#yeyinde inspired

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited)

imagine being the babysitter for the price family, ur meek and quiet around john and mainly communicate with mrs. price. but ur absolute fun with the kids; they just adore u so much and ask about u all the time even when ur not scheduled to watch them :(

though u always thought john never cared for u in the first place— i mean, his wife said they needed a sitter while she went back to work and he provided the money. the two of u had never talked much before, small greetings and thank u’s but that was it.

but one day, out of the blue he comes home early when ur watching the kids, ‘nd he's touchy :(

his burly body caging you against the counter as u make something for the kids to eat. his hands at ur waist as he reaches to grab something from above u, brushing against u when u pass each other in the hall. ‘nd u swear u can hear him breathe in ur perfume when ya’ll are close, a rumble in his chest. but u didn't think much, mr. price was good man.

but then he becomes bolder, large hands groping at ur thighs, bulge pressed against the curve of ur ass, invading questions about ur sex life. ‘nd u should feel scared, disgusted, u should tell his wife– but he hasn't rlly done anything. i mean, he’s just teaching u how to kiss— his mouth dominating and tongue bullying ur own, saliva dripping down ur chin…. but it’s for later purposes, when ur in a relationship. just practice.

he hasn't rlly done anything worth telling. he’s just teaching u how to touch urself, how to work ur fingers on ur clit. just teaching u how to properly deepthroat, his balls flush against ur chin as he bottoms out down ur throat. just teaching u how to have sex the right way, the safe way— his thick cock, covered in a condom inching its way into ur sloppy, virgin cunt :(

[konigbabe]

like real people do

Pairing: ID!Leon Kennedy x fem!teacher!reader | single dad AU

Word count: 5.8k

Tags/warnings: no y/n; fluff; eventual smut; p-in-v; slice of life; gendered female reader; gendered female anatomy; original kid Kennedy character

Summary: He's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit; yet, he's your student's father. Handsome. Confident. Alluring. But off limits–at least he should be.

a/n: Inspired by @yeyinde’s ask. Also, canon ID!Leon is around 29 but Leon in this '"universe" is aged up to be in his 30s (age won't be specified but I imagine him to be in his mid-to-late 30s).

divider by @benkeibear [source]

series masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man hard to resist; his confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily– “So? It’s just dinner.”

The innocence of children always manages to brighten up even the darkest of days, their smiles and eagerness to learn contagious; filling your heart with positivity. It's a feeling that's hard to come by as an adult; life's challenges tend to chip away at your soul and slowly rob you of that childhood magic.

As the clock strikes five and your shift comes to an end, the school falls into an eerie silence. A lingering sense of relief washes over you when leaving the building; you've done your part in shaping young minds.

Walking out the front door, the warmth of the sun caresses your skin, its rays sliding around your bare arms like silk.

Twisting the key in the lock, your eyes catch a glimpse of slight movement from the corner of your vision. Turning your head, you see a little girl perched on the concrete steps below, her delicate features illuminated by the warm glow of the sun.

Her hair, a cascade of light brown waves, frames her chubby cheeks and the crown of her head is adorned with blonde highlights that shimmer like golden threads.

She turns to you when you address her, slowly stepping down to her level.

"What are you still doing here," you sit down, her small backpack creating a wall between your bodies.

As you sit side by side with the little girl, basking in the comforting embrace of the sunlight, she kicks her legs up; eyes up front, both of you watch the cars pass by on the street.

The Washington Spring air’s filled with the sweet scent of blooming cherry blossoms, carried on a gentle breeze that rustles through the trees. The distant sounds of children playing in a nearby park mingle with the honking of cars and the chirping of birds, creating a symphony of noise that signifies the arrival of spring in the bustling city.

"Waiting for daddy," she says with a hint of excitement in her voice.

The little girl looks up at you, her eyes full of wonder and innocence. You can't help but wonder about the mysterious Mr Kennedy and his absence; an enigma surrounding his name.

Like a forgotten toy left on the shelf, the girl's father remains absent from any involvement in her education. Despite several months passing since her admission to your class, there has been no sign of him. No parent-teacher meetings, no Father's Day celebration, nothing.

An enigma.

"Speaking of," your voice trails off for a moment, "How’s your daddy doing?" you question her. You shouldn’t; it goes beyond your job description to put a kid in situations like these. But still–

Her eyes, a vivid shade of cerulean, sparkle like sunlit water as she gazes at you; smile wide upon the mention of her father, the young kid toys with the straps on her bag.

"He’s busy."

A pang of understanding pinches your heart.

–his presence (or rather the absurd lack of it) keeps gnawing at your brain.

"He fights monsters," the girl adds after a moment of silence; her tone more serious. It's as if she's describing a mythical hero, fighting off beasts in some far-off land.

"He seems to be busy quite a lot," you smile to ease the topic; well aware that the girl, as bright as she is, surely catches on as you keep asking the same question every week, "is your mom coming to the parent–teacher meeting?"

The girl shakes her head before she speaks, "I don’t know my mom."

Oh.

You know you shouldn’t push more; well aware of the unprofessionalism you’re displaying.

"The woman who picks you up–"

"–aunt Claire," the kid corrects you, "I’m sorry for interrupting, miss teacher."

You smile, trying to put her at ease. It's clear that she's been brought up with good manners.

Lost in how to answer her, you almost don't hear the sound of a car approaching. The girl jumps up, her face alight with excitement. A low rumble reverberates through the air as a sleek black SUV glides up to the curb, its shiny exterior reflecting the warm rays of the sun.

The tinted windows obscure the view inside the car, adding an air of mystery to the vehicle. As the car comes to a stop, the quiet hum of the engine fades to a gentle purr, and the driver's door swings open.

The girl grabs her backpack at the same time a man steps out of the car; you’re able to only see the light brown hair decorating his head.

"Daddy," the girl yelps in excitement. You stand up, dusting the invisible dust from your jeans.

He stands tall, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of the crisp white shirt, tucked tightly into the blue dress pants. A single button undone on his collar, revealing the curve of his clavicles. The sun glints off his aviator sunglasses, hiding his eyes from view. He approaches the little girl with a warm smile as she runs into her father, you presume; standing still, watching the situation unfold before your eyes.

Lowering himself to her level, he extends his arms, inviting her in. She eagerly accepts, wrapping her little arms around his neck in a welcoming embrace.

"Hey there, pup," you manage to hear his voice; low and soft. Gentle. "Sorry I’m late; got held up by paperwork. Y’know the drill."

The kid chuckles before pulling away, a sound so pure and innocent it brings a smile to your face.

Standing back up, his face turns towards you. You're struck by his imposing presence, the way he commands attention without even trying. His chiseled jawline is dusted with a light stubble, giving him an air of ruggedness. He moves with confidence towards you, one hand enclosed with his daughter’s.

The girl tugs at the sleeve of his shirt, introducing you before he even reaches your standing point–to which he smiles gently.

"Well, nice to meet you," his hand extended in greeting, "I’m Leon Kennedy. Her dad," he nods towards the girl.

"Mr Kennedy," you murmur, taking his hand in yours; noting the callouses on his palm.

As your eyes travel up his arm, they catch sight of a fresh bandage peeking out from under his slightly rolled up sleeve. But it's not until you look up at his face that you see the true extent of his weariness. Small scratches mark his jaw, subtle hues of purple and yellow decorate his cheekbone like a watercolor painting.

It’s clear that he's been through a rough patch. Makes you wander back to the girl’s words–

("He fights monsters.")

–and maybe he does. In some twisted sense.

"I actually wanted to speak with you," you release his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin lingering on your fingertips., "are you free next Tuesday? Around one PM?"

"Am I in trouble," he chuckles; the stretch of his lips exposing a slight scar on his lower lip.

The girl tilts her head, eyes studying you intently. You can't help but notice the slight beauty marks across her neck, the softness of her features, the way she looks up at her father with curiosity.

"Not really; I just need to discuss some matters with you."

"Okay," he responds, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, yet he remains stoic. Posed. "Sure."

"I’ll see you then," you nod and take your leave, but not before stealing a few glances at his back as he turns away from you. It’s impossible not to notice how his broad shoulders strain against the fabric, or how his hair cascades over his forehead; tousled yet somehow perfectly in place.

The weekend flies by, the days blurring together until suddenly it's Tuesday.

Despite his daughter's reassurances from yesterday that he'll be here, the uncertainty of whether he'll actually show up still grips you tightly.

A knock on the open door disturbs your grading.

"Mr Kennedy," you remark upon his arrival. The pen falls onto the desk with a clunk; back straighten, you invite him to sit on the chair prepared for him beforehand.

He’s dressed more casual–the black, expensive looking leather jacket squeaks against the wooden chair as he sits down after a simple "Hello". The faint but distinct aroma of sharp, citrusy notes wafts from his collar; the refreshing and invigorating aroma that catches your attention before your eyes trail to the bandage on his wrist.

Clearly seeing the way your eyes subconsciously linger on the piece of medical tape, Leon puts his other hand over it, shielding your view. Silently focusing your attention back on his eyes; the same blue hues as his daughter’s.

Sitting before you, legs spread apart, the undeniable similarities between him and his daughter are glaringly apparent. The way he holds himself commands respect, his posture erect and confident.

"Mr Kennedy, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you in person."

Fingers interlocking as you lean on your elbows, his gaze following your every movement like a predator stalking its prey; almost as if he’s sizing you up. His eyes watchful.

"Okay," he responds casually, a hint of question behind the simple word.

You clear your throat before continuing. "Your daughter is a remarkable child," a small smile accompanying your words. "She's well-behaved, intelligent, and often surpasses her peers."

Leon nods, lips pressed together.

"Got that from her mother, probably," he remarks. Almost bites back. Jaw tightening.

Leaning back, your fingers drum a quick rhythm against your desk.

"But we’re not here to evaluate your daughter; but you, actually, Mr Kennedy."

Leon’s brows arch up, highlighting the soft surprise that flashes across his face. The subtle shift in his expression does not go unnoticed by you.

"Didn’t know I was being evaluated," his voice trails off.

You nod in acknowledgement, sensing the man's confusion.

"You’re aware of our school assemblies, right?"

His face remains stoic, so you continue.

"Father's Day, parent-teacher meetings, career days, sports day," you list a few, hoping to spark the idea in the man’s mind.

"So," he leans back against the chair, arms folded on his chest.

With an exhale, upon your failed attempt to make him take the hint, you resolve to explaining the school rules to him.

"Our school mandates that the child’s parent or legal guardian be present at at least three of those assemblies per school year. You haven’t been present on any of them, not even last year."

He lifts his chin slightly and raises his eyebrows, eyes fixed on you with a look that suggests he's waiting for more information or an explanation.

"There’s actually a policy within out school that allows teachers to prohibit the child from participating in certain activities or events if a parent is not present–"

"–you’re kidding," Leon interjects, his tone laced with disbelief.

Raising your hand, you stop him from continuing, "and your daughter is a great student, so I don't expect that to happen to her. But with your continuous absence, she's at risk of being excluded from certain activities."

"My job keeps me busy. And I don’t really have a say in it," Leon retorts.

Arms still folded across his chest, his brows furrow in frustration. Defence sets inside his flesh; jaw slightly twitching, his eyes bore into yours.

"Maybe her mother could–"

"–not an option," he stops you before you manage to finish the sentence.

You nod in understanding. Leaving forward, you hope to appeal to Leon’s sense of responsibility a little more.

"In that case; we’re having a sports day this Friday. If you could just show up to support your daughter, I could mark it as you being present."

Leon chuckles, his voice smooth. Looking out the nearby window, he stares into the field right next to the school for a moment, deep in thought. The sunlight filtering through the window casts a warm glow on his sharp features, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

Silence passes before he speaks up, "Wouldn't a dinner suffice instead?"

You clear your throat and try to compose yourself, feeling your heartbeat pick up at the unexpected request. "That's not very appropriate, Mr Kennedy, " you say softly, attempting to hide the fluttering in your chest. "Let's see each other at the soccer match."

"Sure. I’ll see what I can do; is that all?" he asks, head turned to the side. You gaze upon the now exposed wound on his jawline, vaguely resembling a cat’s claw scratch. The bruise colors on his cheek faded over the past few days.

"Yes," you assure him.

"Y’know, this whole thing could’ve been an email."

You smile wryly, "Would you react to that email?"

Looking back at you, there’s a flicker of mischievous dancing in his eyes. Leon's gaze holds yours for a moment longer, and you find yourself drawn to the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes, evidence of his amusement.

"You got me there."

The sun blankets the field in gold, casting elongated shadows of the children as they scamper around in pursuit of the ball. It’s still quite early. The air’s crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and; sound of excited cheers and shouts echo throughout the surrounding area.

It’s comforting. Soothing in a way.

With a group of teachers, you watch the little girl darting across the field, her movements resembling that of a graceful gazelle as she expertly maneuvers the ball. She weaves in and out of the other players, a look of determination etched on her youthful face.

A chorus of her name echoes across the field, drifting like a wispy trail of smoke. The other kids cheer her on as she makes her way towards the goal, her tiny frame seemingly defying the laws of physics with her quick and nimble movements.

A round of applause erupts when the ball meets the back of the net. You watch as the little girl’s teammates rush to congratulate her.

"And who is that," a woman’s voice tears your gaze away from the cheerful moment, hands stopping mid-clasp.

Curious, you look at her. The other teachers already gazing to your right. To the parking lot.

Leaning against the sleek car, its design demanding attention; even from further away, he exudes an air of quiet confidence that's impossible to ignore. Eyes covered by another set of sunglasses, the same leather jacket strains against his folded arms.

Mr Kennedy.

Leon Kennedy.

Something about him always seems to draw attention; to captivate anyone who catches a glimpse of him.

It’s odd. Uncanny–

You should know better than to think in such a way about your student’s father.

–and you wonder if it’s just you who feels that way.

As the group of teachers chatter, a voice pipes up, "Is he someone's father?"

"He has to be," the conversation carries on, "or he wouldn’t be here–"

"–or he’s a creep."

Turning to face the person who said it, you scoff at the teacher before speaking up.

"He’s her dad," You nod in the direction of the girl with a beaming smile on your face, as she energetically waves at Leon. His response, though polite, is less enthusiastic, evident by the restrained movement of his hand.

Escaping the gossip, you follow the white boundary lines of the field towards your target, the soft grass crunching beneath your feet. Leon's eyes are fixed on the field, his sharp features softened by the spring glow.

But he's quick to notice your approach, turning his head ever so slightly to the left. It makes you feel naked as he shamelessly watches you coming closer.

"Mr Kennedy," you greet him.

As you approach, the warm spring breeze ruffles your hair, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mixing with his heady aroma. Posture relaxed, his broad shoulders almost blend with the darkness of the car behind him.

"Just call me Leon."

Eyes back on the field, a tinge of carelessness in his voice, a small tug on his lips. Hesitating momentarily, you put your hands in your pockets.

"I’d rather stick to being professional."

It makes him chuckle; voice rumbling with amusement–

"You’re making me feel old," he teases.

–making your chest tighten. His words brush against your ears like the gentle rustling of leaves on a cool autumn breeze.

The lightness in his tone, the hint of playfulness, stirs something deep within you.

It’s your turn to return the light laugh. The sound mingling with the chirping of birds in the distance.

"It’s good that you’re here. Your daughter seems to appreciate it as well."

Leon's eyes flicker to his daughter, still surrounded by her teammates; a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," he says, the warmth in his voice evident, "she’s been talking about this game for a week."

"She’s really talented in sports."

A cool breeze brushes against your skin as he removes his sunglasses. Eyes reminiscent of the clear waters of a mountain lake–the color seems to deepen and intensify as he looks at you, drawing you in.

"That she got from me," the corners of his mouth curve up into a charming smile. His voice deep and smooth, like a glass of well-aged whiskey. You can sense his confidence, the way he carries himself with ease, and it's hard not to be drawn in.

It's alluring. The way he exudes a sense of self-assurance.

Smiling lightly, hand resting on the cool hood of his car, you both watch the children race each other. Cheers fill the soccer fields.

Even in momentarily silence, it’s comfortable–

"Well, she certainly inherited some good genes, Mr Kennedy."

–there’s no awkward cluster around the two of you. It’s natural.

It draws Leon’s attention back to you. Arms folded, his fingers sneak around his bicep, gripping gently as he shamelessly looks at you. His face a canvas of chiseled features and sharp lines. reminiscent of a Greek statue carved out of marble. A faint scent of musk and cologne lingers around him, blending with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers in the air.

"Just so you know, miss teacher," his voice soft melody that lingers in your mind, "the dinner invitation still stands."

It’s tempting.

The words hang in the air, tantalizingly close.

A whistle cuts through the sounds of the soccer field, interrupting the moment. Leon’s attention briefly flickers towards his daughter, checking as the little girl sprints towards the two of you, before returning to your face.

"And I should remind you, Mr Kennedy, that it’s not very appropriate to ask your daughter’s teacher out."

The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man is hard to resist though. His confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily–

"So? It’s just dinner," his tone is almost conspiratorial, as if he's sharing a secret with you.

–it makes you feel alive.

(Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not strictly forbidden.

Only frown upon. Harshly.)

It's like he's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit.

"Daddy," his daughter doesn’t hesitate, jumping straight into her father’s arm; yet Leon isn’t phased at all, hoisting her into his arms, "Did you see my goal?"

"I did, pup," arm sneaking underneath her knees, you notice the bandage gone, "you killed it."

"Miss teacher," the kid addresses you, hand sneaking into her dad’s hair to hold him tightly while looking up at you with bright, curious eyes, "Did you see me? Did you see my goal?"

"Of course," you answer with a warm smile, "you did great. Seems like you got good genes for it."

The little girl beams with pride, hugging her father even tighter. Leon chuckles, the sound low and rich, and nods his head in agreement.

"I’ll see you on Monday then; pleasure seeing you, Mr Kennedy," as you turn to leave, you can't help but feel a twinge of regret.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by occasional laughter and the clink of glasses. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden booths and bar, giving the place a cozy feel. The smell of fried food and beer lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance of the traditional American pub.

From a corner, a live band plays classic rock tunes, and the patrons nod along to the rhythm, singing softly under their breaths. It's a perfect spot to unwind after a long workday, catch up with friends. Or even make new connections.

Your little freedom.

Away from responsibilities. From the stress of daily life.

This is your escape, your sanctuary, where you can let loose and just be yourself.

Coming to the bartender, you order another round for the group you’re with, only to be taken back by a familiar voice saying your name.

Turning to look at the man by your right, the white stripes on his jacket contrast against the dim, warm ambiance of the room. Fingers tapping on the rim of the glass of whiskey, he takes a sip, his gaze fixed on you; the amber liquid catching the light, casting a glow across his features.

"Mr Kennedy," you exhale, almost in disbelief by the sudden situation.

Mind whirling with surprise and curiosity; the bar is chill against your exposed arm as you lean onto it, turning to look at the man by your side.

"Wouldn’t expect a teacher to be in a bar on Friday night," he smirks, the corner of his lips curving up in amusement.

"We’re not as frigid as people have us to be," you replied, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips.

Voice like a smoldering flame, waiting to be ignited, he tilts the glass towards you, "Oh, really."

The allure of his presence tangible.

A gravitational pull.

"Well, Mr Kennedy," the words roll off your tongue smoothly, "I suppose we all have our ways of letting loose after a hard week."

He chuckles, the sound deep and throaty; making your pulse quicken, heartbeat pick up. "I couldn't agree more," he says, taking another sip of his drink.

You study him for a moment; taking in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how his hair fal across his forehead in a disheveled yet stylish way. There’s something undeniably attractive about him, something that draws you in against all odds–

–like a moth to a flame.

Life has a funny way of working out.

You should stop.

But ‘should’ doesn’t exist in the moment of impulse. In the realm of desire. Pure, unblistered passion. The temptation to follow desire is too strong–

The world falls away.

–and all thought of 'should' dissipates.

Leon's hands slide around your thighs, gripping the flesh firmly as his body pushes against yours. Pinned to the wall; his lips trail the pulse of your neck. The tip of his tongue leaving wet patches on the heated skin.

The sudden intrusion of reality makes you gasp,"What about—".

It’s Leon’s hand on your breast; squeezing, teasing the clothed flesh through the thin material, thumbing at the erect nipple, that earns him a moan. His daughter’s name spilling over into a sound so soft. Inviting.

Like a hummingbird.

A content hum echoes in his chest; pressed tightly against yours. Feeling the muscles contract beneath you, respond to your movement; to the way your hips press against the growing bulge in his pants.

"—she’s stayin’ at my friend’s," he mumbles against the curve of your collarbones, teeth grazing the firm area.

With a strong grip, your fingers entangle in his hair. The texture soft and silky, like running your hands through fine threads of spun gold.

"Isn’t she young for sleepovers?"

It makes him look at you. Eyes glazed over; hungry. Primal–

He pulls you into an embrace, arm wrapping around your back, his palm cupping your ass. The heat of his body seeps through your clothing, searing your skin with its intensity, his breath ghosting over your lips as he whispers, "I really don’t wanna talk about my kid right now."

It’s a command rather than anything else.

Followed by your clothes.

He has you bare before you make up your mind.

–causing your skin to crawl.

With every touch, every whisper, every breath, he leaves you feeling more exposed, more vulnerable.

Limbs tangled together, lips pressed against each other; there’s no beginning and no end. When one begins, the other follows, like an unbroken circle of passion and desire.

Utter consumption by the fire inside you.

Leon’s hands feel scorching. Each stroke branding your skin.

He splits your apart, fills you to the brim. The head of his cock kisses the innermost parts of you as you stay seated on top of him. Nails scratching the firm muscle of his breastplate; he grips your sides. Digs his fingers into the soft, plump flesh there.

Teeth nip at your chin. Gently nibbles accompanied by your hips circling on top of him.

Cascade of groans, grunts and moans echo throughout Leon’s bedroom; each sound building on the other to create a crescendo of pleasure. The mattress beneath you creaks and strains under your knees.

Lost in the feeling.

His words a salacious melody; sung in a sultry whisper followed by his teeth, nibling at your earlobe; securing your grip on his shoulders feeling the strength of his muscles as he guides your moves.

Up and down. Up and down.

Circle your hips when your pelvis meets his. When your ass touches his thighs; when his fingers dig into the round flesh.

The rhythm builds, the tension mounting with every breath. The ache of desire deep inside, a longing that can only be sated by him. With each movement, you feel closer to the edge, your body aching for release.

Leon whispers encouragement, his voice like a caress against your skin. Head buried in the crook of your neck, your arms tighten around his shoulder. Face buried in the top of his head, the scent of him fills your senses; a heady, intoxicating aroma that envelops you in its warmth.

You breathe him in, savoring the subtle notes of bergamot and spice, the rich undertones of musk and earthiness.

Leon’s name leaves your lips in a soft, breathless moan, a prayer to the god of pleasure.

His lips brush against your collarbone, lingering there for a moment before trailing lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Skin erupting in goosebumps as his breath tickles your chest, your body bows like a taut bowstring, a supplication to his touch. Offering yourself up to him completely.

Hands roam over your body, tracing the curves and planes of your skin with reverent fingers. As if he knows just where to touch you.

With a strong pull and push, your back meets the hard mattress. His hands move over you like a painter's brush, each stroke bringing out a new hue of pleasure. Hips grinding against yours.

Pressing your body closer to his, chest to chest, he rocks against you. The intensity of his movements leaves you gasping for air, a low moan escaping your lips as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he continues to rut into you.

Long lost is the slow motion–

Your pelvis meets his in a harsh, demanding thrust.

–now he’s chasing his own high. His own release.

His hand slides to cup your jaw, grip your shoulder, eyes boring into yours; intense and unwavering, as if he’s trying to read your thoughts through the depth of your eyes. Consumed by the heat of you.

Head thrown back, you close your eyes; unable to match the fire in his as he grinds against you; his breaths ragged gasps, the only sound in the room the soft rustling of sheets and the slapping of skin against skin.

Leon knows he won’t last long. Not with the way your mouth remains agape, nails digging into the firm tendons of his biceps; heels digging into the flesh of his ass, pushing him deeper. Demanding him to go harder.

You just look so pretty underneath him.

Fingertips trace the warm flesh of your curves. They move slowly, mapping the supple contours of your body with precision; each touch deliberate, a way of committing the curves of your form to memory.

The sensation is electric, every nerve ending on high alert.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with teasing precision, a feather-light touch. Pushing your hips into his, he obliges your silent demand – adding a bit more pressure with each pass. The slow, steady rhythm of his touch in bright contrast to the sharp thrusts.

Building the tension inside you, until you feel like you might burst. But he doesn't let up, not yet. He's savoring every moment, enjoying the way you writhe beneath him.

Your breath hitches, body tensing as he works you with an almost clinical precision. The ache between your legs grows, spreading through your entire body. He watches you, gauging your reactions, and adjusts his touch accordingly.

The way he focuses on you, with a singular, unwavering intensity, is both thrilling and terrifying.

As for Leon, every movement, every sound, is calculated. He wants to make this last. He wants to make you lose control.

His muscles tense as he drives into you, each thrust bringing him closer to the edge. His breaths come in short gasps, matching the rhythm of your moans. The heat between you intensifies, a physical force that binds you together.

With one final push, final flick of a thumb, he takes you over the edge, his name on your lips.

Clenching around him, walls fluttering, his thrusts grow slow. Leisurely.

As if he’s tantalizing himself. Savoring the feel before he lets go with a groan; a guttural sound that echoes through the bedroom; body spasming. The two of you entwined in a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

There should be some sort of regret.

Standing by the foot of Leon’s bed, still searching for your clothes amid the scattered chaos of the apartment, covered by a random shirt you’ve found on the ground (that’s definitely not the one you’ve come with), you can’t help but be drawn to the sleeping man lying before you.

The sheets barely cover the curve of his lower back, and even in slumber, the muscles of his back remain visible; the outline of his physique remains defined and sharp, even in relaxation. The memory of his back muscles beneath your palms lingers on your skin, as if he were still present with you in that moment.

There’s no regret.

Exiting the bedroom, you walk past the kitchen into the hallway. The emptiness of the space is palpable, with nothing adorning the plain white walls; no family photos or decorations to add personality. Only the essential pieces of furniture remain. The floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you open the door closer to you–

(It’s almost like he doesn’t have anyone.

A sense of desolation creeps in you.)

–and are met with a blinding contrast to the rest of the apartment. Rainbow colored sheets neatly tucked into the small bed, pillows in shape of various animals. Light furniture covered in school supplies; and a photo decorating the nightstand.

You pick it up, immediately recognized the two people. It might be the first time you’re seeing Leon actually smile, wide and bright. Happy; with his daughter tightly wrapped in his arms. Faces pressed together, smiling at the camera.

"I hope you're not trying to steal anything," Leon's voice interrupts your reverie; low and husky, still laced by the morning sleep, "I don't have much, y’know."

As you pivot to face him, you can't resist noticing how his bare feet stand out against his fully-clothed form. Hair tousled and messy, only adding to his rugged appeal.

An irresistible wave of attraction washes over you as you scrutinize his appearance, and his playful tone only adds fuel to the fire.

"Don't worry, I'm not after your prized possessions," you reply with a smirk, feeling emboldened by his proximity.

Leon's eyes twinkle mischievously as he steps closer to you, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. "Well, in that case, what’re you after?"

"I was just looking for a bathroom."

Leon's gaze lingers on you, lips curled up in a half-smile. "The bathroom’s down the hall to the right," he points with a nod of his head.

You nod back, trying to ignore the electric sensation that courses through you at his proximity. "Thanks," you say, stepping past him towards the direction he indicated.

As you walk down the hallway, you can't shake off the feeling of emptiness that you felt earlier. It's clear that Leon lives a minimalist lifestyle, but the lack of personal touches leaves you with a sense of melancholy.

Entering the bathroom, you take a moment to splash water on your face, trying to compose yourself before facing Leon again.

His voice echoes through the small apartment as you make your way towards his voice, entering the kitchen; you're struck by how immaculate it is. Everything’s in its place, and there isn't a single dish out of place. The countertop is spotless, the sink free of any debris, the stainless-steel appliances gleam in the light.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air with the morning sun streaming through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.

"I’ll pick her up in an hour," Leon stands in front of the refrigerator, two mugs in one hand, bare feet making a soft thumping sound against the linoleum floor. His hair’s still tousled from sleep, his t-shirt is wrinkled, clinging to his muscles as he holds the phone to his ear.

There’s a certain charm to his disheveled appearance that you find appealing.

Looking at you, he makes no effort to stop the call, instead a playful undertones his voice as he hands you a mug and motions towards the coffee machine, "yeah, just woke up. Had a long night."

Shaking your head at his words; he watches you with a small, amused smile, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"See you then. Bye, Claire,” he ends the call, turning his full attention to you.

"Y’know, miss teacher," he pours himself a glass of water, "if you just wanted to skip the whole dinner thing, you should’ve just said."

[cookiepie111]

Inspired by @yeyinde got me thinking about regency era simon . I blacked out and wrote this. Simon x black reader. Not proofread

That questionable man that follows Mr price everywhere, the one that spoke 3 times in house when Mr. Price and his wife were away, managed to somehow disgust all the maids and servant men.

It seems you got the short end of the stick. You're the one he needs something. A drink, finding a room, a cut arm.

He's Got you cornered at the edge of the servants kitchen, presenting a bleeding hand. The servants dont make it past the door when they see his back, opting to leave him and the poor you pressed up against him.

The man's cut all over from things worse than severing knife, he'd be fine, just wrap some cloth around it. But that's no good he wouldn't have your soft hands pressing down a little too hard on the wound, wouldn't get to sit so close to you taking in all the shades of brown in your face and the smell the sweet orange perfume Mrs price gave you. He thanks you with a kiss to neck, something you told him to stop too many times before.

He's safe, it's John's maid he's messing him, if ghost asks, john will present you so nicely to him and even pay for the wedding. Only he's wrong, your Mrs. Price maid so when you cry to her about the nasty man who won't leave you alone, she's wringing John's ear out.

"Tell your dog to keep his grubby hands off my maid!"

"come on now he just being nice."

[eowynstwin]

playing the quiet game

Pairing: Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: Dominant/submissive dynamics, established relationship, implied kink pre-negotiation, a LOT of fingering (f!receiving), a lil Price angst Tagging: @dilfconisuer who I teased with this a while back, and fellow Price simps @yeyinde @guyfieriii @alittleposhtoad Author’s Notes: I shit you not, the clock struck midnight January 1st and fireworks started going off in the middle of writing the orgasm. Happy new year! Enjoy the smut.

Now on AO3!

The world is soft and cozy as you come back into it, a little fuzzy from over-washing and dyed in the cool tones of early morning. You’re in that delicious place at the edge of sleep, mind swaying between dreams and reality, body languid and draped on your side across the bed. Touch is the first sense that comes back to you—a warm weight at your back, hips flush with your rear and legs bent along the contours of your own. You shift a little, to give yourself an excuse to settle against it.

“Mm,” John murmurs as he notices you stir, mouth against your neck, nuzzling you slowly with the wiry brush of his facial hair. The hum of his voice is low enough to vibrate between your shoulder blades.

“Mm?” you respond, scent returning next. The new detergent he’s using, gentle and mildly floral, and the fresh pine of the shampoo he washed his hair with last night. The ever-present smokey molasses that’s permanently seeped into his skin. You keep your eyes closed, saving sight for later, imagining that as long as you see nothing, John and the sheets you’re both wrapped up in can be the only thing that exists.

His hand rests on your ribcage, and smooths its way down your hip and thigh. It travels back up again, then retreats—rhythmic, even, fingers dipping and spreading at the curves and valleys of your body. It’s at the same tempo as your breath, which is normalizing as more of your mind picks reality to set up in. You can feel him breathing, too, chest rising and falling against your back, warm exhales fanning across the bare expanse of skin he’s claimed with his mouth and mutton chops.

Down your ribcage, along your hip, and back up. His other arm, you discover as you shift again, is propping him up, forearm wormed into the wedge of empty space between your neck and shoulder and the bed. His knee nudges the back of your thigh.

He paints another soft, prickly kiss on your neck, and rubs his chin and cheek into your jaw. You don’t hide the moan it inspires.

“Keep it down,” he whispers. His hand splays on your thigh. “Thin walls, love.”

You make another noise, lower, somewhere in your throat. His hand is warm on your bare skin, soft and sturdy as it travels along your body, not quite kneading but giving enough pressure to sink in, to meld your flesh like clay with every pass.

“John,” you murmur. “Mm. John…”

“Shh,” he breathes into your ear.

You feel his lips on your neck again, feel his hand divert from its established path to smooth across your belly. The spread of his fingers is wide enough to graze the underside of one breast, and you can’t help the little inhale of anticipation you give. At the same, even rhythm, John drags the flat of his hand down your stomach to its lowest border, and you forget to breathe at all for that little minute before, once again, his touch retreats from whence it came.

His mouth parts on your neck. The hot graze of his tongue meets your skin before the press of his teeth claims the space, and his hand travels just a little lower with the next pass.

Some part of you wonders if you should figure out what John has in mind right now, compare it to what you actually have time for. Off-duty or not, you’re still on base. But then the top of his thigh aligns flush with the back of yours; and you realize, the thought settling into the soft place in your mind between sleep and waking, that he would be doing none of this if he had cause not to. He already knows that you love waking up like this. He knows what circumstances in which he should not wake you up like this. When it comes to you, John Price remains in comfortable, considerate control—and leaves you only with the task of saying yes, please or not now, thank you. He has never asked you to figure out the right place or the right time.

You don’t have to worry about anything. John has already worried about it for you. Your head feels light, airy; you’d think you were slipping back into sleep, if it didn’t suddenly feel like your skin was electrified. It’s a feeling that always comes with letting go and letting him be in charge.

“John,” you murmur again, the breath in your lungs escaping, the sigh mimicking the same one he always draws from you when you finally surrender.

The seal over your skin he has with his lips and teeth gives a sharp pull. “Someday I’ll figure out how to keep you quiet,” he says, low and amused as he disconnects.

The smile that rests against your skin sends sparks dancing across your scalp.

“Don’t stop,” you say, the quiet tone of your voice laced with a yearning you can’t conceal. “Please, John…”

His palm crests the jut of your hip and glides back inward, downward, fingertips skimming the crease of your thighs. The nerves there jump to meet him, buzzing suddenly with too much energy for your still half-asleep mind to moderate. He seals his mouth over a new spot on your neck, dragging the flat of his tongue, blistering hot, along your skin.

“You’re going to leave marks,” you breathe.

“The gear covers them up,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety purr. “Be good for me, love.”

Euphoria blooms hot across your face. “Yes, John.”

He growls a little, pleased with you, and his fingers dip into your panties and between your folds.

The jerk your leg gives is involuntary. John curls his leg further inward to meet it, to keep it pushed upward, as the heat of his broad hand cups your sex. You feel the tip of one finger trace along your perineum, and a whimper makes its way out of your throat before his other hand wraps around your jaw, tilts your head backward. His mouth finds your ear, the stubble pricking at delicate cartilage.

“Not going to tell you again,” he murmurs, just a little bit of the Captain leaking into his tone. “Quiet down. Aye?”

A shiver races down your spine, makes a home in your sacrum. You nod, as much as you can in his grip. You understand the shape of his control, the intention of it; he’s not looking for a verbal affirmation, and to give one would incur consequences. You’re not opposed to his consequences—often, they’re as sweet as his rewards. But right now you want to bask in this submission, want to earn what he’s already set on giving you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tracing your lips with his index finger. His other hand kneads your pussy, that same up-and-down motion that he woke you up with, and his mouth returns to your neck, teeth sinking into another sliver of unmarked skin.

You settle into him, push your pelvis forward just a little, hoping he sees it for the offer it is rather than the demand it could be mistaken for. He chuckles against you, and teases one finger between your labia, brushes your entrance before flicking upward to surprise your clit. It makes your leg jerk again, and John only takes the opportunity to wrap around you more tightly. You feel him then, against your ass, in the cleft of it—he’s hard as iron, and ramrod-erect.

You suck your lips between your teeth, swallow, exhale a shaky breath from your nose. Pleasure radiates from the tips of his fingers, from the flex of his palm, as he traces the outlines of your sex at a pace too leisurely for early-morning sensitivity to handle. But you won’t make a sound. You’re going to be good for him. The ache between your legs begins to throb, and John must feel it, because finally he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. Sound almost makes it out of you. A gasp, a sharp inhale, but you swallow it down, and John smiles against you. He releases his teeth from you, presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, and takes up the same rhythm he’s been maintaining this whole time, a slow, steady caress that you want to whine at. His hand slides down to your throat, dwarfing the breadth of your neck—not squeezing, but monitoring. He’ll be able to feel any noise you make.

“I didn’t say you had to be silent, love,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down from your clit to swirl around your entrance—and squelching loud enough to let you both know that you’re drenched. “You just need to remember who that noise belongs to.”

You gasp when he slides a thick finger into you with not a moment of warning. “You—ah—you have to be specific, John,” you whisper, hyper-aware of your walls fluttering around him as he languidly pumps in and out of you. “I can’t be good for you if I don’t know the rules—ohh.”

He pushes in to the knuckle, curls his finger against the spot that has black spots dancing across your vision. Before they can blend together, overtake you, he withdraws, pulls out to circle your clit again, and you only wonder for a moment if this is the new rhythm before he gives the bundle a hard tap before pushing back in again.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, mouth open on your jaw, slipping a second finger into you. You have to clench your teeth to keep your mewl from becoming a moan. “And I did just wake you up, didn’t I?”

The stretch, the burn of new fullness, steals your ability to respond. The slow thrust of his hand picks up just a little, as if he wants to make it even harder for you to reply, but you’re determined. “Mm, John,” you breathe, “Let me be good for you.”

He goes still for a moment, fingers halting inside you, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and then his hand suddenly tightens around your neck—not cutting off your air, but utterly possessive, and he hooks his knee under yours to spread your thigh outward. Immediately he’s pistoning his fingers into you alarmingly quickly, and you only remember to stifle yourself at the last moment, turning a surprised shriek into a series of quick, high-pitched mewls. He thrusts against you, grinds his cock against your ass.

“You’re always good for me,” he growls into your ear, shoving in to the knuckle, flicking wildly against your g-spot. “Even when you’re not. I don’t fuckin’ deserve you, love, not a single thing you do for me.”

You want to refute him—want to tell him everything you give him is just a return on what he’s given you. But you can’t, and the only reason you can’t is that he’s fucking the breath out of your lungs with nothing but his goddamn fingers, meanwhile his cock tucked against your ass is so hard you can practically feel the throb of blood running through it.

And anyway, he doesn’t want you to tell him. This is no morning confessional, no whispered prayer to absolve his greed for you. He isn’t saying this because he thinks he’s taking advantage of you—it’s just the naked truth of what John believes, laid bare as if in offering. It’s the best way he knows how to tell you he adores you.

He’s explained all of this. You’ve told him he needs therapy. He’s laughed, and he’s agreed.

“Just don’t stop taking any of it,” you whisper, turning your head, finally opening your eyes to see his face, to drink in the muss of warm brown hair and the fray of uncombed beard. A gentle blue gaze, incongruous with the furor of his hand between your legs, meets yours. “Just don’t stop taking me.”

Dark brows draw together, etching a crease into his forehead. That blue becomes electric. “Never,” he growls, and takes your mouth with his.

His hand leaves your throat to join the other, and a third finger enters you as he resumes the massage on your clit that he’d left off. His tongue sweeps along the ridge of your teeth, probes inward to dance along your own, and at the same time he spreads his fingers inside of you, stretching you so far that you don’t think there isn’t a place in you that he isn’t touching. You think he’s filled your entire body with just his fingers, because there isn’t room in you anymore for your lungs to expand beyond shallow, whining breath. Your legs are shaking of their own accord, muscles twitching every time his fingers brush just the right spot on your clit, and you know he’s realized what he’s found when the flicker of his touch does not leave that spot.

You moan, low and breathy, keeping the sound in the back of your throat. You feel nothing but John, know nothing but the warmth of his arms caging you against his body, the searing burn of his fingers stretching you almost as wide as his cock can. His body is moving with yours, his hips pressing yours forward, shoving you farther into his hands and onto his fingers. The sheets are a mess of wrinkles around your moving bodies, and you finally remember your own arms, your own hands as they’re gripping the fabric without your input.

When your touch finds his forearms, when your nails dig into the broad muscle of them, you feel it coming fast. It’s fluttering around his fingers, pulling tight against the muscles in your thighs. Foreshocks have your body undulating against his, and you know, when his fingers thrust deep and stay there, that he can feel it coming, too.

“That’s it love,” he growls into your lips, kissing you between words. Three fingers curl into you, and you wonder if your body can break apart from the pleasure of their simple pressure behind your clit. “You’re being fucking perfect—I can feel it, fuck—come on, you’ve more than earned it, come for me—”

And all it takes for you then is his words, the rasp of his breath against your mouth, for ecstasy to explode in you from the tips of his fingers, pleasure bursting outward in a shockwave that wracks your entire body. Your breath comes short and quick as it takes you, and you whimper John’s name until he kisses you again, saving you from having to control your own volume as you lose control over everything else. He keeps fucking you as you shudder against his body, keeps up the frantic pace of his thrusting hand and the vice-like pressure he has around your clit, sending aftershocks across your body that keep you shaking and near-sobbing against his mouth. He does not let you get away from it, does not let you escape his hands, and does not stop until you go limp and boneless in his arms.

You come back to yourself, eons later, still breathing hard, panting in sync with John. His hold on you has slackened, arms still around you but loose enough that it’s easy—if not prompt, as it still feels like your muscles are jelly—to turn over to face him. He’s gazing at you, as if he wants to drink you in with his eyes alone, and that gaze is heavy-lidded and content. Neither of his hands have gone southward, searching for his cock or his own release. This is not unusual. He’s told you before that he knows he’ll get his eventually. And you know by now, too, that sometimes John finds more satisfaction in your orgasm than his own.

Every sense has come back to you now. His facial hair is softer than it looks, as you cup the side of his face, and the smell of detergent and shampoo is mingled now with the humid weight of the perspiration you two have worked up. The taste of him—you realized belatedly that he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth before this, because it’s lightly minty—is still on your tongue. His breath is heavy, but even and quieter than yours, obscured somewhat by your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears.

But the best experience is the sight of him—painted in the warming tones of a day starting to get on, t-shirt tight across his chest, skin a little flushed and shimmery with moisture. He smiles at you, blue eyes liquid with open affection, as you stroke his mustache. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I can’t believe you did that with your fucking fingers,” you laugh.

The smile spreads, creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you let me.”

It’s a softness that he always expresses after he’s done anything to you. Whatever he thinks he deserves from you, he never hides his gratitude for what you give him.

When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a kiss that he lingers in, lips moving softly against yours as one hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Your elbows don’t want to prop you up for much longer, though, and you have to break away to lay your head back down.

“Good morning, John,” you say, smiling softly.

He shifts, moves closer, eyes tender as they remain settled on you. “Good morning, love.”

[jolalibrary]

what colour is your aura

I’ve been tagged by @hellishjoel + @thetriumphantpanda - thank you bbys!

ORCHID

blooming flowers, butterflies, sunsets, text messages, hair dye, auroras, neon lights. your essence is orchid: you are the brightest smile and strongest heart. you inspire those around you; unconsciously, you exist for their purpose, not your own. continue to seek the limelight though do not lie just for their applause. you are the host. you are the performer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of lavender, amethyst, pink, and purple, who share your boldness. you are also drawn to the practical wine and chiffon, who will help you grow and let you take things one step at a time. however, you may struggle to get along with the analytical personalities of chartreuse and honey who don't get swept up in your ambitions.

tagging: @swiftispunk @psychedelic-ink @goodwithcheese @secretelephanttattoo @thelightsandtheroses @perotovar @eowynstwin @yeyinde ✨🩷

[gauloiseblue]

Gauloiseblue's Bookmarks

A/N: Since there's no bookmark system like they had in AO3, I decide to make one on this site. Will update the list from time to time.

COD

Price

[The True Me] by @i-am-hungry-24-7 Useless by @syoddeye Lazy Saturday Mornings by @clementine-thedestroyer Price and Beauty Mark by @ohmygraves Growing older with john price. by @obsessivelullabies Growing older with john price; smut. by @obsessivelullabies Ex-husband price, but the “ex” lays on significantly blurred lines now. by @captainfern Ex Husband!Price by @moongreenlight (A/N: you have NO idea what this fic had done to me) The boys all collectively realize that you are the captain’s favourite by @dante-mightdie weird HC by @theycalledhimastar

Gaz

lavender skies by @yeyinde (A/N: Gaz girlie, please read this I'm begging-) I may love Kyle, but I can totally admit when he acts like a total weirdo (he doesn’t, he’s perfect). by @theycalledhimastar

König

Ex-Lover Konig with runaway reader by @diejager Dog Hybrid König by @comfortless Hades!Konig and Persephone!reader by @comfortless Aroura Borealis by @clementine-thedestroyer Underground Fighter!König X Rich!Reader by @melancholic-thing

Soap

Rugby player soap fucks you after a win by @vanderilnde Pushy ass cbf!johnny and benefit pay by @shotmrmiller Valentine Days with Soap by @killerpancakeburger cbf!johnny as the dog he is by @ghouljams

Ghost

soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine by @bi-writes

Poly/HC

Fancy (Vampire! Poly! 141 x Plus size! Fem! Reader) by @swordsandholly 141 80’s Arcade AU by @clementine-thedestroyer TF141 and "can I try your drink?" By @syoddeye (A/N: don't @ me) 141 when they need attention by @void-my-warranty TF141 when you gave him hickey when you're drunk by @gloomwitchwrites

The Arcana

Asra's Love by @bahrtofane Teen Asra and puppy love headcanons by @smoke-and-silver Trip adventures with Asra by @smoke-and-silver Arcana and Weddings (fanarts) by @bastart13

Random/Miscellaneous

A/N: I put all of the Ghost Band stuff here bc I'm not officially into the fandom, but they're so irresistible to read hnggg

THEN // if (then) FINAL PART (Ghoap Comic) Roach's puppy eyes Korangi pt. 1 Korangi pt .2 Korangi (sus) pt. 3 Korangi (even more sus) pt. 4 Ghoap food pt. 1 👍👍 Self-care (Ghoap short comic) Capt Price having a cheeky wank (audio) Barry Sloane thirst trap (maybe) Bare chested Barry- Barry ugly ass poems (i'm horny) Barry Sloane seducing clip ASMR Barry talking ASMR Barry (Price) pt. 2 The band Ghost wildin' Ghost band shenanigan: part 1 The Ghouls + Rut Season (HC) Swiss meets red velvet ‘you’ve got to press it on you.’ (Ghost Band HC) Nameless Ghoul NSFW headcanons Swiss relationship and NSFW headcanons .... yeah I'm normal I swear St. Vincent *heart eyes* Miyazaki's Retirement Declarations (chronologically) Hayao Miyazaki's "Inspirational" Quotes The Hand

Web Weave | Poetry

not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing [what would happen between earth and the moon if the earth stopped spinning as illustrated by xkcd randall munroe] - Lyudmilla Ignatenko, the wife of deceased firefighter Vasily Ignatenko, Voices from Chernobyl, by Svetlana Alexeivich (transl. Keith Gessen) Robin Wood, “Psychoanalysis of Psycho” | Stoker (2013) dir. Park Chan-wook Stoker (2013) dir. Park Chan-wook and "The Lady of the House of Love" by Angela Carter This Is Me (Stoker 2013) Rice Paddies Home (What Is Home?) Whenever I see you, I remember AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICK? // DEVOTION THAT EATS YOU ALIVE

[ceilidho]

Not to be a dork, but I just wanted to say that I absolutely love the amount of vocabulary that I have learned from your writing! At least once a post I see a word that I haven’t encountered and I live that reading your work has expanded my own vocabulary. (the latest word I had to look up was “sycophantic” - great word!)

that’s me whenever I read anything by @yeyinde or @alnilaem tbh

Also I did know the word before but I was inspired to use it because Paul mescal used “sycophantic” in a recent interview and I was like oh yes I need to use that 😭

Thank you so much for reading buttermilk though!!!! 😘😘😘

[marblemoovt]

Bake A Wish - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Fluff with a smidge of angst

Summary:

You bump into a man and his daughter at the grocery store. The kid is really insistent you join them for dinner.

------

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.” Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL.

Note:

This has been sitting in my wips for over a month but it's finally done!! I apologize if the quality feels sporadic throughout the fic. Writing consistently is just something I can't seem to do and my motivation/inspiration has been in a slump lately. The amount of fluff fics I've written that involve baking is ridiculous, I didn't realize that's the activity I default to lol.

I've never written for John before, so I'm still trying to get a feel for his character.

Anyways, thank you @yeyinde for introducing John Price to me. I was debating on not tagging you but I can't be a coward forever.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

John holds the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Rose. The little munchkin is a ball of energy, and he fears the consequences if he were to let her run wild. “Don’t let go of my hand, ok Rosy?” Rose grins with more mischief than a little child should have. She attempts to run away, and John scoops her in his arms.

“I’m too big to be carried, Daddy!” she squeals, arms flinging around his neck to stabilize herself. The scent of her strawberry shampoo tickles his nose.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to do that again,” he says. Rose holds out her pinky, and he accepts her promise. Her finger looks tiny and frail compared to his. He sets her down and ruffles her hair despite her whinging. “Do you remember what we came here to buy?” he asks.

She claps her hands with glee and exclaims, “Cookies for Santa!!! Because Daddy can’t bake, so we have to buy cookies from the store!” John smiles, but he can’t help but feel the sting of her bluntness. Kids are way too honest.

“What kind of cookies do you want to get?” he asks.

“Not chocolate chip. Everyone uses chocolate chip.” She strokes her chin, imitating the gesture she’s seen her father do whenever he has to think hard about something. “Candy cane cookies!” She ponders over it for another minute before nodding her head. “I bet Santa’s never gotten candy cane cookies before.”

“I don’t think they sell those, rosebud,” he says, and she frowns.

“I guess they’re too special to sell in a store,” she laments, her enthusiasm wilting a little.

John crouches down to Rose’s eye level. “Why don’t we look at all the cookies they have and pick one afterwards?” he suggests.

“Ok,” she sighs, holding her hand out for him to grab. Large, calloused fingers swallow her hand whole, and John wonders how much longer it will stay like this. Her brown locks are a few inches longer than last time, but the beaming smile on her face when she sees him remains constant. He blinks the heat away from his eyes and leads Rose to the snack aisle. 

There’s an entire shelf dedicated to cookies, some of them themed for the holidays. But the snowflake shortbread cookies further deflate Rose. She droops when they come across sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. John silently curses the corporate companies for manufacturing every winter holiday cookie except for a candy cane. He squeezes her hand, and his heart aches when he catches Rose biting her lip. Tears are on the verge of spilling, but she will not cry. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s seen her cry. The thought bothers him more than he wants.

John spots a box of rainbow cookies on the top shelf. He releases her hand to grab them, “What about these?” When he turns around, Rose is gone. The box tumbles to the ground. “Rose?” His eyes sweep the shelves. Rows of cookies and other snacks, but no sign of her. “Rosy?!” He begins jogging through the store, checking every aisle before moving on to the next. Icy claws grip his chest, and all of his senses are on high alert. He fidgets with the dog tags around his neck and has to remind himself that he’s not on duty.

Sharp laughter slices through the pounding in his eardrums; a high-pitched fit dissolves into familiar giggles. Rose. He flexes his clenched fists to relieve the stinging in his palms. He pinpoints the sound to the baking section and sprints like a madman. Sliding to a stop, he spots her at the other end of the aisle. His body sags against a shelf, and the air enters his lungs with ease once more.

“My Daddy’s amazing! He can shoot bad guys from reeeeally far away,” Rose brags to a stranger crouched in front of her. That stranger is you.

A faint giggle grabbed your attention. Twinkling lights accompanied by the pounding of tiled flooring. A little girl beelined straight toward you, veering to the side to hide behind a display of chocolate bars. She covered her shoes with her hands to dull the blinking, peering around for someone. She spotted you holding a bag of flour and asked if you bake. Her eyes lit up when you confirmed that you do. 

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.”

Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL. You don’t have the heart to correct her. Correction: You’re too busy trying not to collapse on the floor in a fit of laughter. The misunderstanding is best left alone, but your curiosity is piqued. What does this man look like?

“Rose!” A voice booms from the other end of the aisle, and the child hides behind you. You stand up and shield her with your body, eying the stranger with a frown. Brown hair with silver streaks, and his eyes—fuck, you wish the sky would be that blue instead of grey. He approaches you two, and when Rose makes no further movements, you stick your arm out to block him.

“Who are you?” you ask. He must be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and built like he could beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted. 

He mirrors your frown, eyes flickering to the brown hair peeking behind your figure. “I should be asking you that. Who are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?”

You narrow your eyes. “How do I know you’re not some pervert who kidnaps children?”

He chuckles; the low rumble sends the butterflies rampaging against your stomach walls. “Sweetheart, I could say the same about you,” and he crosses his arms—his thick and muscular arms. The way his biceps bulge underneath his sweater…. You bite your lip. The metallic tang in your mouth grounds you. You swipe a tongue across the fresh wound, and the sting helps you regain a few brain cells. 

Turning to Rose, you ask, “Is this your dad?” and squeeze her hands. “You can tell me if it isn’t, and we’ll find a nice employee to help you.” You talk slowly, enunciating each word with care. Rose glances at the man behind you before settling on your face. 

She cups her hands around her mouth, and you lean in, her warm breath tickling your ear. “Yeah, that’s my dad. What do you think? Super handsome, right?” she whispers. You glance at him and huff. A fucking dill, indeed. 

“Rosy, stop bothering the nice stranger,” her father says, gesturing for her to come to him. She skips over and fails to dodge his hand. Rose groans and buries her face into her father’s stomach as he ruffles her hair. You avert your eyes and ignore the heat that prickles the back of your neck. Wringing your hands, you stare at the floor as their laughter echoes in the aisle. You hardly know these people. Plus his wife must be somewhere in the store, ready to pop out at any second. 

“The ‘stranger’ has a name,” you speak up, introducing yourself. You keep your eyes trained on the shelf of sprinkles above his right shoulder as if the plastic bottles of sugar will stop you from falling.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. “John, John Price.” Firm warmth envelopes your skin and dissipates far too quickly for your liking. Sparks of electricity fizzle before they get a chance to light your nerves on fire—and you want to burn.

“Heh, P as in Pickle,” you snicker, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. Your arm drops to your side, and your bones turn to lead. The sky must be grey because all the blue was stolen and contained in his eyes. There’s no coldness, no ice, only calm ripples of water. The gentle drag of the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, inviting you into its depths.

John raises a brow. “An odd observation, but yes.” He smooths Rose’s hair to no avail. Baby hairs and cowlicks in all different directions are a continuous reminder that he’s been meaning to learn how to style hair. 

Rose beams at him with her toothy grin. “Cause Daddy’s a dill!” she adds.

John’s confused expression quickly morphs into one of horror. “Where did you hear that?!” He narrows his eyes at you. 

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. This is the first time we’ve met.”

Rose tugs on his shirt and says, “That lady who used to babysit me. She also called you a fox, but I told her you’re a man.” Your eyes widen, and your shoulders tremble. John runs a hand through his graying hair, and you rip your gaze away because witnessing that felt illegal. Every time you look at him you notice another thing that attracts you.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about her. I love Rose, but she can be a handful at times,” he says, whispering the second half. His head tilts forward, and now all you can focus on is how his moustache frames his mouth. Plump and pink.

Your lips crook upwards in a slant. “It’s not a problem. She’s an entertaining conversationalist.” You find yourself drawing nearer to his face, wandering from the shore and deeper into the ocean—oblivious to the current that will pull you under.

Rose tugs on your shirt and asks, “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” You pull away with a sharp inhale, processing how John’s eyes flicker to your lips. The little girl gazes at you with a hopeful smile, but you look to her father for confirmation. 

“Rose, you can’t invite people you barely know to your home,” he reprimands, and her smile flatlines. It’s probably for the best. At the current pace, it’s like you’re in a sappy romance novel! John shoots you an apologetic smile, but you wave your hand and shake your head in understanding. 

Rose pouts and stares at her shoes. She shuffles her feet, and the lights twinkle with each tap. “But then there’ll be someone who can bake cookies,” she says, looking up at him with puppy eyes. John winces.

You notice him wracking his brain for a response and decide to help him. “They sell rolls of sugar cookie dough; next to the puff pastry,” and you jerk a thumb behind you. Sometimes you buy a roll or two when you feel particularly lazy but crave cookies. 

John mouths a “Thank you” and holds Rose’s hand. “C’mon, rosebud. Let’s buy some, and you can make your candy cane cookies.” 

Rose perks up at the mention of cookies, her shoes now fighting to match the brightness of her eyes. “Wow! They sell everything here!” She drags him to the pre-made dough section. Well, she tries to drag him. Rose is less than half her father’s size. It reminds you of those cartoon characters that try to move a comically large boulder. Blue eyes meet your gaze one last time and wink at you. 

Did. Did he just?

You stand there, unblinking, staring at the corner they disappeared behind. 

Holy fucking shit. He did. 

You don’t register going through the checkout and packing your things in the car. With a blink, you’re in front of the steering wheel, key in hand. Where were you...? Home. You were on your way home. Slotting the key in the ignition, you start the engine and begin the drive home. For once, the clouds have gone, and the world mocks you with its clear skies. You don’t think you can stand to look at the colour blue for a while. It’s a good thing you’re sitting right now. 

The drive itself is unremarkable. You go through the same streets, pass the same buildings, pull into the same parking lot, and park in your usual spot next to a truck. You admire the muscular arm resting on said truck window. Funny. Guess that sweater is popular around here. Large hands run through brown hair flecked with grey—John.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You creep out of your car and circle around to the apartment building, abandoning your groceries.

Just a few feet. Just a few feet, and you’ll make it to the door. Conscious of your steps, you slink across the pavement and concrete. You wrap your hand around the handle, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders. 

“Are you playing hide and seek, too?” a voice from below asks. You jerk and pull the door instead of pushing. A loud rattle echoes in the vicinity. Who decided it was a good idea to make doors out of glass? A sadist who likes to watch people open doors incorrectly, that’s who. You glance down. Long lashes frame blue eyes that stare into your soul. Your fingers itch to adjust the cowlick in the disarray of her hair. You spot a few leaves clinging to her locks. Was she hiding by that bush beside you?

“Are you hiding from your dad?” you ask Rose, scooting behind the potted plant when she beckons you closer.

Rose shrugs and peeks around you. “Daddy was taking too long. I’m waiting to see when he’ll notice I left.” 

Your brows pinch together. “That’s not safe, Rose. You should stick close to him. What if something bad happens to you?”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of uncles, and they taught me how to beat up baddies!” She punches the air a few times. Her face pulls tight in concentration before loosening into a grin. She shrinks behind the bush and brings a finger to her lips.“Now shhh, we have to be quiet.”

Boots thud against the pavement, the strides between each step growing shorter. “Rosy! Where did you run off to this time?” There’s a divet to his tone beneath the loudness, like the warning tremors of an avalanche. “I need to put that girl on a leash.” There’s a smile in his tone, but it stretches taut like a rubber band, ready to snap and whiplash you with his increasing agitation. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, eyes darting across the rows of cars. 

You can’t watch this any longer. You move to reveal yourself, but Rose beats you to it. She tiptoes behind her father, giving up halfway and slamming herself into him. 

“Boo!” Rose screams, voice muffled by his shirt. 

John stares at Rose and shouts half a second later. “Ah!” Half a second too late.

Rose pulls away with a sullen frown. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

John crouches down and pets her hair. “No, no, rosebud. Was so afraid I forgot how to talk,” he insists. 

Rose gives him a scrutinizing look. “Liar,” she pouts. John leans in and whispers something into her ear, scratching her smooth cheek with his beard. She giggles and squirms, pushing his face away with both her hands. He deliberately rubs their cheeks together, and it causes her to laugh harder. 

Once again, you’re watching the two of them from afar. Heat pricks your skin, and your gaze steers toward the door. You should be able to slip unnoticed if you’re quiet. Standing up, you wince as your joints pop. You might as well hang a giant neon sign to denote your presence. 

John’s voice glues your feet to the ground. “Let’s bring everything inside, then you can bake your cookies,” he says. You press your back against the wall and exhale through your nose. No big deal. You just need to wait until they head inside first. Your palms dig into the stony material of the building. As if with enough force, you’ll be able to reorganize your atoms and disappear into the walls to escape dying from embarrassment. 

“I have a surprise for you, Daddy!” Rose’s voice draws nearer.

You are a wall. A silent, still, and formidable wall.

“Did you find another pretty stone?” John asks, tone laced with amusement. 

You close your eyes, but the ocean will not leave you alone. The waves lap at your feet on the shore, and you shrink away. Stone presses hard into your back.

They won’t find you. They’ll walk past you and go inside. Your erratic heartbeat fragments your thoughts into mismatched puzzle pieces. You can’t think with all this drumming and adrenaline.

“It’s pretty, but it’s not a stone.” Rose runs up to you and tugs you from your hiding spot. “A special guest for dinner!” she presents you like a prized animal. You stumble, and your eyes snap open in fear of hitting the ground. Strong arms rush forward to steady you. You lift your head, and your mouth dries.

Cerulean eyes pull you into their depths, crinkles forming at their edges. John’s accent caresses your ears, and you tamp down the unintelligible noise that threatens to destroy your last shred of dignity. “I didn’t know you lived here too,” and the corners of his lips twitch.

You force your tongue to articulate, the words scraping like sandpaper up your throat. “Neither did I—that you also lived here! Cause I know that I live here because I live here!” A shaky laugh warbles out of you. “I wasn’t following you because that would be creepy—and I’m going to shut up now.” You seal your lips together before you can dig a deeper hole for yourself. His hands are still on you, fingers wrapped around your arms. Your blood sings at the contact. 

“Do you think Daddy’s handsome?” Rose blurts out. Flames lick your skin, and your mouth becomes reminiscent of a goldfish. 

John’s fingers dig into your arms, and it’s not until you flinch that his hands drop to his sides. “That’s not a polite question, Rose,” he rumbles. It’s low, a warning. But when you’re a kid, you’re not afraid of anything.

Rose places her hands on her hips. “But you were like this in the car on the way home too! And when I asked you what was wrong, you told me I was too young to understand. I’m not stupid, Daddy. I’m six.” She stomps on ‘six.’ And you watch as this little girl brings this burly man to his knees. 

John sighs, “Not here, Rose. Please.” 

But Rose refuses to yield. “Why not? You both like each other, so why can’t we have dinner together?” she asks.

John rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Would you like to join us tonight?” he asks, eyes flickering between your face and the parking lot behind you. 

“I’m afraid Rose will kidnap me if I don’t say yes,” you joke. 

Rose grumbles, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.” She grabs your hand and tugs you to the entrance. “Daddy can bring the groceries inside. I want to show you my toys!”

You dig your heels into the ground and say, “I need to bring my things inside as well. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Rose’s smile falters, and she reluctantly lets you go.

“Don’t worry, Love. I can take care of that for ya,” John offers

You fidget with the keys in your pocket. “Are you sure?” You’re not worried about him stealing your car. He can’t exactly hide if you two live in the same building. Besides, you want to believe that the kindness in his eyes is genuine. 

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms. 

“Ok,” and you hand him your car keys. His fingertips graze your palm, and you shiver. God, you’re pathetic. Rose tugs on your arm, and you trail after her. She leads you up a few flights of stairs before stopping on the third floor, where you also live. Except she walks to the opposite end of the hallway, away from your apartment. She pulls a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

Rose drops your hand and runs inside, returning with a stuffed animal in her arms. “This is Mr. Bear. Daddy got him for me!” Mr. Bear is wearing tactical gear and a bucket hat. Frayed threads stick out of his body along the seams, and small patches of fur have fallen out. She cradles the stuffed animal close to her chest and rests her chin atop his head. 

You nearly melt on the spot. “That’s very sweet of him,” you say.

“Sometimes, when I miss him, I just need to squeeze Mr. Bear tight.” She gives you a demonstration.

A familiar warm timbre greets your ears.“I love you, rosebud.” 

You grin and say, “Your dad reminds me of a bear.”

“Yeah! He’s big and cuddly. But his face turned red when I told him,” Rose mumbles the last part. She straightens up and tugs on your arm. “Oh! And these are my action figures!” 

You walk into what you assume is her bedroom. It’s not as chaotic as you thought it would be. Her bed is in one corner of the room, with a collection of stuffies sitting along one side. There’s a shelf with knickknacks and picture frames. Your eyes land on a photo of John holding a small bundle in his arms. It looks like the picture was taken without him knowing. His eyes are wide, staring at the tiny hand wrapped around his thumb. 

There’s something that’s been bothering you, but you don’t think it’s your place to ask. Rose startles you when she starts barking out, “Hold your fire! We can’t alert the enemy of our whereabouts!” You whip around to see her sitting on the ground with a mini soldier in each hand. The large tub behind her is open, the lid propped neatly against its side. You sit next to her and watch the ‘mission’ play out. She hands you a soldier and assigns you the special position of super spy. Now a successful job rests on your shoulders.

Thanks to Captain Rose, your team retrieves the files, returning without a single casualty. Although you had a close encounter with the enemy’s Captain Pickles, which began some sort of enemies-to-lovers arc. You don’t know. She’s six. She reasoned that the power of love triumphs over all. Rose begins cleaning up, setting the toys neatly in the bin before snapping the lid shut.

“Did you learn all that from your dad?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and picks up Mr. Bear. “Daddy never tells me anything about work. It’s classified. Sometimes I watch TV. There’s a show where one of the characters looks just like him, but Nana doesn’t let me watch much 'cause it’s not for kids.” Dear lord. Could you imagine being sandwiched between two Johns?? 

“Rosy? Want to bake your cookies now?” John shouts from the corridor, snapping you out of your fantasy.

“Yes, please!” Rose replies. She grabs your hand and gives you a toothy grin. “You can be my assistant. Daddy’s hopeless at baking.” She leads you to the kitchen, where some bowls and a tray are on the table. Rose lets go and skips to a seat, plopping herself down. Mr. Bear is seated on the chair next to her.

You sit at her other side and ask, “What kind of cookies are we making?” There are no cookie cutters in sight to give you a clue. 

Rose clasps her hands together. Her feet swing beneath the table. “Candy Canes! Santa will be so impressed that he’ll grant my wish for sure,” she answers.

You don’t know what a six-year-old would ask from Santa, but you sincerely hope it’s fulfilled. Perusing the items on the table, you notice a vital ingredient missing. “Do you have food dye?” you ask. 

Rose strokes her chin. She hops off her chair and walks up to John. “Daddy, do we have any food dye?”

John’s head peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Sorry, Rosy. I don’t remember,” and there’s a sheepish grin on his face. 

Rose hums and grabs a stool, tottering to the drawers. “I forgot. You went away for a while. I think Nana left some the last time we baked.” Your eyes snap to the fridge when you hear a thud. An apple rolls across the floor and stops near your feet. You pick up the fruit, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming underneath its skin. “I found red!” Rose waves a small bottle in her hand and dashes to show you. 

You set the apple on the table and praise Rose. Her chest puffs up, and the smile she gives you is dazzling. She hops onto her seat, clutching the bottle to her chest. 

John walks up to you two. “Here’s the dough,” and he holds out the cylindrical tube but changes his mind and leaves it on the table. The only seats left are the ones across. He picks the spot in front of you. 

“Thanks.” You snap the tube open and remove the packaging. “Alright, Rose. We split the dough in half, and you’ll colour one part red.”

Rose cocks her head to the side. “We don’t paint the cookies?”

You shake your head and say, “There’s an easier way to make them look like candy canes.” You hand Rose a wooden spoon and tell her to mix the dough while you add the dye. Once half the dough is red, you take equal parts from both bowls and roll them into noodles. Putting them together, you twist them to form a cane. You curve one end, and the result is a near-perfect replica of a candy cane. Rose marvels at the sight, face inches from the table’s surface. 

There’s a streak of food colouring on her face, and you grab a tissue for her. She’s engrossed in the cookie, picking it up and turning it over. Out of impulse, you wipe the stain on her cheek and her laughter tinkles throughout the room. She complains about being ticklish between her giggles. A low sigh draws your attention. You look over to John, who’s watching you with his head propped up with his hand. “What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

There’s a softness to John’s features. He looks at you like you’re holding his heart in your hands, squeezing the pulsating organ with every cookie you form. “Do good looks count?” It’s barely audible, but you hear it. His elbow slips from the table, and he clears his throat. “Just been a while since I’ve seen her so happy.” He folds his arms across the table, a wall of muscle to create a false sense of distance. 

You gesture your head at Rose. “Make a cookie with her; have fun together.”

John stares at the table, stroking his chin in a familiar fashion, but remains silent otherwise. You chew on the inside of your cheek and resume forming the cookies. The squeal of wood scraping against wood pricks your ears. John squeezes himself into the space between you and Rose. His shoulders brush against you, and he is radiating heat. “What have you got there, Rosy?” he asks.

Rose looks at him with furrowed brows. “A candy cane, silly. Here, I’ll show you how to make it,” she answers. Rose does a quick demonstration, but John still struggles. Somehow he’s managed to mix the parts to create pink. Rose shakes her head, lips tugging into a frown. “My hands are too small; can you help him?” She turns to you. Long lashes frame her doe eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

You glance at John to find he’s staring at you. Shifting in your seat, you say, “If you don’t mind…?”

John maintains eye contact. “I’m all yours,” and the smile he gives you is bashful. You fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks, but it’s like trying to douse a flame with gasoline. The heat intensifies, and you grab a tissue to wipe your clammy hands, muttering an excuse about the dye staining your skin. 

You focus on the table, resisting the temptation to turn your head and meet the gaze burning into your face. “You take equal parts of each dough and roll them into logs.” You pause to make sure he’s following along. “Once they’re the same size, you can twist them together to form a cane.” John is about to mush his cookie as children tend to do with playdough; always mixing the colours. You grab his hands to stop him. His fingers twitch against your palms, but he doesn’t recoil. “Like this,” and you twist your cookie, rolling it some more to flatten the cane.  

“You make it sound so easy,” John huffs.

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

John shakes his head. “Give me a pistol, and I can field strip and reassemble in a few minutes.” He holds up a warped cookie. “This, this I can’t do.”

You bump your shoulders together. “I’ll have you baking like a pro.”

John grins; it’s boyish and charming—it pulls you in like a flower reaching for a ray of sunlight. “Is that a promise?” he asks, lashes framing an expanse of blue. And once again, you are hopelessly lost at sea. 

“Only if you’ll invite me over again,” you quip.

“Is this flirting?” Rose asks. Her head pops up behind John’s shoulder. “If Daddy won’t invite you, I will.”

You smile as John buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Rose,” you say.

She returns the gesture with a wide grin. “You’re very welcome.”

You continue making the cookies in silence, gaslighting yourself into thinking that the numerous brushes against your hand are accidental. 7/10 times you’re grabbing something, John also happens to be reaching for the same item. The cookie under your palm flattens into a pancake when his body leans ever-so-slightly into yours. Thankfully this is the last cookie, and you place it on the baking tray with the rest.

Rose insists on putting the tray into the oven herself, and John watches her like a hawk, hovering behind her in case he needs to step in.

Once John’s certain the apartment won’t burst into flames, he rolls up his sleeves. You eye the veins along his arms as subtly as you can, wincing like a child caught in the act of misbehaving when John speaks. “Can you please help Rose clean up? I need to get started on dinner,” he asks.

“Yes, Chef,” and you give a mock salute. “Alright, Rose. I’ll wash all the dishes in the sink. Can you wipe the counter?” you ask her.

Rose straightens her back and nods. “Affirmative,” she replies, marching to grab a towel. 

You begin collecting the bowls and utensils, plugging the drain afterwards to fill up the sink. A few drops of soap and a mountain of suds form. With a sponge, you begin scrubbing away at bits of dried-up dough and red dye. In the corner of your eye, Rose is reprimanding Mr. Bear on how he needs to pull his weight too and that it doesn’t matter if he’s not heavy because he’s full of stuffing. 

“You’ve got an adorable soldier,” you say, turning your head to John, who’s heating a pan on the stove.

John watches Rose with deep affection. Those are the eyes of a man staring at the purpose of his existence. “She’s a trooper, alright,” and the smile on his face is lax.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you ask, adding more soap to your sponge. The remaining traces of dye are giving you grief.

“Fish and chips; one of Rosy’s favourites,” John answers.

“Daddy makes the best!” Rose pipes up.

John shakes his head, and the base of his neck flushes. “She’s exaggerating,” he says.

You smirk, “I’ll be the judge of that.” The chuckle your words elicit from John fills you with a pleasant buzz.

“I have to warn you. I aim to please,” and the lilt in John’s voice encourages you further.

“Yes, you certainly look the type,” you say, eyes trailing up and down his figure. John’s body trembles under your gaze. “Is it just you and Rose here?” You don’t know if he’s divorced, but you don’t recall seeing a ring on his finger.

“She’s dead,” John says. Concise and well-practiced. The plate in your hand slips and splashes into the sink with a thud, shattering the silence. You look over at John, but his back is to you. Shoulders hunched and head low. “Died during childbirth,” he adds, and the slight wobble churns your stomach. You should have known. Should have guessed from how the pictures on the walls only contain two subjects. Rose only ever talks about her father and grandparents. How could you be so fucking blind?

You crush the sponge in your hands, and bubbles seep out between your fingers. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, straining under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Day one, and you’ve already stepped on a mine. A phantom pain aches in your chest, grieving the loss of a love you never had in the first place. John says nothing. Continues to fry the fish in silence. Pops of oil like the rounds of a machine gun, but not loud enough to drown out the hammering of your heart.

Rose breaks the silent war. “I cleaned the counter. Can I check on the cookies?” she asks.

The apology dies on your tongue, and you tear your eyes away from John’s back, missing how the tension bleeds from his body. “Of course,” you say, placing the last dish on the drying rack. “Do you know how?”

“Nana showed me the buttons because I accidentally turned off the oven before,” Rose replies. She hands you her towel, and you lump it in the sink with yours. Rose walks up to the oven, and John moves to the side. You hang back, grappling with the temptation to steal a glance. You’re not sure what’s worse: John catching you staring or the disappointment of him not staring back. In the end, you decide to focus on Rose. She awes at the cookies and beckons you closer. You shuffle towards her, sticking close to the opposite side.“We should leave extra for the reindeer and elves who want some too!” 

You smile and pat her head. “Next time you can buy peppermint extract so they’ll taste like candy canes too!” you suggest. Rose’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you have the biggest brain in the world. Your confidence skyrockets, but a quick peek at John sends you plummeting back to Earth. You can’t read the expression on his face, and it worries you.

“They look so good! Santa will definitely grant my wish!” Rose’s comment piques your interest.

“What’s your wish?” you ask, crouching down to her level.

Rose glances at her father before lowering her voice. “I can’t tell you with Daddy around; it might make him sad.” Your jaw slackens. What could a child wish for that would make their parents unhappy?

Dinner is served, and the seating arrangement remains unchanged. True to John’s words, Rose devours her dinner. She even asks for seconds. “I’m a growing girl,” is all she responds with when she notices your amused expression.

The conversation consists of small talk. You learn they moved into the complex two years after you did. It’s honestly amazing how you didn’t run into them earlier. John doesn’t talk about his job, but he asks you plenty of questions about yours. You’re happy to answer. Glad to have something to talk about that won’t prod old wounds. Before you know it, you’re cracking jokes, and John is struggling to breathe. His laughter is intoxicating, and like an addict, you crave another dose. Rose watches the entire interaction with a broad smile, nibbling on her food as her eyes ping pong across the table.

John leans forward and hangs off your every word. Every ounce of his attention focused solely on you. You pause mid-story, caught up in the softness of his features. Before he can ask you what’s wrong, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull out the device to see it’s a text notification. The time on the screen reads 9:30 pm. It’s getting late, and from the way Rose slumps in her chair, she should be in bed soon.

“I should go. Rose looks like she’s about to pass out,” you say.

“M’not sleepy,” Rose argues, rubbing her eyes.

John rises from his seat. “I’ll clean up. Rosy, why don’t you say goodbye to our guest?”

Rose gets out of her chair with Mr. Bear and holds your hand, leading you to the entrance. John steps forward but stops himself. He turns to collect the dishes, and you walk away, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on your back. 

As you’re slipping on your shoes, you ask Rose, “Now that it’s just us, do you want to tell me your wish?” She glances behind her. The faint sounds of porcelain clattering against metal travel along the corridor. 

“You can’t tell Daddy, but I don’t want him to be lonely. He doesn’t cry at night anymore when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he still looks like a raccoon in the morning,” Rose says, pinching an invisible zipper between her fingers and dragging it across her lips. You copy the gesture and even go as far as to mime turning a key and tossing it over your shoulder. You have a sneaking suspicion, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. 

Unlocking the door, you reach for the doorknob. “Wait,” John shouts, stopping you in your tracks. He jogs up to you and holds out a reusable takeout container and your bag of groceries. “I made too much. Take some leftovers with you.” You peer inside, and there’s a generous portion. How much did he cook?

“I’m tired. I’m getting ready for bed,” Rose suddenly announces.

John chuckles, “I thought you weren’t tired earlier?”

“That was earlier. I’m tired now.” Rose walks off to her room, mumbling to Mr. Bear. The only snippet you catch is something about ‘having a moment.’ You take the container and bag from John, fingertips touching. He doesn’t let go, and you’re left standing there awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened earlier,” John says, withdrawing his hands and shoving them into his pockets. 

Earli—oh. Your cheeks tingle with warmth. You clear your throat and bring the container close to your chest. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted….” You pause.

“Wanted what?” John asks, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He waits and doesn’t push. Watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek and avoid his gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to look at his face, tender eyes observe you. Does he feel the same? A wave of confidence washes over you, and you decide to take the risk. “To know if I have a fighting chance,” you say.

The corners of John’s lips boomerang up and then back down. His eyebrows draw together, and he almost looks… scared. “Love, I work in the military. I’m a single father. I don’t have much to offer,” John rasps, the words constricting his chest like a vine of thorns. His throat bobs, and he closes his eyes, steeling his body. Because bracing for impact is a natural human response in an attempt to lessen the damage of an imminent crash.

You smile softly. “And if I said I didn’t mind? That I’ll wait for you to come back and become Rose’s favourite while you’re gone?” John’s eyes snap open wide. He stares at you like you’re some sort of mythical creature; a being that can’t possibly exist in this world. Here is a man with his own baggage, who carries a burden on his shoulders that you will never comprehend. And you want to learn how to love him anyway. His expression softens, and he gravitates toward you.

“When I saw how you handle Rose, I didn’t think I could like you more than I already do,” John says.

Your ears perk. “You like me?” you ask. You didn’t think the attraction went both ways.

John rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks flush. “Might have seen you use the elevator a few times… regularly,” he confesses. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

“And you never tried to say hello?” you tease him, placing a hand on your hip. The pain that flashes across his face is brief, but it stops you from continuing. You decide to change the topic. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Your face engulfs in flames. “On the cheek, I mean!”

The pink dusting John’s face darkens. “Only if I get to kiss you—on the forehead,” he clarifies.

“Deal.” You place a quick peck on John’s cheek, his skin an inferno against your lips. He cups your face and leans in. It’s soft and leaves you tingling from head to toe. A laugh bubbles in your chest. You slap a hand to cover the dopey grin spreading across your face. “Sorry. I'm just really happy.”

John’s thumb caresses your cheeks. His blue eyes are sparkling. “So am I, Darling. Goodnight,” he says, leaning forward to plant another kiss. You close your eyes and make a content hum, basking in his warmth. 

John opens the door for you and leans against the doorframe after you step out. The hallway is relatively dark, and the lights from the apartment bathe him in an ethereal glow. A smile graces his features, and the current that threatened to pull you under has settled into gentle ripples. “Night, John,” you reply, waving goodbye. 

A smug grin stretches his smile, and he winks at you. “See ya later, Love.” 

You skip to your apartment. The door behind you doesn’t click shut until you disappear from sight. You head to the fridge first to store the leftovers. You find a note when you put away your groceries. Fishing out the paper, it reads: ‘Rose’s bedtime is 10 pm.’

The clock on your stovetop tells you it’s 9:50. 

Where did you put that expensive bottle of whiskey you bought years ago?

Bonus Scene:

John tucks his daughter into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “What else did you wish for, Rosy?” he asks. It’s become a tradition to figure out her Christmas present. He makes sure to ask her right before bed when he’s certain she won’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Rose snuggles into her pillow, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest. Her voice is muffled and thick with sleepiness, but he hears it crystal clear. “A little sister.”

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Happy early Valentine's Day! I can't wait to consume the Valentine-themed content for all the fandoms I'm in. Not related, but I saw a cowboy ghost render on IG and I think I'm going to have to go back to writing something for him ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Time to drop off the face of the Earth for a month or two again.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

[bubble-dream-inc]

this is extremely sloppy bc i went haywire and painted it in like two hours ahem. anyways operator price as inspired by @yeyinde 's masked price agenda. he makes me go insane ngl.

[halfmoth-halfman]

may i interest you in some more fic recs????😉

the second half of my may fic rec list!! if you wanna see more more of my fic recs and favs, i have em all on my recs blog, here!! please note the navi page is still under construction!!

and of course, if you have any fic recs of your own, feel free to send em my way here or on my sideblog - i love finding new fics and writers!! 💜

may fic recs pt. 1

John Price

missed you - @thanksbutno98

✧ everything i wanted and more omg this is the treatment price deserves tbh. man deserves to relax and be pampered like a princess. such a cute fic that filled my need for fluff perfectly!!

bloodstained honesty || part two - @a-world-with0ut-dr34ms

✧ had me on the edge of my damn seat good lord. saw this line “Price?” and had to stop reading to do a lap around my living room, this fic had me stressing tf out but in the best way possible.

puppy love || five | six | seven | eight - @writeforfandoms

✧ price. puppies. perfection. am i sad to see this series come to an end? yes. but it was fantastic from start to finish and i know i will absolutely being coming back to read this again and again.

languish - @moriflos

✧ you ever read something once and then decide that once isn't enough and just spend an hour reading it over and over and over? that was me with this fic. idk how to describe the way you write, i was so drawn in, craving more. "But for now, he can only watch as his heart returns to him in ashes-" just uuuggghhh i love it.

rise and fall of tides - @queenquazar

✧ moon/moonlight is such a cute callsign, i was already hooked before i started reading. and when i got to the actual fic?? stunned. the entire dancing scene had me smiling and blushing, i love the way you write price and moon and their relationship

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat - @yeyinde

✧ i don't think there will ever come a day where i'm not left in absolute awe by one of lev's fics. everything is literal poetry and this is fic is no exception. i can't describe the way it makes me feel, like i've been given the christmas present i've been waiting all year for

sad girl - @guyfieriii

✧ new price fic from the writer who inspired me to start my mob!au???? say less. the way you write price is so just aslkdakljs the way you write in general is just alsdkjal. i literally do not have words for how much i love this

karma - @stormiwaves

✧ honeypot mission!!! we love to see it!!!! "The dress was karma, filthy karma that Price deserved." yes girl, get it!! jealous!price isn't something i see often, but i loved the way your wrote it here and that ending?? 👀🔥

untitled - @ghostaholics

✧ i👏🏼love👏🏼soulmate👏🏼au's👏🏼 and this has me going absolutely feral. the phantom pain for his injuries, the journal, the angst, the panic, that ending??? if there is ever a full version, please know that i will lose my mind, it will be an immediate fave just like this is.

choices and consequences - @ghostandsoap

✧ this one hurt real good. the talks about guilt, the choices you have to make, the job, all of it was done so well. this was so wonderful and heart-clenching, i loved every bit of it.

our remains - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i just- i mean- what else is there to say but

handsome stranger || part 8 - @alittleposhtoad

✧ not only did this fic make me hungry for soup, it made me kick my feet and twirl my hair. so much fluff and right up my ally, i binged this series and loved every single bit of it.

fair game - @guyfieriii

✧ got me blushing and sweating like a sinner in church and staring at my phone like

turn me to ashes - @guyfieriii

✧ when you said angsty little piece, i was not expecting to have my heart ripped out be left with a gaping void in my chest. i know i love a good angst fic but god damn if that didn't reach into the pits of my soul and destroy any feeling of happiness i had when i started reading. 10/10

price headcanons - @soapskneebrace

✧ the perfect piece of softness to make me feel better after the absolute heartbreak of the previous fic. the characterization is 100% on point here, one of the best i've read and so so so sweet.

price holding his first-born child - @daisies-daydreams

✧ big tough military men holding and being weak over little babies is my jam. it's the fluff, the sweetness, the soft domesticity of it all. the way he reads the book to her, i'm so weak for this fic.

a drink from her cup - @lunarvicar

✧ that post that inspired this has lived rent free in my mind for so long, and i was ecstatic to see you write something for it. i'm so down bad for this man and for your writing and the way you write him.

gem amra kheli - @guyfieriii

✧ i don't think i've ever talked about how much i adore the way you write banter, the little back and forths and comments between price and reader. everything just feels so real, so grounded and i'm completely obsessed

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

cult of vagabonds || ch. 3 - banshee bluethroat | ch. 4 - finch's frenzy - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i'm screaming. vomiting. scromiting profusely.

"I hate you."

"I know."

how dare you do this to me.

reveries of a lost lamb - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ what's it like to be able to be one of the best writers on earth? i seriously cannot comprehend the sheer amount of talent and ability you have at writing the most captivating and emotion evoking fics i've ever read.

A golden sunrise, tangled fingers; gentle lips.

“I think I love you.” 

i'm deceased.

aiaigasa (相合傘) - @captainpriceslover

✧ i read "Your part of London smelled like wet pennies that evening." and was instantly sold. the rest of the fic was so fantastic, the perfect dose of sweetness i needed, i love gaz and the way you write him so much!!

white flag - @writeforfandoms

✧ you cannot stress me out like this!! but also please continue to stress me out like this!! also the little nicknames for price and gaz had me laughing so hard, esp price.

it's over - @itsohh

✧ i really loved this, i don't think i've seen a lot of fics with gaz that really talk about what he's gone through and how missions affect him and this one does it incredibly well. serious, yet heartwarming, i adore it.

Multiple

dead disco || chapter 4 | chapter 5 | combat baby - @peachesofteal

✧ never before have a i read a series that has captured my attention so much that willingly skipped out on lunch to read it. i couldn't stop, i am in love with this fic, the writing, the characterization, everything about it. there isn't a single flaw to be found here.

how they wake you up in the mornings - @nia-writes

✧ this was so cute, and the addition of the different scenarios for how the characters would wake you made it all the more better. i was blushing, laughing, anxious, constantly giggling about FOAP. such a fun read!!

soulmate au - @itsohh

✧ i've said it once and i will say it again, i love soulmate!aus!! and god the angst in these just raked me over the coals. angst is something i love seeing in soulmate fics and this was so expertly done, my heart still hurts when i think about it

touching their cheek for the first time - @runicarbiter02

✧ absolute cuteness all around, like a cuteness overload. each one fit so well, but i'm gonna take a second to really talk about the love of my life, Roach, being included in this and how this has become an automatic fav just for that.

physical touch - @siilvan

✧ tbh i came to this for the gaz hcs but it was so good that i immediately read the rest and damn near screamed when i saw roach on there. so cute, and adorable, and absolutely perfect i loved every bit of this!!

kiss headcanons - @mangowafflesss

✧ such a cute idea that you did amazing on!! i love kisses and kiss fics and i think you absolutely nailed it here. honestly me and reader are the same because i too would just like to smooch the 141 boys all over.

getting into an accident and being hospitalised while the team is deployed - @daisies-daydreams

✧ slipping while getting out of the shower and needing to have your jaw hinged shut?? reader's just like me fr. this was very sweet, a lovely little dose of fluff with a sprinkle of angst

Simon "Ghost" Riley

silk series || silk ties - @uselsshuman

✧ i screamed. shrieked. went through a rollercoaster of emotions when this series updated. it was everything i wanted, more than everything i wanted, just so unbelievably beyond expectations!! and this:

“Stay with me for now then.”

stay with me forever wtf

no more || chapter 6 - hypnosis - @lethalchiralium

✧ we love a man who wants to apologize but man we gotta get ghost into therapy or st 😂seriously though, this was fun and the little back and forth about having a dad had me giggling

a bath - @blackssuunn

✧ i can't- i literally can't- this is too fluffy, too sweet, too perfect. i'm in awe of your writing "His eyes burn a little. Not a single drop of soap entered them." i'm speechless.

pomp - @bits-and-babs

✧ we stan anti-monarchy simon LOL so great and thos poor guards stuck at the doors. i went from blushing to cackling in like two seconds

tones - @blackssuunn

✧ soft lovely dovey simon is my favorite and you write him so incredibly well. the way this man is absolutely whipped for his partner, i adore it and i adore you for writing this

between dreams and sugar - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i think i'm addicted to your angst, i keep happily going into these angst fics like i don't know i'm about to have my heart shredded into a million pieces. was there a happy ending here? yes. but it still hurt and i still loved it!!

feverish simon confesses to you - @angelltheninth

✧ this is such a cute trope that i don't read that much of, but i loved every bit of this! so much cuteness and let's be real, ghost is def the type of guy who would try and wait out an illness even if it was life-threatening 😂

footprints in the snow - @bittersw33t-lotus

✧ hello??? this was one of the sweetest things i've ever read??? i'm such a sucker for soft!simon esp when he's still a little shit and you've written that so perfectly

happiness series || you belong with me - @lethalchiralium

✧ i swear i'm totally normal about this series i'm not i totally don't immediately go feral every time it updates i do and i totally and definitely don't drop and ignore everything to reread the entire series with every new chapter i won't apologize

untitled - @lunarvicar

✧ the way you write simon and the way he shows love and how he cares has me so weak and how he teases is so aldkasjdkljk he's an asshole and i love him and i can never get enough of the way you write him

simon & rain little headcanons - @mvtthewmurdvck

✧ aaaahhhh simon and rain!!! i've missed these two and when i tell you i sprinted to read this!! i love the way your write their dynamic/relationship and just how real and fun it feels!! you're literally so good at writing ghost, i can't even deal with

sassy series || ch. 3 excerpt - @peachesofteal

✧ i have never wanted to read a full chapter so bad in my entire life. this excerpt is like a the most delicious little appetizers and i'm vibrating with excitement for the full meal!!

Valeria Garza

oh to be consumed by you - @sleepiexx

✧ i want to be consumed by valeria omg. i didn't even know vampire!val was something that i wanted-no, something that i needed-and this fic just came out of nowhere and hit me over the head in the best way possible.

[piratesfromspace]

What happens in Siberia… (141xReader)

Pairing: Reader x Ghost x Soap x Price x Gaz Rated: Very Explicit Word count: 2.7k Summary: the squad celebrates your first successful mission in their own way. Note: This is just pure filth, just bring me to horny jail at this point. In the same universe as my "Rain or Shine" fic. Reader callsign is "Rain", she's bi and autistic (I am autistic myself). Inspired to finish this wip by the queen @yeyinde and her Body Electric, go read it.

Content: group sex, oral, p-i-v, praise kink, size kink, alcohol, probably some warcrimes, overall canon typical violence

MASTERLIST // PART 1 // PART 2 // <> // PART 4 // PART 5

They are at the end of the world. Far East. Miles and miles of snow and ice and the occasional patch of dark trees. It’s just the five of them: Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost and her.

They've been hiking for days now. Camping along the way, never really leaving their heavy gear. All-white winter jackets and pants, the gray of the kevlar vests, the black of their weapons. The blizzard makes everything blur. The cold - deadlier than any heat - numbs the fingers and the senses. 

They're used to the humid furnace of the jungle, the burning sun of the desert, but the freezing temperatures of Siberia are seriously undermining their mood. It was the only way to discreetly reach the compound of this Russian oligarch they need to steal intel from. The mission was simple enough : reach the damn place, eliminate everyone in a surprise attack, find the hard drive with the info in it and wait for evac. Simple. The difficult part was getting there without being killed by the cold or the beasts living in those damned icy woods. Soap swears he saw a wolf the size of a jeep. Or maybe it was a bear. Hard to tell when you have to wear a ski mask so your eyeballs don’t freeze in your skull. 

When the 141 strikes, they sweep the place clean. The handful of guards don’t stand a chance against them despite the weariness of the travel. They had found an entrance in the sewer system, reached the basement and its concrete walls, but when they climbed to the higher levels of the building, they suddenly found themselves in an imitation of a luxury cabin. Warm wood, white furs thrown on sprawling beige sofas, a fireplace big enough for a child to stand in it. A chef kitchen. Half a dozen bedrooms with king size beds and ensuite bathrooms.

The place is stocked for literal orgies. Champagne and vodka and cocaine - and the drawers in the bedrooms are full of condoms and lube. The kind of place rich assholes spend their winter vacation in when they go skiing in the Alps. It fits with what they know of the owner.

Once they secure the hard drive, and make sure nobody else is alive in there, they all stagger to the living room with a palpable relief. Evac will be there in a little less than 48 hours. Two whole days in Nowhere, Siberia, with nothing else to do except rest in this 5-stars chalet after days of miserable trek in the snow.

“I really need a shower” Rain mutters, and she makes a beeline for the main suite. Ghost follows without a word. When it’s just them and the core squad they don’t bother to hide anymore. It was Rain's first field trip as not just a supply manager. Of course they had her at the back of the group when they breached the building, Ghost the first to break in as usual. She did not even have to fire a single bullet. But she went in with her gun tightly clutched in her hand and her night vision goggles on nonetheless. 

They are doing shots. Tsarskaya vodka, straight from Saint Petersburg. The hot meal has been the best she had in months thanks to the freezer of the pantry being full of stupidly expensive delicacies. Price, Gaz and Ghost are sprawled across the sofa, Soap and her are sitting on the plush fur carpet. They’re all down to cargo pants and T-shirts, a blessing after days in those heavy and cumbersome jackets. She could cry at the relief of feeling something else than the wooly inside of her gloves under her fingertips. Her limbs still ache from days of fighting the cold and sleeping on the ground, but the fatigue has been somewhat dulled by the vivid memory of Simon’s tongue between her legs when he dropped to his knees during the shower she took earlier. Her back is warmed by the fireplace, her belly is full and she still feels a bit light-headed from the fight. She wants nothing more than to indulge in the playful atmosphere and the many promises of those two full days of rest with her squad.

“A toast” Price starts, raising his vodka “to Rain - for her first mission accomplished!”

“Please Captain, you make me sound like a damn rookie. I’ve been in the team for a year now. And I’m older than Soap for fuck sake!” 

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

The easy banter goes on, more vodka burns her throat, she bares her neck and laughs - and Ghost’s eyes narrow with a glint. 

Nah, I tell you, you're still a rookie. Oh yeah? I bet you could not think of something I haven’t done that MacTavish has. Easy, you never killed. Not because you never see me do it means I didn’t do it before. (there is a silence)  Let’s lighten the mood… ‘bet you never kissed a girl. Come on, I’ve had more girlfriends than you, Soap.  Never had a threesome?  I did once back in college. Why, you’ interested, Gaz? (it’s a joke - but also not really)

It lasts for a while until Soap grins victoriously.

“You never kissed me.” he beams, even though it doesn't really make sense for the little game they’re playing. She’s too tipsy to care.

“If that’s the only thing to shut you up.” and she leans into him, grabs his thigh for balance and just like that - she kisses him. Her tongue breaches his lips and she can taste the vodka they’re drinking and the sugar of the russian caramel they had for dessert. The kiss lasts only a couple of seconds, but Soap is glass eyed when she sits back down. 

Price lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rain...”  “Thank you, Captain.”  “John for tonight” “Thank you, John.” she whispers, tone low and suggestive. “I’m gonna get more dessert!” she announces all of a sudden - she had always craved sugar - and she bounces to the kitchen, leaving them all a bit stunned. 

Price glances at Ghost. For once, he has no clue how he will react. To his girl openly flirting with others, to his girl initiating something they won’t be able to come back from. 

“She decides.” Simon’s voice is even more gravelly than usual. “You follow.” he asserts, and that’s all the instructions they will get from him. It’s clear enough though - she’s the one in charge from there, Ghost trusts them to do as she says, and he trusts her to ask for what she needs.

When she comes back, she sits down next to Soap, leans heavily on him. He brushes her hair out of her pretty face, and she looks at him with intent, daring him to continue what they started. It’s like she provides him with a pool of gasoline, and hopes for nothing more than a spark to light it all and let the fire consume them both - and by a chain reaction consume them all.

He doesn’t resist and kisses her again. She lets him. She even moans against his lips when he grabs her nape. It’s like the match has been cracked, it’s too late now. No coming back from that. The flames are already spreading. Gaz falls on his knees behind her, strong hands on her waist, his mouth against her earshell.

“Is this okay? ‘This what you want?” She breaks the kiss just enough time to answer a breathy yes.

The rest is a blur. Someone removes her T-shirt, lays her down on the fur. Expensive vodka poured into the divot of her navel.

“It’s cold!” she protests with a laugh until Gaz laps the alcohol from her skin with a gaze so sinful it warms her right up. 

Ghost is right there by her head, a hand spanning her neck, holding her jaw. Through his mask, he whispers sweet praises to her, walking her through it. Soap is playing with her tits, teeth grazing the gentle curve of her breast before his latches on one of the tender buds. Gaz is laying on his belly, tongue buried in her cunt. She’s still sensitive from what Ghost did just before during their shower, but Gaz is different in his approach, he takes his time, goes slow, licks her clit like they’ve got all night (they have). 

He sinks one finger into her then a second. “Fuck she’s tight.” He exhales against her folds, half-wonder, half-worry. “Let me do it.” It’s Price - he’s been hovering around them all, carefully observing, waiting for the right time to step in. It’s not that easy for him, he’s their Captain, even though he had the intuition to forbid her to use his title earlier. But if they’re going to do this, he wants to do it right - right by her. He won’t let her be hurt on the battlefield, no reason to stop caring for her now. 

He takes Gaz's place between her legs.

“Open your mouth for me darling.” he croons and he coats two of his fingers with her saliva, presses on her tongue and rewards her with a good girl when she licks at the rough pad of his fingers. Price sinks into her cunt again, gently fucks her with two fingers, scissors her open with an infinite patience. Gaz pets at her clit, circles slow and wide, not enough for her to come, but definitely enough to make her forget the burn of the stretching process. 

They take turns making her shatter to pieces only to carefully rebuild her after. Soap takes her in long lazy strokes, before guiding her lips on his cock and she can taste herself on him - it’s enough to make her whimper around his flesh. Price maneuvers her on her hands and knees, grips her hips with large hands, fucks her in powerful thrusts and drown her in praises.

You’re so fucking pretty like this You tell me if it’s too much Fucking hell, you feel so good

She keens and laughs as she comes for the third time of the night. It’s a lot but they don’t stop, not as long as she welcomes them. Not as long as the embers of her desire are still shining gold. Gaz has her ride him on the couch, Ghost holding her waist to help her get up when her legs become too shaky. They work as one, just like they did hours before. They take care of each other in so many ways, it was just a matter of time before such a night would happen.

Ghost is finally shedding the last of his gear - he’s naked except for the mask. The flames of the fireplace frame his devilish figure with an unnatural glow - an Angel of Death, covered in so many scars he looks like he’s been to Hell and back a few times. Muscles rippling fat and strong under his skin, light trails of blond hair leading down to his leaking cock. Rain is not the only one to stare, but she’s the only one he sees, and when she pleads his name, he drapes his body over hers.

One of them has brought back lube from one of the bedrooms. Simon coats his length in the shiny liquid before burying to the hilt into her cunt. Despite the fair share of preparation, she’s still panting at the sudden pressure. Her little pained whimper has them suddenly on high alert. But Simon is handling her with the confidence she can take it, he offers shallow trusts and reassuring words until the burn of the stretch turns into blistering pleasure.

He brings her legs on his shoulders, his arms the size of her thighs, and if she already appeared small compared to the rest of them, Ghost is dwarfing her. Soap is mesmerized by it, how Simon’s dick fits inside her despite the absurd size difference. Ghost moves again and the change in position has him hit that spongy spot hidden just behind the bone of her pelvis that makes her moan and whimper. Johnny had already dreamed about it, imagined it, heard it from the other side of a door, but actually seeing her lips part around cries of pleasure under his lieutenant, it makes his cheeks burn even more than when he was the one hitting the end of her soft cunt.

He’s taken out of his trance by Rain’s pleading voice. Please Johnny she begs - and she begs so pretty he would do anything she asks him - and she catches his hand and brings it just where Ghost and her are connected. When he presses on her clit, she arches off the sofa, and when he keeps rubbing in time with Simon’s thrusts, she comes so hard she drenches his whole hand. 

There is a pause in the non-stop sex, someone presses a glass of water to her lips, another digs his fingers into the muscles of her back. She closes her eyes and sighs in contentment, lulled by the soft crackling of the fire and the satisfied groans of her lovers. She thinks they’re all sated, but it’s her Captain - no, it’s John - that cups her cheek and asks oh so gently will you have me again, sweet thing?

How can she say no when he talks to her like this? She’s raw between her legs, delicate flesh all swollen and still wet, and she will regret it tomorrow - will she?. She nods, and he moves her back down on the pile of throws. His rough hand on her delicate neck, he feels the warm pulse of her life - he has her life between his hands everyday, tonight is just more literal. What did he think would happen back when she appeared on base for the first time?

Despite everything, she had survived her first few months with them, had embedded herself so far in their team, she is impossible to remove now. The men foolish enough to try would have to step through their fire. It was inevitable, actually. The squad swore to do anything to protect each other, and it’s even more obvious with her. One could mistake it for machismo, the reality is they do their best to understand what it’s like for her to live in this world made of ongoing threats - coming not only from their enemies but also from the other soldiers they sometimes share their missions with. The revelation that she had killed before - before them - is no real surprise for Price. He’ll ask her more, maybe, when the time is right. When the place they’re in will be no more than ashes and smoke, white and gray and covered in fresh snow.

When they are done, nerves raw and skin too sensitive to the touch, it’s her captain who carries her under the shower, letting the water soothe the last of their fever. Once he’s sure she can still walk, he reluctantly lets her go. She needs to be alone, needs to reset away from their eyes. You alright sweetheart? Was it too much? - Price is suddenly anxious, the pungent bile of doubt pooling under his tongue. Her temples burn, she’s a bit ashamed of what she’s about to say but here in a place that no one knows about and that will vanish from the surface of the earth, she feels like she can admit it, that her secret will be safe, thrown out in the blind blizzard of Siberia. It was perfect.

She steals the largest T-shirt discarded in the living room - Simon’s - before crashing into one of the beds. Ghost materializes by her side, like a cryptid she can’t quite get rid of even if she wanted to. He glues himself to her back. Check-ins and praises whispered in the icy black of the night.

Fucking hell, you were so -so good. Are you okay pet? Didn’t know you had this in you.

She finally falls asleep just as the foggy glow of dawn starts creeping up the dark sky. They still have one whole day and one whole night before packing up and dowsing the place in gasoline, before cracking a match and watching it burn. They’ll make the most of it.

NEXT PART

[littleferal]

Softly

Rodolfo Parra x f!reader

A/N Rudy knows how to take care of you when you’re too tired for sex but still want it. This was inspired by @yeyinde ’s utterly fantastic body electric, and @sprout-fics equally wonderful afterburn. I’ve set this in the morning after and we are entirely ignoring the fact that sex would totally be off limits this soon after xD It can be read as post everyone x f!reader but I strongly recommend going and reading both pieces :) I just wanted to explore how everyone would be with reader after it all, and how it might start.

Although not yet written this is placed after Soap x f!reader and Alejandro x f!reader - we pick up after Alejandro’s turn. Sorry I’m jumping right in the middle of my thought, you’re gonna have to try to keep up a smidge 😅 If I can wrangle the brain I’ll also write their pieces but of course I wrote the sweetest first <3 There’s some Alejandro x f!reader at the start, then some Alejandro x reader x Rudy, but this is predominately Rudy x f!reader.

Shout out to @0celestialbitch0 for checking my spanish, thank you my sweet 💕

Rating explicit Word Count 3635 words. Warnings m/f/m, two partners and mention of more, unprotected vaginal/penetrative sex, having so much sex it makes you sleepy, fluff fluff fluff because Rudy is the sweetest

🔞🔞 This work contains explicit adult content and is intended for audiences over the age of eighteen. By continuing to read you agree that you are 18 or older, have read the content and warnings and wish to proceed 🔞🔞

Your limbs are leaden. They anchor you to the cot, the aftermath of the aftermath finally catching up on you.

It’s not, you realise slowly, the press of Alejandro above you that’s keeping you in place, nor is it gravity; it’s just the dull weight of your own body, muscles relaxed after so much attention.

“You still with us?” Alejandro’s accent is velvet on you. One of his hands leaves your hip to rise and span the side of your neck. Letting the fingers dig in slightly, he tilts your face upwards to his. “Hmm? ¿Bonita? All tired out now?”

Yes.

No.

Neither comes out, just a soft hum as your fingers grip his shirt, and the strands of hair at the base of his neck. He tips his head back ever so slightly at the grip, teeth bared in a grin that you return.

You feel so good. Sated, heavy, and like you could just lie here for hours with his weight on you. In you.

You tug on him instead until he leans back down over you with a deep chuckle, noses knocking as you chase a kiss he won’t quite give you. Instead, his smile is a press against your lips, tongue peeking out to tease then escaping away until he finally holds your face in both hands and kisses you fully. You sigh into it, and hold him closer to you, trying to drag him down, down. Like if you kissed him hard enough he’d join you where you are in your daze.

Rodolfo is over Alejandro’s shoulder. He comes into your vision as your head tilts to the side, a sign Alejandro takes to pepper your neck in kisses. The blunt drag of his teeth has you shaking lightly as Rudy steps up.

You reach for him and he comes to you like you’ve beckoned him into your arms, within reach in one broad stride. His touch is light as his fingers thread into your hair at your temple, his thumb rubbing comforting sweeps over and over. When he talks his voice is as soft as his touch.

“¿Cariño? How are you?” For him, you try.

“Goo- good Rudy,” your voice weaker than it had been earlier.

At that Alejandro rolls his hips into you. It’s a lazy roll, little intent behind it other than to pull a few more sparks of pleasure from you. You gasp, ankles locking again around Alejandro’s waist, his teeth pressing firm at your neck with a wolfish grin.

“Si, she’s good. Our chica bonita is so good.” There’s pride in his tone - deep and warm and it blossoms something in your chest so you hold Alejandro a little tighter. His smile feels softer against your skin.

“You need to rest?” Rudy asks, pulling your attention back to him.

You do. You really do. A whole night’s sleep and now it seems you can only take two of them before feeling tired again. But Rudy is right there, and the pull you feel towards him is undeniable, equal to the man on top of you.

You shake your head, then no to make yourself clear. Want you too, to be sure. A smile breaks on Rudy’s face at that, sunshine and bright and you just want to be closer to him for that alone.

Finding strength, you reach up and hold Rudy’s hand, your fingers just about linking in his to pull his touch fuller. He cups your face with it, gentle eyes assessing you like he has so many times before but never like this, never in these circumstances. He looks over your expression, your reactions to both men, every little move you make.

“Si. You have me.”

Alejandro yields you with a huff of a laugh, pressing one final kiss to your temple on the other side before pulling away.

“Take good care of her Rudy.”

When he pulls out you miss it instantly - the soreness you feel only seems to be soothed by the thickness of a cock in you, and a small moan slips between your teeth. Your reaction brings a smug smile to Alejandro’s face and tempts him down to kiss you again, your sudden gasp as two of his fingers press into you swallowed by him.

“Keep it there, ¿si bonita?”

You can only nod a mumbled yes, trying to chase sensations as they slip away from you, your fingers clinging to his shirt. But Alejandro steps back leaving you empty, in emptiness. Your whine does nothing to call him back to you, his smile not faltering for a second, although you think the self-satisfied pride almost drops into something kinder. Only Rodolfo’s voice quietly calling your name pulls your attention away.

In your peripheral Alejandro slides his two slicked fingers into his mouth with a smirk, then Rudy steps forward and he’s all you can see.

His gaze is soft and kind, eyes liquid, as his hands trace over your form. As if he’s mapping every sore spot you have before he moves, soothing you with gentle hushes when you whimper at a pain point, all the brighter for the contrast to his kindness.

Rudy’s touch is a balm after Soap and Alejandro’s enthusiasm. Somehow every light caress of his fingers over you begins to soothe - just the right pressure, in the right places, and you relax deeper and deeper into each touch, almost forgetting the deep throb between your legs that says more with every heartbeat.

It almost feels like exaltation. Its hushed prayers said at an altar, asking for forgiveness before stealing away to commit sins. Its promises dripped in honey, sweet and smooth.

Up your legs, skirting your thighs along the outside, and then up to tug Soap’s oversized shirt back down your body.

“Let’s keep you warm, si?” He murmurs - as if in way of explaining - before his hands soothe down both your sides. A final check, a reassurance for himself that you seem to pass.

“Can you sit up for me cariño?”

“No, no,” the words fall from between your lips, tongue slipping as you try to form your thoughts. “Rudy I’m too tired- too tired to ride you.”

“Está bien,” he murmurs in gentle tones, firm hands rubbing over your shoulders and thick fingers into the tension in your neck. “I’ll do all the work. Promesa.”

It’s the look in his eyes - too kind and soft, pleading with a promise of more care to come - that has you moving towards him. You nod and Rudy’s smile brightens.

Alejandro helps you as you try to push yourself up. His hands are firmer against your back than Rudy’s, and it brings a sharp laugh to the top of your throat - that you now know what all their hands feel like on your body. That you can tell them apart blind. Your mind skitters to other thoughts, replaying the previous night then—

“Easy, easy,” Rudy soothes, perhaps taking your bitten-off noise as a sign of your soreness. To reassure him you loop your arms around his neck and kiss it, trusting Alejandro to ease your weight up as you lean against Rudy’s chest. Your legs splay awkwardly under you at the shift and it takes some uncomfortable shuffling until you’re settled - legs on either side of Rudy’s hips in a sore stretch, but pressed comfortably against the man and in his lap.

Behind you Alejandro tuts. “It’s all gonna leak out,” he grumbles, his hand slipping between your legs from behind, fingers gently nudging at your sore pussy to push his and Soap’s cum back into you. You hiss at the surprise intrusion, head dropping with a dull thump against Rudy’s chest. Alejandro’s touch softens.

Rudy takes his time acknowledging Alejandro’s comment. Instead - sooner than any of them - his hands are gentle on your face and lifting it. He watches your expression as it shifts with Alejandro’s touch, before speaking in muted tones to the older man that you don’t quite catch. His eyes never leave yours.

“Que romántico eres,” comes Alejandro’s reply, deep and humoured.

“Si,” is all Rudy says.

Then he’s kissing you.

He takes his time with it, languid and luxurious. No rush to be anywhere but here. It shoots a thought into your head, sharp then smoke curling - how a part of him must have just ached last night, that you weren’t kissed as much as you should have been. Because that’s what it feels like - like he’s making up for kisses you haven’t had.

Rudy kisses you like it’s your first time and your last, cradling your face in his hands as he does it as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His lips are soft as they press against yours, the pads of his thumbs rubbing callous-rough over your cheeks. A kiss here, then he moves. A kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheeks, each eye then your forehead.

He’s all warmth and soft touches, it feels like slipping into a warm bath after a long day, every part of you warmed and relaxing. And when he slips his tongue into your mouth the sensation pulls at you like a lapping tide. Over and over you rock up against him, lulled and content.

“Hermosa chica,” Alejandro groans somewhere to your side at the scene, his voice deep with awe. His fingers stroke down your neck and you tremble and whine at the praise, leaning your head in his direction. But you just can’t seem to unmoor yourself from Rodolfo.

With a shift, Rudy takes your attention back from Alejandro. He bands his arms around your waist and ass as he rises on his knees, kissing his way down your neck to gently suckle at the love bite there. Every time you whine at the bruise he laps his tongue over it, alternating with gentle kisses and the odd nip that makes a smile bloom. And when you’re distracted with it there’s a shuffle, and then his cock is bare, thick, and warm between your legs and pressing between your slick folds as you both settle again.

The press of him has you gasping, but you rock against it all the same - like an itch that’s only better when it’s scratched, it hurts and soothes all at once. So you chase the pleasure.

“This ok cariño?”

Your head is hazy with it all - the thin line between pain and pleasure blurring and mixing until it’s both, each as rich as the other and just as intoxicating.

“Yeah— Yes. So good.”

Rudy helps, but even so the exertion would have been worth the small groans it pulls from him. Groans that are echoed deeper by Alejandro, muting the wet sounds that aren’t only coming from between your bodies.

The slick of Soap and Alejandro’s cum eases the way, your poor pussy still sore from the beard burn Price gave you. It pushes through your puffy folds, stinging and soothing in equal hot-cold measures, never enough to make you want to stop.

“That’s it, ir poco a poquito,” Rudy murmurs to you, hands warm and guiding the roll of your hips on top of him. Each roll burns you up, feverish and more sensitive than you've ever felt.

“¿Que esperas hermano?” Alejandro questions. Rudy huffs hot breath against your skin at the comment.

“Siempre apuras estas cosas,” comes his grumbled reply. ”Nuestra chica necesita lenta,” said with a kiss to your neck.

”Nuestra chica—” Alejandro begins to repeat back at Rudy, then, “Bonita, what do you want?” He comes into your vision again. Hair sticking up from where you must have pulled it, the thought sticking muddy in your head that you’d marked him somewhat too. Then, “Hmm? More?” he asks, firmly pressing against your clit with spit-slick fingers, and your mind blanks with a jolt.

The yes bursts from you before you can catch it, even as your hand snaps down to grab Alejandro’s wrist. It’s out and Rudy pulls you tight into him. Protective, possessive, this was his time with you, and guilt pangs in your chest - despite muddled thoughts you can still feel Alejandro pulling one way and Rudy the other.

“I liked it Rudy, really,” your voice wobbles as you reassure him. “You’re so good— sweet, to me.” And that’s the truth.

He only smiles indulgently against your neck.

“This is what you want, hermosa. Just that.” He finds your eyes when he says it, and the sincerity calms you and builds you up at the same time. Rudy’s hand is on your cheek, so you tell him more, breathless but sure, before taking his thumb into your mouth. Something flickers in Rudy’s eyes at your action, his breath caught before it escapes in a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl.

“Joder!— I— Cariño—” Then he’s kissing you again. Needier, sharper than before, his teeth catching on your soft lips before he pulls back and kisses the spot in apology.

“More hermosa chica? Yeah?” He asks, trailing kisses down your neck and rutting up into you like he can’t quite control himself. It makes you dizzy with his sudden enthusiasm, sharp and bright flashes of pleasure shooting up and down your spine.

“Please,” you moan against his forehead, now holding his face in your hands to keep him close, rolling your hips against his. Unsure if it’s to move away or closer.

“Ok. I got you.”

Rudy lifts you with ease, his gun-calloused hands digging into your thighs. You whine at the loss of his heat, absentmindedly still rocking your hips until he moves to hold you with one arm secure under your ass. When you still he lines himself up with your entrance, smearing mixed slick along your puffy folds before pressing gently against you.

“Tranquilo cariño. Hmm? Go slow. Easy.” He makes sure to find your eyes as he says it. They’re liquid warmth and you know you’re safe.

Your thighs tremble, and your forehead knocks against his.

You inhale.

You exhale.

You nod.

“Please Rudy.”

He lowers you back down and you can’t help the moan that bubbles out of your throat.

It’s like being able to breathe again after near drowning - your throat hurts, your head spins, but you move regardless.

Smooth and you’re liquid against Rudy, dropping your forehead to his shoulder and moaning into the bunched fabric there. It chafes and irritates, and you use what energy you have when he lifts you again to pull it back with one hand, breathing relief and relaxing against his warm skin.

“Like this?”

“Yes, yes. Like this Rudy.”

Slow.

Easy.

Good.

You rock together until Rodolfo finds perfect time, lifting you up then sinking you back down onto him to the hilt, effortless in his strength. The man is bloody perfect. You tell him so, between the little gasps he pushes from you. “You’re good Rudy…So— so good. Fuuuuuck—” The way he fits in your sore cunt, it’s just the right amount of pressure, just the right friction. You cry out, twisting in his hold at how beautifully overwhelming it is.

“See?” Comes Alejandro’s gravel-rough voice as he shifts closer, “Our girl likes it like this.”

You bare your teeth in a smile at Alejandro’s comment, but would bite down on him if the man was close enough. Instead you hold Rudy tighter, clinging to him as he lifts you up on your knees then lowers you again in a perfect slide that has sparks skittering behind your eyelids.

It’s not like anything any of them have done for you. Last night was drunken pleasure, only sobered by the things you did. They all gave as much as they took, but this—

Rudy cups the back of your head as he moves you single-handedly. It only strays to thread through your hair, fingers massaging into your scalp before he has to move it down to hold you. His grip is firm, but it’s closer to being held than moved. He’s sweet and you just know he’s giving you everything, the thought urging you to hold his face and kiss him.

So you do.

Rudy was watching you as he slowly fucked up into you - even though he couldn’t see your face you realise this as you lean back to look at him and find his eyes already on you. They’re glazed over and soft, but attentive bright as you move toward him. You don’t give him a chance to speak before pulling his lips to yours.

It’s messy and not your best kiss. Every heavy slide of him into you has your mouth opening on soft moans and whimpers, eyebrows scrunched with the confusing blend of pleasure and pain. He chuckles warmly as you try to kiss him at the same time, nuzzling his nose against yours then dragging it up to kiss your forehead.

“No, no,” you mumble, trying to pull Rudy back down. “I…I was kissing you.” He comes back down to you with no complaints, settling you heavy in his lap, using one hand to pull you both back together. He seems no more urgent in his kisses than when he first started, but they feel headier for the heft of his cock in you.

“You can have both,” he says with a smile against your lips, tilting his head to kiss you deeper just as his hips rock up again. It sparks something and you realise suddenly you can come from this alone - the pressure of him filling you, rubbing insistent deep in you as his tongue slips over yours. You clench and he groans, rutting up harder.

“Rudy…” You don’t know exactly what you’re asking for but you need him.

“What? What is it cariño?” He doesn’t stop when he asks, holding your face gently in both hands, barely a breath from you as he presses in, in, in. It makes you curl in, one hand clinging to his shirt, the other seeking your clit.

Alejandro says something, an exchange in Spanish that goes over your head, followed by the warmth of his hands on your waist.

“You should have said,” Rudy murmurs. Then his thumb is on your clit, wet with spit and smearing it in deft little circles.

It barely takes anything until you break with a soft cry. More gentle than any time you’ve come in the past twelve hours, but it still leaves you shaking in his hold. Rudy soothes you through it, hushing your little gasps with kisses and gentle rocks until you finally settle against his chest.

“Easy mi cariño, easy.” He still twitches in the tight clutch of your cunt, but doesn’t press you for more. Instead, he sweeps the sweat-stuck strands of hair from your face and rubs soothingly against your skin under your shirt. Alejandro moves into a space somewhere behind you too, his warmth a presence at your back like a blanket being placed over you.

The smell of three men comes to you as you even out your breathing with deep inhales.

It’s Soap first from his clothes sticking to you; warm and pink peppercorns, clean Scottish pine, and the moss of the forest. He’s citrus bright tempered by an equally sharp wit and kindness, and you smile into the neckline of his hoodie as the memory of him this morning floats over.

Alejandro is next as he presses himself against your side, moving your hair back to find more spaces to kiss you. He’s spiced sandalwood and frankincense, sweetened by oudh and cut by the alcohol still lingering around him. When he lazily slips his tongue into your mouth for a kiss, you swallow down on the feeling of honeyed whiskey. He makes you dizzy with it.

Then finally Rodolfo as he brings your face back around to him. His warmth is gentle - honeysuckle candles and the soft smell of salt-tinged wildflowers on the coast. You trace patterns absentmindedly against his neck as you breathe his scent in stronger until it calms your heartbeat, soothed by his hands on you, cupping your head to him and strong at your lower back.

As you come back down you realise. “You… you didn’t…?” You’re hazy with fatigue, but still sure on this.

“It’s ok.”

“Rudy—,” you start but he gently cuts you off.

“Está bien cariño.” He says it with such kindness, and although it has to be - you’re truly too sore and spent now for anything - you know he means it honestly.

So instead, “remind me to give you a blowjob later,” you promise him before settling against his chest.

It doesn’t take too long before the pressure of Rudy’s cock in you becomes heavy and bright.

“Too much.” You don’t think he’s heard you, heavily turning your head to try and speak again against his ear.

“¿Qué?”

“Too much,” you repeat, whine dropping to a soft moan as you try to lift yourself up, your thighs trembling and protesting the effort.

Rudy understands. With gentle hands he lifts you up from his lap again, slow and smooth until he slips from you with an exhale, air hissing through his teeth. You miss the fullness of him and you don’t.

“Better?” His voice is against your chin, lips finding and pressing to your cheek in adoration as you lower back into his lap. You hum your reply against his ear - yes - pressing your face down onto his shoulder again.

You find yourself once more weighed down by your own body. Sleep pulls and tugs at you and you let it, wrapped around Rudy and safe in his embrace. The last thing you’re conscious of is the sweet murmurs of both men, and two sets of hands soothing over you.

[shotmrmiller]

💡 Are there other fics or writers that are inspirational or influential to you?

id say @/ceilidho and @/yeyinde

fics wise my favorite fic, what also encouraged me to write was one of @/sprout-fics

the john price invasion???

Ugh UGH I LOVE HIM

[yeyinde]

Hi! If you don’t mind me asking, what characters are you feeling inspired to write for at the moment? Not to send in requests or anything, just to see where the next yeyinde era will take me!

Hiya!! "Yeyinde era" I love it so much 🥹

I'm kinda shuffling through some stuff while combating the prevailing sense of ennui that seems to come with summer, but currently I'm working on fics for Richie Jerimovich, Jacob Seed (I say for the third month in a row with absolutely nothing posted to show for it 😭), and another little far cry 5 au (kindaaa) but I wanna write about what happens after the Dep decides not to arrest Joseph because 👀 ohhh, my goddddddd. But I shan't say anything else because I promise I won't shut up about it if I start now.

And also!! Ghostface, Yautja, finishing up Fever in a Shockwave, John Wick, and Tom Wombsgans x Greg Hirsch, maybe some Kendall Roy.

And ummmmmm.

[kieranwritess]

COD MWII x Cyberpunk 2077 AU Brainrot

Fandom: Call of Duty

Characters: 141, LV, Graves, Laswell

Notes: cw for graves /lh, perhaps a bit of implied soapghost, bisexual soap, bisexual johnny silverhand, probably ooc but i do what i want ❤️

a/n: inspired by @yeyinde and my midnight-fueled obsession :) I'll probably make a part two to this because it's now my baby. knowledge of Cyberpunk 2077 is recommended because I reference in-universe characters. yes it's very niche, no I don't care.

- set in 2077

- they would all hate Johnny Silverhand. no exceptions.

- Soap's a little sad he shares a name with that fellow bi disaster bastard tho

- in a similar vein, they'd probably not be too fond of River; Price would envy him for his naivety and Gaz sees himself in River

- fanon Rogue and Price would 100% bond over being mother hens to a ragtag group of idiots

- Graves but Meredith Stout

- no questions asked

- the bitch would work for Militech or some other arms corp

- probably Militech because it is very American™ and he's a little yeeyee boy

- i might have Rudy's characterization wrong, but I feel like he'd have started in the NCPD like River

- poor boys only wanted to make the world better but instead Rudy became jaded and is sort of resigned to his job like Han

- Alejandro would be his buddy from Heywood who was always trying to get him to quit the force

- Ghost is probably the most like V in terms of skills and attitude

- but he's not some gonk kid who wants to make it big, he's made it big

- fixers either love him or they hate him

- one of those "going down in a blaze of glory" dudes

- would never work with Dex, though, and is especially relieved he never did after he hears about the Arasaka heist

- Price: veteran, but in a Mitch way and not a 6th street way. I feel like he had the potential to be a fixer, but wanted to try to have a quiet life after the war (Price bbg, there is no such thing as a quiet life in NC)

- is kind of like Takemura in the sense he'd love to run off and join a nomad clan (because fuck this place, honestly)

- but NC is all he knows and he has people he cares about there (read as: poor dude is attached to the 141 boys)

- Johnny (Silverhand) respects him, even if Price wants to rip him a new one every second they're around each other

- he could definitely become a mentor figure to V and would consider joining up with them if they take The Star ending

- honestly, i can still see Laswell working for the NUSA government

- but I'm not sure how we'd get a connection between her and the 141

- fuck logic, Price and Kate are still besties

- Soap and Panam get on like a house on fire

- a propensity for a little rule breaking and an affection harbored for an authority figure (i'll let you decide in what sense) brings them together

- I probably hc Gaz as younger than he actually is, but he gives off baby solo vibes

- brb thinking back to Jackie and V at the food stall outside of H10 and crying about it

- anyways

- Gaz would probably be the most like streetkid V

- bro knows his way around local fixers

- hc that Ghost and Gaz met on a job before Ghost made it big time

- and Ghost is all "I work alone >:(" but they discover that they work well together

- again thinking back to the streetkid intro, albeit Ghost is nowhere near the same as Jackie personality wise

- they probably grew apart after Ghost becomes a solo

- but Ghost is the first one to suggest Gaz when asked to put together a team for a big job (i.e. the heist but it doesn't go sideways)

- and yeah imo that's how c77!141 is put together

- Ghost knows Gaz, Gaz grew up around Price, and Price knows of Soap through the grapevine

- I guess to "convert" each of them into ttrpg factions, Soap is a techie, Ghost is a solo, Price is prolly a fixer, and Gaz might fall under lawman (as a PI or something)

- i am making less and less sense so I'm gonna stop here for now

[alwaysshallow]

💡

🚦

💡 Are there other fics or writers that are inspirational or influential to you?

writers that i'd seriously die for? who inspire me?? oh god. ceilidho, peach, lumi, bo, charlie, early, dotcie, yeyinde, ghoul, seph, salome, groguspicklejar..... many more probably, but they are literally on top of the pyramid. i could literally read anything from them. anything. I feel like I started to be a better writer because of their works.

🚦 Why/when did you start writing fanfiction? Why did you start posting?

if its about english language, back in august 2023!! i fellllllll desperately in love with soap and I became influenced by this one friends to lovers soap fic.... soap x fat reader i believe? he slept with her best friend 😭 gaz played the matchmaker (id love to find it btw) and ahhhhhh i just. projected a lot into coffee at midnight, then i had more brainworms and... yeah. I'm here.