like their world is sinking into a whirlwind of stormy clouds, the kind that sucks all light out of sky in mere seconds and can't be cut through even by blinding flashes of lightnings. There is no sun in their skies if you're not smiling, and the sound of your muffled sniffles hits their eardrums harder than thunder or explosions. The frowns distorting their faces only make you more self-aware of the fact that you ruined things between you - the initial hysteria starts rapidly flowing into complete shutdown, threatening to turn you into an emotionless shell for unknown period of time, when several warm, big hands intervene and cut the depressing trajectory down at its root.

"Damn, we did a shit job fucking all your thoughts out, didn't we, angel?" Kyle's joke sounds soft, teasing, but empathetic, ready to be met with sobs or silence instead of the usual laughter that flashes your teeth at him and makes his own smile grow brighter.

"Aye, we did. If anythin', Ah think we put more thoughts intae 'ere instead," Johnny scratches his head dramatically, and then you feel his big, hot palm on you sweaty forehead, as if he's trying to get a feel of the thoughts inside your skull. It doesn't linger there for long, though, rough fidgety fingers digging into your hair and tugging at the roots. This makes the hot-and-cold collar around your nape unclench, uncouth and chaotic massage confidently pulling every ounce of anger out of your brain. From time to time his calloused palm slips lower, squeezing your scruff, wiping the cool sweat away and taking control over what seems to have escaped your own.

"How does it feel to be the first person to get knocked up mentally, love? Having any cravings yet? Feeling your brainworms kick yet?" Dry cotton comforter suddenly covers your exposed to be looked at with disdain body, and before you can choke out a protest and something about you being sweaty and sticky and disgusting, Kyle grips your shoulders firmly, rubbing up and down as he slowly helps you sit up a bit.

"Ye eejit, how dae ye think thay can kick? They're brainworms, thay dinnae hae any legs!" The sheer passion in Johnny's heated counterarguement does the impossible - makes the corners of your deeply upset mouth twitch against all the weight the sadness put on them. Your knights in shining (from all the sweat your lovemaking covered them with) armor of their own warm skin seem to not notice the slightest twitch of your lips - there's no excessive attention drawn to you, none of them puts you on the spot. Their touch isn't going anywhere, but it almost seems mindless, simply their need to have something soft and pleasant to squeeze in their restless hands. "'N' wasnae Mary th' first lassie tae get up th' duff through th' heid?"

"That wasn't mentally, that was spiritually, read your books, Soap," scoffs Kyle, as if it was the most obvious thing, and ducks just in time to avoid a pillow thrown at him with sniper's precision.

"Oi, ye sayin' Ah cannae read now?!" Whatever snarky retort Kyle was ready to shoot, gets wiped out as Johnny tackles him, barely avoiding pushing all three of you off the bed. Their scuffle consists of chokeholds and sneaky kisses, legs getting caught in the sheets and somehow tangling you into the mess too.

Until you laugh, finding yourself squished into Johnny's hairy chest with Kyle in a gently headlock somewhere under your arm.

"Hey, hey, careful, mate, our lovie's expecting, we can't just throw 'em around!" However obvious that deflection is, Johnny reacts as if you were actually with child and grabs your face, boring his eyes into yours, slowly widening his two blue lochs in pretend horror.

"Och naw! Ah think we lost 'em, Ah cannae see nothin' there now!" Flushed after the playfight, you avert your gaze, still a trace of self-consciousness about yout outburst somewhere deep inside, but none of the "brainworms" that clogged your insides in sight indeed. Johnny's little drama earns him a soft nip on his thumb from you, and he smiles at you, clearly satisfied with the effect their little scheme had.

"Aw, damn, and here I was, ready to hear the pitter-patter of 'em little feet," Kyle's warm lips somehow find their way to kiss your temple, eliciting another shy giggle.

A pillow crashes onto both of you with the force of a small bombshell.

"THAY DINNAE HAE FEET, GARRICK, THAY'RE WORMS!"

Price and Gaz fall into their usual ways seamlessly, responsibilities and tasks split between the two seemingly without even any verbal communication. Clearing out the space around you with the same quick efficiency they clear out enemies with, they prop you up on some pillows, assess your condition in case they got carried away and hurt you, and finally settle on both sides of you, warm hands on your knees squeezing softly.

"Are ya gonna talk to us now, lovie? Or will we have to use interrogation tactics to learn what made our love so upset?" John's voice bears no trace of threat, but it still makes you cower and try to take up even less space that your curled up body already has, which earns you a sigh from the Captain. "I see. Take over from here, Sergeant. I expect results once I return."

The matress sighs with relief a Price's weight leaves it, bare feet padding a few steps before he reaches his slippers and leaves the room. The pit that the sound of your bedroom's door closing opens in your chest is crushing your ribcage with the iron fist of vacum. You can't blame John for not willing to deal with your bullshit, but the hearbreak only reenforces the choking smog in your head that's rasping in a hundred different voices that the only thing you deserve is pure repulsion.

Kyle's soft thumb pads wipe the tears teetering on the arrows of your lashes, and in a smooth movement you find your face cupped and pulled close to his shoulder. His smooth skin sticks to your wet cheek and you find yourself crying like a little kid, the unbearable pain of the revolting dark knots inside somehow replaced with surprisingly more bearable grief over what you consider an ending reltionship. Perhaps John leaving our bed finally shattered your heart, letting the ungodly pressure out and allowing it to beat - and bleed - again.

"We'd really like if ya talked to us, angel. Don't think Captain can stand there bare-ass naked much longer, might catch rheumatism at this point, he's not getting younger, you know..."

"I hope you know I can hear you perfecrly clear, Garrick." You stop mid-sniffle, eyes snapping to the closed door. You can finally see the shadow of a man standing just outside, and the air slowly feels with some flavour you can't distinguish through all the snot yet, but seem to like a lot...

"Good, so your hearing's still intact, sir. You're in good shape," Kyle's cheeky remark must've broken John's famous patience and restraint, because the bedroom door finally opens, and you see him there. With a tray with a whole bunch of tea mugs and little plates of treats balanced in his hands.

"Still not talking? Well, we'll try another method then, lovie. Sandwich for your thoughts, eh?"

His cheeks are round with a kind smile, confusing your tortured mind even further - Kyle uses your stupor to fetch John's big, slightly scratchy bathrobe, successfully wrapping you into a cocoon of grounding stimulation all over your feverish skin. With a huff and a grumble about staying butt-naked a bit longer, John puts a pleasantly warm mug into your hands and looks at you, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits now that he got rid of the tray.

Expecting an answer.

"'M sorry..." seems appropriate right up to the moment when a little finger-sandwich gets shoved into your mouth. The bread is soft, nice, salty ham and crunchy cucumber filling your senses and cracking a bit fat line of light right in the middle of the dense cloud in your thoughts.

"Try again, love," Kyle gives a hint and wipes a crumb off your lips, licking it off his thumb. "We don't need an apology, we just want to know what's troubling ya. John, tell 'em."

"Already did," grumbles Price in response and clears his throat, sitting back down on the creaking bed. "Food's working though. Eat up, darling, get your energy. Then we'll talk properly, a'right?"

You chew slowly, still stiff in your own body, but regaining control gradually. Yes. Then you'll talk.

Ghost and Price exchange a single glance over your from, choking on the self-destructive rage, and John shakes his head so slightly that one can barely notice, but it's clear enough to stop Simon from tumbling down the traumatic spiral staircase of his own. Grounded by his Captain's presence, he shrugs his broad shoulders, shaking off the creeping up feeling of his own monsterous nature, and rolls onto his back, pulling you out of the miserable wet ball of wrinkled sheets and onto his firm lap, sideways, his big palms resting comfortably around your hips; he's not squeezing or digging his fingers into the fat like he usually does, but it's a secure hug you can't really escape.

Exposed held too far away from his chest you could hide on, you shrink, rising your shoulders protectively and trying to cover up your soft belly, spilling over your pelvis in a shapless manner - that's when John's arms come from behind, catching yours and instead of pulling away forcefully, simply repeating your own safety cocoon, hiding your body from your distorted sight and keeping you warm.

"You're not thinking straight right now, darling," every phrase he murmurs gently, calmly, convincingly into your ear is accompanied by a little kiss, beard tickling and burning your already irritated by tears skin. "So good for us, so kind. Can you spare some of that kindness for yourself?"

Even though it doesn't sound like a rhethorical question, Simon cups your cheek and shushes you tenderly, pressing his thumb to your lips, allowing John to continue with his little speech aimed to dispel the storm coagulated in your chest.

"'Cos if not, it's a'right, love. We know it's hard, and ya're doing good already. Ya 'ave us, eh? To love ya, to cherish ya. No need to overthink, jus' let us hold you, a'right?"

He finally pushes you onto Simon's chest, his big heart stuttering with worry as you seek shelter among his many scars that paint a horrifying picture once you put all the fragments together.

"How'd you do that, sir?" Simon's voice sounds vulnerable - so much that it strikes through all the layers of your egocentric self-hatred and shifts you almost immeditely into a completely different mindset; one where you throw your whole self into loving your scarred and battle-worn men in such abundance that it's ought to compensate for all the unfairness they've gone through.

There's no need for it now, you realize a little too late: Price is there, keeping Simon away from the darkness. They're fine. Better than ever. It's a distraction, a trick, a play to make your bleeding heart stop the internal self-destruction and turn to healing.

A sly little switch you're not sure they were planning to flip, but it worked.

"Hm?" As if emerging from the depths of his thoughts in response to Simon's question, John caresses your cheek as gently as his rough thumb can and then smiles, maybe catching onto the change in your mood or simply remembering all the times he pulled Ghost out of the same gloom and darkness. "Jus' taking care of me own, Simon. Tha's what a Captain does, no? Now, love, how about a shower? I reckon we can squeeze in all together and papmer you really good, what do ya say, eh?"

Ghost and Gaz manage to keep their cool. Kyle's confident and gentle presence serves to reassure any doubts Simon has about hurting you, he shoots a single glance at his sergeant and recieves support immediately. Two pair of hands cradle you with all the tenderness two soldiers are capable of, which is always enough to drown you in fully. It's a tight hug, a hot mess of limbs, too much skin on skin contact that makes your brain flare with undirected rage, but as seconds trickle by and you're still trapped between two firm bodies, you have no choice but to slip into the exhaustion phase of your outburst.

It's not pleasant, nor could you say you feel calm; if anything, you just petrify, a permanent frown on your face and blindly staring forward glass eyes. You're tired, you'd still rather be anywhere but inside your own body that still feels like a useless deformed bag that should be gutted and emptied to lighten up, inner layer of your skin scrubbed with a knife to peel off the suffocating thickness of fat trapping this heated rage inside...

Instead, you get a kiss.

It's Kyle, soft, full lips touching your wet with tears cheekbone, then again - your temple, your cheek, the overheated spot behind your ear. They're light, soft kisses, too gentle to be playful or arousing. Calming. They do not demand anything in return - he allows you to stay in your inner world where you feel secure, even pauses to kiss Simon the same way right in front of your eyes. A silent demonstrationg of the love and reverence these pecks carry, Simon's hooded eyes fluttering shut as if his own compartmentalized demons get exorcised by Garrick's touch.

"Wanna talk about it, angel?" Kyle's voice rumbles at a nice, grounding, smooth timbre, and your still-too-slow mind struggles to grasp how is it possible that he's talking and you're still getting kisses - until you recognize the uneven texture of Simon's scarred lips, trailing along your skin tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, love. But we would love to know what's going through your head right now."

It feels strange to say it out lound when you're held and caressed like this, but their kisses and solid embrace cleared your windpipe enough of the mental gunk for you to be able to speak.

"I hate myself... 'M disgusting, and-" A displeased grumbling kiss from Simon interrupts you, and even Kyle pushes his huge shoulder to reprimand his own Lieutenant for the interference. Kisses his temple immediately to make amends, though, and turns back to you, prompting you to continue.

"Wot? Don't like when someone talks shit 'bout mine," grumbles Simon like a dog that got flicked on the nose for growling at welcome guests.

"Let 'em talk, mate, it's good to get things off your chest." At least their little bickering coaxes a tiniest hint of smile out of you, and Simon, noticing it immediately, stares back at Kyle with such pride, as if he just did something great.

The thing is, in the way his arms squeeze you a tad bit tighter, pressing into his firm body, you can read that for him - your smile is the greatest achievement.

"Don't tell me you prefer his silent treatement, angel, I'm trying to be the attentive boyfriend here, and for what?" Your smile grows a little braver. A little brighter. You would've kept talking if you could remember what it was that hurt so fucking much in your chest.

"Shower. Then a cuppa. Then we have the talk." No one dares to argue with the Ghost and his gruff commands. You feel the sheet sticking to your skin as he lifts you up, Kyle already sneaking off to prepare towels and clean clothes for you three. He'll stay with you and help you wash the remaints of the mind attack off. Simon will make fresh tea.

You're going to be alright.

Price and Soap take quite an intense approach the second they notice your distress. You feel Johnny's weight disappear from you after the first strangled sob that escapes you, and if you could open your eyes glued shut by the hot, messy tears, you would see John practically dragging the poor Sergeant away by his scruff. It's easy to suspect that Johnny couldn't contain himself and went too hard, too rough on you - with no malice, but pure passion that's spilling from his big, hot heart every time he gets to be close to you.

But it's not Johnny's fault, neither is it John's. It's all you, a useless, pathetic thing, good for nothing and holding two gorgeous men to yourself like a greedy glutton hoarding delicious food.

"Ah'm sorry, bonnie- ow, Ah got it, Ah got it, Ah'm not touchin'!"

"Did we hurt ya, love? Was Johnny boy too rough wit' ya? Wha's wrong?"

You feel big warm hands gliding over your skin, quick assessment of your state in search of potential harm caused. This immediate care only makes you feel worse, every cold sweaty patch of your disgusting hide shivering and twitching under Captain's careful touch. You struggle against your own spiraling anger, fight it with what's left of your exhausted resilience - and lose, curling up with another burst of tears, shoving the loving hands away and dusting the lingering warmth off your body.

After all, you do not deserve to be treated with such kindness after the fit you just threw.

"No, no, no, it's not his fault, it's not Johnny's... it's me, it's my fault, it's all my fault, I ruin everything, I'm- I'm disgusting!"

The silence that follows you blowing up on them is heavy. Just as bad as the knot in your chest.

"Johnny."

When you open your eyes to find a way out, run away, scatter and hide in the furthest corner of the apartment until everyone who tried caring for you leaves again, you're met with Johnny's bright blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

It's a shocking sight, pushing you out of the muffled misery into an alerted worry - his face is red with unexplainable pained anger, fists clenched as John holds him tightly by hunched shouders, seemingly trying to prevent a violent outburst.

"Ah wanntae ken names of th' bastarts who made ye feelin' tis wa'. Ah swear Ah will mak' thaim fuckin' choke oan thair ain tongues, Ah'll rip thair spines oot 'n' shove thaim up thair-" - "Enough, Johnny. Stand down. This won't solve anythin'. Ya calm down and help our lovie feel better, a'right?"

Still a bit shells-hocked, you stir on the bedsheets and push yourself up to sit upright, stretching your arms hesitantly to the men in a weak attempt to remedy whatever shitstorm you caused in their minds.

"Don't get mad, please," you whisper sheepishly, and the shy sound of your still choked voice seems to wash Johnny's explosive anger away better than the firm grip of his handler's (Price's) hands. With a look of a beaten dog, Johnny huffs loudly, cuddlng up to you and hiding his face in your lap. His heavy jaw sinks in the plush of your thighs, accomodated nicely with the softness of your body.

"'M nae mad at ye, leannan. Jus' dinnae say tha' again, a'right, bonnie? If ye need me tae prove ye-"

"No..." your hand finds it place in his damp mohawk and brushes through, while you glance at John. His eyes are shimmering with love and love only as he looks at you and Johnny, and you feel a wave of shyness - the good, giddy, warm kind - replacing the paralyzing shame. "I'm fine already. With you."

"Maybe we should 'ave a little chat 'bout it, love," John's hand meets yours on the sad mutt's head in your lap, intertwinig fingers with you through Johnny's soft hair. "When ya feel better. Jus' so we know what we're dealing with, eh?"

"Yeah. A bit later. Thank you."

All four of your men get frozen witnessing your reaction, struck with a horrifying sense of helplessness - it feels like the biggest failure among many unsuccessful missions, operations where lives were lost and enemies missed, to have you curling up and crying in misery between all the love they've been pouring onto you just mere seconds ago. As if everything they touch is bound to go up in flames, drown in blood and rot, be it on the outside or from the inside.

They're lost, and as always, they turn to the Captain, giving themselves up for him to direct, trusting that he knows better what use they can be of.

And, frankly, he does.

They're barely talking, but the commotion around you is decipherable even through the red mind fog and closed eyes - it honestly only makes you feel worse, unsafe, exposed, despite that simply being Soap, sent off to fill a bath ("Ye want it hot or a tad bit cool, bonnie?" - Silence. Your nails dig into your scalp, the soud of someone simply breathing, even more so talking to you, sending you into a new fit of rage. "Make it warm, Johnny, we'll adjust later."), and Simon, leaving for tea duty - silently, your favourite way to have it attentively observed in the first two weeks you've been together and memorized ever since.

It's Kyle whose voice, murmuring into your ear sweet, reassuring nothings as he keeps you caged in a tight embrace, your back pressed against his warm chest, forces you out of the highly irritable state. You have no choice between his short, chaste kisses on the crown of your overloaded head, and John's calloused hands massaging your calves, soft flesh dipping under the firm pressure.

"Ya jus' focus on fighting tha' storm off, a'right, darling? We'll take care of th' rest. It happens, we know it does, 's not your fault. Jus' a funny lil' thing your mind does, eh? Yeah, love, we know wha' it's like when your mind does funny things. Don't we, Kyle?"

"That we do." Maybe it's just your own depressive state rubbing off on them or distorting your perception, but Kyle's voice sounds almost solemn. You would turn to look into the smoky quartz of his eyes, but either he holds you too tight, or you have barely any strength left in your upset body - you simply can't.

Maybe it's alright. Maybe tonight they don't need you ripping your heart out to tend to their restless minds, and you can just allow them to take care of you.

Allow Kyle to carry you to the bathroom.

Allow John to stay there and help you wash yourself with a nice, scrubby loofah.

Allow Johnny to bring in his huge, baggy loungewear that doesn't hug your curves too snugly and allows you to simply forget what you were so angry about for a while.

Allow Simon to serve you perfect temperature tea in your favourite mug and keep you quiet company on the balcony, night air cooling your wet and clean now skin and hair further and blowing all thoughts out of your troubled head away.

As you share a cigarette with rich clove aftertaste, breathing ironically becomes easier. Behind your back the bedsheets are being changed, proper meal is being cooked, a good movie you won't be upset falling asleep to is being chosen.

"Simon." - "Hm." - "You sure you're okay with me being like that?" - "Standin' in the wind with your hair wet, tryin' to catch a cold?"

You grunt, not appreciating him taking the piss while you're tryig to be vulnerable, but allow him to pull the hood of Johnny's hoodie onto your head.

"No. I mean, fucked up in the head?"

You don't actually know what answer you expect. With an unreadable expression, Simon turns his head, looking through the glass door at the men crowded in the living room and waiting for you, and then stares back at you with a smirk, a permanent scowl carved into it by someone's cruel hand.

"Nah. Tha's how I like 'em."

He throws the cigarette butt away and chuckles, cupping the back of your head and pulling you inside, into the warmth of home.

"Oi, bonnie! C'mere, As saved ye a spot." There is no spot as you look at the two-story cuddle pile on the sofa and the blanket nest in front of it, unless of course... ah, yes, Johnny's patting his lap. "Ah promise Ah'll behave. Mostly."

And as his warmth envelops you through a big hug, his hands clenched humbly on your belly and behaving indeed, you feel stupidly happy.

Because you're enjoying touch again.