^-^

let’s you nap against his body, soft snores coming from your chest and nose as he mumbles sweet nothings, his other hand quietly tapping away at his laptop with work or a game

boyfriend who will coo at you when you wake up groggily, pouting at the fact that you’re still sleepy and maybe the light from the screen was bothering your eyes, so he tells you to just sit in his lap, kissing your cheeks and forehead and nose while you scooch over his body, knees at his sides, your face nuzzling into the crook between his shoulder and neck

── .✦ 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚢/𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚔é:𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛.

Once again too lazy to look for spelling mistakes so if you see them, kindly ignore them. If Connor seems out of character, then please know that this is the third time writing for him. Sorry in advance! I want to preface this by saying I haven't written smut in a hot minute, my writing style may seem inconsistent or sloppy! I accidentally made this a little angsty, my bad.

WC ⊱ 4.4k.

Warning(s) ⊱ 18+, unsafe sex, explicit acts, penetration, sex, orgasm, female orgasm, male orgasm, sexual content, vaginal, blood play, mentions of death, doggy style, mentions of pstd, nightmares, mentions of death, mentions of guilt and regret.

Darkness enveloped the Homestead, the forest quiet aside from the occasional hoot of an owl, the gentle pitter-patter of rain against the windowpane. The Homestead always carried a calming aura, one that brought peace and comfort amongst each settler or passing traveller. A serenity of peace that was a warm welcome to your oddly chaotic life.

He's seen people tortured, seen the bloody aftermath of cruelty and been on the receiving end of it more times than he would like. He knows fear like you know the corner block where you crashed your first car but now drive past to work everymorning.

Which is to say, nik has known fear most people will only fear in the split seconds before they die.

"Mh? What's wrong, milyy?" He frowns when you crawl into his arms, shaking.

"It's stupid." You huff into his neck, and earn a corrective pinch to the side that has you groaning "it's just...i saw that horror movie and...uhm....and..."

"Was it too scary, milaya?" Nik prompts, not judgemental or condescending, simply asking. When you nod, he coos and tucks you in close. He tries to not let you shaking hands bother him while he pulls the fluffy, thick blankets over you.

Nik has known true fear, but he'd never belittle your own because of it's source. He knows that the body doesn't care if it's a horror movie or a knife, the fear is felt regardless.

i imagine the live camera feed goes off one night while youre lying in bed. new sheets still hugging you warm after the dryer. the boys are off doing their personal night routines, heavy guard dogs lay at your feet.

with the chime of your phone, a notification alerts you of outside movement. you consider it to be a waving branch or passing car, yet check it nonetheless. something about inner intuition.

youre glad you did.

watching silently as someones shadow skirts along the darker parts of around your house. passing the kitchen windows with a ducked head, then round the back.

"fuck," you bite your lip. sighing quietly as you toss your phone. "johnathan!" four heads from the bathroom peek around the doorframe slow, eyes open with the use of a full name. johnny fights a grin, ready to watch his captain get chewed out by their lady.

"..ye' love?"

"theres some weird guy wandering 'round the house outside," you inform dryly. plucking your phone back up and leaving it there. you reach for your wine glass on the bedside table, sipping as their hearts fall to their ass.

sure, anxiety stirs low in your gut. nipping at your reason and concious. but you also are keen of what your boys have lived through, the dirtest negotiations and most horrific actions.

alway do they come back home into your arms.

you could blame it on pure lack of sleep, but its nicer to blame it on the assumption youre probably the safest person in town. perhaps city if you dare.

so you continue with scrolling through ao3.

paying a half mind as military tense rounds over their bodies. simon whistles for the dogs and grabs his pistol. grunting and rolling his bare shoulders in atonished anger at somones sheer audacity. i mean for fuck sakes the mans tired. 

johnnys sneaking grin falls, replaced by a flat face as hes quick to grab a flashlight and gun. moving out the door on simons heels. big dogs herding around them.

"stay 'ere yeah love? dont open the fuckin' door," johns voice is a low growl. grabbing a hunters knife ( anniversary gift from you, his names carved in the wood ) and moving to the window. room lights flipped off when johnny left. scanning the open grass with an annoyed brow twitch. "kyle, wi' me."

kyle nods, glancing back three times to make sure youre content. careful to lock the bedroom door and leave a weapon with you, which he drills in not to touch less you hear the burglar. with a final glance, hes gone with the rest of them.

your ears perk for movement outside. glass shatters and a door kicks open. youre pretty sure you hear the guy shriek — most definitely simons doing, weird fucker was waiting in the dark — a brisk struggle before the house falls silent, words they dont want you hearing are exchanged then hes thrown out onto the grass.

hes quick to jump up and scurry off, wet pants uncomfortable and now stinking.

ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.

you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.

so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.

and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.

first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.

it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.

with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.

until you notice something odd.

coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.

what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?

yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.

so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.

except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.

his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.

"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."

planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.

but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.

but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.

when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.

you thought that was that.

for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.

you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.

until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.

you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.

without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.

what the hell?

the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.

he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.

when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?

you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.

he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.

it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.

so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.

the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.

with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).

just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.

you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.

"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"

the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.

after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.

when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.

you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.

he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.

"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.

he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."

your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.

"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"

"simon."

"really? you look like a greg."

he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.

like the one where you're cowering in the corner of your living room with a kitchen knife pointed at the locked front door.

or the one where you're in the shower, half covered by the steam, as you turn in terror to look at the window he just rattled.

or his favorite, the one where you're wide awake in bed, startled by the sound of somethibg hitting the window, his fisted cock just visible in the corner of the picture and his come dripping down the glass.

i don't think you could stab him. gutless, that's what you are. you have all this bravado in your head, but when push comes to shove, you're such a scared thing.

scared, even, of your pathetic little pocket knife, scared of closing the blade on your fingers, scared of poking yourself, even scared of the scissors on the other side when all those nasty thoughts about fingers seep in.

he thinks it's so funny that she won't kiss him in public (they both know it's because he'll smear her lipstick all over that pretty face) so he'll prod her about it the entire time they're out.

"wot, don't wanna kiss my 'andsome mug?" constantly. she cannot catch a break. he will stop random passersby and tell them "thinks i'm ugly" and they'll go "no.... no... surely not" only for him to tug up his mask and stick his tongue through the gashing scar that cuts over his lips. it's the funniest thing in the world to him.

people look at his girl with absolute horror while she attempts to look like she isn't associated with him.

UNTIL they get to the nail salon and she immediately holds out her hand for his card. now suddenly it's all sweetness and trying to kiss ghost's cheek without him rubbing his mask all over her lips. anyone would think that she was using him for his money, but it's ghost that gets twitchy when her last set gets too grown out. what? she doesn't wanna look nice for him?

or maybe you're embarrassed about the loud moaning and wet sounds that spill out of the flat behind him, porno still playing full volume on the TV.

“kyyyle,” you slur, leaning over the table to which Gaz cracks a smile. “so pretty…anyone ever tell you you’re pretty? like ‘men should be buying you dinner’ pretty.”

soap snorts, an amused smile on his lips. “Ya don’ even get a handsome, just fuckin’ pretty.”

“oi, piss off, soap,” replies gaz with no real heat behind it. “and you,” he starts, bringing his attention backed to your slumped form, “are a shitty drinker.”

you giggle, barely lifting up your head from the table.

price shakes his head, taking a large swing from the pint. “kids these days.”

the laughter dies down, everyone enjoying the relaxing ambiance that’s been so hard to enjoy with missions on end these days. that is until-

“ugh- I’m so horny.”

the table stills, all eyes landing on your slumped form before soap bursts into uncontrollable laughter. his fist slams the table as gaz tries to still the man who’s slightly tipsy and leaning back in his chair.

“bloody hell,” ghost mumbles, crossing his arms. “you’re one them, huh? those honest-to-god-drunks.”

“you shouldn’t be saying those things out loud,” advises price, knowing full well that it’s going to go unheard seeing as you’re shit-faced drunk right now.

you groan, forehead connected with the table again. “you don’t get it. you’re old- probably have the sex drive of a tumble weed.”

gaz and soap have a poor attempt at stifling a laugh and even ghost cracks a small and an unseen smirk at your comment. price doesn’t bother with a retort, knowing you’ll have your regrets when they tell you about this conversation in the morning.

soap puts an encouraging pat on your back. “aye, cmon lass, if ya wanted to get laid, all ye gotta do is ask.” it’s clearly a joke but your head perks up anyways.

“don’t tempt me, cause I’ve thought about it.”

“you don’t say…” his eyes light up with interest.

ghost interrupts with a warning tone. “don’t encourage her, Johnny.”

“too late, LT.” soap stalks around your chair, sliding his arms ‘round back. he leans in close till you pick up the scent of beer on his lips. “tell me, what d’ya think of?”

you match his lean with one of your own, eyes blown wide and curious. “are you rough in bed? tell me you’re rough in bed.”

soap smirks, flashing a charming wink. “aye, lass. why? want my handprint on your ass?” ghost flashes him a stern look but soap merely shrugs unapologetically.

you groan at his answer, “god, I hope I remember that in the morning.”

“we get it. we get it. you’re horny for soap. let’s stop before I hurl.” gaz puts his hand on your shoulders, urging you to drink more water.

“dont be jealous, gaz. you’re in there too.”

and suddenly, the angel on his shoulder disappears. “oh yeah?”

“god, you have no idea how hard it is to work with hot men all day long. takes everything in me to not just give up on the mats and let you just pin me down.”

by now, soap has his phone out, recording this for evidence when you’re inevitably going to try to walk back on your words in the morning.

“would love to be bent over a desk, don’t even care who’s behind me. or who’s the biggest? LT? probably not you then- at least not first.”

you ramble on and on… about how you could get off to the gruff sound of your captains voice alone, or how sometimes you’d be soaking wet through your panties if they praised you enough.

and it’s not until you go into an explicit and ultra-specific scenario that involves all four men, some rope, vibrators, and a blindfold, going to ultra-specific detail about soap in your pussy, price in your mouth, and how maybe you’d even let someone in your ass, does someone do the sensible thing of slapping a hand around your mouth.

“I’m gonna take my hand off’ya, and you’re gon’ be quiet, yeah?”

your eyes glance up to a stone cold stare behind a mask, meeting his gaze before you nod. “good girl.”

his hand slowly withdraws and you’re silent. it stays that was for a moment, everyone unsure how to break the tension left in the air after your revelation…that is until-

“aye, what’s that LT?”

and that, would be the stiffy that’s hardly concealed behind his jeans- perhaps he needs to buy baggier clothes from now on.

I had this in my drafts for a few days and then I saw @luxcuriousao3 make a post that was near EXACTLY the same as this one 😭🙏. Down to the details, too, which is crazy. I'm going to post this anyway, but please don't think I'm copying them (I'm not). We both happen to know ball when it comes to fictional men and their fictional preferences lmao. We're on the same wavelength

.

What about their own grooming habits?

John loves a good bush. It's not even inherently sexual either, he just likes the intimacy of running his fingers through your curls. He enjoys the sensation and you both find it soothing after sex (whoever said Price is autistic, I see you). He's a bush man at heart and I stand by that, but if you prefer to shave? He's doing it for you. He just likes taking care of you and he doesn't want you getting nicked, or burnt if you wax. He's got plenty of experience with shaving his facial hair, so you can trust you're in steady hands.

Kyle would go crazy for a landing strip. He considers it the best of both worlds because he loves feeling skin on bare skin, but he also loves the contrast that the small patch of hair gives. He swears it makes the rest of you feel even smoother. Gaz would enjoy helping you maintain it, finding it cute to switch up the shape sometimes with a diamond or a heart. He'd be obsessed with rubbing his thumb along the strip, tracing the edges of the shape and caressing you.

Johnny will actually cry if you go bald. Genuinely. Even if you only trim or shape it a little; he's in tears. It's ridiculous how fast he switches up, though, because it turns out that he loves seeing how your bare skin glistens when you get aroused with nothing in the way. Still, when you grow it back he'll be all up in there, murmuring about how much he missed your bush like it had sentience of its own.

Simon is the most impartial. I think all of them are to some degree, but Ghost is the most vocal about how your comfort comes first. He wants you to keep yourself however you prefer. Trimmed is good, shaved is fine, completely natural is perfect. Having said that, his favourite is when he gets to feel just how soft your skin is after you're freshly shaved. He thinks it's precious to feel something so delicate because a lot of his skin is rough, callused, and scarred. Like John, Simon enjoys getting lost in the tactile of casual intimacy, simply stroking the crease of your inner thigh like a worry stone.

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