#soap x you

[machveil]

thinking about John MacTavish not understanding why you find him so attractive when he’s wearing multiple layers when you first start dating. like, what do you mean? none of his muscles are out on display for you! his tattoo? what about his tattoo! don’t you go nuts for his legs when wears shorts? why do you always paw him when he’s wearing a t-shirt and a thick hoodie? he can understand your fondness for him in sweatpants, but, like, all the layers?

and then it clicks for him when he sees you snotty and sick. miserably sweating, but freezing cold. bundled up with one of his thick ass hoodies, swimming in its soft fabric, a thick blanket around your shoulders. fuzzy socks and baggy sweatpants, trying your best to keep warm. he’s cooing ‘poor you’s while trying to slip his hands under his your hoodie, ignoring you when you say he’ll get sick right before kissing you. you’re all hot and cozy, and don’t worry! he doesn’t mind the sweat - if anything, it gives him a reason to corral you into the shower. of course he can’t let you shower alone, what if you get dizzy? he should really be in there with you for safety

[beloveds-embrace]

Noonaaa can I possibly request more angst Dukedome without kiong pretty please? 🙏🏽

You kept this pretty vague for me lovely so i went a little crazy on it 🫶🏻

Dukedom au masterlist

Dukedom angst, no könig

It began during one of the smaller gatherings in the duchy- a midday luncheon in the grand dining hall. Though informal, it was still attended by the many members of the household, key ones, and that obviously included: John, Kyle, Johnny, and several senior servants and as always, a special invitation extended to Simon.

You rarely attended such gatherings anymore, but John’s clipped instructions had left you with no choice and you didn’t want to make him upset at you. So you dressed simply, more out of habit than care, and sat at the far end of the table, an unwanted ghost in the company of the living.

Conversation flowed around you, lively and warm as always, and as always, you were left out. The words blurred together into white noise while you toyed with the edge of your napkin, staring at the untouched plate before you. The cooks had oh-so-kindly prepared yours in advance, and so you knew it was cold and bland even without tasting it.

Then it happened.

A maid- young, recently hired, and eager to impress- stepped forward with a fresh carafe of wine. As she refilled glasses, her gaze darted to you, a spark of something sharp in her eyes. Her lips twisted into a smile that wasn’t kind, and you prepared yourself in advance.

It still wasn’t enough.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, syrupy sweet. “I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t touched your meal. Is it not to your liking?”

The table stilled. All eyes turned to you, and you froze under the weight of their scrutiny. You managed a small, polite shake of your head, your voice barely above a whisper. So softly said, you doubted you’d disturb dandelion puffs even if you tried. “It’s fine.”

But she didn’t stop.

“Perhaps you’re saving your appetite?” she continued, the tone of her voice sharpening. “Though, I suppose it’s not surprising you wouldn’t eat much. After all, you’ve grown so thin… like a shadow. It’s almost hard to tell you’re here at all.”

Her words rang through the room, cutting sharper than any blade. A ripple of unease passed over the table, but no one spoke. Not yet.

“Be quiet.” Kyle muttered, his tone warning and cutting her a sharp glance, but the maid wasn’t finished.

“Apologies, sir,” she said, bowing her head slightly, though the venom in her voice remained dripping off each letter like fresh ink. “It’s just… Her Grace is so very quiet these days. One can’t help but wonder if she’s even meant to be here at all. Perhaps she’d be more comfortable elsewhere? Somewhere she’s actually wanted and needed.”

The last sentence struck like a thunderclap.

Months of this. Months of this. Hours, days, weeks, months spent under this cruel treatment and thinly-veiled resentment.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You rose abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor in a sound so loud it scared even yourself. You could see the maid flinch back, not having expected this. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Your chest heaved as you struggled to contain the emotion clawing its way up your throat, but it was no use.

Your composure shattered.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as your breath came in gasping, broken sobs that clawed their way out of your aching chest. For a moment, you looked around the table, searching- desperately- for something. A kind word, a gesture of comfort, anything.

But there was nothing.

You turned and fled the room, the sound of your sobs echoing behind you. No more- you couldn’t stand being there anymore. You didn’t care. Couldn’t. What did it matter anymore?

The maid’s cruel words hung heavy in the grand dining hall, a dark echo that left no one untouched. Her sharp tone and pointed barbs had started with smug confidence, but as you had risen and fled, your tears visible to everyone, the air turned cold and she faltered, falling silent.

The silence you left behind was deafening.

No one moved at first. Every pair of eyes shifted between the maid, whose face had paled as the reality of her actions set in, and the now-empty seat at the far end of the table. Even the usually indifferent servants, who kept away from interacting with you in general, shifted uncomfortably, their gazes dropping to the floor and shame curling in their veins.

It was one thing to quietly resent the Duchess, to mock you among themselves. But this… this was something else. The cruelty had been too deliberate, too naked. And it had broken you, right in front of them all. What could anyone even say?

John had never felt colder in his life. The weight of the maid’s words hit him like a physical blow, but it was your tears- the way you’d crumbled before them all- that haunted him. He sat frozen in his chair, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

When he finally moved, it was with an urgency that surprised even him. He strode toward your chambers, ignoring everyone and everything, his mind racing with half-formed apologies, excuses, something to make you understand that he hadn’t meant for things to come to this. He hadn’t liked you, but that- it was too much. Too far. A line that shouldn’t have been crossed. He had never seen you cry- not openly, not like that- and that image of your broken form looking around for anyone to support you will haunt him.

But when he reached your door, it was already locked and your sobs muffled. He knocked softly at first, then louder, calling your name.

There was no response.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Please, just… let me in. I need to talk to you, please.”

Still, nothing.

He pressed his forehead against the door, guilt clawing at his chest. Stupid, stupid- he should have stopped the maid from the damn start.

In the grand dining hall, Kyle and the head maid dismissed the maid immediately, his voice sharp and cold in a way that made her turn even paler and understand how severe her mistake was. But the satisfaction of snapping at her did nothing to ease the twisting guilt in his stomach. He had allowed this to happen. No, worse- he’d encouraged it.

He wasn’t the only one: the head maid, an older woman, simply stood there, biting her chapped lips as she stared at the door you’d fled through and then Duke Price went to. She didn’t have the time to say anything before Kyle was following, as well.

When he reached your door, John was already there. Kyle stopped a few paces away, unsure if he had the right to intrude, but the memory of your tears spurred him forward.

“Your Grace,” he said softly, his voice more gentle than you’d ever heard it. “I… I’m sorry. For everything. Please, let us talk.”

Silence.

Kyle exhaled slowly, stepping back, his shoulders heavy with shame. He could tell John had received the same answer, as well. Closing his eyes, he made his way back to the other butlers; ordering them to their posts with a sharpness he hadn’t displayed in months. “We’re done with this,” he barked. “No more of this disrespect. Do I make myself clear?”

He also ordered the maids to care for you as they should have all along, making it clear that any further mistreatment would not be tolerated.

But his authority rang hollow in his own ears. He knew it wasn’t enough- not for you.

Though they weren’t the only ones buried in guilt;

Simon had been the first to stiffen when the maid spoke, his eyes narrowing as her words grew sharper. He wanted to interrupt, to stop her, but by the time he opened his mouth, it was too late.

Now, hours after that mess, he stood outside your door with a small tray in hand. On it was a book, the newly released next part to one he knew you liked to read by your lonesome, and a steaming cup of tea. Between the pages, he’d slipped a note that simply read:

You deserved better. I’m sorry.

He hesitated for a long, dragging moment before setting the tray down gently by the door. He didn’t knock.

“I’m sorry.” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

In the kitchens, Johnny’s chest burned with shame. He’d always thought himself kinder than this, better than this, but the truth of his inaction was undeniable. He hadn’t stopped the maid. He hadn’t said a single, blessed word. His mother would’ve disowned him if she knew how far he’d gone, how little and much he’d done.

Now, he hovered by your door, a freshly baked loaf of bread and a warm stew in his hands. He shifted his weight awkwardly, his throat tight as he tried to think of what to say. You… didn’t even get to eat.

“Lass- Your Grace?” he began, his voice faltering. “I, uh… I brought ye something. Ye dinnae have to open the door. Just… just eat, aye?”

He set the food down carefully, lingering for a moment before stepping away.

Inside your room, you sat on the floor with your back pressed against the door. The sound of their voices reached you- pleas, apologies, hesitant words- but you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

You hugged your knees to your chest, tears streaming down your face as their voices faded into silence. The weight of everything pressed down on you, suffocating and unrelenting.

You wished they did not see you now.

(Come morning, the head maid would leave a fresh tray of tea and an apology letter outside your door. The scullery maids ensure your office is spotlessly clean and leave fresh flowers from the garden on your desk. The cooks, spearheaded by Johnny, prepare your favorite dishes and leave them outside your room, warm and carefully covered.

The door to your room remains closed.)

[codnasties]

https://x.com/pervy/status/1856736794663923939

soap and his catholic guilt

soap saving himself up for marriage 🧼 (🌽 link)

growing in a christian household, attending mass every sunday, having those values fully engraved into his mind since he was a young child. it's literally been instilled into him to save himself up for marriage.

and he tries, he really tries. but with a temptation like you walking around, parading your body without a care, tempting him - even if it's unintentional -, that one may be hard. and so is he every time he gets to see you partially naked.

it gets to a point in which he can no longer hold back, he needs to have you one way or another, so he workd his way around it. if he doesn't fully fuck you, he won't be going against what's expected of him and what he has been taught.

so he uses your pussy in a non traditional way. making you keep your panties on as he pushes against your weeping hole, actually trying to fuck you but being kept from entering you by that piece of fabric - he asked you to keep them on because he when that without that barrier he would already be balls deep inside of you.- the little stimulation from all that humping making him soil yout knickers and the apex of your legs with his cum.

you better believe that the next day this man is dropping on one knee asking you to marry him and finally allowing him to get a proper taste of that pussy

[nemo-writes]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖿 141 𝗁𝗎𝖻𝖻y 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖽(𝗌) 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌 ; 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 ── .✦

masterlist

── .✦ 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 ; "𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋."

you’re in the kitchen, halfway through wiping down the counter, when the unmistakable ding-dong of the doorbell chimes through the house. not even a second later, there’s a series of sharp, almost aggressive knocks—thud thud thud—the kind that screams authority.

you don’t flinch. you know who it is.

from the living room, your son—a chubby little thing with a wobble to his steps and a belly that strains his tiny shirt. “dada! paw-paw!” he squeals with glee as he toddles to the front door like it’s the gateway to the best surprise ever.

you glance out into the hallway and, sure enough, there’s your husband looming behind the glass pane. he’s in his trademark mask, black and imposing, arms crossed as if he’s inspecting a breach. for someone knocking on a suburban door, he’s got the presence of a man leading an op.

your son, thrilled to pieces, presses his hands and face against the door, smudging the glass. “dada!”

on the other side, simon tilts his head slightly and points at the handle with a slow jab of his gloved finger.

“oi,” his mancunian drawl rumbles through the door. “open the door proper. c’mon, you know how.” he points again, voice firm but somehow patient. “handle. go on, then.”

your son grabs the door handle with all the determination of a kid on a mission. his little tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he pulls it down, and the door finally creaks open just a smidge.

and then your husband moves.

before your son can blink, simon reaches through the crack, grabs the front of the boy’s shirt—not roughly, just enough to yank—and hauls him up like he’s a piece of luggage.

“gotcha,” simon announces, his voice low but laced with just a hint of smug satisfaction. your son’s giggle erupts like a firework as he dangles in mid-air, limbs flailing with giddy excitement.

“you’re laughin’, mate?” simon asks, deadpan under the mask, holding your son just in front of his chest. “that’s not funny, you daft little thing. stranger knocks on your door, and you’re lettin’ ‘em in? what’re you thinkin’?” he gives him a little shake—not enough to scare him, just to punctuate his point—and your son’s delighted squeal fills the air.

you’re doubled over in laughter at this point, tears pricking your eyes as you lean against the wall for support. “simon, he’s two. you grabbed him like a rogue operative!”

your husband turns slightly, his masked face angled toward you. “yeah? he’ll remember next time, won’t he?” he looks back at the boy, who’s now practically vibrating with joy. “you lettin’ strangers in your house, lad? that how it works?”

“dada!” your son cries again, trying to clap his hands together despite still being held mid-air.

simon grumbles as he sets the boy down on the welcome mat with a soft thud, kneeling so they’re eye-level. “right. lesson one: don’t open the bloody door unless your mum says so. you got that?” he points a gloved finger at the boy’s chubby belly for emphasis.

your son responds by grabbing simon’s finger with both hands, his whole face lit up in pure joy. “paw-paw!”

simon freezes for half a second, caught off guard by the name before muttering under his breath, “...i’m not your paw-paw, you little menace. i'm a stranger, a bad man."

you snort so hard you nearly choke. “oh, come on, love. he’s trying his best!”

“trying? he’s a menace,” simon shoots back, though there’s no mistaking the affection under the gruff tone. he stands up, brushing his hands off like he’s just completed an important mission. “fine. lesson’s over. next time, i’m bringin’ a lock and some bricks for this door.”

“dada!” your son calls out yet again, his little voice bright and sweet, as he waves a tiny hand at him.

with a sigh so deep it seems to come from his soul, he stops just in front of you, head tilted down at the boy, eyes crinkling slightly under the mask as he studies the wiggling child. without a word, he raises a hand and hooks his fingers under the edge of his mask.

slowly, he tugs it off and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket, revealing that sharp jawline, the stubble along his chin, and—most of all—those softer eyes that never quite match the ghost everyone else knows.

“come here, then,” simon says, his accent soft, as he steps closer and reaches for his son. his large, gloved hands are careful as he takes the boy from your arms and settles him against his chest.

your son immediately tangled his pudgy fingers into simon’s hair and patted his face like he’s inspecting it.

he huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into something resembling a smile. simon lets the boy tug on him a little more, his patience seemingly endless as he cradles him securely in his arms.

you can’t help but grin as you watch the two of them—simon, all six-foot-something of intimidating soldier, holding this chubby little bundle like he’s something precious. “so much for teaching him a lesson, huh?”

your son then leans forward to smush his face against simon’s stubbly cheek, a sloppy kiss of sorts that makes him snort softly.

“oi,” simon mutters, his tone gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “you’re lucky you’re cute, lad.” he pauses, pressing his forehead softly to the boy’s. “don’t you forget—doors stay closed ‘til your me or mum says otherwise, yeah?”

your son beams at him, blissfully unaware of any “life lesson,” already prepared for the next round of ghost-approved fun.

── .✦ 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 ; "𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾."

you were just inside for a few minutes—just long enough to grab some snacks and a drink, trusting your husband to keep an eye on the boys. the backyard had been peaceful when you left, the twins chasing each other around while johnny sprawled out on a nearby chair, keeping a lazy but watchful eye on them.

then it happened.

the unmistakable boom of a small explosion rattled the windows, sending your heart straight into your throat. snacks forgotten, you practically flew toward the back door, skidding to a stop as you threw it open.

the sight that greeted you? absolute chaos.

johnny stood in the middle of the yard, holding both boys—one squirming under each arm—while a tiny, controlled fire smoldered on the grass nearby. bits of scorched dirt and debris dotted the area, evidence of a hasty but clearly deliberate detonation.

“right, lads!” johnny declared, his voice carrying that unmistakable scottish lilt as he adjusted the wriggling toddlers in his grip. “see that? that’s what happens when ye mess wi’ fire!” he pointed with exaggerated emphasis toward the remains of the explosion, his tone somewhere between a warning and a showman’s enthusiasm.

your sons, however, didn’t seem to be taking the lesson in stride.

instead of being appropriately terrified—or even mildly concerned—they were cackling.

the twin on johnny’s left wiggled furiously, laughing like this was the best game in the world. “boom!” he shouted gleefully, pointing toward the fire with chubby fingers.

the other one wasn’t any better. “fire!” he yelled, his high-pitched giggle ringing out as he made a valiant attempt to lunge from his father's grip toward the smoldering patch of earth.

“whoa now, none o’ that!” johnny barked, hauling the second twin back before he could escape. “what did I just say, eh? fire’s no’ for wee bairns like you!”

but his lecture fell on deaf ears. the twins, emboldened by their father’s antics and utterly thrilled by the explosion, began squirming even harder, each of them trying to wriggle free. johnny was quick, though, catching them every time they came close to slipping his grasp.

you finally found your voice, leaning against the doorframe for support as you tried to process what the hell was going on. “john mactavish! what in the world are you doing?!”

he turned to you with a sheepish grin, still clutching your wild, laughing children. “teachin’ ‘em a lesson, love!” he called, gesturing toward the charred ground with his chin. “see? controlled detonation—perfectly safe.”

“safe?” you threw your hands up, incredulous. “you just set off an explosion with toddlers watching!”

“aye, and now they know!” he argued, as if that was a perfectly logical explanation. he hoisted one of the twins higher on his hip as the boy reached for the fire again. “oi! no. look but don’t touch. lesson one o’ demolition—respect the flames, or they’ll bite ye!”

the twin let out a shriek of laughter, kicking his legs. “boom, boom!”

the other one giggled in agreement, trying again to squirm free. “again, daddy!”

“again?” you gaped at him. “johnny, they’re trying to run toward it! this isn’t a lesson—it’s a game to them!”

johnny groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back for a second before leveling a serious (well, semi-serious) look at the boys. “right, that’s it. we’re tryin’ again.” he crouched down, planting the squirming twins on the grass but keeping a firm grip on the back of their shirts.

“now listen here, you two,” he began, his voice low and serious as if speaking to a couple of recruits. “fire’s no’ somethin’ to mess about with, aye? you get too close, and poof! you’re singed. nobody wants to be singed, do they?”

both boys, completely ignoring the gravity of the situation, burst into another fit of giggles.

“no, daddy!” one of them squealed, pulling at his shirt to try and escape.

johnny growled playfully, dragging him back by his collar. “oh no ye don’t, lad. not toward the flames. away. away, i said!”

the other twin took advantage of the distraction to make his own break for it, toddling determinedly toward the still-smoldering patch of grass. johnny however was faster, swiftly catching him with one arm and hauling him up like a sack of potatoes. “caught ye, ya wee rascal! you think I wouldn’t notice?”

you couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the scene. “johnny, they’re laughing at you!”

he looked up at you with an exaggeratedly exasperated expression, one arm full of giggling toddler while the other twin dangled in his grip. “aye, well, they’ll stop laughin’ when they learn i’m bloody right!”

you crossed your arms, still grinning. “oh sure. by the time they’re teenagers, they’ll be building their own bombs.”

johnny flashed you a cheeky grin, one that was entirely too proud of itself. “and they’ll be damn good at it, too!”

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you couldn’t stop the warmth spreading in your chest as you watched him wrestle with your boys. it wasn’t the lesson you would’ve chosen, but there was no denying the way their laughter lit up the yard—and how johnny seemed to soak up every second of it, chaos and all.

divider credit

[j0hnpr1c3sm1ssus]

FICMAS - DAY 4 - CHRISTMAS WITH HIS FAMILY

Title: Scottish Christmas

Synopsis: Going to Johnny's Mother's house for Christmas.

Warnings: I need to say this before ANYONE, especially someone who IS Scottish reads this. I AM NOT SCOTTISH. I DO NOT CLAIM TO BE SCOTTISH. I researched off of a glossary of slang derived from Scots English and Scots (Scots, Scots English, Scottish Gaelic, and English are ALL spoken in Scotland) and there is no clear location that Johnny is from within Scotland, so I kept it very general, and used slang to make up for my lack of knowledge. If ANY OF IT IS INCORRECT AND YOU NOTICE, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DM ORSEND AN ASK CORRECTING IT, I don't like being wrong and I don't want to offend anyone. Happy reading and Merry Christmas

AN: I tried to write this best as possible, I'm so sorry but it might be inaccurate to some degree, I'm merely an American (not to mention currently in busy because of the season) who's trying their damnedest to make this seem really accurate, yeah?

You're in a sweater--red--and jeans, your coat hanging over it all and black. Johnny is beside you, still struggling with his mittens a little, fidgeting because after all, this is the first time you're staying for more than a dinner with his *parents.* Your suitcase is behind you--obviously with the matching pajamas Johnny forced you into for Christmas photos because "His mam will simply die if she doesn't have a good photo!" Along with other effects, the things you'll need for the next bloody week.

Johnny fixes his mits entirely and grabs your gloved hand, reaching up and knocking on the door. He makes sure the cross his mother bought him for his 18th birthday is visible. He adjusts his cross, then his sweater.

Johnny's mom opens the door, pleasantly surprised to see you both.

"Ah! You're here!" She says with the largest grin, ushering your both inside.

"Johnny, lovie, go set your gifts by the tree, yeah?"

"'Ey, Mam, missed ya, too," he remarks with a devilish smirk, causing her to glare.

"You're lucky your thlittle burd is 'ere, keepin' me from yellin'. Love ya, too, John."

He shudders from his real name being used and walks off, trudging about in his snow boots all through the house. It makes his poor mother, Mrs. MacTavish, clutch her little necklace and scoff.

"D'ya see 'im? 'E's draggin' snow 'round the feckin' hoose," She says, absolutely offended by his actions.

You shrug, "He's like that at our home, too," you admit, taking your coat off.

Mrs. MacTavish scoffs, shaking her head in disdain, "Ye poor thin', 'ere, I'll take yer coa' an' ye go sit yers'lf doon."

She practically snatches your coat from you, pointing to where to take your shoes off.

You make it about.. three steps from the living room entrance and then you're positively bombarded by Johnny's three nieces and nephews- or, at least, the ones currently walking--Amelia, Noah, and Fraser. Johnny's sister shouts for them in Scottish Gaelic, sighing as those kiddos just don't listen.

You laugh as you're tackled to the ground, each one shouting "aun'ie," or "Aunt!" or your name horribly butchered by those cute little toddlery, Scottish voices.

You hug them all, slowly getting back up from the ground, to go say hi to his sister.

"Hey, Eden. How are you?" You ask, giving a nice, polite grin to her.

She smiles fondly, "'Ello- Haw! Simmer doon, 'Melia, aff yer brot'er!" She cuts herself off, glaring daggers to Amelia, who's currently tugging the hair of her brother, Noah.

She looks back up at you, "'M dooin' brand new," she says with a sarcastic glint in her eyes, before her newest baby who's she's currently bouncing in her arms starts to fuss.

She coos to him, before sighing and kissing his forehead, singing him some nursery rhyme to try to calm him.

That's when you feel two arms snake around your waist and pick you up, causing you to yelp.

"Johnny!" You shout out in a panic, squirming as he laughs and laughs. Eden's baby turns his little head and looks up all wide eyed, starting to laugh and laugh.

Eden seems to relax, sighing in relief while you're being brutally attacked loved on by Johnny.

You finally turn around to face him with that unamused expression you give him and he sighs, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling your neck lovingly. You let out an annoyed huff, rolling your eyes with a small grin.

Dinner that night is lovely--a nice brisket with the promise of a big Christmas dinner tomorrow. Tonight Eden, the kids, and Mrs. MacTavish all bake a mince pie, a Scottish tradition you never really.. understood.

You sit beside Johnny, curled up to his side, his feet on the ottoman. He has an arm wrapped around you, rubbing your shoulder as he and Mr. MacTavish, along with his brother-in-law all gather around to watch whatever Rugby match played earlier in the week--the highlights of it. Your eyes shut and you snuggle up to his side a little further, wrapping an arm around him and letting yourself fall asleep.

He looks happy down at you, sipping on a (spiked) eggnog, reaching up to stroke your hair as you start to just... drift.

[beloveds-embrace]

This is perfection embodied.

🇸🇪 Day 15 – Domestic bliss

A continuation to ❄️ Day 7 – Make do, which means it's set in the same universe!

Synopsis: This year, you’re not stuck, but willingly spending Christmas in a cozy cottage in the beautiful wilderness of Sweden. 

Pairing: alpha!TF-141 x fem!omega!Reader 

Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | Omegaverse; military!Reader; a/b/o dynamics; emotional support (dog) omega; established poly!relationship; claimed mates; typical alpha/omega behaviour; knotting; breeding; fluff/aftercare  

Word count: 2.6k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

Location: Öjarn, Northern Sweden

EST. remng. time until exfil: Undisclosed

When the brass decided to transfer you to another unit after a year of serving with the 141, Captain Price didn't hesitate, made the necessary arrangements and swiftly claimed you as his omega, along with the rest of his squad. 

That was roughly two months ago. 

Now, the Captain's inner alpha preens whenever he catches a glimpse of the four mating bite marks along the junctures of your pretty neck; two on each shoulder, slightly different sizes, but all equal and serious in their claim. All binding for a lifetime, too. 

In return, each one of your mates wears your unique bite mark proudly; dainty crescent scars adorning each of their necks. You'd claimed them all as your mates eagerly, no questions asked, but “Who goes first?”. 

The Captain did.  

Then Simon.  

And Kyle. 

Johnny. 

You've become their perfect pillow princess. The sweetest most beautiful, supportive and docile omega each of them could've ever dreamed of and wished for. You help them decompress and unwind, sleep better and keep the nightmares at bay with your soothing scent and gentle purrs. 

They’re completely enamoured with you; so much so that the urge to hide you away and keep you from danger is becoming increasingly difficult to suppress. That’s why the Captain decided to bring you all here on leave, wanting to spend this Christmas in a more appropriate and comfortable way than the last. 

They rented a pretty cottage in the woods, close to a gorgeous lake where a herd of reindeer roams, far away from civilization, with a nice fireplace, plenty of supplies and provisions to last for several weeks, and enough spaces to relax, lounge and bond. To breed. 

You squeal when Johnny pins you to the fur carpet in front of the fireplace, straddling your hips while Kyle holds your wrists above your head to keep you from thrashing. The young alphas growl playfully at you, and John hides his smile as he takes a sip of his morning coffee, keeping his distance for now. 

John’s chest rumbles with a deep purr at the thought. He’s been planning on breeding you with his boys, start easing you into being knotted more frequently even before your upcoming heat.

It’s enough to make his cock chuff in his pants as he watches you fool around and playfight with his younger packmates, his dear Sergeants. They like to get a bit rough with you, enjoying the way you growl at them and giggle in delight, but they’re always gentle enough to never hurt you, knowing fully well that their Captain and Ghost would rip them a new one if you’d so much as catch a bruise on your supple skin.  

“Now what?” You ask through a giddy smile, eyes sparkling with mirth as your gaze flickers between Johnny and Kyle.  

“Now... we claim our bonnie prize. Right, Garrick?” Johnny shoots Kyle a look, the formers eyes already darkened from diamond blue to navy, his cock hot and heavy in his pants. Kyle clicks his tongue with a nod and licks his lips, just as excited as his packmate. Their heady arousal thick in the air around the spacious living room while your saccharine scent slowly mixes with theirs, creating a perfect concoction of a natural aphrodisiac. 

Your skin flushes, heartrate picking up at their possessive behaviour. A year ago, you would’ve felt flustered, embarrassed at how turned on you get by simply playfighting with them, but you’ve long learned that it’s perfectly natural. They want you needy and desperate, and bold about it. 

“Want you both,” you keen while your cunt slicks up and throbs around nothing, “Want you to use me.” 

Both young alphas groan. Kyle squeezes your wrists before he reaches for the hem of your flimsy sweater to pull it off you. Johnny snarls and grinds his big bulge against your warm core, seeking friction as he keeps the weight off his bad knee. 

“Alright! That’s enough for now, lads. Give our sweet omega a break.” John barks commandingly, sauntering over to the throuple on the floor, “Make yourselves useful and go chop some wood outside. It’s going to be cold tonight.” 

Both Kyle and Johnny leave you be reluctantly, the latter more hesitantly than the former, but as the leading alpha, the Captain’s word is law in this pack – in and outside of the field. He keeps the peace and balance, even if he must bring in Simon as his enforcer sometimes, and neither Kyle nor Johnny wants to get scuffed by the Lieutenant again. 

“Send Simon back inside when you see him, aye? I need to have a word with him.” He calls after the younger men as they scurry off to get dressed and follow their orders. 

John approaches you slowly, eyes never leaving yours as you roll over onto your stomach, lifting your legs, crossed at the ankles with your ass perched up a little, already presenting for him and luring him in. It always works. 

“Quite the tease today, aren’t you, sweetheart?” John kneels on one leg, knees popping as he goes down. He cups your chin, tilting it up to him. “How’re you feeling?” 

You blink your pretty eyes up at him with feigned innocence. “Good, sir,” you purr, flashing a warm smile when John huffs in amusement, “I feel toasty warm and safe here.” 

John nods, pleased with your answer as he rubs the pad of his thumb over your chin in contemplation. 

Your back arches against Simon’s flushed chest, damp skins sticky with sweat while he breathes down your neck, mouthing along the curve of your shoulder as he keeps you impaled on his massive cock while he sits with his broad back against the headboard of the large bed, your thighs spread wide open and draped over his strong legs, giving John a perfect view of your wonderful cunt and the way it swallows and stretches around Simon’s prick. 

Your syrupy slick is dripping around your hole, down your crack and his heavy balls. You feel so full and yet it’s not enough. You’re burning up inside. The squelch is obscene whenever he lifts you up a little only to drop you back down on his length, making you cry out in pleasure each time. 

“Remember, lad, don’t knot her. I need you to prepare her for mine.” John reminds him sternly, still casually leaning against the bedroom wall. 

Simon grunts, nodding curtly, “Yes, sir.” 

John hums in approval at his obedience. Although he’s allowed Simon to drop the formalities off duty, especially in an intimate situation like this, his Lieutenant simply cannot do it, can’t give up the control. Deep down, John knows it’s so that Simon won’t forget himself, scared of his of self that he might do something to you he will regret if he’d ever lose control. It’s like he’s clinging to the power dynamic; clinging to John being the leader, the one and only alpha who can keep Simon on a metaphorical leash, ready to pull on it if he gets too rough. 

John knows Simon would never do anything harmful to you. John also knows that Kyle and Johnny are more prone to wearing you out when no one is around to keep them in check. He makes a mental note have a pack briefing soon. If he wants to start breeding you, he wants to do it right with everyone involved and on the same page. 

And then your high-pitched moans pull John out of his thoughts, and he watches your body quake and tremble while Simon keeps thrusting up into your convulsing walls, large hands gripping the fat of your thighs as he coaxes another orgasm out of you while he holds his own release back. 

John can see how badly Simon wants to cum, too. The tendons and veins throbbing in his thick neck, the sweat trickling down his trembles, pale and heavily scarred skin now flushed and hot, and the way his shoulders shake with restraint are all clear indicators of this pleasurable torture, though Captain’s orders hold him back and he’s an obedient pup. 

John tilts his head to the side, eyes zeroed in on the way your slick keeps gushing around Simon’s cock. “Would you like Simon to come inside you, sweetheart? You want to relief him of his suffering, hm? Your choice, love.” 

Your lips are parted, eager to be stuffed with another cock, as you regard John with a heavy-lidded gaze, head lolling back against Simon’s shoulder as you moan and whimper, and ultimately nod.  

“Yes,” you whine, hands grasping and holding onto Simon’s tattooed forearms desperately while you turn your head, nuzzling his throat while your warm breath puffs against his sweaty skin, “Yes, please, Si!” 

Your pleading voice and verbal permission is the only push Simon needs, and he drops your thighs to wrap his bulky arms around your torso instead as he pumps his hips and starts fucking you with wild abandon, grunting praises in your ear while his dark eyes keep flicking down to his claiming mark on your right shoulder. His jaw twitches and his canines ache to bite and claim you all over again, but he manages to suppress the urge for now. 

As Simon cums and spills his release inside of you, John is already shedding his clothes, dropping the fabrics on the bedroom floor before approaching the bed. 

You’re mewling and chirping happily as Simon’s cock keeps throbbing while his chest heaves with rumbling, satisfied growls. He tilts your head to the side to seal your lips in a sloppy yet sweet kiss, licking into your mouth to taste you thoroughly before John’s arm snakes around your waist, ready to claim you for himself. 

Simon doesn’t snarl, doesn’t growl possessively when his Captain comes to steal you away. No, he only whines deep in his throat, but lets go of you, nonetheless, right when his knot starts to swell, eager to lock inside you. 

“Not yet, Simon,” John reminds him with a low rumble as he pulls you into his own arms, against his warm hairy chest. “You’ll get your turn, lad.” 

You’re already at that point where you’re just happy to be passed around along your alphas, eager to serve and have their cocks fill you up repeatedly. It starting to feel different, though, and in the back of your mind, you already know why that is. 

“How do you want it, love?” John asks softly, meaty palms caressing up and down your flanks while his own cock bobbing against his lower abdomen, weeping with precum from its ruddy tip. You want to lick and cherish it. Behind you, Simon traces the curve of your spine with the rough tips of his fingers, needing the contact. You shudder and whine needily. 

John’s eyes soften. “That bad already, huh?” He reaches for your wrist and pulls you closer until you straddle his lap, and he can kiss you properly. 

“Something wrong, sir?” Simon asks, his gruff voice laced with concern for you.  

John pulls back from the sensual kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips that he licks away. 

“Our omega is going into heat soon and you know how needy she already is out of it,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that right, princess?”  

You nod slowly, eyes becoming all glossy as you tremble under John’s loving gaze. 

Kyle and Johnny push and shove each other like a pair of rowdy pups after kicking off their wet boots by the front door, both carrying a pile of cut firewood. They’re still restless and buzzing with energy, even after exerting themselves outside in the snow, chopping wood for the past hour. 

“You smell that?” Kyle asks, dark brows furrowed quizzically as he drops the logs next to the fireplace, sniffing the air. 

Johnny rubs the cold tip of his nose with his equally cold hands. “Nah. Smell what?” He scents the air as well, eyes squinting as he picks up a familiar sound instead, one that has his heart start thudding rapidly in his chest. His eyes widen with glee as he looks at Kyle before they both take off down the hallway towards the master bedroom. 

What they find in the bedroom has them both freezing on the spot; their chests rumbling with whiney growls and their pricks start swelling with unbridled need and desire for you. 

The air is thick with the heady scent of sex, familiar alpha pheromones and your sweet, sweet slick. It makes their mouths water, and their chests swell with affection and pride.  

You’re on all fours on the bed, head resting on your folded forearms, your plump ass is up in the air, your back arched so beautifully as their Captain takes you from behind while Simon watches with heavy-lidded eyes, pumping his cock in rhythm with John’s shallow thrusts into your fluttering cunt. Neither of them minds the audience and you’re certainly calling out to them with soft, saccharine whines. 

Johnny doesn’t hesitate another second before he starts undressing in a hurry, more than eager to join, and Kyle swiftly follows the lead. 

“Permission to join, sir.” Johnny requests breathlessly and the mattress dips and creaks as he climbs onto the bed, already reaching you to pet your hair lovingly; his other hand squeezing his shaft to release some of that gut-wrenching pressure. Kyle crawls onto the mattress behind him, opting to lean against the headboard like Simon. 

Meanwhile, your eyelashes flutter as you blink up at your other two alphas; their heavy, delicious scents making your walls clench and convulse around John’s thick, swollen knot. Pressing your face into the mattress below, you keep panting and whining and moaning while John gropes and squeezes your ass cheeks soothingly, hushing you with his deep, husky voice before he addresses his packmates. 

“She’s going into heat soon. I had to knot her now, but she’ll need more.” He grunts out as his knot keeps throbbing, locked in past your soppy entrance. 

And their eyes darken at their Captain’s explanation. Now that they know what’s going on, it all makes sense.  

“Heat.” Kyle repeats under his breath, eyes trained on your while his cock twitches inside his boxer briefs. He remembers the first heat that got triggered when they’d claimed you as their omega, and his heart flutters in his chest, his stomach doing a little flip. It was one of the most stressful yet best and rewarding times of his life so far. 

When Johnny lies down next to you and starts caressing the curve of your spine, Simon glares and gives his calf a warning nudge with his foot. “Let her be, Johnny. Don’t overwhelm her.” 

“Am not even doin’ anythin’!” Johnny grumbles, glancing over his shoulder with a frown before his Captain’s stern glare makes him duck his head and simply lay down next to you like an obedient pup, and when you turn your head to gaze at the youngest alpha, he scoots closer to nuzzle his cold nose against yours sweetly. 

“And just to be clear,” Simon mutters, his cheeks flushing brighter as he keeps himself from bucking into his fist, “Cap’ already said tha’ it’s my turn to knot her next.” 

[d-emeter]

Teamwork makes the dream work — plus-size!fem!reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

CW: oral (male and female receiving), a little exhibitionism?

Johnny and you who team up to give Simon the best birthday of his life — the ones in his childhood did not make for good memories, and you two were set on changing that. A cake with attempted hearts and a 'happy birthday' in shaky writing, decorations everywhere and gifts that were put together with all the love and care in the world.

Simon and you who team up to make Johnny the best home-cooked he's tasted since he left Scotland. You both know he misses it sometimes, even if he keeps it well hidden. But you've facetimed his ma, asked her for all her recipes and before you know it, the table is filled with what can only be described as a buffet of Johnny's favourite foods. You've also invited the rest of the squad over so Johnny can finally show off his culture like he always wants to.

Simon and Johnny who team up to support you while you're studying. Simon's providing snacks, getting you anything and everything you're craving because he insists you need brainfood. He'll feed you, too, so you don't disturb your focus. Johnny lets you teach him things (he says it's one of the best ways to learn) and will then quiz you on them after. You're getting a kiss for every right answer, of course.

—

Johnny and you who team up to get Simon to relax properly, it's his birthday after all. After the mandatory awkward singing and the blowing out of candles, there's something else that needs blowing. Johnny somehow wrestled Simon into sitting back on the couch, after which you and Johnny sink to your knees to make out around his cock. His game is on, slice of cake in one hand and a beer in the other, and his loves kneeling for him — best birthday ever.

Simon and you who team up to fluster Johnny beyond belief. He tries not to react when your foot brushes his leg, though he falters a little in his story about his childhood to Price. He chokes on his scotch pie when Simon's hand finds its way to just below his crotch, and now has to play it off because Gaz is giving him a funny look. When a bit of whipped cream 'falls' from your spoon and onto your cleavage, Johnny's knee jerks against the table. Not two seconds after everyone is ushered out the door, Johnny's on his back on the table, his dick in your mouth while Simon has his in Johnny's.

Simon and Johnny who team up to fuck their smart girl stupid. They coo at you, telling you you've worked so hard, you deserve a treat. Dragged from your spot behind your laptop and onto Simon's lap. Look at that, their smart little slut, going dumb on Simon's cock while Johnny's lapping at her clit. They'll make you recite everything you've learned, though. Gotta make sure it stuck, sweets.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Home for the Holidays

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings:Fluff

Authors Note:I hope you enjoy!

Word Count:1.1k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Christmas Eve

The snow had started falling early that morning, blanketing the world outside in pristine white. You’d spent the entire day buzzing around the house, determined to make everything perfect. A large tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, its branches dripping with ornaments and twinkling lights. Pine-scented candles flickered on the mantle, where red stockings hung with each of their names stitched into the fabric—“Captain Price,” “Soap,” “Gaz,” and “Ghost.”

The kitchen smelled divine—gingerbread cookies cooling on a rack, a roast in the oven, and a pot of mulled wine simmering on the stove. You wiped your hands on your apron, glancing at the clock.

They’d be here any minute.

You didn’t know how you’d managed to convince Price to keep this a surprise from the others. But the idea of all four of them walking through the door together, with no worries about missions or danger, warmed you to your core.

The sound of tires crunching on snow pulled you from your thoughts. You peeked out the window and smiled at the sight of their car pulling into the driveway.

The front door opened with a gust of cold air, boots stomping as four familiar figures trudged inside. Price, of course, was first—his ever-present hat slightly askew, snow clinging to his coat. His sharp eyes softened as they landed on you.

“Look at this,” he murmured, taking in the festive decorations. “Feels like I’ve stepped into bloody Christmas card.”

“Leave your boots by the door,” you instructed, barely suppressing a grin.

Soap barreled in next, shaking snow from his hair like an overgrown dog. “Lass! What’s all this, then?” he asked, gesturing to the garlands draped along the banister.

Gaz followed close behind, holding a bag full of gifts. “I told her she’d go all out,” he said, his warm brown eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Looks cozy,” Ghost muttered, his deep voice rumbling as he stepped inside last. His black mask stood out against the soft colors of the room, but his eyes lingered on the decorations with quiet appreciation.

You wrapped your arms around Price first, letting the warmth of his embrace seep into you. “Welcome home,” you said softly.

One by one, you hugged them all—Soap lifting you off your feet with a laugh, Gaz squeezing you tightly, and Ghost standing still as you slipped your arms around his waist. He didn’t hug back, but his gloved hand brushed against your shoulder in an almost imperceptible gesture of affection.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Price said, his gaze sweeping over the cozy scene.

“It’s been a long year,” you replied. “You all deserve a real Christmas.”

That Evening

After dinner, the boys gravitated toward the living room. Soap plopped onto the floor, his ridiculous light-up sweater blinking obnoxiously. “Right, who’s ready to lose to me at cards?”

“Dream on,” Gaz shot back, shuffling the deck.

Price leaned back on the couch, sipping mulled wine with a rare smile. Ghost sat at the edge of the fireplace, carefully inspecting the stockings you’d hung. You joined him, holding up a small snowflake ornament.

“Help me hang this?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “You want me to decorate?”

“I want you to help,” you said, nudging him lightly.

With a faint sigh, he took the ornament, his large hands almost comically careful as he hooked it onto the tree.

“Front and center,” you instructed. “It’s my favorite.”

He stepped back, tilting his head slightly. “Looks good.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

The moment was interrupted by Soap waving a sprig of mistletoe above his head. “Oi! What’s this? Mistletoe?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything, Gaz snagged it from him.

“If anyone’s getting kisses, it’s us,” he teased, holding it over you instead.

“You’re all ridiculous,” you muttered, but you indulged them. You pressed a quick kiss to Gaz’s cheek, ruffled Soap’s hair, and gave Price a fond peck on the forehead. When you reached Ghost, you hesitated.

He didn’t move as you leaned up, brushing your lips against the edge of his mask. His eyes softened, and you swore you saw the hint of a smile beneath the fabric.

Christmas Morning

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of muffled voices. Wrapping a blanket around yourself, you wandered into the living room to find the boys sitting around the tree.

“Morning,” Price greeted, his voice low and warm. He patted the space next to him on the couch, and you snuggled in beside him.

“What are you doing up so early?” you asked, stifling a yawn.

Soap held up a small wrapped box. “We wanted to give you this.”

You blinked. “For me?”

“Open it,” Gaz urged, practically bouncing with excitement.

Inside the box was a delicate silver necklace, the charm shaped like a snowflake. You traced the smooth edges with your fingers, your heart swelling.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

“It’s from all of us,” Ghost said, his voice unusually soft. “Something to remind you… that you’re the glue that holds us together.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you looked around at them—Price’s steady warmth, Soap’s boyish grin, Gaz’s twinkling eyes, and Ghost’s quiet presence.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted.

Price leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just say you’ll stick around.”

“Always,” you promised.

As the snow continued to fall outside, the five of you sat together by the fire, sharing stories and laughter. For the first time in a long time, the world felt safe, warm, and full of love.

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

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost, calling Y/N: Hey, sweetheart Y/N: Jail or hospital? Soap: How could you make such accusations when we are merely trying to greet the love of our life?! Y/N: Jail or hospital? Ghost: Do you really have such little faith in us? Y/N: Jail. Or. Hospital Soap: ...jail. AND WE LOVE YOU! Y/N: *hangs up*

[sprout-fics]

Soap being bitten by a weird looking attack dog on mission and does the usual rabies shots treatment/whatever. All his tests came back fine so he's not really worried about it.

It's just that....

Was he always this hairy? Like yeah sure he's never been sleek exactly, always had a dense bit of hair across his arms, legs, and torso. But recently it feels thicker, coarser.

Did you start wearing a new perfume? Weird he didn't notice until now. It smells amazing on you, he can't help but bury his face in your neck given any chance to do so, nibbles at your neck as you giggle and swat at him.

Everything's louder now. He mentions to Price that he can hear conversations from three offices over, and Price just shrugs and asks why he's complaining- his hearing has been damaged by so many close proximity explosions. Maybe it's just healed on its own somehow.

He keeps having to trim his nails for some reason, and doesn't miss Ghost's weird, observant stare as he sits next to the trash bin for the third time that week trimming his toenails. "Giving yerself a pedicure, Johnny?"

He's so hungry all the time. Gaz jokes he's going through a growth spurt the way he devours his meals, piles on the protein and craves red meat. Soap tells himself he was planning on going on a high-protein diet anyways so he can bulk out a little, so it's not really an issue.

You complain about the love bites he gives you, how he's biting harder than he should, and Soap swears up and down he isn't. The welts on your neck and shoulders tell a different story though, and when you frown at him Soap whines, wanting to tuck a tail he doesn't have under him in apology.

It's weird, but it's mostly explainable.

That is, until the next full moon, when you wake in the darkness of your bedroom to the low, dangerous growl of something wild and feral as he slowly creeps up your body and lets instinct take root.

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Soap putting you in a headlock when fucking you into the mattress, his chest against your back as his hips snap against the fat of your ass. You're clawing against his forearm which only makes him chuckle and comment about how feisty you are while he hits so deep inside you that you damn near scream.

Biting down hard enough to leave indents on his bicep and not letting go until he uses his other hand to wrench your head away by your hair with a snarl. Snapping your jaw at him while he stares down with feral blue eyes, "Ye wannae play rough?"

[machveil]

something something affectionately calling Johnny stinky and his gut reaction (that he follows through with) is to grab you and smother you against him while laughing. of course, this is followed by Johnny dragging you to the bathroom for a shower so you can help him clean up or something

[beloveds-embrace]

PLEASE,….,, im begging you give me a break from the duchy au angst PLEASE GIVE ME SOME FLUFF

We all need a break 🙂‍↕️ here you go, anon! 💗

Dukedom au masterlist (not yet fully updated)

The first snow of the season finally fell and blanketed the grounds of Price manor, transforming the estate into a true winter wonderland. You stood by the frosted window in the sitting room, wrapped in a warm shawl, watching the flurry outside with a soft smile. The warmth of the fire behind you offered a comforting contrast to the icy world beyond the glass panes, the crackle of burning wood a soothing ambience that eased the mind.

It was a rare moment of stillness in the manor, with no pressing duties or social engagements demanding your attention. Your fingers traced absent patterns on the windowpane, thoughts wandering here and there until the sound of a throat clearing drew your attention.

Johnny stood in the doorway, a handsome grin tugging at his lips. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and a hint of snow dusted his dark hair. He stepped towards you, grin softening into something fond. “Lass, ye look far too peaceful. Fancy a bit of fun in the snow?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Fun in the snow? Johnny, I hardly think-”

Before you could finish, Kyle appeared beside him, a resigned but equally amused expression on his face. “He’s already dragged the stablehands into a snowball fight. You’d best join, my lady, before he wreaks havoc on the entire household.”

Your laughter bubbled out before you could stop it. Kyle had snow all over his shoulders. “And you? Did he rope you into this as well, Kyle?”

Kyle’s lips twitched, his tone as dry as ever. “I’m merely here to ensure no one ends up with frostbite. Or worse, Johnny getting pelted by a snowball with rocks in it again.”

“That happened one time!”

It was then that Simon strolled in, adjusting his coat. He cast a critical look at Johnny, and then shook his head. “You’re dragging the Duchess outside in this cold? She’ll catch her death.”

“Not if she bundles up properly,” Johnny huffed, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the coat rack. “C’mon, love, live a little!”

Your protests were half-hearted as he helped you into your newest winter cloak, his enthusiasm infectious. Kyle and Simon waited, and even helped bundle you up further until the warmth on your cheeks were more from kisses than being fully covered.

Within moments, you were outside, your boots crunching against the fresh snow. The air was crisp, the sky a pale gray, and the laughter of the staff echoed from the gardens. They greeted you as you passed, smiles and excitement clear on them.

John stood on the veranda, his hands in his pockets, watching the chaos with an indulgent smile. His sharp eyes softened immediately as they landed on you, snow dusting over your cheek already, giggling as Johnny aimed a snowball at Simon and missed spectacularly.

And then Johnny and Simon both turned their focus on you.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” John called as you ducked behind a hedge for cover, joining a maid who grinned and helped you begin preparing snowballs.

“Come join us, Your Grace!” you called back, cupping your hands around your mouth.

His smirk widened, but he shook his head. “I’m better as a referee, my love.”

Kyle, ever practical, soon found himself roped into the game despite his earlier protests. You shrieked as he launched a surprisingly, scarily accurate snowball your way, only for Johnny to step in and shield you with his body, dramatically flopping into the snow as if mortally wounded.

“Go on without me, lass,” he groaned, sprawled on the ground. You and the maid watched him, giggling. “Tell my story… tell my bairns not to forget me…”

Your laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, and you offered him a hand. “You’re ridiculous, Johnny.”

“Aye, but ye love it.” He replied with a wink, and checking that everyone else was sufficiently distracted and the maid has left, tugging you down into the snow beside him just for a few moments.

Simon joined soon after, his usual composed demeanor giving way to competitiveness as he and Kyle teamed up against Johnny. Even John eventually relented by your insistence and a little pleading poug, stepping off the veranda to orchestrate a proper snow fort building contest.

Hours passed in a blur of laughter and play just like that, the biting cold forgotten in the warmth of shared joy. By the time everyone slowly returned indoors, cheeks ruddy and clothes damp, the sitting room felt like a haven. You beloved, ever-attentive Kyle was the first to fetch a warm blanket for you, draping it over your shoulders with a small smile.

Johnny disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a while later with steaming mugs of cocoa for everyone. “Best remedy for cold fingers, bonnie.” he declared, pressing a mug into your hands and then a kiss over your temple.

Simon settled beside you, his arm draped casually along the back of the settee, along your back, and you lean into him with a soft sigh. “You’ve got snow in your hair, darling,” he murmured, gently brushing it away.

John watched the scene from his armchair, chest warm and content. The sight of you, nestled among the men he trusted and loved most, your laughter lingering in the air, was enough to make him feel like the luckiest man alive.

As the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside, you leaned back, your heart full. Your eyes fluttered shut, dozing in and out of the river of dreams, and though the conversations around you continued they made sure to lower their voices. You could feel a familiar hand, gentle and careful and wholly Kyle, caress your cheek.

And with joy still lingering in your veins, warmth curling your chest, you fell asleep safe and happy.

[codnasties]

It's definitely Soap! 🫡

https://x.com/lanadelgothx/status/1844558411830280253?t=JQsxkHBY4tF-P4A6UMmpZg&s=19

fuck my life... that's so much soap

soap breaking the condom 🧼 (🌽 link)

my man soap is such a respectful man. his parents had raised him with some of the best values you may ever see. and that includes understanding consent perfectly. that's why if you ask him to wear a condom, he will.

he isn't going to be one of those fuckers that start giving lame excuses about it not feeling as good for him of condoms being too small for his cock. nah. man's just going to pop one on and fuck you nicely.

however, one thing he can't fully assure you of if that the latex material of it will hold up with the asault he's about to commit on your pussy. his hard cock plunging deeply and hard on your cunt, making you moan like a bitch in heat.

and when the concom inevitabl breaks from his harsh thust and the sheer force of them and the tightness of your pussy, you can at least be assured that it was just an accident. and even if he ends up filling you up with his cum thinking he had the condom, yup, just an accident.

and when that keeps happening and soap ends up getting you pregnant? yup, an accident.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; soap earns himself the silent treatment. meanwhile, you prepare for your confrontation with makarov, summoning back an old friend under the half-moon.

⚠️ warnings; none

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☆ story masterlist

The drive back to their shared home was long, tense and quiet, each second stretching painfully over the old car’s steady rumble. Johnny sat in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the passing scenery rather than risk another glance at Price’s set jaw and narrowed eyes. 

When they pulled into the driveway, the late afternoon light painted their home bright. The front door creaked as Price pushed it open, his silence as heavy as a reprimand. Johnny followed, his head down.

Inside, the atmosphere was stifling. 

Gaz leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Ghost stood near the window, hands shoved into his pockets, staring out as if he expected to see something—someone—materialize on the empty street. Neither of them acknowledged Johnny’s return.

Price took off his jacket, tossed it over a chair, and let out a weary sigh. He moved to join Gaz at the island. Laswell’s reports and notes lay scattered on the table: printed documents, scribbled post-its, and a few articles of speculation. They’d been working through the little information Leah had given them—threads of truth knotted with curses and creatures—trying to find something solid to hold onto.

Johnny dared not speak first. The weight of what he had done—going after you alone, risking everything—clung to him like a bad scent. He accepted their silent punishment. He deserved it. Instead, he busied himself in his room with his laptop, firing it up and tapping into old forums, messaging a few trusted contacts. If you wouldn’t return to them, perhaps they could come to you. But how?

He opened a private browser and typed out careful inquiries on niche forums and subreddits dedicated to the occult and magical communities. He knew from experience that if any place could confirm whether outsiders were welcome in the territory the Le Fay line looked after, it would be one of these hidden corners of the internet. He kept his questions vague, professional, and patient. After all, desperation would only draw suspicion.

Johnny’s typing slowed. Magical territory and old coven lands. His search queries grew more specific, more desperate. He tapped into old friend groups—people he’d worked small jobs with before—and sent cautious feelers out. Was the Le Fay territory open to outsiders? Could one simply visit, no matter their magical alignment?

It was a long shot. But after all that had happened, long shots were all they had left.

In the meantime, Gaz’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and frowned slightly. Casting a look toward Price, then Ghost—who didn’t meet his eyes—Gaz spoke quietly, his voice subdued but deliberate. “My mum texted back.” 

Gaz scrolled through the message with quick, flicks of his thumb, his brow furrowed deeply. After a moment, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before setting his phone down.

“She says the parasite’s nature looks vampiric,” he began, tone heavy with reluctant focus. “Something like a succubus—feeding off essence, corrupting bonds. Apparently, it’s rare.”

Silence fell again, each man processing the update. Ghost’s gaze remained fixed out the window, jaw tight beneath his balaclava. Price leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as if to summon some revelation. Gaz, meanwhile, fiddled with his phone, the screen lighting up intermittently as he switched between texts and notes.

“Anything else?” Price asked after a long moment, his voice subdued but probing.

Gaz hesitated, then groaned as if the answer physically pained him. “Yeah…another essay from Mum. Not just about the parasite—she’s scolding me again.” He paused, his tone dipping into annoyed disbelief. “And she’s got a suggestion. One I really wish she didn’t.”

“What kind of suggestion?” Price asked, leaning forward.

Gaz shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”

“Why not?” Price pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Gaz hesitated again, his fingers tapping anxiously against the edge of his phone. “Because it’s invasive. Dangerous. And honestly? Pretty desperate.” His voice grew quieter, more strained. “Besides… we’re past the point where it could help. She knows that.”

“Let us decide that,” Price countered firmly. “What’s she suggesting?”

Gaz didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed somewhere on the table in front of him. He sighed deeply, as if bracing himself, and muttered, “It’s a procedure. Something to… extract her current whereabouts.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. Ghost turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp but unreadable. Price’s expression darkened, his voice dropping into a near-growl.

“Explain.”

. . .

The air was thick with the scent of herbs and damp earth as you pushed open the heavy glass door to your Mom’s greenhouse. Inside, the warm glow of lanterns lit rows of pots and planters arranged with meticulous care. Rich, loamy scents mingled with floral notes, and your Mom—ever careful and nurturing—sat in her wheelchair at the far end of the main aisle, a soft shawl draped over her shoulders. Horangi stood nearby, his watchful eyes drifting between you and the delicate seedlings he’d been tending to.

“There you are, my darling,” your Mom said, her voice carrying easily through the hush of growing things. She maneuvered forward, the hand-like appendages of her enchanted chair adapting seamlessly to the uneven floor. “I’ve set aside the moon-bloom petals and dried bloodberry leaves you’ll need. They’re potent wards against vampiric auras.”

“Thank you,” you replied, your voice quieter than intended. Sybil sneezed at your side, her nose twitching at the array of scents. From overhead, the lanternlight flickered, sending shadows dancing across your Mom’s features as she passed you a small wooden box. “Use these wisely. The petals especially—you know they react best under moonlight. One whiff of these and even the slyest vampire should think twice before approaching.”

You nodded, slipping the box into your satchel. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you promised, lips pressed into a determined line.

Horangi stepped forward, extending a vial of something oily and dark. “For your dagger,” he said simply, his voice low and respectful. “Coat it before the fight. If he tries to heal, this will slow him down.”

You accepted it with a murmured thanks, meeting both his gaze and your Mom’s. They nodded, and you caught a glimmer in her eyes—something tender, something that might have been regret or remorse if she knew how to let it show. She extended her hand, placing it softly over yours. 

“You’re stronger than you know,” your Mom said, her tone quieter than usual, more personal. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You realized, with a sudden ache, that this was her way of apologizing, of acknowledging the cost of everything that had come before. She wouldn’t say it outright—she never would. But in this subtle gesture, in this show of faith and support, she was offering something close to atonement. It wasn’t enough, not for all the scars you carried, but it was more than you’d ever expected.

The silence that followed felt heavy, not with tension, but with the weight of understanding. You nodded, not trusting your voice to remain steady if you spoke.

“I know” you managed at last, your words thin but sincere.

She let her hand slip away gently, and you stepped back from the table. With that, you turned and made your way out of the greenhouse, back into the manor’s long corridors. The transition was stark: from warm, humid air scented with vegetation to cooler hallways lit by candles in their sconces. The old wood floors creaked softly underfoot, each step echoing back. Sybil padded silently beside you, the gentle click of her nails on the floor the only constant sound.

König appeared at the end of the corridor, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for you. Since your confrontation, his demeanor had shifted in subtle ways—you caught a glimpse of regret in how he carried himself, uncertainty in how he set his shoulders.

He approached, inclining his head. “Need help with anything else?” he asked, voice lower than usual, as if not to startle you. “I could fetch more supplies, or…..”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a once-over. “So helpful today, aren’t we?” The words came out sharper than you intended. 

His shoulders tensed, but he managed a nod, contrite. “….I know you don’t trust me fully. But I’m with you on this. Whatever you need.”

You let a moment pass, watching him, gauging his sincerity. “Fine.” A sigh escaped your lips as you led him down the hallway. “I need to pick up a few texts from the library. Spells for binding, wards that might hold a vampire if I can’t kill him outright.” You spoke matter-of-factly, as if discussing a grocery list rather than tools for murder.

König followed you to the library, a vast room lined with shelves so tall that rolling ladders were needed to reach the uppermost volumes. The scent of old parchment and leather bindings wrapped around you, comforting in its familiarity.

“I’ve never seen so many books on curses and wards,” König murmured, craning his neck to read spines bearing cryptic symbols. His tone was less guarded now, genuinely curious. “When you were away… with the pack, did you manage to study much magic, or were you more focused on…”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not missing his subtle attempt to pry more about your life with the pack. Still, you needed him cooperative. You pulled out a thick tome with a silver clasp, setting it on a nearby table. “I studied what I could, here and there,” you replied vaguely. “Different priorities back then. Different goals.”

He nodded, accepting the non-answer without protest. “I see. Just… trying to understand.”

You snorted softly, flipping through the pages until you found the section on vampiric wards. “Don’t try too hard,” you said, but not unkindly. “Just make sure you’re ready to hold your own if things get messy.”

König cleared his throat. “I’ll go check on our transport. Make sure it's ready.”

You inclined your head, watching him depart with measured steps. At least he was trying, in his own way. Turning back to the shelf, you selected another slim volume and tucked it under your arm. 

Gathering a few other volumes, you adjusted the weighty satchel on your shoulder and stepped back out into the hallway. The manor’s corridors were quiet, Sybil following close, her tail brushing against your leg as you walked.

A young maid passed by, balancing a small tray of linens in her arms. You raised a hand, catching her eye, and she immediately dipped her head in a respectful nod, coming to a halt. Her posture was wary but attentive, her gaze flicking briefly toward Sybil before settling on you.

“I need you to take these, please,” you said, your tone even, gesturing to the satchel and the extra texts tucked under your arm, “and deliver them to my room. After that, find Fiona—tell her I want her to bring all necessary things to the pond behind the property.”

You paused, making sure the maid understood. “She’ll know what I mean.”

The maid blinked, curiosity dancing behind her lowered gaze. She hesitated only a moment before carefully accepting the offered items. “Yes, miss,” she replied softly, her voice steady if subdued. Then, adjusting her hold on the bundle, she hurried down the corridor, her footsteps echoing faintly as she went.

You then set off once again, the next steps of your plan falling quietly into place.

. . .

The moon was half, casting a silver-blue sheen over the property’s secluded pond. It's still surface reflected the stars and the faint outline of trees, painting a quiet, sacred picture. Barefoot, and dressed only in a light robe-like garment that fell loosely around your frame, you could feel every blade of grass, every pebble beneath your feet. Wearing nothing underneath was your way of showing humility and respect, a tradition you had failed to fulfill during your previous attempt at this ritual.

Sybil trotted beside you, her soft white fur catching the half-moon’s glow. She stayed close but unobtrusive. The scent of damp earth and evening blooms filled your lungs as you approached the pond’s edge, each step slow and deliberate.

Fiona awaited you there, her posture calm and reverent. She wore a simple veil draped over her hair and eyes, a gesture of respect for what was to come. At her feet lay a small bundle of ingredients wrapped in clean linen. When you reached her, she inclined her head wordlessly.

“Everything is here, as you requested,” Fiona said softly, lifting the linen to reveal sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. She placed a small pouch of salt at the edge of the cloth, and then bowed her head again.

You nodded, acknowledging her with a quiet “Thank you,” and Fiona departed, her footsteps fading into the hush of the night. You and Sybil were left alone with the whispering wind and the faint chorus of crickets.

Kneeling by the pond, you carefully mixed the herbs—rosemary for protection, thyme for courage, lavender for clarity. The handful of salt followed, grounding the mixture and purifying it. All that remained was a drop of your blood. You pressed the tip of a small, clean blade against your thumb and let a single red bead drip onto the mixture. The herbs and salt seemed to hush even further, as if waiting for the next step.

Sybil watched on, ears perked, as you swirled the mixture gently in the water at the pond’s edge. The night air seemed to still, and you could almost feel the veil between worlds thinning once again. The soft glow of the moon on the water’s surface danced as you murmured her name under your breath:

“Nimue,” you whispered, voice steady despite the thudding of your heart. “Lady of the Lake.”

At first, there was nothing but silence and the gentle lap of water against the shore. Then the surface of the pond began to shimmer, the reflection of the moonlight twisting, bending, as though disturbed from beneath. Slowly, Nimue emerged, her dark, damp hair clinging to her neck. She rose until her shoulders were visible, her arms folded softly over the edge of the water as if resting on an invisible ledge.

Nimue tilted her head, her eyes ancient and calm. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, letting your robe’s hem brush lightly against the edge. You reached out, not for a weapon or a spell, but for her hand, which hovered just above the pond’s mirror-like surface. Her skin was cool to the touch, and as you brought her hand closer, you pressed your lips gently to her knuckles, closing your eyes briefly in deference.

“So thou rememberest the old ways,” quoth Nimue, her voice like distant chimes. “Aye, centuries have passed since any did greet me so. The last time… King Arthur himself knelt at these waters and pressed his lips to my hand, his heart full of quest and longing. Thou dost do him proud, child.”

She regarded you more closely, a wry tilt to her pale brow. “Of course, ’tis no mere happenstance that thou sharest the blood of mine wretched—albeit misunderstood—sister’s line. The old ties run deep, and fate weaveth her tapestry most strangely indeed.”

As you let her hand go, she regarded you with a gentle tilt of her head, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Verily, much hath changed since last we met. Whether for better or ill, I cannot yet say.”

You straightened, shoulders squared despite the humility of your attire and bare feet. “Nimue,” you began, respectful but firm, “I have not called you for counsel. I would like you to know what I am about to do.”

Her gray eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity lighting their depths. “Oh?” she breathed, as soft as the breeze across the pond.

Your heart tensed at the memory of the frim task before you. “I’m going to do what must be done to claim my rightful place as the future leader of the coven. I have to face Vladimir Makarov and take his head,” you said, voice unwavering even as your pulse thundered. “This isn’t a request or a plea. It’s a statement of intent. He dared to make me his prey, and I won’t allow it.”

For a moment, Nimue said nothing. She studied you in the moonlight, her silence weighted with centuries of wisdom and memory. Sybil nudged your leg, and you absently stroked her fur, refusing to break eye contact with the Lady of the Lake.

Nimue finally inclined her head, the faintest ripple spreading across the pond’s surface. “I see thou hast grown indeed,” she said, her tone holding quiet acknowledgment. “Whether thy path leadeth to glory or ruin is not mine to say, but I acknowledge thy choice.”

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “That’s all I needed,” you said quietly. “Just to tell someone beyond the coven’s whispers that I’m about to do this. To mark this moment, as Arthur once did when he knelt at these waters seeking the great sword.”

She smiled again, subtle and distant, as though recalling a memory eons old. The hush of the night pressed in around you, the water reflecting faint starlight and your own resolve.

“Very well,” Nimue concluded softly, “I have borne witness.”

With that, she began to sink beneath the surface, her eyes lingering on you until the last moment before the water stilled, as if she had never emerged. Only the echoes of her voice remained, woven into the quiet darkness.

You sat there for a while. No longer a plea, no longer a question—just a path chosen, a destiny embraced, and an ancient power bearing silent witness to what you would soon become.

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[j0hnpr1c3sm1ssus]

FICMAS - DAY 3 - CAROLLING

Title: Carol of the Sergeants

Warnings: This is Johnny x Kyle x Reader? I hope you all like that. Can be read as really platonic, but it is MEANT to be Kyle x Johnny x Reader

Synopsis: The three Sergeants, Kyle, Johnny, and you, all go and carol around base.

AN: This one is a little funky, but I kinda like it? idk

"I *cannot* believe you roped me into this," You say, fixing your scarf up.

Johnny lets out a bark of laughter, pulling his mittens on, the sheets of music beside him, "Well, I 'ad the idea, and Kyle was all for it.."

Kyle smirks, buttoning his coat up, "C'mon, love! It's not gonna be terrible. Besides, we needed a higher voice to balance us out."

You scoff, your cheeks rosying at the petname. You throw your mittens on and look in the mirror, "I look like I'm from Antarctica."

Kyle bursts out into laughter and comes up behind you, resting his head on your shoulder, "Yeah, lovie?"

Johnny comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, his head resting on your other shoulder, "Very *cute* Antarctican, migh' I add."

You all look like bloody Cerberus together, you look at both of them and just shake your head.

"Let's get this over with boys," You say with a sigh, stepping back and adjusting the collar of your coat.

Johnny picks up the sheet music folders, little folders of Christmas music. He hands you yours, the one with the Mezzo Soprano folders, Kyle the tenor, and Johnny *obviously* the bass. You all leave your quarters where you're starting from, planning to carol around base until you're either stopped by Price, hit, or you make a full circle.

You start with room 3C, beside yours. It's Simon's room, so you knock on the door and sigh.

Johnny starts first, a baritone, starts off your little choir. Simon sees it and raises an unamused eyebrow, crossing his arms. He just stands there as you all sing, staring down with those slightly menacing eyes.

He gives a slight nod as you finish, and slams his door. You can hear his lock, and then not even five seconds from when he closes his door, Johnny *bursts* out laughing. He doubles over, losing it.

"He fockin'-" he cuts himself off with a wheeze, "That was fockin' priceless!"

Almost every other person you all carol to is the same. Any eyebrow raise, an eyeroll, a confused glare, and then a slam of the door.

Price isn't in his room, he's in his office, and he seems to actually *enjoy* the carolling. He laughs, grinning widely like he always does, even clapping Kyle on the back before retiring to his work, closing his door in a way that *doesn't* accost your ears.

Once you've circled, you all stop back at your quarters. Your mitts are off, your coat undone, and you sigh.

"You both owe me one each," you grumble, letting them into your quarters and stripping your layers down. You shiver, rubbing your cold hands together and trying to warm up. Kyle comes over, now in his sweater and jeans, and wraps an arm around you, "Cold, innit, lovie?"

Johnny follows suit, coming down beside you both, wearing one of those Christmas T-shirts, putting his hands over yours, "C'mon, bonnie, let's get ye warmed up."

Johnny guides you, laying you down in bed, and Kyle wraps his arms entirely around you, spooning you.

Johnny covers you both up with a blanket, then lays his head on your abdomen, crossing his arms mindlessly.

Your eyes shut, and Kyle simply says, "Gonna fall asleep on us, lovie?"

Johnny sighs, humming quietly to himself, finally relaxing.

"I might... You're both like bloody space heaters," you say with a groan shifting up a little. One of your hands goes to Johnny's hair, gently stroking it, the other goes around Kyle's shoulder, holding him close.

It's bliss, really. You're snuggled with Kyle and Johnny, Johnny's soft hair between your fingers, Kyle's warm shoulder in your grasp.