magic

Everything starts so slowly that you don't even realize you're being devoured until canines have sunk into your flesh– until it’s far too late. 

You’re sitting in his lap, his hard cock straining against his jeans as the wood of his desk presses into your back.  “John, please,” you whine, fingers digging into his shoulders.

As his name falls so prettily from your lips, he finally understands the real reason why men fight in wars. “I made a vow, love,” he sighs, knowing the word itself is empty and meaningless to him when it's in the context of her. 

If you were a better person– a good man, like your captain– you’d pretend to feel an ounce of shame as you beg him to leave his poor, unsuspecting wife.

“I’ll treat you so much better, John. I’ll fuck you every night, suck your cock until I can’t speak, let you fill me up with your cum–”

He hungrily swallows each word, letting your pathetic pleas settle into his empty stomach as he pretends to think it over. 

Truthfully, he knew he’d be leaving his wife the moment he saw you, wide-eyed and hopeful, nervously shaking his hand with a soft promise to do your best. 

And the reality is that poor Mrs. Price, soon to be Ms, was served divorce papers months ago, on the very same day you first sank to your knees and swallowed every drop of his seed– though you’ll never need to know that. 

He picks you up and sets you on his desk, your thighs clenching at the sound of his belt buckle being undone– your shaky hands following his motions as you unzip your pants. 

“You’re gonna be a good boy for me, love? Let me cum inside your hole– fill him up real nice,” he rasps, pulling you back into his lap. 

The tip of his cock prods at your entrance, a hand squeezing the back of your neck. “Anything you want, John. I just– I need you to be mine,” you confess. 

John Price was taught that good men should never have to go hungry. He can tell by your esurient words that you want to be a good man– to be good for him. 

“Fuck,” you cry out, his thick cock splitting you open as he pushes himself into your tight hole. Your nails dig into the skin of his arms as he thrusts up into you.

Sex with John is never just a physical act; it’s something raw and primal, borderline voracious, the way he rolls his hips against you. You don’t have to wonder if he fucks her like this– because you know he doesn’t. 

The first and last time she’d been bold enough to show up on base, she spent her time in John’s office screaming at him– you can’t even deny the sick sense of pride you’d felt when she’d sobbed and admitted he hadn’t touched her once since you’d joined the team.

You choke on a moan, pulled away from your bitter thoughts as his fingers tug at your engorged nub. “Sorry, lovie, been so selfish, haven’t I? Forgot all about your poor, little cock,” he coos as he jerks you off, lips pressing kisses on the scars along your chest. 

“I’ll give you everythin’ you need, provide for you, make you my husband– make you a dad,” he whispers the promises in your ears, your walls clenching tight around him. “Gonna be a good man for you, love.”

Your stomach tightens, mind hazy at the thought of it all, as your walls tighten around him. “Please! Want that– want you–” You don’t have a chance to warn him before you reach your peak, body shivering as you cum all over his cock.

He doesn’t slow his pace, hips bucking up into you as he bites and licks at your chest. Your lower half aches, but you can’t bring it in you to make him stop– not when he’s deep inside you like this.

Every drop of his seed gets sucked up by your starving hole, your body sore but so full by the time his cock has stopped twitching.

The two of you stay like that, John caging you in his arms as if he’s scared you’ll run off at any moment– as if you’re not already caught in his jaws. “Been yours since the day you shook my damn hand,” he confesses. 

“Yeah?”

He nods, his hand intertwining with yours as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. “You’re everything to me, love,” he says the words as if they’re a vow– a sentiment isn’t as comforting as he thinks it is.

You make the mistake of glancing at his desk, and light reflects off the gold band on his desk. “What about when we’re–” 

The word married feels too metallic on your tongue to say out loud– you let it slide back down your throat. “What about when you get bored with me, hm? Gonna leave me for the next young thing?” You tease, hand trailing down his arm as you give him a tight-lipped smile. 

It’s supposed to be a half-joke, something to make him scoff as he slips that god-forsaken ring back on and proves your worst fears right– proves her right. You weren’t expecting the possessive look in his eye or the way his mouth curls down at the very thought.

“Is that what you think this is? Some sort of mid-life crisis or just a way to make her fucking miserable?”

A small gasp leaves your mouth as his lips push against yours with a desperate greed– like a ravenous animal gnawing at a nearly whittled-down bone. You’re breathless, only able to shake your head and mumble out apologies as he pulls away. 

“This means something to me– you mean something to me. I’ve spent my whole life feeding off scraps of happiness and what I was told was love– then you came along–” The words are frantic, teeth snapping together as he defends your place in his life the way a hungry wolf safeguards its meals.

“Now that I’ve tasted you, there is nothing in the world that could compare. Do you understand me?” He growls, eyes dark as he forces you to look at him.

You know that if you agree, you might as well be laying yourself bare on the table for him to pick at, an apple between your teeth. “I understand, sir.”

A Friday in June, the blush of a very late sunset still cracked across the sky visible through lace curtains, stars blooming in the vast darkness swallowing the horizon in gulps. 

Task Force 141 were on mandatory leave, and Simon had agreed to stay in your flat with you and Johnny, for the first time.

Ghost was new, this way, to you. 

Unmasked and sock footed. His boots are by the door, lined up between Johnny’s haphazardly kicked ones and your canvas trainers. 

For a long time, he had been nothing but a looming shadow in your periphery, vaguely cautious in the way a predator that didn’t trust something new was. A wolf separated from his pack, watching you and Johnny, observing, monitoring. He hated you, you had thought. Soap had been insistent he was just watching, keeping the lines of things neatly colored in. 

Slowly, the paranoid distrust morphed into something else—appreciation, though for what you couldn’t say, then, presence. Suddenly, his shadow was not cast over you, but around you. Not like netting around fish, not like something meant to contain. It was watchful and warm, a thick cloak thrown around your shoulders. 

The axis shifted from you and Johnny to something more complicated. Soap and you and Ghost.

He had for so long watched you and Soap with something close to longing, or belonging, if he were allowed such a thing. 

Now, he was here, on your sofa in your flat. You had gotten to watch Simon chop potatoes with military precision in your kitchen, insistent that he be of use, as Soap sat on the counter next to him talking over the radio he left on too loud, a faint smile on his face. 

If you were to kiss him, he’d probably taste like the raspberry ice cream you’d had after, sticky bowls still stacked on the coffee table.

Your fingers ached with the memory of the cold bowl in your hands. 

"Soap, will you hold my hand?"

"Aye, lass, who could say no to you?" Soap answered, already reaching out to you, palm offered. 

Ghost sighed heavily from between you, shifting slightly. It was a long suffering sound without a bit of heat or heart in it.

Purposely, you had sandwiched him between you, pushed your thigh against his, curled closer when he relaxed into it. It was tricky, figuring out how to knit him between you. He allowed it, even if he’d been a bit still and stiff to start. 

"Would you like to hold hands, too, Ghost?"

You watched his jaw tense, a muscle jumping in his throat. But his shoulders were loose, his posture a comfortable, lithe line. His thighs widened a little as he crossed his arms across his thick chest, easing firmly into a position that let both you and Soap more easily reach each other across him.

"No.”

"Suit yourself." Your eyes found Soap's, a smile tugging at your mouth. "Aye, apparently Simon can say no to me."

He grinned back at you. "But I would never," he answered, a tad dramatically. "Give it here, love."

You offered your hand to Johnny across Simon's midsection. Ghost just sighed again, eyes glued to the television flickering glowing, bright lines across his face. You were sure that he could not care less about what was on the screen. The film had been forgotten almost as soon as it was put on. 

But if Simon was content to remain an unmoving nesting post between you, that was fine in your book. 

Soap laced his fingers through yours. It was a comforting, familiar feeling. Just one of a thousand times he’d held your hand. The rough concave of his palm pressed against yours, calloused fingers scraping against the pads of yours. 

His hand was warm, a heat that bled into you in soft, slow curls. 

He hissed gently. “Yer hand is freezin’.” 

“Why d’ya think I asked you to hold it?” 

His thumb traced a gentle arc over the side of your hand. “Give the other one here.”

You pushed closer to the motionless mountain of a man between you, reached your opposite open hand across him toward Johnny, who snagged his fingers around your wrist and pushed your hands together between both of his. 

Simon huffed. 

“Children, the two of you,” he muttered, half sneering but not really. The cut of his voice was almost fond, like a dozing guard dog.  

"Could just move out of the middle there, big guy," Soap said. 

Ghost shifted again.

Uneasily. As though he might be asked to. 

"...No."

You smiled and let Soap hold your hands, running his fingers over yours, familiar as your own heartbeat. 

The position was uncomfortable, but you found the cramped angle of your legs tucked beneath you, knees jammed against Simon’s huge thigh, the awkward positioning of holding up your arms without support, more than worth the pain in your calves and biceps. It was worth it to feel Soap’s fingers curled around yours and feel the steadying warmth of Simon against your side, the slow pulse of his breath. 

Your hands were small in Johnny’s, dwarfed by the size of his own. He rubbed warmth into your fingers slowly. 

Simon sunk further into the couch cushions, exuding an ease you weren’t sure you’d before had the privilege of witnessing. His chin tilted down a fraction, eyes unwaveringly forward, ignoring you or tolerating you or content—you couldn't tell. You settled on content when you leaned your forearms against him, unable to hold up the weight any longer, and he made a sound that was akin to purr. 

Perhaps he liked being buried beneath both of you. 

You glanced at Soap but he was focused on your hands, massaging the joints. Big blue eyes trained on your hands, perpetually rough and cold and stained with motor oil. 

You pulled carefully away, though you’d have liked nothing more than to stay there, warm, secure. 

“Thank you, darling.” 

“Plenty warm now?” 

You hummed and tucked your hands into your sleeves to preserve the meager warmth, levering your body weight away from Simon’s as a precaution. You didn’t care to push it, push him. 

He’d allowed this much, you and Soap being silly and in his space, and it was probably time to back off. You were still new to him, he was still scenting you out, deciding. You were asking for a great deal, and didn’t take that for granted. 

This, the three of you on your small sofa while they were on leave, sharing warmth and being allowed the space to annoy each other, had been years in the making. Years of closeness that held you apart and stitched you together, uncertainty a thickly drawn line down the middle. 

This was a small, soft, sweetened thing that you were all too aware of the fragility of. It felt like spun sugar left dangerously close to an open window during a rainstorm. 

Simon was like a sort of skittish shelter dog. He’d spent so long looking in at you and Johnny from behind a self imposed fence that he didn’t quite know what to do now he was allowed inside, on the couch, no less, or where his too large frame fit between you. 

And you were all too aware that he could still bite. 

But as you leaned back and Johnny’s hands fell out of yours, Simon uncrossed his arms, and tucked one around your waist, keeping you firmly against his side as he squeezed your hip. 

Johnny, who had decidedly not moved, raised a brow when you met his eyes for guidance. He only shrugged, eyes bright. 

“Got an idea, bird,” Ghost said and held out his free hand. “Give it here.”

“What?” 

“Hand.” 

There was no question in his voice, no room to broker an argument. You slipped your hand into his, still gloved. His brows twitched, then furrowed when his fingers closed around yours. His fingers pumped around yours, like he was testing what he felt to be right. 

“Y’do ‘ave cold hand,” he said eventually. 

“Did you think I was lying?” 

He leveled you with a look that said he thought you and Soap were just fucking around like you usually were. Which—you had been. 

“My hands are always cold,” you said, small beneath the weight of his gaze. “My wrists and fingers hurt because of it sometimes.” 

Too many years exposed to the elements and the testy machinery of military vehicles. Minor burns and tiny scars accompanied the motor oil and scratched skin. You joints ached; your circulation was poor. 

You were only a mechanic. You couldn’t imagine how Soap and Ghost must fare with aches and pains. 

Simon merely hummed, information catalogued, filed away for later use. He released your hip and transferred your palm from one hand to the other. “Johnny,” he said. “Hand.” 

Soap readily stuck his hand into Simon’s grip, flush with a trust you were still treading uneasily through. 

Without preamble he pushed both your hands into his front hoodie pocket, then left them there, retracting his own. 

As good as an invitation to stay pressed against his side as you were ever going to get. You tangled your fingers with John’s inside Simon’s pocket and settled against his side. You stayed very still as he curled an arm behind Johnny’s shoulders, and left the other along the back of the couch behind you. 

“Warm now?” He queried, amusement grinding among rough cut of his voice, teasing. 

“Very much,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” 

He merely crossed his arms again. 

You settled in firmly, listened to the steady beat of his heart, firm and enduring as anything, as Soap ran his thumb across your knuckles. 

When you were half asleep against his shoulder, the film long forgotten, Ghost shifted, his hand covered yours still twinned with Soap’s in his pocket. It stayed there, heavy and pleasant, protectively over both of yours. 

You closed your eyes again. 

Soap’s fingers twitched in yours when Ghost flicked the telly off. “Asleep?” 

“Aye,” Ghost answered, something terribly and irreconcilably soft in his voice. “Asleep.” 

“I told ye, didn’t I?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, and you weren’t sure what it was Johnny had been right about. You felt his head turn toward you, then away. 

And when you dared to open your eyes, you saw Ghost looking softly at Soap, tender heart in his eyes. It felt like something of a dream, like the old, comforting edges of a yellowed newspaper, to watch them lean together. 

Foreheads pushed together, first, then a kiss so gentle it betrayed the truth of what you were witness to. Simon’s hand left its place over yours and cupped Johnny’s jaw instead. Simon with his eyes closed, Soap’s face in his hand like it was the sun and he’d never care how much it might burn. 

You closed your eyes again, felt like maybe it would be okay.  

“Easy?”

“Aye.” 

They spoke in half sentences and glances you’d never properly understand. You found  you didn’t mind, so long as the answer to easy was aye. 

.

.

.

“The Ghost has a soft spot for ya, lass,” Soap said later, when he cornered you in the kitchen, waiting for water to boil for tea that only Simon wanted but you were more than happy to make. 

Someone had done the washing up while you dozed on the couch, your sleeves pulled consideringly over your hands. 

It was nearing midnight; you wished Simon asked for more than tea from you both. Just a promise would be nice. 

You snorted, felt Soap’s hands on your hips, turning you, pinning you in the v where the benchtops met. “Tolerates, love,” you corrected. “The Ghost tolerates me.” 

“Ach, that’s what a bleedin’ soft spot looks like for Simon.”

You laughed and draped your arms around his shoulders, fingers stroking the back of his neck, the feathery ends of the mohawk gone long and wild while he’d been on leave. 

“Is that so?” 

“Aye.”

“So what’s your soft spot look like, MacTavish?” 

“Like a bonnie little mechanic that laughs at all my jokes.” 

"Not how I’d describe Simon.” 

The kettle clicked off. Soap laughed and you felt the warmth of it against your mouth. “He’d blush to hear it.” 

You laughed again and cupped his face in your hands as he wound his arms around your waist, pushed his hips flash against yours. Your hands looked small against his jaw, where Simon’s had made Soap look small under his touch. 

“I just don’t want to scare him,” you admitted quietly, searching Johnny’s eyes. 

He raised a brow and opened his mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah, Ghost is scared of fucking nothing, but Simon is. It’s taken so long. I’ve watched him hurt for so long for nothin’.” You shrug, “And, you, too. I’ve watched you both hurt.” 

You wrenched free and turned away before he could answer, busying yourself with the kettle and the tea, not wanting him to see what naked desperation surely lay in your eyes. You wanted this, this little pack, so badly it stung. 

You pulled down a cup and a saucer, proper, and a brand of tea that you only bought just in case Simon ever deigned to come over. To sit in your living room and let you be annoying and sit very close to him. 

What had you been thinking? You were too much, you always had been. 

You sighed softly, a knot forming in your throat. 

“And you, lass,” Soap said, and then wrapped his arms around you, tugged you back into his broad chest. He was warm, his frame heavy against yours as he leaned into you, arms folded around your middle, chin landing softly on your shoulder. 

Comfortable, familiar, painfully yours. 

You didn’t answer, just turned your head and tilted your forehead against his temple. “Sweet of you to think of me.” You already knew Ghost didn’t take anything in his tea but you ask Soap again just to be sure. 

“You’d know better than me. Argued with him enough about what constitutes a proper cup.” 

But you wouldn’t, you wanted to say, you wouldn’t because even if you were there first, you were the outlier, the thing that didn’t really exactly fit. The thought had so far gone unvoiced, but you sensed Johnny knew anyway. He always seemed to, with you, with people he cared about. 

The bond they shared would always be an unreachable place for you. 

“Is he really going to sleep on the sofa?” 

John nods against you. “Wee steps.” 

You sighed. “Will he sleep?” 

“Not sure he actually sleeps,” Johnny said. “He’ll stare at the door all night.” 

You giggled, let him press kisses along your neck and shoulder, hands firm and steady on your hips. “Soap.” 

He said your name and you felt better. “Solid?” 

“Always.” 

“I’ll go. Ye can take the English bastard his tea.” 

You smiled and knocked your forehead against his. “Wait up for me?”  

He squeezed your waist, tipped his chin against yours. A long, tender kiss that made your chest ache, love and reassurance and protection all in one. A silent no one is going anywhere. 

It felt like belonging. Johnny just sort of had that effect. 

He tasted of raspberry ice cream and tea. 

“‘Course.” 

He would, you knew, sprawl across your bed and fall immediately asleep. And later you would have to huff and wriggle beneath his arm until he curled it around your waist and pulled you into his body. 

Soap kissed your forehead, released you, and trundled off in the direction of your bedroom. You could hear him shucking off his clothes before he even turned the corner out of the kitchen. 

Simon’s tea done, you carried it to the front room to find that he had made up the sofa with the spare sheets and blanket you had intended to see to. 

“Tea, hopefully up to scratch,” you said, setting the saucer onto the side table at his elbow. 

“Never had it wrong before,” he said. 

“Aye, but a bit of sugar never hurt.” 

“Bloody heathens,” he said drolly. “The pair of you.”

You smiled and then fidgeted, crossed your arms and shifted from foot to foot. He watched you and you watched back. Without Soap, you felt out of your element with him. “Out with it, bird,” he said quietly after a long moment of silence. 

“I was going to do that,” you gestured to the couch. 

Simon shrugged, and leaned back. It was unfair, the way your breath caught. He was pretty and fucking huge. “Already done.” 

“But you’re my guest.” He raised a brow. “That—That’s not what I meant. You aren’t a guest. I mean—Are you sure you want to sleep here?” 

He nodded once, slow and measured. “Okay. Well. You know you don’t have to. You’re—We want you with. . . us.”

Ghost leaned forward, and offered his hand to you. It was bare this time, scarred, palm up. 

You stepped between his knees and put your hand in his. “They warm now?” His fingers curled around yours. “Feels like it,” he assessed.  

You nodded, tumbled into his lap when he tugged gently. He caught you against his chest, his gaze steady and intense. “Warm,” you confirmed breathlessly, knees bracketing his hips, palms braced on his shoulders. 

He made a sound you could only describe as content. You felt it rattle against you. He watched you and didn’t say anything, and that you were used to. Being scrutinized, cataloged, accounted for. Pinned beneath heavy, exhausted warm brown eyes. 

Where Soap felt like belonging, like the glue that held something together, Ghost felt like safety. 

“I’m happy ‘ere,” he said after a long minute of observation. “Don’t worry about tha’.” 

“Part of the territory I’m afraid.” 

Attempted territory, you scolded. He could still bolt, fade into shadow like the startled, feral creature he pretended he wasn’t.

You carefully lifted your hands, pushed them again his jaw and leaned forward. He froze and then relaxed when you just put your forehead against his. “Thanks for holding my hand.” 

So close, his eyes are the only thing you can see, your whole world brown irises and light blond lashes. 

“Was Johnny holdin’ it, wasn’t it?” 

“But you so bravely gave up your pocket.” 

“Was glad to.” 

“You know where to find us.” He nodded, released you slowly as you pulled back, hands anchored on your hips until you were upright and safely under your own power. “G’night, Simon. Thanks for staying.”

He nodded, gaze heavy on you as you walked away. “Night, bird.”  

You felt the moment his attention slid away from you. 

When you glanced back at the doorway, his eyes had trailed to your front window. He made no move to lie down. A still, silent, watchful shadow. 

Soap was surprisingly awake when you crawled into bed next to him. He let you push your body beneath his, curled under the heat of him. “And?” 

“Happy to be on the couch.” You paused as Johnny curled his arms around you. “He said he was glad to let us have his pocket.” 

“Practically a declaration of love for Ghost.” 

“Very funny.” 

“Not a joke, lass.” 

You didn’t answer as you settled into a familiar, tangled shape. Your nose against Soap’s collarbone, his arms around you so tight it was a bit difficult to breathe, his chin resting against the crest of your forehead. You carded your fingers through his hair, wondered when it would be trimmed down to size again and make your heart ache. 

“Love you,” you murmured. 

He answered in kind, already mostly asleep now you were next to him. 

.

.

.

It must only be a second past sunrise when a gentle prodding wakes you. A slim beam of sepia light shone through a tiny gap in the curtains. The room was warm; your hands were shoved between Soap’s body and yours. 

Simon’s hand fell away from your forehead and ghosted across Johnny’s temple instead. “You awake?” 

“Aye, LT.” 

“Budge over then.” 

So you did, Soap dragging your body like you weighed nothing, curling around your spine as soon as you were yanked into an acceptable position, hands inside your shirt, a hot brand against your belly.  

Ghost didn’t undress, didn’t lie down. His mask was back in place. But he sat up against your headboard and kept his boots on the floor and stayed. 

You watched him through sleepy, bleary eyes, fascinated and grateful and choked with affection. 

He left his hand open on his thigh, palm up, and his fingers closed instantly around yours, when you took the offer and slid your hand into his. It was like placing your hand into the mouth of a wolf, teeth closing gently around your wrist. 

Simon was close enough that the angle wasn’t awkward when he fitted your hands into his hoodie pocket. 

When you looked up again, his eyes were closed, his breathing was even. 

The night was past, and it seemed he felt his duty to you both was done. 

Your throat burns with cheap whiskey you found in the safe house drawer, a sticky note on it.

“For times of need, drink up comrade”

You praise the gods over and over begging them to bless the kind soul who left it behind, no doubt expecting something like this to happen.

You’d taken 6 big swigs, Price suggested you just take one, but as his back turned your stomach flipped and churned with anxiety, knowing that in a few minutes the bones in your nose will be pushed back into place, very painfully and firmly by your captain.

You chugged like your life depended on it before watching Price find a seat in the kitchen. He beckons you to sit, and you do, the whiskey hitting your head.

Thank god, you’re atleast tipsy for this.

You still feel nauseous as you take your seat and price moves towards you, his hand going to grab your chin. You flinch away, not wanting this to happen and he smiles

“Wait no no no no-“

“Where are you going-“ he places a firm hand on your shoulder, pushing you down and trapping you in place “I’ll make it quick… I promise” he softened his voice “come here..”

His hand reached for your chin again and he pulled you to face him, closing your eyes, you felt his other hand leave your shoulder, and rest on your nose “breathe in”

Oh god now? Oh right, oh god no - no not now wait wait wait-

*CRACK*

Pain shoots through your nose as you pull your head back, but it’s no use, you barely move an inch as Price tightens his grip around your chin

“There you go, good lad… it’s all over now” he soothes, patting your shoulder as he wraps his hand around the base of your neck, squeezing.

Your head spins and you clench your fists in desperation to deal with the pain.

“Come on, let’s get you to a bed so you can sleep this off hm?”

“Yes.. please” you grunt out..

He likes affection especially physical ones in doses- but it has gotten better over the years..

However there is something that annoys him to no end..

Poking

Its such an odd tick for him-

So when you want to mess with you all you got to do is poke him and you can quite literally see his eye twitch.

Simon had gotten on your last nerves after deciding to overpack on your last date, who brings a tactical knife to a resturant. So you had gone a bit petty..

Walking past him as you gave a small poke right on his back. The man turning his head quickly at you as you saw his face twitch.

"What..."

"Mind grabbing the fresh sheets off the top of the closet?"

He nodded but clearly had a grumble. This started with you asking random things of him, Or just walking past. Not without a poke- You saw him slowly start to lose it.

Poke

Poke

Poke..

It was the final one when he was watching the game, slowly crawling behind the couch so he couldn't see you and..

Poke

"FUCKING GOD DAMN IT FUCKING BLOODY GOD FUCK!-"

He yelled loudly roaring up at the ceiling. You giggle and run away as he loses his mind in the livingroom and goes to chase you.

Price

John Price is a man who always has things planned

He knows where things are, knows how to go about it all and has a way to get around anything.

That includes his house.

John is a man who can walk through his house blindfolded and with tape behind his back without bumping into a thing-

As long as you dont move stuff..

Move stuff and it's like you through him in a thorn maze buttass naked and with a stick to navigate.

He does not know were to start or where to go.

If you move an object from its normal spot it might as well have disappeared from existence.

And when it comes to major arrangements..

Just put him out of his misery

John should not come home and when he goes to find a cup finds the plastic Tupperware instead

"The Hell.."

So he goes into another cabinet and finds dishes instead. Now a frantic search takes place for a damn cup.

He slowly begins to feel his blood pressure rise as he pulls out plates, the spices and everything he could think of the find a damn cup.

"...LUV!!"

He yelled out, Now frustrated. You walk into the kitchen and raise a brow at the man who looks so out of his element.

"Where are the fucking cups?"

"Its the cabinet next to the fridge"

John stops over and opens said cabinet as he grabs a cup angrily.

"Why did you move stuff? I cant find shit"

"I told you I was getting the kitchen reorganized when you were underway. I also redid the closets and organzied your office"

He looked at you as if you told him you'd laced the house with bombs for him to find.

Kyle

Kyle is fairly laid back, man.

He can handle many things but he does have a few pressure points.

But his worse one are things not symmetrical

He will stare...

Oh he will stare

Before finally he breaks and needs to fix whatever it crooked or off.

Paintings, Pillows- Hell he has even evened out some flowers you had in a vase once since they all leaned to one side.

It is like watching a nature documentary of a bird needing to arrange something just right. From moving a lampshade a few times till its somehow perfect.

So when you get an abstract art peice that is MENT to be crooked

He almost loses his shit

Getting home from an assignment and while he takes off his boots sees a painting at the end of the hall. There it looked like a wave going across the shore which was even by the image but the canvas itself was tilted giving it a unique effect...

"Fuckin Hell.."

He instantly tries to correct it.

"Hey love, Welcome back"

You say sweetly prepared to give him a hug and kiss but see he is totally focused and even took the painting down to look at the back of it to see why it wasnt evening out.

When you scold him telling him its ment to look like that.

You might as well have just said

'Im going to give a headache everytime you walk down the hall'

So sure he tries but everytime he walks past it he attempts to make it straight before it goes back to his corrective form making him groan and stomp away.

You actively saw the man stressing out everytime he looked at it.

It would only take a week to find the painting thrown into the garden..

Johnny

Johnny has a few things he actually cares about that are small..

Just a few things he will take a extra moment on and kept an eye on.

So ypu unfolding all the clothes.. makes his blink one eye then another like he was a frog you kicked.

Johnny has a strict thing about having things folded- he has been trained to a T on folding and making everything neat.

It was something that was weirdly important to him-

He would take a incredibly precise and almost meditative state while folding the clothes.

So when you bulldoze to grab one item in the middle of the stack or tear apart the drawer to were it looks like soup?

Yeah it gets on his last nerve.

He has folded up all blankets and towels so they were practically a masterpiece

To you in seconds reach in to grab a random towel not even looking and knocking over a stack of towels to use to clean up a major spill on the kitchen.

...

Johnny jaw dropping as he looked to you as if you had ripped his heart out.

"(Y/N)! I just folded that!"

You hear yelled out as you have the towel om the ground frantically moving it across the dirty floor in mild panic.

"Im sorry! Actually can you hand me another one!"

You were then promptly met with a towel to the side of your head.

Hong-Jin (Horangi)

Hong-jin appreciates you. He likes to make sure you are spoiled- well taken care of and content.

So You being a pushover over little things bothers him.

He will look at you as if you have grown a second head.

When you let someone just get their way or get in your way it frustrates him.

You are a strong person, he knows it. Yet you let someone insignificant talk down at you.

Standing with his arms crossed, lips curled down in a frown as Hong-jin watched the waiter completely ignore your every instruction as they set down your meal and you accepted the incorrect food.

"Say something-"

He will grumbled. When you try and strug it off or change thw topic he will feel his chest tighten as he would take a heavy breath.

Sure not wanting to be confrontational was an admirable trait but this was simply insanity.

Constantly he tried to push you to approach people with simple complaints that could bw resolved. A simple tiny mix up with change, the wrong dressing for your food, them giving you the wrong color of something.

It is something you want so why are you so okay with not getting what you want!

"(Y/N)- You deserve what you asked for. Tell them.."

When you wilt in your seat a bit flushed. He grumbles and looks around- irritated for the person in question.

"Excuse me- You"

"Hong-Jin!"

Konig

König likes to go in and out when it comes to certain things.. Choices being one especially if they are small. He would prefer to at least have some idea of what he wants so he can get back to where he feels comfortable

So being indecisive over small things

It will drive him insane..

Absolutely up the fucking wall.

Sure he knows sometimes it take a moment to think things over. He has even needed a moment to make a choice.

But taking 30 minutes to pick something low effoet is insanity

Switching back and forth constantly with something as simply as what you want to eat at the same restuant you two go to constantly.

Trying to think of what brand to get of bread

It makes him feel on edge since it means they are attracting more looks or prolonging a interaction he doesnt like.

He will try to be nice however it will slowly drive him mad.

"Schatz please.."

König will beg as he tries to keep from saying the choice he knows you will make.

So when you two are shopping for you to get a new phone he is leaned against the wall.

He will close his eyes and channel in all the calm of his body. His soul.

You going back and forth between two phones when he knows that you know which want you want.

"...(Y/N).. You want that one on the left.."

"Well yeah, but i don't know- This one is also good"

He will put his head in his hands trying not to cry.

Nikto

Listen.. Nikto doesnt like scarcity. He has known the feeling of not having enough. Of scrapping by, he never wants to experience thay again.

Listen.. He knows he eats a lot

So forgetting to stock up has a emotional grind to him.

He knows he can go through many things fairly quickly.

He has a card that you can use at any and all times. It is practically ENDLESS for you to use for whatever needs you have and whatever you could possibly ever want.

SO why do you wait till there is quite literally crumbs in the house? Or that there is barely anything in terms of house needs until its ABSOLUTELY gone.

So many times he has gone to different parts of the find there wasnt a restock.

Hell even of stuff you use constantly!

How do you not restock your own stuff!

So of course when things like that happen he will feel absolutely annoyed.

Nikto felt a twitch in his eye as he stared at the empty toilet paper bag in the bathroom. Stuck on the toilet as he felt a pain behind his eye.

"(Y/N!)"

You peak in to see your boyfriend there on the toilet- His scarred face a twisted mess of irritation.

"Где находится туалетная бумага?"

(Where is the toilet paper?)

"Oh- I must have forgotten to pick up some more"

Nikto closes his eyes and heavily sighs

Simon who has you flat on your back after your picnic date. Set the whole thing up when you briefly mentioned how romantic it would be to have lunch under a big tree, wind playing in your hair as you admire the peacefulness of the view around you. Almost as breathtaking as the smile that takes over your face when he guides you to the set up, admiration singing in your eyes when you squeeze him tight under your arms.

Tease him for being slightly suspicious about insisting you wear a dress and when you both settle on the blanket and Simon starts unpacking the picnic basket, the moment feels perfect. Under the biggest tree in the small field of Simon’s backyard, miles from other people because he valued his privacy.

Wind blowing your hair, makes the trees sway, soft brushing of their branches together filling your ears. Has you relaxed as Simon settles all the food he put together for you to eat. Made a cherry pie that was to die for and as you eat and talk, lay down to get comfortable, the atmosphere slowly fills with longing. Small talk drifting off when Simon settles beside you, eyes locked onto you until he leans down to capture your lips.

He hovers over you, kisses you soft and sweet as your hand combs through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Swallow his groan and arch under his palm caressing your waist.

You buzz at the low smack of your lips together, legs clenching when Simon picks up the pace. Squeezing your ribs and nipping at your lips, makes you breath harder, nipples hardening and sending zips down your spine when the material of your dress drags along them.

Tongue dipping past your lips and dragging across your teeth, pace so fierce that you have to pull away to breathe. Mind swimming as you catch your breath and while your lips pulse and ache, Simon drags his own across your jaw and down your neck. Lightly skimming them down your shoulder enough to pull a whimper from you. Soft kisses that make you shudder and keen when his palm scraps along your thigh and under your dress.

Wind filtering under the lift of your dress around Simon’s wrist, sending goosebumps over your feverish skin. Nudges your legs wider to rub gently at your clit through your underwear with his knuckle. Traces the seam of your pussy and groans lowly at the wet spot.

“My pretty girl.” He murmurs against your temple, presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Shiver running down your spine at the caress of his voice in your ear and when Simon gently pinches around your clit you breathe a soft moan.

He leans down to press tender kisses around your chest, dully nips at the plushness of your breasts. Nose nudging at the peak of your nipple. Only tugging the fabric down when you squirm and whine with impatience.

You tense and whimper when Simon takes your nipple into his mouth, sucks harshly and laves his tongue roughly across it. Hips jerking when he digs his knuckle firmly into you. Is slow to slip his fingers under the edge of your underwear and pull the fabric to the side so he can hear you huff and dig your nails in his hair.

He lifts the edge of your dress to your stomach, coos at the slickness of your cunt and bites down on your nipple to release the feralness that builds in his chest at the sight.

You squeak, hand fisting his hair before he presses soft kisses to the sting. Simon finds your lips again when his fingers slip between your folds, collect your arousal to aid in the short, quick circles his finger makes around your clit.

You moan into his mouth, suck at his lip to hear the low grunt vibrate his chest. Pull away to watch your face as he picks up the speed of his hands, breathes into your mouth when it falls open, moans and pants warming his face as you buck your hips.

The exposure of your chest sends a zing down your spine, buzz shooting to your clit every time the wind teases at your nipple. Eyes clenched closed when Simon circles your opening, dips the tip of his finger in only to pull it back out.

“Simon.” You whine and scrape at the nape of his neck. Know it makes him shudder and do as you please when his finger fills you up. You sigh and pulse around him, groan filling his chest at the feel of how warm and tight you are around him.

“Such a good girl, baby. Here comes another one, you’re doing so well.” He coos into your hair, presses a kiss to your cheek right when he presses another finger inside and you moan at the stretch.

Pant and gasp as he works his fingers in and out, palm brushing against your clit every time he pushes in, has your hips chasing after him when he pulls out. Tits bouncing as you jerk has a groan building in his throat, makes his forehead fall to your chest just to feel the rush of your breaths.

Simon nuzzles his teeth into your nipple to feel you shudder against his lips, moaning filling his ears as he curls his fingers. Cranes his neck back to see your eyes squeeze shut, mouth fall open in a loud squeal, and your back arch. Your jerk sends your chest knocking into his mouth and he takes the unconscious request without question.

Your body burns as you melt under his touch, hips squirming as your nails find purchase in his back. Moans and whines getting louder while the hot coil in your stomach grows tenfold at the constant probe of the spot that has your toes curling.

Simon trails sloppy kisses up your neck, breathes into your ear when he feels you pulse wilding around his fingers, arousal gushing down his palm, obscene squelch’s making your face flush.

“Messy girl. Gonna cum f’me, baby? Show me how much you like my fingers buried in your cunt.” He goads, fingers working in harsh, short thrusts as he grounds his palm into your throbbing clit.

You gasp, air stuck in your lungs at the constant grind and thrust of Simon’s hand. Low moans filling the air at the hoarse whispers in your ears egging you on.

“She’s doing so good, baby. Suckin’ me in, a little filthy, but she can’t help it can she, hm?” You keen at the sarcastic tone in his voice, makes you whimper and shake your head pathetically, legs tensing closed and kicking out when he laughs coarsely in your ear.

Simon tuts softly, presses soft kisses to your temple before slipping his leg between yours to keep them open. “You know better than that.” He coos, pecks your lips when his palm crashes down on your clit harshly during this one particular thrust. Hushes you with a curl of his fingers.

Heat in your stomach turning to fire as your legs try to shut around Simons. Hand flying to grip his wrist while your back arches. Loud cries clawing up your throat, hips grinding into Simons hand that moves frantically to draw your orgasm out as long as possible.

He groans lowly. “There she is.” Head leaning down to take your nipple in his mouth and suck harshly, trapping the peak between his teeth.

Your hands claw at him, mind buzzing and fading into black before your eyes peel open, soft whimpers breathing onto Simon’s lips as he kisses you, small pulses around his fingers fading into a gentle fuzz that covers your body.

Fingers slipping out with a shudder, pulling the wet edge of your panties back over your sloppy and swollen pussy before giving it gentle pats that make gasp.

Simon brings his fingers to his mouth, eyes locked so intently on yours that you blush at the vulgar moan he lets out as he sucks his fingers clean.

As your neighborhood's entrance comes into view, your mind goes back to overhearing your parents saying something about locking the doors if you kept coming back so late. You didn't think too much of it until you remembered you didn't have keys. They never bothered giving you one. When you came home early, you had to wait outside until one of them or your brother arrived.

When you arrived at your front door, it was locked. So you rang. Once, waited a few minutes then a second time and waited again. You waited like this for 20 minutes.

But no one came..

The cold had already settled deep into your bones. It's not like you had the adequate clothes for the winter either. They never bothered buying you anything. You contemplated your choices. You were too tired to try and climb up a window or something, staying outside meant a high risk of dying, so it was not an option either. You walked away, staying here wouldn't do anything to help anyway. And slipped your hands in your pockets and your fingers grazed the set of keys Ghost had given you. And suddenly, your best bet was probably crashing at his house for the night knowing he wouldn't be back for another two to three days. So you walked forty-five minutes through the snowy and icy roads, trying not to pay attention to your discomfort. You didn't want to admit it, but by the time you reached Ghost's house, your limbs were heavy and your vision was fuzzy. You fiddled with the keys, your hands raw and fingers covered in frostbites. The door finally opened and you stepped inside the snow falling off you and covering the floor. You closed the door and forced your body inside, and crashed on the closest surface, the couch. You had forgotten to take your shoes off, but considering the stars in your vision, that was probably the least of your problems.

It was 2am. Ghost was driving back to his house. He had finished his mission earlier than anticipated and decided to go home immediately. He'd never admit it out loud, but he was looking forward to seeing you coming in the next day to take care of Riley. He parked his truck and hopped out. He opened the door and to his surprise, it wasn't locked. Which was weird since you always locked it. He stepped inside and saw the melting snow on the floor. His hand hovered instinctively over the gun at his belt. When he heard Riley padding over and whining. She tried to pull him towards the living room. He hated that. Something was wrong and it stressed him out. So when he arrived in the living room, he didn't expect to find you slumped on his couch. Half of your body is actually resting on it. Riley was whining at your side and he approached you slowly. You were soaking wet and your lips were blue. He didn't know how you got in this state or why you were still here but he had a small idea of why you weren't home. He shook you and made sure you were breathing. You opened your eyes, but they were unfocused and glassy. You tried to speak and what you thought was a coherent apology was actually almost gibberish.

You don't remember much after crashing on the couch. You barely recall seeing Ghost, but you were unsure if that wasn't a dream or hallucinations.

The light of dawn was plunging Ghost's house in that beautiful wintery blue-gray. It was truly a peaceful winter morning. Ghost was in the kitchen, boiling water and settling not one, but two cups on the counter. Once the water was ready, he poured it in the cups over the tea bags and left them infused for five minutes. During those five minutes, he walked over to his room. He had put you there to lay in his bed in hopes of warming up. Inside, here you were in one of his hoodies and weighted comforter over your body, covering you up to your shoulders. Riley was laying right next to you resting her chin on your legs. Ghost approached and took the thermometer from the bedside table and brushed a hand across your forehead to get it out of the way. He could tell you were still cold to the touch and not out of the woods yet. The thermometer confirmed it. But at least it wasn't life threatening anymore.

Your eyes fluttered open at the touch. You slowly regained your surroundings, your vision swishing around a bit. You debated sitting up but went against that due to how dizzy you felt.

“Look who decided to come back from the dead.”

Ghost deadpanned. He wouldn't show it, but he was relieved that you had woken up. You rubbed at your eyes to chase the sleep and drowsiness away. There was a slightly awkward silence until Ghost interrupted it.

“How are you feeling kid?”

You looked at him for a moment before answering:

“I'm okay… I think.”

And then yawned immediately after. Which you could swear you heard Ghost huff at. He ruffled your hair and left the room to go back to the kitchen. Questions could wait for a few hours. He wanted to make sure you're okay first and not push you. So he poured some honey in the cup that was meant for you before heading back to his room with both cups in his hands.