Talk Ur Shit

Dating Felix from Once Upon a Time would Include....

The first time you traced the scar on his face he got really choked up

After all his years on Neverland, he wasn't used to positive physical contact, and your touch was so soft that he thought he might explode from an emotional overload

Likes to hold your hand when you're walking

Lunch and dinner dates at Granny's!!!

Holding hands over the table

Sharing fries and milkshakes

He only dances when you're alone

So Granny let's you stay past closing so you can use the jukebox

He's the big spoon most nights

But he also likes to be held by you

It makes him feel safe

His sketchbook is filled with drawings of you

You're his favorite subject

Taglist: (If you want to be added to my Felix Taglist Comment or DM me!)

Like You (Remus Lupin x Reader x Sirius Black x James Potter)

Warnings: 97% fluff, 3% light smut at the end (kissing, brief fingering and submissive!reader), Polyamorous Marauders + Reader insertion. In the final section James, Remus and the reader are 17. Sirius, being a 4/5 months older than the group, is 18. 

Word count: 2,644

Summary: The reader recounts significant memories leading up to her polyamorous relationship with the boys.

A/N: Since I’m new to the fandom, I wanna preface this by saying I’m 19; this fic is in no way mean’t to sexualize anyone under 18. I wanted to get back into fanfiction writing and was inspired by a few writers in the fandom: @pinkandblueblurbs, @babyjordy, @toripotterr, @randomoutsiders and @thotbutpurple​. Hope you guys can enjoy this, spent two whole days on this baby lol

THIRD YEAR

Remus (14)

Being sorted into Gryffindor was a bit of a shock for you at age 11, to say the least. You’d spent the entirety of your childhood with your nose behind books. The tales of valiant heroes offered a sense of escape from the unremarkable life of a prepubescent kid. It’s safe to say that before your powers surfaced, you had never considered yourself brave. 

And even your enrollment, you preferred to read about heated duels than to actually experience one yourself. Which is why, outside of your normal studying, you spent your first two terms curled up in the library. 

Being socially inept made friends an unattainable concept. It was around then that you started seeing the same tired looking boy, his face littered with cuts and scrapes, during your library visits.

Weaving through the isles, you would often see him in the same corner folded over different books. As time passed, your glances in his direction became more interested. Every trip you’d sit a tiny bit closer to sneak peaks in his direction.

Once you became aware of him, you’d started noticing him everywhere. Curled up near the fireplace in the common room, eating in The Great Hall and being quietly attentive in your DADA class. Over the weeks, you pieced together that his name was Remus.

Having originally thought him to be a loner like yourself, you were surprised to find him glued at the hip to the same two boys. 

The group seemed inseparable, always huddled up during breakfast or in between classes. Appearing to always be having the time of their lives when you saw them together. You envied their bond, they looked so at home with one another.

Christmas break had just ended when you felt a sliver of courage bubble up in your chest. You’d resolved to finally speak to him. It couldn’t hurt to try right?

Keep reading

Tony: hey, kiddo, how’ve you been? How’s school?

Peter, a struggling™️ teen: I am a festive piñata and God is a thirteen year old boy whose parents just announced their divorce.

Tony:

Loki walks in the room: same

Anything: BBC Sherlock X Reader

A/N: Woo hoo, first Sherlock imagine! Let me know what you think?

WARNING(S): Sally Donovan being an idiot

You took a deep breath and walked up to your boss’ office before tentatively knocking on the door to which Greg said, “Come in!”

Opening the door, you stepped inside and your gaze immediately fell on the tall, handsome detective with his messed-up curls framing his concentrated face.

“Sherlock,” you began in a pleading sort of tone.

“Ah, Y/N,” Sherlock greeted, “The girl is up to talking, then?”

You looked at him before sighing, “Sherlock – look, this girl’s been through a kidnapping and her brother is lying unconscious at a hospital – bloody hell, she’s just seven! Just – can you – please be gentle, just this once?”

“What her point is beneath those much-too kind words,” Greg explained, “Just anything you can do to –”

“Not be myself,” Sherlock finished monotonously.

Greg awkwardly looked at him, “Well, it can’t hurt.”

You, Sherlock, Greg, John and Donovan walked together to the room where the little girl was sitting, next to a psychiatrist.

She was staring determinedly at her knees and her tiny face looked so sad that it made you hate Moriarty, if possible, even more.

Sherlock walked closer to her and said in what he hoped was an understanding voice, “Claudette, I know you’ve been through a lot –”

There was nothing left to say. Claudette took one look at Sherlock’s face and emitted a loud, piercing, bloodcurdling scream that echoed off the walls of the isolated room.

“Okay, alright,” you placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. He was looking perplexed.

“Sherlock – let’s just leave,” you muttered, steering him out of the room and back into Greg’s office. Minutes later, the rest of them came running in.

“Makes no sense,” John frowned.

“Poor thing’s traumatised,” Greg sighed, “Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper.”

You looked at Sherlock warily, suddenly realising that he’d not uttered a single word during the conversation, but was determinedly staring out the window.

“Hey, don’t let it get to you,” Greg joked, “I always feeling like screaming when you walk into a room. In fact, a lot of us do. Come on.”

He left the room.

You threw one last furtive glance in Sherlock’s direction.

“Okay, come on,” you said gently, “You need to get home – it’s been a long day.”

As you made to steer him out of the room, Sally spoke up.

“Brilliant work you did, finding those kids with just a footprint. Really amazing –”

“Thank you,” Sherlock curtly responded.

“ – unbelievable,” Sally finished with a cold demeanour.

“Sally,” you warningly said, “Don’t listen to her – come on, let’s go.”

Not entirely convinced, Sally glared after the detective’s retreating form.

—-

“Sally, this is ridiculous, you hear me?!” you shouted, “Ridiculous.”

“Y/N – look at my position here!” Sally yelled, “He’s just absolutely – well, brilliant! It’s unrealistic! It’s not – it’s not right!”

“He’s different, is what you mean to say,” you snapped, “And that annoys you, does it? Because he’s not like you, or Andersen, or Greg – or even me?”

“I told you when I first saw him, I didn’t like the look of him –”

“So you’re saying he’s touched in the head?!” you yelled, “That he’s crazy?! Listen – to – me – Sally!” you pleaded, “Sherlock is not a lunatic, he’s not a fraud, and not a liar!”

“Then why did that little girl start screaming?” Sally asked.

“I – well,” you sputtered.

Sally smirked knowing you were lost for words.

“Girl of seven years of age, kidnapped a week ago, sees Sherlock and starts bellowing her head off – a man she’s never seen before,” Sally said, “Or has she?”

“Are you crazy?” you yelled, “Why would Sherlock do something like that?!”

“Sally, listen to me,” you said in a more pleading tone, “I know you don’t like him and I know he’s not a very open person. And I realise that you’ve not got much to go on about his personality apart from his cases. But listen to me, Sally – Sherlock is not a bad person. He would never do that to a kid! To anyone, for that matter! Don’t you see what Moriarty’s trying to do? He’s trying to sow doubt into the minds of whoever are closest to him and others as well!”

Sally scoffed, “Really, Y/N? You of all people bought into that bullshit about Moriarty?”

“Sally –”

“We don’t have time for this, Y/N, Lestrade’s already approved an arrest warrant. Now, I want you to stay away from the scene – you’ll only make it worse.”

“Make it – Sally, he’s my friend!” you yelled.

“And I’m your colleague who bears a message from your employer that you will get fired if you don’t follow instructions.”

—–

“So – he refused?” you asked in mock bedazzlement.

“What was he, some sort of private eye?” asked the superintendent.

“He was – we were,” Greg began.

“ – consulting with him, that’s what you told me,” said the superintendent, “Have you used him on any proper cases?”

“One or two, sir,” you said pleadingly.

“Or twenty or thirty,” Andersen muttered under his breath as you disbelievingly looked at him.

“What?! This – private detective, has no authorisation and you give him access to all sorts of classified information?! You’re a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go, fetch him in, right now!”

“Sir –” you began, “I’m not going to – arrest my own friend.”

“Safety before sentiment, L/N,” he growled, “I don’t care if he’s your boyfriend, I don’t care if you’re pregnant with his child – he’s a suspect in a case and I own this section of Scotland Yard, I can get you fired like that,” he snapped his fingers, “Clear?”

You turned faintly pink, “Y-yes sir.”

—–

You walked into 221B Baker Street straight up to Sherlock’s living room, keeping your face as impassive as possible.

“Sherlock Holmes, I’m placing you under arrest on charges of abduction,” you monotonously recited.

Though he normally would have insulted an officer in his face and told them to sod off, Sherlock took one look at your pained expression and quietly wrapped his scarf around his neck.

You extracted a pair of handcuffs and, with enormous difficulty, placed them on his wrist.

“God, I’m so sorry Sherlock,” you whispered so quietly that nobody except him heard you, “I promise this’ll be over soon, I promise.”

“ – and on charges of being involved in several other suspected cases,” you finished.

Sherlock looked at you again before saying, “Alright.”

“What – no, it’s not alright,” John sputtered, “This is ridiculous – Y/N! Y/N come on, don’t tell me you –”

“Don’t try to interfere or I’ll arrest you too,” you told John, your voice cracking with the agony the situation was causing you. John gaped at you but spoke no more.

As Sally took over Sherlock and dragged him downstairs, the chief superintendent strolled inside, taking a brief look over his apartment.

“Dottiness, that’s what he radiates,” he muttered, “Took one look at his face and knew it. He’s a bloody lunatic.”

“Apologies, sir,” you said, beginning to lose your cool, “But Sherlock Holmes seems a perfectly sane man to all of us.”

“Is that so?” he asked in a mocking way, “We’ll see what you’ve got to say when he’s convicted for all the murders he’s done just to show off –”

——

Sherlock was staring determinedly at his knees when your voice made him look up.

You were running out of his flat door as if your life depended on it.

“Hand – over – this – prisoner – to me,” you panted, coming to a halt, “Chief’s orders.”

The officers looked confused but guided Sherlock to your side.

“What are you doing?” he asked you out of the corner of his mouth.

“Getting you the hell out of here,” you answered out of the corner of yours, “Right, we’ve got around five seconds before they realise something is –”

“Stop! STOP!” the chief came running outside, his face grotesquely bloody from the punch you’d aimed at him, “STOP THAT WOMAN!”

The officers seemed to realise it was wrong to hand Sherlock over to you but they were too late. You grabbed the gun sitting in your pocket and pointed it around.

“Get on your knees! Everyone! I swear, I will shoot!” you screamed like a maniac.

“Open fire –” the chief began.

“NO, JUST DO WHAT SHE SAYS!” Greg bellowed over the commotion, “WE CAN’T AFFORD SERGEANT L/N’S DEATH IN THE CURRENT CLIMATE!”

You felt an inexplicable rush of gratitude towards Greg.

Everyone reluctantly sunk to their knees.

You menacingly made to raise the gun again to get Sherlock out of there but your hand was restrained by something. You looked down in surprise to see one of Sherlock’s hands free of handcuffs due to the reason that it had been placed onto yours, cuffing you two together.

“Don’t move!” yelled Sherlock. Nobody complied.

He raised your connected hands and shot into the air as you yelped in shock.

“Don’t move or I will kill this woman!” Sherlock pointed a gun to your head. Immediately, you caught on.

“Please, don’t move!” you said in a very convincing teary voice, “I’m his – his –”

“My hostage!” Sherlock yelled helpfully.

“Yeah, okay,” you muttered to yourself.

Sherlock’s cuffed hand dragged you gently further and further away from the scene.

“Now what?” you whispered.

“Improvisation,” Sherlock responded, “Run.”

You barely had time to register it as he took off sprinting, dragging you along with him. After a few blocks, you gained a clumsy coordination and you finally stopped at a gate with no way ahead.

Sherlock tutted in annoyance and jumped over the gate.

“What – you bloody twat, I’m not jumping off of that!” you yelled.

“No time to negotiate, Y/N!” Sherlock yelled, “Move to your right, and jump! Now!”

You shook your head but police sirens were gaining on you so you had no choice. Closing your eyes and shouting a prayer to the heavens, you jumped off and landed straight into Sherlock’s arms.

Your cheeks burned in embarrassment and you walked forward, as far away as possible. When you finally reached a secluded spot, Sherlock turned to you, both of you panting.

“You’re alright?”

“What – why, why did you do that?” you gasped, clutching a stitch in your side, “Now they’re going to think you’re a bloody psychopath, I had it under control!”

“You would have lost your job,” Sherlock snapped at you.

You scoffed, “I’d rather be unemployed than work at a place that’s trying to hurt my friend!”

Sherlock looked at you seriously, not blinking in the least.

“You would – you would be prepared to risk your job for me?” he clarified.

“Yes!” you yelled, “Of course I’d be prepared to risk my job for you!”

“Why?” Sherlock abruptly asked, “Nobody ever does anything without a reason, tell. Me. Why. This is – this is inhumane, this – this feeling I get around you these days – I don’t know if it’s you or me –”

“I think - it’s both of us,” you said quietly, “It’s called attraction, Sherlock. I think – I think you – you fancy me.”

“I’m beginning to think so too,” Sherlock muttered, messing up his hair, “But you didn’t answer my question. Why?”

You sighed.

“Sherlock.” you seriously said, “Sometimes you don’t need a reason to be nice to someone. I’d risk my life for you, Sherlock. I’d do anything for you.”

There was nothing more to be said. After staring at you in serious concentration, Sherlock inched closer to your face. You could feel his breath fanning your face and his gaze was fixed upon your lips as yours, on his. Your lips collided in a spontaneous kiss and the next moment, you were fisting his shirt and pulling him closer to you, holding on as tightly as possible.

Sure, the world was beginning to crumble around Sherlock, but that could wait.

All that mattered in that moment, was you and the feeling of your body pressed up against his on the cold winter’s night.

A/N: So do you think Sherlock is a field I should write more fanfics in?

Afterburn

(Everyone x F! Reader)

Rating: M Wordcount: 8k Tags: Aftercare, Post-nut clarity, Praise kink, Taking a bath together, Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl after completely and utterly wrecking her A/N: ...This was supposed to be a drabble. No few regrets. My personal take on the aftermath @yeyinde 's "Body electric". Special thank you to @guyfieriii @moondirti @zwiiicnziiix @ladiilokii and many others

Summary:

It’s over.

The world around you feels dense, cryptic, laden with mysteries and vagueness as you still try to process how you ended up here. Your eyes stare up at the creaking, wooden rafters of the safehouse, vision still swimming, dried tears flaking at the corner of your gaze. Every small motion seems to roil with a discomfort that’s heavy with the aftereffects of pleasure, bleached to the bone and dull, cracking at the edges. Splayed over the table where maps and gear had been hastily shoved aside you can’t deny the chafe, the rawness that manages to soak deep into your veins.

The boys are milling around you, speaking in tired, disbelieving tones at the events of the past few hours, at how you had managed to take them, all of them at once.

It had been a blur, your memories drowning in a cacophony of slickened skin and torrid, whispered praises, or grunted pleasures and hissed curses as they all took as much as they gave. You weren’t sure who’s idea it was at first, but in the course of fucking you, of ruining you, you had surrendered completely to them, let their hands and voices guide you as you floated on an endless sea of sensation and desire. Even as they had drunk their fill of you, of your salted moans and whimpered, pleasured cries, they had been ever attentive, listening to the roll and tide of your ebbing lust, knowing exactly when to push and pull you like the ever-changing undercurrent of the ocean itself.

Now, in the aftermath you feel like you’ve been washed ashore, left there by the churning waves as fluid drips across your skin and clings there like salt.

You don’t survive this long with the 141 without your fair share of injuries. Burns, cuts, and blisters are your war medals, decorating your skin with a silent story of pride. Grenades, IEDs, the ground shattering sensation of a missile launch or the back-kick of a rifle. These things were familiar to you. Not this.

When you blink, it’s to wince at the rough chafe between your legs, the tender touch of a love bite sucked into your throat. You ache all over, and while the afterburn of pleasure still roils low in your stomach, sated and simmering with fading euphoria, the dull, insistent stretch and soreness of handling five men at once feels at once too much, too sharp, too severe.

A whimper bubbles up your throat when you try to shift, try to roll over onto your stomach with your back still braced on the harsh metal table braced against your back. Someone had been kind enough to spread a towel under you, but it’s still not enough to ease the bite of discomfort clinging to you like rose thorns.

The chatter around you ceases instantly at the sound that pours from you when you try to move. The world around you seems more like hazy, indiscernible shapes with how overstimulated your senses are, an abstract of shades and shapes that make little sense to your pleasure-addled brain. Yet even so, it’s Rudy’s face that flickers into your vision, brow still slick with sweat but scrunched with concern.

“Shh.” He hushes you, and his hand is petting your hair from your face and your eyes flutter shut under his touch. “Easy, mi Corazón.”

“How is she?”

The voice is gruff, accented, and the question itself seems more like a demand than a question, spoken with an air of unquestioning authority. Price.

“Tired.” You manage, voice tacky and stick in your dry throat as you swallow and taste bitterness there. “Sore.”

Rudy clucks at you, and the sound feels for all the world like a worried mother hen. His thumb smears a drop of flaking cum against your cheek, and the touch is tender, careful with your over exhausted state.

Except then there’s another touch, one that grasps at your hand and raises it between two calloused palms, bitten with years of duty.

“Ya did good, hen.” Soap coos, and you twist your head to see him, his eyes still glazed over but bright, warm as they regard your lidded gaze. “Did so well for us.”

You can only hum, trying and failing to find the wherewithal inside you to summon a proper response. Soap smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

“What do you need, doll?” A different voice asks, and you tilt your head to see Gaz leaning on the table next to you, one hand planted next to your shoulder as he gazes down at you. His head is tilted, eyes tracing over the mess of fluids and grime caked on your skin. There’s something that flickers across his eyes, bitter and almost guilty, and had you not been so spent you would have reached for him, murmured reassurances against the curve of his jaw.

“Water.” You mutter instead, and instantly Gaz is gone from you. Before you can try and follow him with your eyes there’s hands bracing at your shoulders, fingers spreading against your bare skin. The world shifts around you, body bent and raised up to a sitting position.

“Easy, querida.” Alejandro soothes as you let out a little whimper of discomfort when he sits you up. “Con suavidad, mm? Gently now.”

You don’t have the strength to sit up by yourself, choosing to lean heavily on him instead, body slouching and trembling. From what you aren’t sure. You’re bare as the day you were born, and though the safehouse seems a touch chilled by the evening air, the shiver in your limbs runs deeper than that, wear and overspent.

“Soap.” Alejandro speaks, and his voice is muted, quiet so as to not startle you. “A blanket.”

Soap’s footsteps fade just as Gaz draws near once again, wrapping your hands around a canteen even as your grip shakes unsteadily. When he helps you tip the flask, the water soothes mercifully over your chaffed and cracked throat, and you gulp greedily. Yet it’s too much too fast, and it only takes two deep swallows before you cough and splutter, water trickling down the corner of your lips.

“Careful.” Gaz warns, voice low as he hovers in front of you, one hand still engulfing the hand holding the canteen. “Not too fast, doll.”

Yet then you feel him pause, shift and make room for a different figure that presses closer to you, a calloused hand gently gripping your chin and tipping your head back once you’ve caught your breath. When your eyes flutter open once more, it’s to meet the vision of Captain Price, eyes grim as he faces you head on, gaze never wavering.

“How bad?” He asks, and you know that tone, firm and demanding to know what you know, for you to not lie as you convey the depth of your awareness into his.

You swallow.

“I’m fine.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. You feel the ripple of suspense, of apprehension dissipate with a sigh from the men around you, relieved yet still precariously concerned with the sight of you, shivering, exposed, and exhausted from the inside out.

“I’m just…tired.” You emphasize again, incapable of conveying much more. “…and kinda gross.”

Price nods, the motion firm. You can see him digesting the information you’ve given him, letting it simmer and ruminate as he configures his next attack like a battle-hardened soldier.

“Rodolfo.” He states, and you hear the sergeant shift somewhere behind you, standing at attention on instinct at the solid, instructive tone of the captain’s voice. “Is there a bathtub here?”

“Si.”

“Good. Go run a warm bath. Not too hot. Gaz will help.”

“Rog.” Gaz affirms, and when his touch vanishes from you it’s Alejandro who keeps your hands steady, with your shoulder still pressed to his chest and head lolling onto his collarbone. He’s murmuring soft words at you that you hardly hear, fatigue dragging at you insistently like a riptide.

“Soap.” Price summons next, eyes turning to the Scotsman who still hovers close to the three of you with the blanket he’s retrieved. “Think you can find a clean set of clothes and fresh sheets?”

Through your wobbly gaze you see Soap perk up, eyes glinting with the look of a mission driven soldier.

“Aye, cap.” He confirms and takes two large steps before he’s again vanished from your sight.

It’s only once he’s gone that Price turns back to you, his calloused hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to face him once again. You whine at that, at the way the motion reminds your body of what’s already there, tender and raw and aching.

“Easy, love.” He gentles you, and his voice rumbles rough in his chest like cigar smoke, smoggy, acrid but warm all the same. “You did so well for us.”

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, touch firm and insistent despite the little hiss of tenderness you summon in response. Yet then the captain’s eyes soften, drinking in your flushed face and clouded gaze, lips parted under the rough pad of his thumb.

“So well.” He repeats, eyes distant for a moment as they trace over your lips before at last flickering up to your eyes. “Now let us return the favor and take care of you.”

It takes a moment for your hazy thoughts to process his words but when you do, you ease into his touch, breathy exhale spilling across the flat of his palm and eyes rolling shut. With a single, blissful sigh, you surrender once more to these men, let them take care of you in the way only they can, with their soft, firm voices and calloused, tender touches that bouy you as if you're lost at sea.

Then, the soft touch of a fabric as Price helps Alejandro drape the blanket across your form, enveloping you in a soothing warmth. You go limp, more pliant than you already are, leaning into the warm embrace of Alejandro’s form. A single hand comes up to clutch the blanket, velvety and worn under your fingertips.

Price vanishes somewhere beyond you, and Alejandro tucks you further into his side, nose buried in your hair as you shiver against him. Your bare legs dangle from the edge of the table, feet barely skimming the ground. Price’s voice is somewhere nearby, murmuring to someone you can’t see. You think you hear the sound of running water somewhere, but your thoughts feel clouded, hazy and sated with the knowledge that these men are intent on your care as much as your pleasure. For a moment you feel the riptide of fatigue pull at you, lulling you under as sleep beckons with an insistent, raw promise.

Footsteps. A presence, omnipresent and heavy like the force of gravity itself. You don’t open your eyes, don’t need to, already knowing who’s shadow falls across your form.

“Give her here.” Simon asks, demands from the colonel, voice low like the rumble of distant thunder.

You feel Alejandro stiffen, hesitate at the thought of entrusting you to the hulking soldier, remembering the way you went blank-eyed and completely limp under him, under the weight and pressure and force that is Ghost.

“Let him.” Price encourages, voice careful between the two. “I’ll need your help in here, mate.”

That seems to do it, because Alejandro is pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head before he extricates himself from you, steadying you long enough for Simon to catch you by the crook of your knees and width of your shoulders, hauling you up against him. The blanket bunches around your form, legs dangling and head lolling into the breadth of Simon’s chest.

Yet the motion isn’t without punishment, not as you’re shifted and your body protests valiantly at the abruptness of it all. A choked, pleading moan frees itself from your throat as Simon begins to walk away from the common area, strides large and purposeful.

“S-Simon-“ You try, unsure exactly what you’re pleading for but wanting to be closer, huddled deeper into his massive form.

“Easy, love.” He murmurs in response, accent thick and cloying in your thoughts. You settle at that, at the illusive, strangely sympathetic tenor of his voice. You’re too tired to do much else than recline against him with a shivering sigh, limbs aching and caked in grime.

It’s the sound of his boots against tile that rouses you only moments later, the warm steam of the bathroom curling across your skin and licking against clammy, chilled flesh. Ghost hovers just inside the doorway, hands splayed against you as they cup you to his form. You wish you had the forethought to lift your arms, tangle them around his neck, but the thought is gone as another figure hovers at your side.

“I got it from here, LT.”

Simon gruffs a sound of affirmation, and with surprising care dumps you into Gaz’s waiting arms. The blanket wrapped around you gently pulls away, and when you shudder Gaz’s lips are pressed into your temple.

“It’s alright, pretty girl.” He hushes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He’s bare, you realize dimly, exposed flesh pressed against you. The thought is strangely mortifying, considering the man has been balls deep in your ass earlier. Yet you don’t realize why he’s naked until he’s stepping into the tub, lowering you down with him into the warm, soothing water.

It takes a few moments for you both to settle, some of the water sloshing out onto the tile with both your forms inside the tub. Yet Gaz’s chest is pressed against your back, legs on either side of you and arms caging yours as you sink lower into the water with a blissful sigh. You feel it when he rumbles a chuckle, a hand vanishing as he reaches for the supplies Rudy no doubt provided him.

You reach for them as well, but your hand is gently knocked aside by the sergeant you’re pressed against.

“Nuh-uh, love.” He chuckles. “This is all me.”

You find it difficult to protest, instead sinking further into the warm water.

He starts by gently pouring water over you, dunking your sweaty, matted hair and loosening the strands carefully with his fingers. The sergeant works systematically, lifting each limb and scrubbing it free of flaky cum and caked sweat, the soft bubbles of soap grazing across your arms and legs. You relax into him completely limp and utterly euphoric. Everything smells like coconut and aloe, aromatic and perfumed and warm as the water laps at your legs and chest.

Gaz takes careful attention to your face, gently cleansing it free of the tear trails and semen caked against your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. He’s murmuring gentle encouragements to you all the while, voice hushed and soft in your ear, full of “There we go, that'sa girl, sit up for me? Thank you, doll. Almost done, back next, shh, easy.”

When he gets to the apex of your thighs however, you flinch at his touch, just barely too firm against your chaffed, stretched holes.

“Take it easy.” A voice gruffs, and you blink your eyes open, vision adjusting to the dusty brown hues of the bathroom, seeking the cockney laden voice.

He’s there, in the corner, arms crossed and lurking, massive frame hunched into the otherwise too small space. Ghost’s eyes level at the both of you, gaze unblinking, blistering as he observes, watches, intent on observing and seeing through whatever mission he’s been tasked with.

Gaz only nods at him, his voice quiet in your ear as he speaks.

“You want to do this?” He asks, tone low, concerned at your reaction. You manage a nod over your shoulder, delicately taking the washcloth from his grip and letting it sink beneath the murky water.

It takes a moment, but you manage to hiss past the pain and arch up to scrub yourself, cleaning the mess of caked fluids that decorate your inner thighs and ass. You can feel Simon’s gaze on you all the while, the way he’s taking in every wince and jolt that flashes across your face.

“Deep breath.” Gaz encourages softly in your ear, and when you oblige there’s a slosh of water pouring over your head and dampening your locks.

You moan when Gaz works his fingers into your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp and raking his fingers against the crown of your skull. You melt into the touch, all previous indications of soreness vanishing in the instant it takes him to chuckle warmly at your response.

“That’s nice, yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the touch of smugness in his voice, pleased with the way you grow limp and pliant against him, the way your eyes roll back into your head at the gentle, rolling motion of his fingers into your scalp. You can only hum a sleepy “Mmhmm.” In response, blissed out on the sensation.

He’s surprisingly good at this, you find out, making sure to go so far as to condition from the tips of your hair up, carefully combing your hair through his fingers. You relax fully into him, sink yourself up to your nose in the cooling water and let drowsiness take hold. Yet it’s only when you shift that you feel him, feel the hardening nudge at the small of your back that has you stiffening, sucking in a sharp gasp of air.

“Gaz…” You warn, casting a pleading look across your bare shoulder.

You’re not sure if it’s the warm water, the lingering haze of lust, or the blissful, relaxed sounds that spill past your lips, but you can feel him, can feel the blunt pressure of him against the nudge of your spine. It sends a lingering shower of sparks racing through your veins, but the heat of it is dulled, muted by exhaustion. You can’t, not again, not right now.

Gaz seems to read your mind, sees the way your eyes flicker with wariness. His hands still for a moment as he leans, entering your field of view with warm eyes that dance with a touch of mischief below the caramel surface.

“Don’t you worry about me, doll.” He replies softly, but there’s a sultriness there that isn’t fully extinguished. “This is all about you.”

And when his thumbs dig a dull, heavenly touch into the nape of your neck, you find it hard to complain.

All too soon, you hear the bathtub drain gurgle as Gaz pulls the plug, the water receding like the tide gone out to sea.

“They done?” A voice asks from the doorway, and your gaze blinks up to reveal Soap, present with what looks like two changes of clothes in hand.

“Just about.” Gaz replies, and you feel him shift as he detaches himself from you, scooting so he’s halfway out of the tub and can help you wobble your way to a stand to step out onto the cold tile.

Yet at the first step your legs tremble like an unsteady filly, and it takes both Soap and Gaz to steady you, sit you down on the edge of the tub. When you plop down on the edge, however, a remainder of soreness shoots across your hips and up your spine and you’re unable to bite back the moan that escapes you.

Gaz and Soap shoot each other a look, self-satisfied smirks tugging at the corners of each of their mouths.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling warmth threaten to flush across your face once more.

They spare you, thankfully, and as Gaz dries himself off it’s Soap who’s drying your hair, wiping the water from your shoulder and back. You trace the planes of his face as he does, watching the way his brow scrunches with concentration, the way his eyes linger over the swell of your tender, bruised breasts and the curve of your hips. The plumpness of his lip is sucked between his teeth, and you can tell he’s restraining himself, trying not to indulge with his touch on you, letting his fingers wander and press and summon whimpered pleas from your bones. His hands are assertive in the way only soldiers are, resolute with duty and yet still somehow gentle, considerate when he grazes over the soreness of you.

You attempt to help, feeling a trembling strength returning to you now that’s your hydrated and clean. Yet Soap merely grumbles at you, refusing to hand over the towel.

“Just sit back, hen.” He tells you, and his voice is firm despite the tenderness there.

You purse your lips at him, feeling a flash of guilt at letting yourself be so completely pampered like this, not allowed to do so much as properly dry yourself. Yet Soap notices, steely blue gaze flickering to yours when he notices your hesitation.

“Lass.” He begins, that cocksure smile tugging at his lips once more. His eyes are sparkling, and you can’t stifle the helpless flop of warmth that pools inside of you at the sight. “You just let us shag you seven ways to Sunday and were bloody perfect for it. Let us spoil you, aye?”

Yet you’re still unsure, and when the Scotsman sees you’re unconvinced he sighs.

“When else are you going to have five burly men at waitin’ on you hand and foot?” He asks almost impatiently, and that thought is intriguing to say the least, enough to make your hand fall limply back to your side.

Soap grins. The warmth thickens.

“That’s a good lass.” He murmurs, and there’s a touch of smugness in his voice, at the way he’s managed to school you into surrendering, letting yourself succumb to his touch once more. Yet that conciliation is enough to get him chattering now, tongue loose as he purrs little praises and encouragements at you all the while.

“So pretty.” He coos as he turns your face up in his palms, towel brushing hair from your brow, as he wrings water from your hair and carefully wipes at your still tender hips and thighs. “Perfect little bonnie for us.”

You’re pliant, docile under his touch, letting him do as he needs to and letting the familiar touch of hebetude pull at your senses. It would be easy to fall asleep right here, to lean against him and let rest take hold of you, drown you as it's meant to. Clean now, warm and undeniably sated, the promise of sleep creeps near with a touch that feels achingly familiar. The temptation is an enticing one, the promise of deep, velvety unconsciousness dragging at you even as Soap reaches for your change of clothes.

“Arms up.” He encourages, and you can’t help the drowsy little grumble that escapes you in protest.

“ ‘m tired, Johnny.” You slur at him, but the sergeant merely tuts at you.

“I know hen. I know. We’re almost done.”

You grumble even as you oblige, lifting your arms up and letting him slide a T-shirt that seems far too large for you over your bare torso. Pants follow, and you have to fumble with the drawstring of the sweatpants to cinch them around your waist so they don’t pool at your hips. Yet it’s the hoodie that Soap slips your arms through that makes you slouch into comfort, hum a note of appreciation at the back of your throat.

“Smells like you.” You mumble, eyes sleepy and warm at your sergeant, and you see Soap melt.

“Only the finest.” He grins back at you, eyes glinting with that tell-tale elation he has whenever he’s got your full attention.

There’s a call from down the hallway that you don’t catch, one that draws Soap’s attention and causes him to turn his head. You follow his gaze at first, but find yourself distracted by the shadowy figure still present in the corner, head tilted as he observes you, watches you watch him. You can see his eyes, see the way they’re slightly narrowed at your slouched form on the edge of the tub. It isn’t clear exactly what Simon is looking for, but he seems to find it nonetheless, gaze darting up from your pebbled nipples to your open, curious expression.

“Think you can stand?” Soap asks you, drawing your attention back to him. You nod, and with his help wobble to your feet, bare soles still sliding across the wet floor.

Yet again, when your legs shake with weakness it’s all you can do to remain standing, hand gripping Soap’s arm with a trembling, unsteady grip. Your gaze flicks upwards, once again finding the skull mask that haunts the edges of the room and the periphery of your thoughts. You don’t make a sound, barely alter your expression, but within moments Ghost is rolling his shoulders to push off from the wall, closing the distance between you both and wrapping an arm around your waist.

He doesn’t say a word as he scoops you up once more, and even Soap seems a bit surprised at the sudden gesture, eyebrows arched as the mammoth soldier cradles you into his broad chest.

“I-“ You try, but when Ghost’s eyes peer down at you your throat feels dry, tongue heavy, and the words are lost.

Soap trails you both as Ghost escorts you back in the direction of Price and the others. As you round the corner your nose instantly fills with the thick, scented spice of garlic and onions, and soon you find Rudy and Alejandro in the kitchen, turned to each other with smirking, tell-tale smiles as they bend over a pan of something that you think smells like heaven.

“Here.”

You turn at the sound of Price’s voice. He’s seated at the head of the table, and the chair creaks as he scoots away from the table, widening an arm in Simon’s direction. Simon follows the order without protest, gently depositing you into Price’s lap even as you whimper at the tender flesh of your ass coming into contact with him.

You should be embarrassed, you think. You should be a little bashful at this circumstance, perched in the lap of your captain who smells like cigar smoke and gun oil, at the way his arm closes around you and keeps you braced against his chest. Yet Price is warm, solid, his grip on you firm and reassuring, so you struggle to find yourself to care.

Price reaches for something on the table, a tube of what looks like ointment. You blink at it for a moment, brow furrowing even as he deposits a liberal smear on his calloused fingertips. When he catches your wary expression he merely huffs, the mutton chops of his beard twitching upward with his smile.

“Ointment.” He explains. “It’ll help with the tenderness.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, surprised but also a touch curious.

“You say that like you’ve been in this situation before, captain.” You remark carefully, but Price merely huffs at you, warm, smoky breath ghosting across the planes of your face.

“Years of experience, love.” Is all he gives you before his hand is snaking under the hem of your shirt, up to the tender, suckled flesh of your breasts. It’s a shock, you flinch under the cold touch of his slickened fingertips. Yet Price’s opposite hand digs into your thigh, steadying, guiding in the way only he is. You arch into him with a little protest as he smears the ointment across the rise of your chest, whimper caught in your throat.

“Easy.” Price gentles when you squirm, and the tickle of his beard whispers over the nape of your neck when he presses a kiss there. “I got you.”

You only nod, eyes scrunched shut and breath stuttering in your chest, hands gripping his arms and head tucked back against his shoulder. Your heart thrums louder, skin burning, yearning for the grip of him but knowing it’s too much, too soon, that you can only sit there and take it as his war-worn hands smooth the cream against your battered flesh.

Yet it’s when his touch vanishes from you, when you sigh that you hear him huff, chest jolting with the motion as you brace against it. Except then he’s shifting, and you feel a hand pull at the hem of the sweatpants you’re wearing -black, you notice- as his fingers descend past them, along your belly and towards the core of you.

“C-captain-!” You shudder when Price smoothes lotion across your folds, and suddenly the world is too hot, too bright, and you’re shivering under his touch, body growing taut. Yet Price’s touch is purely medicinal, purposeful and clinical even as you gasp and writhe weakly against him.

“You can take it.” He encourages, voice grumbling and firm, ever the leader, anchoring you from the discomfort and the rapid, uncertain flutter of your heartbeat.

You try to stay still, you do, but Price’s and feel like a warming brand against your skin, reigniting a coiling flame there, one that you can’t indulge in despite the wish that you could. It’s all you can do to tuck your head back against him, shiver under his hand cupping the core of you, your hands digging into him as you seek gravity. When you whimper, Price’s touch softens, soothing circles into your hips, your thighs, your ribs.

“There we go, love.” He rasps when you sink against him, caressed into docility as you perch on his lap. “That’s a good girl.”

You whimper, and the sound is enough to summon a grumbling groan, caught like the grind of gravel deep in his chest.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” And it’s Soap’s voice nearby, lilted low with desire as he watches you writhe and whimper on the lap of his captain, eyes scrunched shut and hands clutching at him to ground yourself from Price’s perseverant hand slid under the waistband of your pants. You look at him, gaze half-lidded and hazy, and when you do his eyes flash darkly at you, a curse bitten off in a language you wish you understood. It summons a weak, distant burst of arousal in you, one that has you squirm back against Price, seeking ground on which to retreat.

Yet all you find there is a grunt, a hand digging into your thigh with a warning as you recognize the bulge that presses up against the swell of your ass.

“Careful now.” Price mutters darkly, and you shiver at the desire there, even with his hand flat against the front of you, his beard tickling the nape of your neck as he at last withdraws his hand. “I don’t think you're quite ready for us again, sweetheart.”

For a brief, dizzying moment, you wish you were.

Footsteps, and when you turn your head Alejandro is approaching from the all too distant realm of the kitchen with a plate that has steam curling into delicious, mouth-watering whisps. When you catch his eyes you see him grin, and it feels for all the world like a promise of things to come, blooming like cumulus clouds against a far-off horizon.

“Arroz rojo.” He announces as he sets the plate in front of you, the red rice blooming with the scent of cumin at the back of your throat. “Rudy said you might appreciate something easy on your stomach.”

You twist in Price’s lap towards the direction of the kitchen, catching Rudy’s dark head of hair as he turns to meet your gaze. Contentedness blossoms across his expression, deeply satisfied and almost glowing with the hazy aftereffects of a man completely and utterly sated.

“Let me know if you like it, mi Corazón.” He replies, and his voice is almost shy, a touch bashful despite the fact that he’s the same man who spilled down your throat earlier.

Price’s fingers tap on your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. You crane your head to look at him, and then shiver at the darkness there, restrained but still ominously present.

“You’re going to have to move, love.” He gruffs at you. “Unless you want me to spoil your appetite.”

You gulp.

“Here.” Alejandro offers, arms open. You don’t have a chance to protest before you’re being moved between them, transferred from one set of arms to the other, adjusted until you balance on Alejandro’s lap.

“I-I can feed myself.” You try, feeling the ripe blister of embarrassment creep up your face as Alejandro reaches for the plate before you.

Yet the colonel ignores you, fork clinking as an arm keeps you braced against him, even as you try to appeal to him with half-lidded, weary eyes.

“Can you?” He asks, and that damned smugness that’s present in all of them is there in him too, as his eyes gleam down at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.

Still, you nod valiantly, grappling the fork away from his hand even as your own grip shakes lightly, spilling grains back onto the plate. When Alejandro chuckles the sound is warm, like the blaze of sun-kissed skin and spices curling on your tongue. His hand engulfs yours, steadies it as you raise the fork to your lips, letting the warm, cloying spices curl across your tongue.

When you give a little hum of enjoyment Alejandro practically purrs in your ear, and you realize that this must be doing something to him. With your tender and sore figure perched in his lap, the object of his desires smelling like musk and aloe and just a touch of him-

“Me estás volviendo loco con esos ruidos.” Alejandro murmurs, and the sound is more of a groan than anything else, spoken into your damp hair, arms hauling you tighter against him as you savor the food, a happy little noise hummed high in your throat. “The sounds you’re making are almost as pretty as you, bonita.”

“I take it that means you like it?” Rudy asks as he sets down a glass of water in front of you beside the plate, and you grin up at him, pleased.

“Mm.” Is all you manage around a mouthful of rice, and you see Rudy’s eyes melt, glaze over at the sight of you, fed and happy and satisfied. His hand flicks out, and you still as he brushes a stray grain from the corner of your mouth, drawing his thumb back to let his tongue run across the tip of his thumb. You still, tracing the motion with your eyes as a different heat flicker within you.

“Agua.” Alejandro encourages, reaching for the glass and tipping it up towards your waiting lips. You follow the command, the motion is easier now than it was before, when you were fresh out of a warzone that left you blistered and bruised but sated.

The two men before you seem entranced by you, damp and warm and docile in Alejandro’s arms. There’s a sense of pride there, you know, something about keeping you warm and fed and clean and protected that makes something primal pace against the confines of their thoughts. It’s the thought that they’ve rendered you to this much, carved gasping, lecherous words into your flesh and pushed you over into the abyss, time and time again, only to haul you back into their waiting arms.

It's not just them. When you cast a glance about there’s chairs pulled up to the table you were defiled upon, the men around you quiet but observant, gazes looking over your slouched, cuddled form with your drowsy, pleased expression and damp hair sticking to the corners of your face. Price, with his smoldering stare like the glowing burn of tobacco; Soap with his bright, keen gaze that glints at you from the distance between; Gaz with his softer, warmer eyes that still hold the hazy dying dusk of desire.

Ghost, who lingers against the wall just beyond. His eyes haven’t left you this entire time. It feels almost wolfish, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink when you look at him, arms crossed and gaze still dark, hungry for you in a way he doesn’t bother to conceal. You can still feel him, feel the way he split you open and left a piece of himself there, branding you with the heat of him nestled against your womb and his teeth grazing possessively over the underside of your jaw.

Alejandro’s fingers trace there instead, drawing you back to him, and your lips part around another forkful of arroz as he’s murmuring words into your skin that taste like cloves and paprika, aromatic and piquant.

“Wish we could keep you here, carina.” He mutters as you swallow, as his thumb smoothes over the still-trembling hand in his grasp. “We could keep you happy here.”

You are happy. Blissfully so. Despite the tenderness and fatigue, you’re undeniably comfortable, clean, fed, warm, satiated from the attention of the men around you. These men, who you’ve fought beside, who you’ve entrusted your life and body to, the ones who took their own pleasure from you as much as they gave you yours.

Maybe it’s the simmering coolness of your nerves, the way you’re so exposed and vulnerable like this, or the way Rudy’s hand pets your hair, the way Alejandro is murmuring to you, or the way Gaz looks at you with something that feels suddenly like longing-

You feel tears swell against the corner of your eyes, fat and heavy and too hot for your blistered skin. There’s a tightness that clogs your throat when you tilt your head back, trying to keep them from spilling like a cup over filled.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ Rudy coos, and his finger smears the growing wetness from your gaze, clearing it so you see his face flicker into view, brown-eyed gaze tenderly soft and worried at this sudden change in you. “Mi vida, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, and the capsicum taste of cumin lingers there. It does nothing to quell the tightness there, something skin to a sob threatening to bubble up when you speak. It dissolves as a sigh instead, one that falls across Rudy’s fingers cupping your face as you gently shake your head.

“Nothing.” You say, but your voice cracks in betrayal as you try to find the words needed to explain this strangeness in you, overwhelmed and burning at the edges but undeniably happy in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You feel like you’ve been dragged from hypothermia and into a sauna, body and mind reeling at the adjustment but grateful all the same, trying and failing to express the rawness of the sensations that threaten the crux of you.

“I’m just…happy.” You tell him at last-

And begin to cry.

Now they crowd around you, hush you with gentle words even as mortification and contempt flood your veins. When you try and wipe your tears, hide your face as you sniffle, there's a hand that pulls it away, wipes your face. Hands smooth along your shoulders and sides, rubbing gentle reassurances there that echo into the air around you.

“I’m sorry.” You manage between stifled hiccups. “I-it was good, really good, I-I don’t know why-“

“You’re exhausted, love.” And it’s Price who’s talking now. You think it’s his hand that cups your chin, over your quivering lip as you try to contain yourself. “You’re overwhelmed and tired. ‘s not your fault.”

“ ‘M sorry.” You try again, but he merely tuts at you, and there’s hands in your hair and Alejandro’s voice against your shoulders and someone’s holding your hand and rubbing circles into your hips and-

“Don’t you worry about that now.” The captain tells you, and his voice is softer now, almost ginger in the way he’s regarding you, you who’s taken bullet wounds and shrapnel and yet have become undone by the simple, irreplaceable act of being cared for.

You nod, feeling your shuddering gasps begin to wane, the shiver in your limbs subside as they once again drag you ashore, out from the blazing sun and into the cool shade of their embraces.

“Think you can handle a few more bites, Querida?” Alejandro asks, and you nod, let him lift the fork to your mouth even as salt obscures the taste.

“Next time I’ll have you come to the ranch and make you elote e carne asada.” Alejandro rumbles, and you feel the smile of him against your shoulder.

“ ‘Next time’?” Soap chuffs, and that’s enough to draw the attention away from you and to the sergeant, who crosses his arms in Alejandro’s direction. “What makes you think there will be a next time, mate?”

“Yeah.” Gaz chimes in, and he’s leaning forward so one arm rests against the table. “Besides, your ranch? Next time will be back at Beacon base in the UK.”

“You’re both wrong.” Price grumbles, fingers tapping on the width of his arm. “We’re staying in Lancashire at my place.”

“Now hold on, captain-“ Rudy objects. “Do you know how expensive it is across the Atlantic? Tickets these days are-“

They’re bickering, the previous, united camaraderie of soldiers evaporating as they discuss the group’s future endeavors like mapping out battle plans, pinpointing targets and 0600’s and supplies. You don’t bother to listen, not even as Alejandro’s tumbling voice echoes over your head and his arm wraps around your middle in a gesture that seems more possessive than it does stabilizing, the warmth of his hand burrowing against your ribs with nothing but the cotton of your too-large shirt to separate him from your skin.

Full now, belly warm and senses cloudy with contentment, you lean your head back against Alejandro’s shoulder, body slumping as you feel the familiar drag of fatigue wind around you, pulling you downwards. There’s nothing left. You don’t think you could walk even if you wanted to, limbs heavy and immobile. There’s fuzz between your ears, like cotton balls soft to the touch, obscuring sound and sight as the heavy weight of drowsiness washes over you.

“A few more bites, carino.” Rudy encourages, and you whine at him, too far gone to summon a real protest. The sound is enough to make Alejandro brace his head into your shoulder and groan at the little pleading whimper in your voice, too full and tired to bother with much else.

“Chica bonita.” Rudy purrs at you. “Are you tired? Need to sleep?”

You nod up at him, feeling a small flush of self-awareness at how you must look right now, bedraggled and tired and damp, draped in clothes far too big for you, eyes lidded and heavy with the promise of sleep. Yet Rudy’s eyes are affectionate when they catch yours, and you can taste the melted chocolate that oozes from them, dark and sweet.

“Let’s get you tucked in then.” He murmurs, looking over your shoulder at Alejandro. They exchange in Spanish you don’t understand, and it gives you the opportunity you need to let your head drop, eyes fluttering shut even as you’re lifted, moved. The world tilts around you, yet this time it feels less like the daring free fall of a skydive and more like the gentle, reminiscent swing of a hammock on a sunny afternoon, dappled sunlight streaming through a forest canopy. The world is warm, cloaked in color and birdsong, the air around you like a salted ocean breeze that licks at the folds on your clothes and tangles in your hair.

“Shh, shh, gently now.” Soap murmurs, and you can smell him as he helps you down into the bed he’s helped make, military corners tucked in with precision. You sink into it, knowing it’s nothing more than a cot but thankful to the gods to at last be horizontal, laying on your side as a hand lifts your skull to slide a pillow there. You curl in on yourself even as a blanket falls across your form, shivering.

Yet when Soap tries to leave you catch him, fingers tugging on his pants even as he tries to step away.

“It’s cold.” You manage, voice small despite your bold, unspoken request. Little do you know that when you ask like that, when you blink your pretty lashes up at him, nose hidden under the sheets and fingers hooked on his pants leg, that there’s no way he can refuse.

“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He breathes, voice thick with wonder. Yet then he’s moving, tugging off his boots with a curse. The cot shakes as he braces on it, shudders when he manages to slip into the sheets next to you. A thick, brawny hand comes up to cup your skull, dragging you into his chest and pressing you there, and when you breathe in it’s him, cedarwood and ashes of the fire, thick and musky across your senses.

When you think it’s finally, blissfully over, however, there’s a hand petting your hair, and a younger, British voice on your other side.

“Room for three?” Gaz asks, and you manage to free a hand enough to wordlessly reach for him, wanting, needing him at your back. It’s not long before he’s settled in as well, spooning you from behind on the bed that is almost definitely too small for three people, two of them being built, sinewy soldiers.

You don’t care. You’re warm on all sides, warm from pleasure and affection and treatment from all of them. It feels like you’re suspended, floating on something beyond yourself, spirit lifting from your corporeal form and into the darkening sky above yet anchored by the touches of the men beside you. You’re too far gone to notice Rudy come, place a kiss atop your hair; to notice Alejandro drape another blanket over you, of Price and Ghost discussing in low tones by the doorway. The others stay, linger, on chairs or nearby. You think you see Rudy and Alejandro on the cot beside yours when your eyes flutter open.

Your vision shifts, gazing over the slope of Soap’s neck to the lit doorway. Ghost mutters something, a goodbye perhaps, and turns.

It’s to be expected. The man is a lone wolf, he works alone. For him to even be here is a miracle, and to have even participated at all a divine sign from the gods themselves. Now, however, he retreats to where he belongs, to the shadows that engulf the breadth of him, the kingdom where he was born and where he shall remain.

“Simon.”

The name escapes before you can stop it, and Ghost freezes, his head jerking upwards as he hesitates, turning to you, hidden within the embraces of his comrades.

You swallow, trying to conjure the spell to keep him here, within arm’s reach, forever now and always.

“Don’t get lost.” You mutter at last, and you think maybe your vision wavers when his shoulders droop, when his eyes blink at you, reflecting light.

His shadow falls across you on his approach, the width of him bulked by the tac gear he still hasn’t entirely gotten rid of. Ghost- Simon- blots light from the doorway like the shadow he is, absorbing brightness and drowning it in the essence of him. A hand reaches, smoothes the hair from your face.

“Never.” He mutters enigmatically, and even so you feel the edges of him splinter, crack like obsidian.

Your eyes flutter shut under his touch, cloak the world in mystic darkness as you surrender to him, to these men, to at last the inexorable, inescapable comfort of them, of sleep.

Botanical Interest

Soft!Mob!Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: You’re a florist working the wedding of Brooklyn’s most respected mob boss when you catch the eye of his best man.

W/C: 1557

Warnings: Allusions to violence, swearing, copious amounts of blushing

A/N: My second ever fic! I wrote this as an entry to @stargazingfangirl18 ‘s Soft Dark 5k Challenge (congrats!) using dialogue prompt 9 (bolded) with a Mob!AU. No smut, just fluff. While I’m a sucker for Soft!Dark I thought I’d keep it light and fluffy! Might enter a second one with some darker themes.

I’m brand new to writing and the fandom so if you want you can check out my first fic (also a Mob!AU!) and please reach out with any and all comments or thoughts! I’m eager to know!! Cheers!

Botanical Interest Masterlist I Main Masterlist

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The first time you saw him you didn’t actually see him because you ran square into him while you were looking the other way. Stubbing your nose right into his chest and nearly spilling the contents of the box you were holding.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going and I’ve got so much to do so I’ve been running around and I just didn’t see you I’m-“

“Forgiven. You’re forgiven, sweetheart” a smoky voice with confidence and amusement informed you.

You loved being a florist but you were short handed for this wedding and needed to get a move on. You wouldn’t have taken the job but the infamous Bucky Barnes, King of Brooklyn himself was getting married. It would be great exposure for you but when a man like him asks something of you you don’t exactly have a choice. In all the chaos of it you didn’t watch your step.

Cheeks still burning with embarrassment, your eyes met those of Barnes’ right hand man, Steve Rogers. Now you weren’t just embarrassed you were nervous.

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Don’t Be Shy (Felix x Reader) || Part 2

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1243

Also posted on my A03

Felix’s POV

Felix had spent his day fixing weapons. It wasn’t a particularly hard task, considering that the weapons themselves weren’t intricately built, but it did however take time. The only time he’d moved from the flat slab of stone he’d sat on was to eat lunch, which he’d quickly finished in order to return to his task.

It wasn’t that he was eager to fix the weapons the Lost Boys had so carelessly broken, but that the task gave him an excuse to avoid Y/N. He had, in fact, been making a considerable effort to stay away from her ever since the archery incident. 

The shift in her training partners from himself over to Devin and some of the other boys made that easier for him. Unfortunately, weapons practice was only one of the few ways the Lost Ones spent their time (how he and Y/N had spent their time together) and so Felix had thrown himself into whatever small, menial tasks he could find to occupy himself and use as an excuse to avoid her.

This had been going on for days. 

Seven days, to be exact. He had counted. 

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Quite a caring bunch of boys

Request: Could I request poly marauders helping reader through a fainting episode? I have a fainting condition so my boyfriend has to help me with it at least 3 times a week 😕 just like the boys reassuring her and keeping others away because this is normal for them?

Word count: 977

Warnings/Content: fainting, dizziness, drinking (non-alcoholic), fluff, poly!marauders, gender-neutral reader (I think, let me know if there are any slip-ups), let me know if there are any more warnings I need to add.

Pairing: James potter x reader, Remus Lupin x reader, sirius black x reader, wolfstar

A/N: I want to thank the anon that requested this so much for being willing to give me more information so I could write this accurately. <333

You had just left Transfiguration and were now dawdling on your way to charms with your three rowdy boyfriends. The Transfiguration lesson had been hands-on and quite exciting. You’d been transfiguring rabbits into poufs and Sirius, James, and Remus, all highly gifted in transfiguration, were arguing lightly over whose pouf had been the best. It was quite obviously Sirius’s as he had made his elaborately colored and embroidered. James hadn’t been trying his hardest so his pouf still had fur when he was done, which he claimed was intentional.

Walking quickly became harder and forced you to put in twice the effort as your head began to swim. Your breathing became slow and your feet began to drag on the flagstones. You knew the signs and stopped to lean against the stone wall of the hall, praying one of the three boys had noticed your absence. As you opened your eyes You saw them still conversing and laughing loudly.

“Re-Remus,” you said with as much force as you could, knowing he had the best hearing out of the three and would hear you over the commotion. Remus’s head snapped around and found you immediately. He rushed over to you, quickly pressing two callused fingers to the pulse point under your jaw.

“Can I help you lay down, love?” Sirius murmured in a soft voice that was in stark contrast to his booming laughter just a moment ago. He knew how uncomfortable it made you when people would watch and comment while you were in such a vulnerable state. You nodded as best you could at his question.

Sirius’s strong arms wrapped around your waist and shoulder, his hand cupping the back of your neck. He slowly lowered you to the ground just as your knees gave out. As your vision faded to black the last thing you heard was James shouting at onlooking students to get to class or he’d give them detention for a month.

***

Your eyelids fluttered as you regained consciousness. You kept them shut for a bit as you adjusted to your surroundings. Your head was in someones lap and a hand was softly stroking your forehead and cheek. You opened your eyes to find Sirius gazing at you from where he sat next to you. You looked up and saw that you were layed in Remus’s lap.

“Gave us quite a scare, darling,” Sirius said with a kind smile. The halls had cleared except for the three of you which brought on confusion.

“Where,” you cleared your throat to speak a bit clearer, “Where’s James?”

“Ran to get apple juice from the kitchen,” Sirius supplied.

“Should be back soon with those long legs of his,” Remus added.

“You’re one to talk, Moony,” Sirius quipped causing you to chuckle and cough a bit because of the weird angle. Remus helped you sit up and maneuvered himself so you could sit in between his legs and against his chest. Remus rubbed your arms up and down soothingly while you watched Sirius flip his wand around in his elegant hands.

Soon loud and fast footsteps echoed through the hall alerting the three of you to James’s return. He was running with the goblet of juice outstretched in front of him as he tried not to spill it. He slowed down as he got closer to you and squatted down in front of you, placing the goblet in your hands. He panted a bit as he regained a handle on his breathing.

You sipped the sugary juice slowly as the three boys conversed and joked, doing wonderfully to fulfill your request that they make you feel normal and don’t make you feel invalid after a fainting spell. You finished the large goblet and were beginning to feel your strength return.

“I’m ready to go,” you stated at a lull in the conversation. They all murmured in agreement and James helped you up from the floor as Sirius did the same for Remus. Remus’s trick hip always made it a bit hard for him to get up from sitting on the floor, the reminder of this fact caused you to cringe in guilt that you’d made him do something that made him hurt.

“Hey,” Remus said firmly when he noticed your face, “don’t give me that face, poppet, It only hurts a bit, and I am happy to help my wonderful lover any time, Okay?” Your face contorted into a pout, yet you nodded in agreement to his statement. Remus places a soft kiss on your forehead and whispered a soft “I love you” against your skin.

To which you responded, “I love you too Remus, and thank you, all of you.”

Sirius smiled at this and grabbed both his and your school bags and slung them over his shoulder. James slipped his arm around your waist causing you to have to let him bear the majority of your weight.

“Y’know I can walk myself right?” You joked as you leaned against James’s side even more.

“I know, doll, but the color hasn’t fully returned to your face and I just want to make sure you’re okay and--”

“I’m only joking, James,” you say as you look up at his worry etched face. The worry melts away as he snorts at your antics and continues walking to charms with his arm around you. “Thank you though, for worrying,” you say seriously.

“It’s what I do best my love,” James says sternly, causing the four of you to all fall into fits of laughter. Though the fainting spells worried them, having a routine to deal with them helped both them and you embrace it as part of you, and it never took too long to get back to your joking and adventurous normal.

Taglist: @pinkandblueblurbs @quindolyn @ftwert @pinkteapotwriting

Becca’s Babysitter

Pairing: Dilf!Bucky x Babysitter!Reader

Word Count: 1540

Warnings: Fluff? Implied smut

A/N: PLEASE RE-BLOG; my blog is suddenly wanting me to flop. anyway, it’s okay if u actually don’t want to. if u read my work u mean the world to me <3

Summary: Bucky and his daughter like you a lot.

Bucky felt bad. When he apologetically texted you that he'd be an extra hour at work, he wasn't really sure what your reaction would be. You were already staying until 11, and Bucky was sure that you had other things to do. Fortunately or unfortunately for him, he didn't get a reaction. Had you missed his message? Surely you'd let him know if you were leaving the house before he was home.

Meanwhile, you shifted uncomfortably in your jeans, tired of watching "Bubble Guppies" with Becca. You loved Becs, but, Jesus, could she really drain you. As soon as you got here, you regretted wearing skinny jeans to play with her. Your eyes were practically drooping and you needed to bring Becca upstairs to sleep. For an eight year old, you thought 9:00 was a pretty sweet bedtime, but apparently Becs didn't think so.

She begged, and begged, and begged for you to let her stay up for another 15 minutes. You did. You always gave in. The last 15 minutes before Bubble Guppies consisted of chocolate and vanilla swirled cookies and icing that read "For Daddy!", which Becca could claim as her own handwriting. You made Becca brush her teeth after eating those, and slowly, she grew tired out as well.

"Thanks for taking me to the mall today, Y/N. I had lots, and lots, and LOTS of fun!"

"Anytime, Kiddo." you ruffled up her hair a little bit, making her giggle.

Just then, you remembered that you should probably hide all of the shopping bags away from Bucky. Anytime you got a single thing for Becca, he'd find a way to pay you back. Most of the things you bought for Becs were bought because you wanted to buy them for her.

"Will you stay will me until the monsters go away, Y/N?"

You sighed, rubbing over your temple, and searching for your phone, only to find that it had fallen out on the couch, where iCarly was now playing on the TV.

Bucky brushed his hair back with his fingers, finally closing up his briefcase, and wiping his tired eyes. Staring at a computer screen for 13.5 hours was not fun, but the blue light glasses you recommended did help.

As fast as he could, Bucky shoved himself into his black Mercedes, remembering that Becca wanted a less flashy car, and turned on the seat heater. He flicked through radio stations until he found a podcast that he wouldn't really be listening to.

The ride home was fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, but to Bucky, it felt like hours. There wasn't even traffic this late at night, so what was the need for so many stop lights?

When Bucky opened the door, he fully expected an irritated Y/N to be waiting in the sunroom, but you were no where to be found, and neither was Becca. The TV was left on, on the main floor. Now Danny Phantom was spying his way through some kind of laboratory.

Leading his way to the kitchen, there was no mess, as per usual. He did, however, notice a couple of loose sprinkles by the fridge's water dispenser. Next to it, a Tupperware filled with the cookies you made that he loved so much, and one placed on a napkin on the top, neat cursive printing "For Daddy!" He smiled widely at the writing, knowing that it was your's.

By now, Bucky had supposed you went home. Maybe your phone died, and you hadn't gotten his message. Or maybe you were keeping an eye on Becca from afar, and by afar, he means across the street. Convenient babysitting, huh?

Bucky trudged up the stairs, eating the chocolate and vanilla cookie, getting ready to brush his teeth, when he heard a buzz. It came from the living room on the main floor, a ringtone he'd heard before followed.

"Must've left her phone here." he shrugged, shoving the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

Before going to bed, he thought he ought to check on Becca, to make sure that she was sleeping okay.

His eyes first caught on the shopping bags, ones he couldn't help but sigh at. They were tucked neatly behind her door, just small plastic handles creeping out. Bending down, he checked the receipt. $100.

"Jesus." he rolled his eyes.

They stopped halfway in their trail, and his breath hitched when his eyes were stuck on you. Becca's arms tugged on your torso, while she was drooling all over your shirt. You, however, had your lips pursed, slow, gentle breaths falling out of them. Bucky couldn't help but coo at the sight.

Searching through his work pants, he finally stumbled out his phone, snapping a picture. It didn't occur to him that the flash was on, even in the pink, lit room. "Daddy?" Becca grumbled out of her sleep, rubbing her head on your tummy as you shifted around.

"Daddy!"

"Hi, Baby! Shh. We don't wanna wake Y/N. She's very, very tired." he shook his head with a finger over head lips. Shortly after, he spread his arms wide for a bear hug from his daughter. He twirled her in a circle before putting her back in bed.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Baby?"

"Is Y/N staying forever?"

"Well, I don't know about forever, but she can certainly stay the night if she'd like to."

"What about tomorrow? And the night after that? And after that? And that? And that? And—"

"Okay, okay, Becca. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I like Y/N too, but we're just gonna have to wait and see what happens, okay?"

"Okay..." Becca pouted like a five year old. "We made you a cookie. The rest are our's though."

You stirred in your sleep, taking in a deep breath, and sighing it all out again.

"Becca. Y/N needs an adult bed. Now, did you make her stay here?"

"I didn't do anything! She was making all the monsters go away!"

"Hey, you stopped caring about the monsters ages ago. Now tell Daddy the truth."

"... Fine. I wanted Y/N to stay here."

Bucky meant to discipline his daughter, he really did, but the confession was just too damn cute. He swept you off the bed like you weighed twenty pounds, and carried you like a bride. "Go to bed, Sweets. It's my turn to babysit."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

"Goodnight, Baby." Bucky waved, closing his daughter's door, so he could carry you into his own bed.

"Such a good girl." he praised both you and his daughter in one statement.

When your head fell onto his chest, he couldn’t help the audible chuckle of adoration that escaped his mouth. He loved the way you treated his daughter. More so, he couldn’t seem to get enough of you.

Laying you gently onto his bed, Bucky brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, stroking his thumb over your cheek. Unbeknownst to you, his lips grazed your cheek, Bucky’s way of saying goodnight, before he went to sleep on the sofa.

It must’ve been an hour before you woke up again, dark walls encompassing you. It smelled like oranges and mint; Bucky. You glanced quickly down the hall to Becca’s room, before sneaking down the hall and staircase.

“Mornin’.” Bucky croaked, having been woken by your steps on the hardwood.

“Bucky—I’m so sorry! I promise, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—”

“Y/N, don’t worry about it. Becs is happy, that’s all that matters.”

“Okay.” you sighed, trying to rub your eyes back to sleep. “Thank you so much, Bucky.”

“Stay the night.”

The command caught you off guard, and you found yourself wondering if you were still dreaming. You pinched your arm just to be completely sure.

“You did so much for Rebecca today. I’d love it if you would stay the night. You must be tired.”

“Thank you... but I couldn’t possibly do that to you.”

“Please? I’m asking you to.”

“... Well, alright.” You gave into those sharp blue eyes that always carved holes into your heart, then put it all back together with a hug.

“Amazing. I’ll put on the kettle.”

“Becs really likes you, you know. Tellin’ me she wants you to be her new mommy.”

“I-I didn’t mean to overstep.” your face got heated, rosy blush covering their surface. It make Bucky want to giggle.

“You didn’t. I’d be happy for her to have a mom like you. I mean, her’s left without a second thought.”

“Selfish bitch.” you muttered under your breath, hoping Bucky didn’t hear—he did. “I can’t understand how someone could leave Becca like that. Or you for that matter.”

If it were at all possible, that was the moment Bucky realized his situation. He’d fallen in love with his neighbour, his daughter’s babysitter, and the kind girl across the street who brings over Sunday’s dinners.

Without thinking another thought, he crashed his lips into your’s and you responded almost immediately with your tongue. You scratched at his fluffy, but well-kept, beard with your fingers, and got yourself lost in his lips.

“Becca has to go to school—” Bucky checked his watch. “—in eight hours.”

“P-plenty of time.”

Derek:I’m begging you, please go to the hospital

Y/N: I’m sorry, is this YOUR stab wound?

Y/N: Stay out of it