#pavlov's human | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kingmaker-a · 4 months

Text

Like a moth to a flame | Yu Jimin

Non-Idol AU

Warnings/Tags: Suggestive content warning, drug and alcohol usage, cheating(?), complicated(?) friendship.

It's 3am in the morning, your friends have scattered to the wind. You're in a rough spot caught in the haze of it all, you're drunk, high or just plain old coming down with the flu.

Word count: 2.6k

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Streetlights blur and stretch in unfurled amber as the world rocks slowly, back and forth under every step.

It takes everything in you not to stumble and fall, to meet face first against the concrete ocean footpath.

You honestly shouldn’t have had that ‘cigarette’.

To be fair you thought you had more time.

Thought your friends would still be around.

Thought that you had data for an uber.

Thought that you were smarter in general.

You can help the buzz that settles in your brain, even as you eat some horrid dry burger, something about the repetitive chewing motion provides some comfort.

When was the last time you were out of your mind? Drunk as hell or high as a kite.

You can't help the way your mind trails off kisses over porcelain skin, a different repeated habit with a lost love.

Sweet nothings in the eves between sweet scented candle light.

The crisp night air is almost stale in comparison.

A car horn echoes through the barren city streets, gone is the party and jubilance… Actually, were you lost?

It echoes again with a twisted laughter and the slam of a car door.

The world twists under your feet as you clamor for a nearby railing, your legs shudder underneath it all.

You don’t quite make it.

Hands thread over your waist in an instant as you lurch forward, rapturous laughter giggles behind you even as she tries to hide it.

“Jesus christ, you’re sloshed,” your name spills from her lips like ambrosia, there’s a certain decadence to her smile that almost feels illegal.

Even caught in the haze of street lights in between the muck, grime and graffiti, she’s otherworldly.

Soft, kind and gentle.

Her hand brushes against yours with the slightest recoil. Her touch feels like sunlight given human form.

It echoes across you when you realize how close she is.

She has to be, you remind yourself.

To keep you steady, against the rocking concrete ocean, even if all you can focus is on the swell of her cheeks as she smiles.

Innocuous.

It’s hard to explain the way she looks at you, at least in your drug-addled mind, but it’s all you can think about.

You want to blame Pavlov, even though that’s not how it works. He’s not responsible for the way you hunger for the taste of intimacy against your lips.

…Well at least what you’ll allow yourself to think about.

That’s entirely your own fault.

“Hey Stranger,” is all you can muster, stuck inside the storm of your thoughts as they linger and grip your brain.

A grin peeks through her lips as a breeze coils the gap between the two of you, as miniscule as it is. It twists over every loose strand in her wolfcut.

That’s new.

Though you suppose that’s the difference time makes, her eyes trace your face with a slow delicate touch. Her eyebrows knit together with a puzzled look, the twitch of a smile hums at the corner of her lips as she cocks her head to the side.

Your mind spirals on the brief pout dusting her lips, coils around it like an anxious python.

“I should be saying that to you, you know?”

It nearly chokes you.

Thankfully you catch the glimmer in her eye, soft like twinkling stardust.

Just banter between… Friends.

Why's your throat so dry again?

You try to mold yourself into some semblance of normal, she shouldn’t know how stupid you are.

At least more so than usual.

“I-Uh,” God you need a drink. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes widen, a flare of surprise. Her jaw hangs barely on its hinges, “holy shit.”

The breeze is cold against your skin, stabbing with icy claws as the gap widens between the two of you. Her grip steadies you at the shoulders, the look of astonishment practically burnt into her face.

There's an incredulous edge to it all, her mouth agape as if she knows something you don't… And she probably does.

But all you can think about is how she’s warm like the sun and you have to fight every moth-like instinct, to nuzzle into the burning flame that is her.

She chuckles, shaking you slightly as if you'll earn some grand epiphany from the motion.

Still, her smile is pretty.

“You’re,” each syllable is slow, drawn out as if she was speaking some alien language. “the one who called me.”

She even points to herself for the briefest of moments, on the off chance you stood a better chance understanding charades.

Which would be frankly insulting, if her hand didn't spark a furious fire in your chest, her thumb running over the edge of your collar, against your skin.

Every other thought leaves your head at her warm coaxing touch.

There’s a worry held in her gaze, beholden against the echo of empty streets. Your leg jitters like an anxious clock, held in the frozen moments where you realize you think too much.

Jimin takes a deep breath, before a realization flashes in her eyes, a curious question if anything. Her eyebrow furrows ever so slightly and you question what it’d feel like to press a kiss against her dumb forehead.

“Where’s Minjeong?”

The question is surprising to say the least, you haven’t seen her in…

Not since the last time you saw Jimin. The thought offers barely a pocket of clarity in your otherwise mangled mess of a brain.

It takes everything in you to relax the bounce in your leg.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” You offer, with a confused look.

“I-” her voice stammers against her tongue as the gears beg to turn.

“Right, yeah.”

She quickly gives up.

She spins her car keys around her index finger, a pointed smile lingering on her lips.

“So am I taking you home or what?”

It’s almost cocky the way her hand rests on her hip and you can't help but remember how truly annoying she is.

In the best possible way… Though it is certainly a required taste.

Still, you find your teeth grazing your tongue– “My uh-... Roomie has my keys.”

Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth, tutting disapprovingly.

She even flutters a wink your way, paired with a coyish laugh.

“Your roomie…” she smirks, peering at you with a certain gaze you have come to know over the years. It’s cocky and worst of all cheesy. She makes the mock effort of flipping her hair, or at least the length it used to be. “You know you don’t have to make excuses, it is easier to just say you miss me.”

God, she is greasy. Yet much akin to junk food and takeaways, there is something to be said about the comfort in your soul in her presence.

Still, you offer her no such satisfaction, rolling your eyes.

“Actually, you know what, I'll try my luck at the nearby homeless shelter,” jutting out your thumb behind you.

She just smiles, looping one of your arms over her shoulder.

There's security in her touch, in her embrace. Was this how your exe felt whenever she was out on the town?

A thought better left un-had, to dredge up old bitter memories in the wake of warmth would be a stupid mistake.

“Hope you're hungry by the way because I scored some takeout.”

There's a moody ambience held in Jimin’s apartment, a lone lamp provides it all, the subtle glow almost feels like a candlelight dinner held between lovers.

Well, that and you're anything but, even if your mind tempts the edge.

That is if the food wasn't half cold.

Still your jaw runs slack, fork stabbing like a shovel digging your grave.

“Jimin?”

Her eyebrows perk as she takes a bite, face contorting in frozen discomfort.

“hm?”

Still, she tries to stifle it, hide it behind a porcelain poker face.

“So you just dipped on the dude and made him pay?”

She'd probably get away with it, if you weren’t hyper fixated on every inch of her.

She smiles that one goofy smile, the kind that makes you dizzy. Her chopsticks jut towards you with a taunting look, as she chews.

“Didn't say it was a guy this time,” she swallows, eyes lingering against yours.

“And so you just left her and made her pay?” Oh, that poor girl, though if her choice of takeout was anything to go by?

She shrugs as if the answer was obvious, there's a doe-like innocuous innocence to her eyes. “You needed me.”

Her words suck all the oxygen out of your chest, killing what little supply your barely functioning brain was getting.

It does little to help your already complicated feelings for her.

Thankfully, she doesn't read too deep into it. There’s an almost absent look to her as her face scrunches.

“She was nice just a little…”

Even as you paint a thousand pictures of her in every shared second, there's something indescribable in her eye. You feel yourself almost unravel pontificating.

Your brain stutters on that image, cast in ambient lamp light. Maybe it's because you're high, maybe that's why you can't escape that soul sucking moment like a robot stuck with a paradox.

Thankfully it's your humor that reels back to reality.

“Let me guess she wasn't too keen on the plastic bag juggling?”

It’s barely been a second.

She nearly chokes on her own laughter, it’s a weird strangled noise caught somewhere between a cowboy, a dog and a cat.

You can't deny the satisfaction that lingers in your chest as it blooms on to your lips.

The only way it would've been better is if she was drinking something.

She smiles nonetheless, the sweet, innocent disarming kind. The kind that hides a knife or a sharp jab.

Yet her features soften, there's an almost subtle nod. Perhaps there is a hint of truth in every joke.

She offers a hand, beckoning you to follow her lead.

It’s as easy as breathing, the way your hand fits in her. The world spins underneath, you’d lost yourself too much in the smooth placate wake of conversation.

The floor is a storm and you can barely hang on,but thankfully Jimin is your captain through it all.

Smooth, slow and most of all patient. It’s the soft kindness that feels foreign against your skin, like velvet robes for the peasantry.

Perhaps she always has been a luxury that you couldn’t conceive, too lost in the touch of your exe.

Every ship eventually finds itself on familiar shores, her room glows with soft fairy lights. Perhaps it’s simply poetic that it’s the lighthouse in her otherwise dim house.

How long has it been since you last set foot in her, weeks, months, dare you say it… years?

It tastes like home, like saturday morning cartoons and cereal or orange juice on the rocks.

You catch your eyes lingering on long forgotten details, cast aside in the rush of adulthood. Old polaroids stick to her mirror as well as post it notes.

Some even have your handwriting.

Perhaps it is brutal to realize that you exist outside of yourself in these little things, mementos and keepsakes. That people cling to them, long since you’ve abandoned them.

No, that’s too negative.

It’s a reminder that you care and that they care.

Even when you’re not around to confirm, to reassure that simple fact.

Like ashes, evidence of a fire once lived could burn again.

Still you’re but a moth in a lighthouse, your steps are more uneven than usual, burdened by the weight of it all.

Your foot catches against nothing except your own inane motor controls. A mistake you would usually curse, if it wasn't for the soft plushyness of her bed that hits your knee.

Or the strangled surprised yelp of a shared downfall.

It’s a whirlwind with a life of its own, as you both wrestle for stability in a panicked frenzy.

In a way, it’s a dance shared by two.

Still you’re lost in the heated flurry of it all.

You're the one who collides with her bed first. There's a flash of pride on her face, as if this was some sort of sport.

Any biting remarks die in your throat as you feel her breath brush across your face with soft painted strokes.

Her hands clamored over your wrists.

It’s a mistake on her part, a momentary lapse in judgment as loose strands tickle your face, a coy, cocky smile as she tucks them back.

This looks bad, inches away from a flame that burns so devastatingly bright. You nervously gulp at the temptation of it all, thankful for the cage binding your wrists.

You can't help it, you're but a simple moth lost in the enamour of the sun, pale moonlight simply can't compare.

So like a moth to a flame, you ignite. Hand tangling through her soft midnight locks as your lips crash and burn against hers.

She gasps against you with a soft, sultriness, eyes fluttered and half lidded. She molds against your touch as you dance once again as she twists underneath you, burning a delicious flame.

You melt against her, searing at a fever pitch as your teeth find their mark against her neck, extraditing sounds of ambrosian pain from her lips.

Your name threatens to incinerate you whole as your fingers slip below the hem of her hoodie, teasing the fine edge of it all.

Her hands cradle through your hair, lost in the rapturous heat of it all.

You would reduce yourself to ash, to be a firefly that burns with her light.

It never comes, her hands bind you once again.

If, only for a second.

Yet.

“We can't,” her voice clamors and shakes a flash of lucid clarity. You can trace the thoughts that boil under the surface, still there's a careful, cautiousness to what she voices from the ether of her mind. “You’re drunk.”

An anchor that weighs heavy, snuffing any flames with bounding waves.

There's a part of you that wants to bite back against it, to snarl that you're high, not drunk.

But you know that it would do little to settle the guilt that sinks in her eyes.

She’s beautiful, you realize as you pull back.

Well, frankly she always has been, you would be an idiot to admit otherwise. But she's really beautiful and you hate the way you can't even articulate it in your own brain.

But she is, even with her hair splayed, messy and ruffled against her blanket, the tinge of flustered roses against her cheeks and the bruises slowly welting against her otherwise perfect skin.

Her hand latches against your wrist once again as you try to stand, caught in the rejected upheaval that twists in your gut.

A snapshot just for you, a burn scar.

A soft blooming earnest settles like snow, it nestles and creeps through her voice with a moody melancholy.

“I-... This never happened, okay?” you can't ignore the ache in your chest, the very same that echoes in her voice. “But… Please stay.”

She tugs you back into her orbit, it’s hard to ignore the warmth in your chest as she pulls you close.

Or the way it chars as you nestle into her neck, as her fingers card through your hair.

Despite the anguish of it all, you drift off into the ether.

You don’t get to see the tears that well up or the soft quiver of her lips as she stares almost vacantly at one singular point.

A dagger-like pain point, freezing with an aching touch.

A Polaroid.

Her own goofy smile painted, faked to an immaculate degree as Minjeong’s lips press into your cheek.

Her veins run cold, cutting into her heart with jagged ice.

Your girlfriend.

#aespa x reader #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #girl group scenarios #aespa imagines #aespa scenarios #karina imagines #karina scenarios #yu jimin imagines #yu jimin scenarios #aespa #aespa karina #kpop imagines #girl group imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop x reader

198 notes · View notes

soapoet · 11 months

Text

W.I.T.C.H. pick-a-card reading

Irma Lair; your gifts

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

Shufflemancy: John my beloved by Sufjan Stevens

you probably already know this, and have heard it time after time, but you're very sensitive. not in a bad way, except when it overwhelms you and drains all your energy, but you are insanely intuitive. you may struggle a lot with your faith in humanity. one day you're snuggled up in bed sobbing over compilations of human kindness, then the next you log on twitter and declare humanity irredeemable. and worst of all you feel so alone. it's frustrating feeling like those around you go through the motions of life seemingly unaffected by the constant eldrich horrors around every corner. you know that it's not that they don't care, but sometimes you might secretly wish you could have a sip of whatever it is that's numbing them down. finding supportive and understanding friends to surround yourself with is important to your well-being because harsh words and criticism can bruise you harder than most. this sensitivity may sometimes feel more like a burden than a gift, but i assure you that there's a lot of positives to it.

you are naturally inclined to do well with energy healing and may develop clairvoyance on top of your already prominent clairsentience, and quickly learn how to wield these abilities. your compassionate nature makes you a very good source of comfort and support for others and you're able to gently guide others in a way that isn't intrusive, so many would flock to you for advice if you opened up shop as an emotional support human of some kind. be sure to safeguard your own energy and do as much or as little as you want and can when you hone your skills should you decide to practice any kind of divination or spiritual practice. even outside of more spiritual things you'd make good use of your gifts in teaching, psychology, or medicine. you put people at ease and it's easy for others to get attached to your energy, and you just as easily get a little too invested from time to time, so be sure to keep your boundaries clear and take plenty of time for yourself to recharge and ground yourself.

02.

Shufflemancy: Brittle bones Nicky by Rare Americans

some call it chaos, you call it fun. you have a knack for entertaining a crowd. even if you're shy around people you don't know well enough, those closest to you know you best for your creative genius. you're an engaging communicator and storyteller, and have a lot of ideas swirling around your brain. you really should get some of it out before you get dizzy. you'd make a terrific writer, artist, a performer, or public speaker. yes, even if that last one made your stomach churn a little. you're very likeable and fun, and you'd draw a lot of attention if you just put yourself out there. lots of people could use your zest for life and learn a lot from the stories you could tell, whether real or fictional.

music, cinema, theatre, story driven games, and literature may be things you find a lot of joy in. you're inclined to develop clairaudience, and you may already notice auditory cues and coincidences more than most, and find a lot of guidance and motivation from the music you listen to or from your own inner monologues that lead to aha moments. are you afraid of the spotlight? not sure where to start? if what's stopping you from pursuing your wildest dreams is a jumbled mess of what ifs and lists of things you need to perfect and reconfigure and practice until your face turns blue, stop. you're already good at cartwheeling your way through life, talking yourself in and out of things and thinking on your feet, so you absolutely got what it takes to just go, and figure out the minute details along the way.

03.

Shufflemancy: Pavlov's daughter by Regina Spektor

people usually hire staff to do all that you're able to do all on your own. you're very well-rounded. a jack of all trades, perhaps? you're intelligent, practical, and very creative. you'd make a great entrepreneur because you're such a hardworker once you set your sight on something you want to achieve. you seem to have a deep trust in your own strength and abilities. you're emotionally strong and very independent. freedom is likely a big motivator for you, and being your own boss sounds very appealing to you. you're claircognizant and just seem to know what needs to be done and also get things done. you're an incredible taskmaster and do well with organising your thoughts and ideas and solving problems that pop up.

manifestations must come easily to you, unless your ties to the 3d and a distinct flair of realism and tendency to 'believe it when you see it' holds you back from having faith. but there is nothing you couldn't do, and those limitations should be easy enough for you to clear. i mean, look at everything you've already done and what you're capable of when you decide that what you want is what you get! make sure to rest plenty, though. you're often at risk of burnout because you strive when you have things to do and may have a hard time kicking back to relax when you could be spending that time doing something. even your hobbies align with your goals or fit right into your resume, so do try to find something to do that isn't so much about chasing accolades as it is simply enjoying yourself for the sake of pure enjoyment.

#pac reading #pick a card #pick a picture #w.i.t.c.h.#spiritual guidance #tarot reading #pick a pile #pick a card reading #soapy.post #shufflemancy #spirituality #energy reading

449 notes · View notes

basichextechml · 1 year

Text

Wet Braids and Ribbon Ties

Wednesday Addams/Fem!Reader

Rating: Teen // 2.4K Words // No pronouns used for reader, but implied Fem, Soft as hell, Teen for graphic jokes and it being somewhat suggestive at the end, Wednesday being someone emotionally vulnerable, Makeout sesh

A storm brings you closer to Wednesday than you’d ever thought it could.

---

Pattern recognition was a necessary trait of human evolution, and essential for the continued survival of any species. Those that came before you had used it to scavenge food, tame animals, create languages, and form communities. Sure, you were still doing these things, but it was less urgent, society collectively pushing past those base instincts to refine such senses. Vaguely, you wondered if your ancestors would be a bit disappointed that your brain’s neocortex was being used to psych yourself out over the sight of braids. While they were trying to figure out what berries and fruits wouldn’t kill them, you were worrying about Wednesday Addams and her twin braids that seemed to haunt you. Though, you guess it wasn’t their fault that you had pavlov'd yourself into associating the hairstyle with pretty brown eyes and a penchant to make your heart race.

It was all made much worse by the storm that had been rapidly approaching Nevermore. Again, ancestors fighting for their lives in the elements- while you were fighting for your life at the sight of Wednesday with water droplets clinging to her lashes.

Wednesday’s investigation into the murders around the town had all but halted, all her leads running dry. The Sheriff wasn’t responding to her evidence, and Xavier hadn’t made any moves- but she still felt a pull in her chest, like something was missing. She had requested (demanded) that you follow her to the Gates mansion to poke around once more. Enid had vehemently rejected both of your requests to follow.

“What time are we going then?” You ask, leaning against her bed frame as you watch her fill up a bag with flashlights, rope, and a first aid kit.

She zips the bag shut in finality, “Tomorrow night, after curfew. We’ll have to walk, so wear a jacket.” It seems she never got over the time you wore a tank top in 45-degree weather and you kept putting your freezing hands on the back of her neck.

“Isn’t there a storm coming, though?” She raises an eyebrow as if asking ‘so?’, “We don’t know how structurally sound that place is, what if it floods?”

Wednesday lets out a quiet huff, lips pursed in a thin line, contemplating your words. Finally, she concedes. “You’re right, be ready to leave at 4. I’ll meet you in front of your dorm.”

Okay, yeah that seemed more reasonable-

“4? Like four in the morning?” You questioned incredulously, arms crossed in front of your chest.

There was a ghost of a smile at your confusion, an inherent pride to it. “I thought you wanted to beat the rain?”

While Wednesday had pavlov'd herself into being associated with the debilitating symptoms of falling in love, you also came to associate the girl and her long, dark braids with the troubling feeling of everything going wrong at once.

---

Stupid Pavlov. Stupid neocortex. Stupid pattern-seeking brain.

Due to years of evolution, you were now trudging through cold sheets of rain in a forest with the girl you liked looking for clues on a murder investigation at 4:48 in the morning. Your boots making contact with the mud made terrible squelching noises as you both slowly made your way back to Nevermore, the only sound between you being that of twigs snapping beneath your weight.

This endeavor had resulted in nothing, it was a long shot if Wednesday was being honest. She had already found the evidence once in the basement, and it had been moved when she came back. Why would the perpetrator come back to the home? She had no clue- but she had nothing else to go on, and was feeling a bit -to her disgrace- defeated. While she was in the middle of looking around the basement for the umpteenth time, the storm predicted on the forecast came early, The house, just as you had predicted, began flooding, cutting her even deeper.

Now, with no fruits born of her labor, and your cold hand in hers guiding her through the dawn of a new day; you were slowly and surely going home.

As the lights of Nevermore Academy shone through the thicket of the forest, you both continued on your leisurely pace, despite the pouring rain. You both were already wet, running would do you no good now. Despite the shiver that ran down your spine at the nipping cold, you were fine with staying outside a little longer.

“I’m sorry,” Wednesday said suddenly. The apology nearly made you stop in your tracks, looking at her in disbelief. Never had Wednesday apologized to you- for anything.

The look on your face, as if you weren’t trusting the words she was saying, snapped at the strings of Wednesday’s heart. Enid’s words come back to haunt her, tearing into her about her inconsiderate nature. She’s sure you’d been made to feel that way as well. It was confusing. She should feel overjoyed at the misery of others. But seeing you by her side, being soaked head to toe by the rain, chilled to the bone? She was just as miserable as you.

“I’m sorry.” She reiterates, knowing fully that you heard her the first time.

“You don’t have to apologize-”

“I do.” The words are biting, and that does stop you in your tracks, inadvertently stopping her as well. Wiping the rain from your eyes, you look down at your interconnected hands. This was the longest you had ever touched her. The longest she’d ever let you touch her. “I have been… Selfish, as of late. And for that, I apologize. I am single-minded, I put you in danger, and I…”

You watch with a hitched breath as she avoids eye contact. This is difficult for her. Her shoulders are rigid, her mouth tense, and her hands twitching. The rain pelts down on you both, and you suddenly feel like you’re the main characters in a film.

“I believe I’ve hurt you, so I’m sorry.”

She looks terribly beautiful, hair sticking to her face in waves, her lips, and her nose the brightest red you’ve seen on her, doe eyes big with her eyeliner running from the rain. You simply squeeze her hand thrice. As unhealthy as it may sound, you had already forgiven her for anything she had done long ago- and you’d continue to do so, as long as she kept dragging you around with her hand in yours.

“Thank you, Wednesday. I accept your apology.” And, again, you mean it. Pulling her a bit closer, just so your shoulders knock together, you begin your journey once again. “Now come on, I think we should both get dry before we die horrible deaths from contracting pneumonia.”

“I believe we have conflicting ideas on what constitutes a “horrible death”.”

“I’m sure we do, Wednesday.”

You both gingerly sneak through the door and through the foyer, tracking mud on the carpet up the stairs. Wednesday makes you stop once you get to the top, and take off your shoes so you don’t track the mud back to the dorms- so Principle Weems doesn’t suspect you two. Though, you think it’s a lost cause because you’re both the number one suspects for anything slightly off that happens.

Your dorm is closer, and quietly, in the early morning embers, you usher Wednesday into your room, locking the dorm behind you.

The single dorm you resided in was smaller than the rest, the space easily filled up by your belongings. But you wouldn’t be caught dead asking to switch, you liked having your privacy- a rarity at a boarding school.

Wednesday is already making herself at home, leaving her shoes at the door and shrugging off her coat and scarf. “You can shower first.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, doing the same. Wordlessly, she takes your own jacket from your hands, spreading it on the floor next to hers. The space heater you have for nights like these is already cranked on high.

“Yes,” Wednesday confirms, sitting down in front of the machine, “I just need some time to think.”

“Alright, I’ll be quick.”

You’re true to your word, grabbing your pajamas and heading to the bathroom. The shower feels nice on your frigid skin, and you make sure everything is still organized for when it’s Wednesday’s turn. An extra towel is left on the sink once you’re done. She’s sitting in the exact spot you’d left her, the lines troubling her forehead just as prominent. You search through the black clothes in your closet, pulling out a pair of sweats and a matching sweater with some socks, and tapping her shoulder. “Your turn,” You mumble, presenting your offering.

Her fingers linger on yours, the shadows and movements emphasized by the low lights in your room. The clothes are held away from her still-wet body, and she gets up, closing the bathroom door behind her. As you hear the shower start again, you put your towel on the floor, mopping up any water that had dripped off of her.

This evening hadn’t gone as you thought it would’ve. It was like that morality test, if an oncoming train had its brakes cut, and you had to choose between crushing six people or one, what would you choose? You, of course, were all seven people- you would die either way. That made Wednesday the train, didn’t it?

Before you knew it, the door to your bathroom opened again, Wednesday stepped out in your clothes, using the towel you’d given her to scrunch the water out of the ends of her hair.

Your mouth felt dry like you were at the dentist getting a tooth pulled, and they had to suction all the saliva from it.

“Do you have a brush?” She asked. Getting up from your spot on the floor, you flitted around your desk, grabbing the one you’d left next to your vanity mirror. Holding it for a moment, you contemplated your next words.

“Could I do it?”

Time stood still in your dorm, fingers nervously pushing over the prongs on your brush as you awaited a response.

Wednesday felt warm. Swallowing her tongue and sitting down on your bed, cross-legged. “You may.”

Her hair was long and thick, pitch black as the night sky, and softer than anything you’d felt before. She smells faintly of your shampoo, and you find yourself light-headed as you gingerly rake your fingers through the ends of her hair, ridding it of any tangles. Starting at the ends, you slowly brush through the damp hair, working your way up. It’s longer than you had initially thought, undone of its iconic braided style.

Wednesday felt nearly naked with her hair unstyled and wet in your hands. The brush working against her scalp treated her so tenderly. As if you would rather walk through the fires of hell than yank against a strand of her head. She licked her lips, eyes suddenly watery. She had forgotten what tenderness had felt like these past few years. She believed she didn’t need it. Maybe she was wrong.

Using your nail to part her hair in two, you push both sections over her shoulders, and the bed creaks as you get off to sit in front of her.

The girl who avoided your gaze when apologizing earlier is gone, and instead wholly intent on looking at you as you finger comb through the section of hair on her left shoulder. Deftly, you split it into another three, even sections, slowly beginning to put together her signature braids. Wednesday watches as your lashes flutter while you concentrate, enamored with how you lick your lips and twitch your nose. You’re engrossed in her. Sitting here in your clothes, letting you do her hair, she must be equally captivated.

You get to the end of the first braid before you notice an issue. “I don’t have a tie,” You announce, pouting.

“I left them in the bathroom,” Wednesday says, already getting up. But you stop her.

“Wait-” And you're leaning over to your desk, rummaging through the top drawer. Pulling out two strands of black ribbon, you’re back in your spot in front of her. She’d seen them in your hair before. Setting one down in your lap, nimble fingers keep her braid in place while the other positions the ribbon. Soon enough, she had a perfect little bow tying the braid together. You start immediately on the next one.

Wednesday Addams has bows in her hair.

Once you’re confident they’re even, you lean back, eyes immediately shooting up to her neglected bangs. Taking the forgotten brush, you lean in. Much closer than necessary for the task, but instead of pushing you away, she tries to see if she can feel your breath. Rounding off her bangs, you discard the brush for a final time, hands coming up to finger curl the longer ends, framing the hollow of her cheeks perfectly. Your hands settle on the curves of her jaw.

Her pupils are blown wide, eyes narrowed dangerously, and you feel like a meek hare in front of a desert viper. You’re sure her venom would sting, and you’d be happy to let it flow through you.

She lets her fangs sink into you, pulling you in until her lips connect with yours. Unlike her demeanor, she was soft against you, hands coming up to the nape of your neck to keep your lips flush against hers. The warmth of your sweater and your hands and your lips are too much and not enough, and when you finally pull away to catch your breath- cheeks hot and eyes lidded- she finds you irrevocably adorable. She understands why Anaconda kill and eat their mate. If you don’t stop looking at her like that, you’ll undoubtedly meet the same demise. Wednesday finds herself pushing you down, pillows cushioning your fall as you lazily bring her back into your embrace.

As the clocks crawl forward, you both stay the same, warm and flush against one another. And as the clock strikes 8:30am, you’re both broken from your reverie.

“Good Morning everyone,” Principle Weems sounds from the intercom, “Due to the storm, faculty has made the decision to cancel classes and extracurricular activities for the remainder of the week. If the storm lets up, this schedule is subject to change. Stay dry everybody!”

A bit late for that.

“We’ll be staying here.” Wednesday decides for you both, already pulling you back in. You kiss against her jaw in agreement, fingers pulling apart the bows in her hair.

---

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging, I'd really appreciate it! As always, my asks are always open to talk ^-^

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1CbNa8jneefleLKCK98HHC?si=1c7e5b671ae14e42

#Wednesday (2022)#Wednesday imagine #Wednesday x Reader #Wednesday Addams x Reader #Wednesday fanfic #my fics #all of my Wednesday fics so far have been written in the wee hours of the night

1K notes · View notes

i-thewriter · 3 months

Text

How to meet your lieutenant's roommate, with whom he is secretly in love

Summary:

Soap meets Ghost's roommate. She seems a little strange, but that's apparently what made Simon fall for her so hard.

Words: 1,369

Their vacations are short. It's just week to gather strength and lick wounds. Though even then, Soap knows that if Kate finds some trace of new threats to humanity, their vacation may be over before they start.

That’s why he decided it wasn’t worth coming back to the family house. Moreover, he won’t be able to rest if his mom notices the new bruises he got on his last mission. It’s also possible that his mother will call Price again to tell him how to properly take care of her boy. After she did this, he couldn’t look into his capitan’s eyes for a week, while Price couldn’t stop laughing at him.

And although Soap loves his mom, he will not survive this same thing again.

That’s why he decided it was worth complaining to Ghost about it. Over and over again, like an annoying mosquito in a room.

But hey, in his defense, he thought Ghost would understand his problem. Soap seriously doubted that he would have a charming house in the countryside to return to after a long mission. It suits him better to hide in a cemetery with other ghosts as company. He probably has his own comfortable coffin, from which he gets up only at midnight to drink the blood of virgins.

He got an extra bruise on his arm for this joke.

That’s why he is only partially surprised when Ghost says he knows the place. At first, he thinks about a hideout or a motel for hours.

That's why he’s so surprised when Ghost asks him (which sounds more like an order) to join. Soap, being Soap, immediately agrees. He doesn’t even think about how awkward it might be to be locked together in one dingy motel room for a week.

But as they say (no one says that), it’s better to make decisions right away and regret them later.

Making stupid decisions, is not stopping the warmth blooming in Soap’s chest at such a sign of trust from the cold-hearted lieutenant. It’s a transition to the next level of their growing friendship.

(He wonders at what level of friendship he will unlock Ghost’s tragic backstory.)

To say he’s just shocked is to say nothing.

He really expected some kind of dungeon without running water, but not this. The apartment is nice. Flat with three doors, a small kitchen with an island, and a charming living room.

At the entrance, Ghost tells him to take off his shoes and put them by the doormat. He goes deeper inside and sees more things that don’t make any sense. A thick chemistry textbook is next to the sink, along with a Star Wars mug and one pink sock on the couch.

Pink what?

When the rest can be explained as Ghost’s twisted hobbys, it can’t be. Maybe in his free time, the lieutenant reads collage textbooks or blushes while watching Kylo Ren take off his helmet (don’t ask him how he knows who Kylo Ren is), but the sock?

Hell will freeze over before Ghost wears something pink.

But before he can start racking his brain trying to connect all the facts, Ghost asks him if he wants some tea. Like a good host, which of course he isn’t based on how forced it sounds.

And Soap wants fucking answers to questions he will never ask because he wants to live. He doesn’t want a fucking tea made by this speaking Mount Everest. But like a polite Scot who they both know he isn’t, he opens his mouth and says:

- umm.. Yes, please.

Ghost nods once and starts the horrifying process of making tea. He takes three mugs, including the Star Wars one. When Soap stupidly starts to wonder if Ghost will drink from two cups, the front door opens. He almost throws his bag on the floor and reaches for his gun, only to remind himself that he’s in civilian clothes.

- Easy, sergeant - Ghost’s voice makes him relax and he hates how he reacts like a damn Pavlov’s dog to the bell. But at the same time he’s happy that whoever opened the door is not a threat.

- If it’s your other PTSD bullshit- soap does a double take at a woman’s voice coming from the door. Woman visits Ghost?!- I swear to God I’m calling...- she stops as she notices him.

She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and... she is pretty (and younger than he expected but will never say this loudly). Even though her hair is disheveled, she has dark circles under her eyes, and the crooked collar of her shirt... she looks beautiful. As if she had just rolled out of bed after a long night of... No..NO! He’s not going there. He’s not thinking about her long l..

Soap almost jumps out of his skin when Ghost puts the mugs on the island with a bang.

Fuck, he forgot Ghost was there.

And he stared at his friend/ girlfriend? Like a creep. In his defense, his tired brain just lagged after seeing first pretty girl after that long time. But his mom raised gentlemen, he will apologize later. Her and Ghost to make sure he survive that night.

The girl recovers from shock faster than him (which is humiliating for him and all the military training he has undergone).

For a moment, the three of them stand in an awkward silence that only he seems to be only one who feels nervous. Ghost looks at him as usual, that is, in a terrifying stillness. She, on the on other hand, looks him over from head to toe without any signs of shame. Finally, after what the animals in the zoo must feel like, her eyes meet his and recognition shines in them. Which shouldn’t be because he’s sure as hell he’s never seen her before. Maybe Ghost told her about him?

And then she steps forward, smiles wider than the devil himself, and holds out her hand to him. He carefully takes her hand in his own and doesn’t even marvel at how soft it is. He’s more worried about Ghost’s gaze burning holes in his head.

-Simon didn’t say he will bring a friend from the team - when she talks, her eyes never stop exploring his features—and never said he had friends.

- I have friends- Simon grumbles.

- Soap remembers to take his hand out of her grip before Ghost decides he don’t need friends any more.

- Now I see it. - she says and then introduces herself- I’m his roommate.- she adds at the end.

...they are not together?

But before he has time to ask this question and probably get himself a death sentence, she passes him and goes to Simon. - I started to think you were dead - she says when he takes the bag off her shoulder and puts it on the table.

- Would you cry for me? - there must be something wrong with Ghost’s voice, it should never be so soft.

- I would if you bought me this lucky cat I showed you.

- NO.- Normally, cadets faint under this look. Why not her?

- Then you lost your chance to have me as a weeping widow.

- I think I will survive that.

Then you just stand on your tiptoes, grab Simon by the lopels of his jacket, and kiss him on the check (he’s wearing that creepy mask). Soap’s jaw didn’t have time to hit the floor when it was all over, and you turned around, sat down on the stool, and took a long sip of tea.

It’s hits him like a brick that all these things that don’t fit Ghost are yours. And it hits him like a truck that he hasn’t introduced himself yet.

- I’m John MacThavis, you can call me Soap. -he says this with a slight blush on his cheeks. The twinkle in your eyes at his code name makes him blush so hard he has to hide behind his steaming mug.

Then Simon’s hand brushes against your back as he takes the seat next to you. At this moment, John recognizes a glint of softness in Ghost’s eyes and knows that you are more unavailable than Pentagon.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #x reader #fanfic #simon riley x reader

100 notes · View notes

jabberwockprince · 3 months

Text

SPINA VENATORES A small organization of mercenaries working for Manus Vindictae, tasked with erasing people from history as a way to call upon the "Storm". Their targets' names, families, influence and connections to this world will be dragged into oblivion.

Individual profiles and some more info/ramblings under the cut <3

The whole point of Spina Venatores is to be a parallel to Vertin's own independent group of Arcanists - the same way St. Pavlov's Foundation has her, Manus Vindictae has Venison and Spina. They're the mouth and teeth of Manus.

But whereas Vertin aims to create a safe, neutral space for Arcanists to thrive without human influence despite being tied to the Foundation, Venison is aiming to create a paradise for those they care about and no one else due to the heavy influence Arcana and Manus have on them.

Spinas Venatores is, at its core, a cult that was allowed to grow thanks to Venison's codependent and obsessive mindset - with them as the leader, all the troublesome and rebellious members of Manus Vindictae (that are much too powerful to get rid of or who are still clinging on to their former lives) will simply be assimilated into Spina or pressured to comply with Manus Vindictae as a whole. The third secret option is dying <3.

They also serve as a narrative device to remind everyone of the fact that, no matter how hard one may try, there's no way EVERYONE can be saved from the "Storm" - all five main members are related in some way or another to Arcanists that Vertin has met, they're people that weren't lucky enough to be taken in, who found themselves in the right time and place for Manus Vindictae to take advantage of their vulnerable state.

R1999 also portrays a LOT of oppression from various minorities that overlap with each other in very interesting ways, so I also wanted them to tackle similar things that mean so much to me - they're problematic queers is what I'm trying to say lmfao

The thing they share is that all of them are delusional to a degree, and that they're constantly haunted and defined by their relationships to others. The loss and discovery of the self through another, Ship of Theseus, cannibalism, body horror, being transgender as a really visceral and intimate experience, an obsession for love in all of its forms etc etc.

I don't have the FULL scope of their backstories, but I do know who they're tied to!

Venison was Pavia's coworker in a constant, obsessive loop of wanting to kill and save each other. Mutton was part of Schneider's mafia and romantically involved with one of her oldest sisters. Chevon was a regular visitor in Necrologist's museum and a friend of hers, she later went on to exhibit his many, many tombstones. Poultry is the "Lilian" mentioned in Darley Clatter's Stories. And Veal is a mystery even to me </3

Their uniforms are meant to look outrageous and outlandish, entirely out of place with the setting and their respective eras/times, inspired by fantasy - just BARELY reminiscent of Manus Vindictae by virtue of using a similar palette, as a way to drive that feeling of not belonging and delusion even harder.

Whereas everyone else is dealing with very real issues, all members of Spina Venatores live pretty much in their own heads (similar to Forget Me Not and how Manus Vindictae causes their recruits to become... YEAH.....THOSE MONSTERS....)

Venison gets the BIG COAT and the biggest silhouette because they're responsible for pretty much 80% of what happens within Spina Venatores! Veal gets the more simple design to allude to their whole unassuming, shapeshifter/Doppelganger thing.

They all have ribcage/bone motifs in one way or another, most of their jewels are meant to look like rosaries, they wear the Manus Vindictae silver cross and Arcana's blue color more often than regular members of Manus. Also! Hands!! Love the fuckin hands!! DID YOU GUYS SEE DIGGERS' MANUS VINDICTAE SKIN???? YEAH.

The naming convention being. types of different meats. is entirely because of Venison, you can ALSO blame that entirely on them <3

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #reverse 1999 oc #manus vindictae #spina venatores #purinsu art #my beloved r1999 OCs #also i love drawing stained glass GRRR ITS SO GOOD #i have so much info about these motherfuckers idk where to put it

97 notes · View notes

vasito-de-leche · 3 months

Note

Hiya! I saw that requests were open, and I wanted to ask if you could do literally anything for Vertin and a reader who's romantic. I'd prefer if the reader was not involved with St. Pavlov in any way and actively avoids/makes it known they hate the Foundation, but I'd love anything that has to do with just Vertin tbh.

Anyway that's all, have a good day/night!

;R1999 VERTIN - "this life and the next"

Vertin x Reader. 1.1k words. hurt/comfort It's the end of an era and you have to say goodbye to the love of your life. But Vertin isn't ready to let go of you yet - she'll always find you in this life and the next.

I went for a little oneshot for this one and tried to do the opposite of my usual stuff to focus on the reader's POV for once lolol. still kept things pretty vague (hopefully) so this can be read as an arcanist/human reader!

ty for the request nonnie! not sure if the romantic part came across because, well. MY HAND SLIPPED WHEN WRITING THIS AND I GOT A BIT CARRIED AWAY. HOPE YOU LIKE IT ANYWAY!

Her hand slides into yours.

Vertin's skin is cold, it always has been, but her grip is firm and steady whenever she holds you. There is an unwavering confidence in her movements that sweeps you off your feet, like this is simply how things were meant to be.

Like the whole universe was meant for you and her, and nothing else.

You know of her role and title - the Timekeeper - and just the thought alone makes your chest ache. You know the things they expect of her, back in that awful institution of self-righteous bureaucrats, and your free hand curls up into a fist. You know of her safe haven, a pocket dimension in that suitcase she carries everywhere, but what good is it for when she's still trapped in a gilded cage?

This is an unspoken truth, one no one dares to mention in her presence - all the people she's saved throughout the eras, they know that their freedom and their future comes at the cost of hers. You know this, and so does she.

Above all, you know her.

She's Vertin, your precious, little dove. She's cold and she's the warmest person you ever met. She's hard to read and every little detail about her betrays that stoic nature. She will never stop trying to do the right thing, even when dealt the worst possible hand. You love her for it.

And you love that, at the end of the world, she's chosen to be here with you.

The timer on her forearm continues ticking down, but you don't care what the bold orange numbers say because the moment they reach zero, your life will end. And you've chosen enjoy every single second you have left with her.

If life were a movie, this would've been the perfect third act climax - a temporary goodbye between people who are destined to be together against all odds. There would be a fade to black, and the next scene would show you and Vertin, older and happier than ever, unbothered by the problems of a distant past.

Vertin calls out your name, bringing you back to the current present - your chest feels lighter than ever even as the rain begins to pour.

"I'm sorry. We only have about-"

"Hush, hush. I don't want to hear about that right now." You're quick to silence her with a gentle finger atop her lips. It's your turn to ease her worries, after all the burdens she's chosen to carry. "I want to hear what you think about the future."

There's a moment of silence, she's considering your words very carefully. You don't need to be a genius to know that she's dying to ask you to join her. You could brave the storm with her and everyone else if you try hard enough - but you're not willing to become another pawn for the Foundation. You can't do that to yourself, you've seen the way they treated Vertin, Sonetto, Matilda - everyone else. You've seen what Manus Vindictae do to their people.

"...Right now?" You nod at this, it's only fair after she's asked pretty much everyone she knows. You want to hear it, the hopes she holds in her heart. Vertin takes a deep breath. "You want to know what I think of the future, what I want in it. Correct?"

Somehow, the intensity of her voice makes your heart skip a beat. Like she's made up her mind about something important.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see it - water moving up, rain being reversed - but you keep your focus on Vertin and nod once again.

She pulls you into her arms, a hand in the back of your neck and the other one wrapped around your waist. In this position, with your face nestled in her neck, all you can see is the rise and fall of her chest in the little space left between your bodies.

Your face is flushed with both love and embarrassment - even now, Vertin is trying to protect you from seeing the chaos that surrounds you. You want to speak, to tease her for being such a reliable knight in shining armor, tell her that she can't keep making you fall in love with her, that you're meant to be the hopeless romantic - but she beats you to it.

"I want to see the future you told me about. One without pain, where everything is just one never-ending fairytale. I want a gallant, white horse to ride with you into the sunset. All those cheesy things that you love, I want all of them."

Her hold on you tightens. There is a constant, loud booming sound, like a dying star, that makes your ears hurt but Vertin's voice rises above it. Your grip on her is just as desperate.

"And I don't want to say goodbye to anyone ever again."

It's the end of an era, you can feel yourself dissipating, being pulled apart from inside out by time itself. The tears flowing from your eyes fly upwards instead, and you only let out a choked laugh when you pull away from Vertin, just enough to see her face. She's crying just like you.

"You're so mean, even now you're calling me cheesy and making fun of me." Your voice breaks when you say this, but you still manage to keep a light-hearted tone. "Hey, Vertin?"

There's a glimmer of hope in her eyes, like she's waiting for you to say yes, to dive head-first into her suitcase and forget about this bitter moment.

"Do you think we get our happy ever after in another universe? That we'll find each other, no matter what?"

Just as you stop feeling your feet, your legs, your arms - Vertin leans forward, her forehead against yours. You hate hearing her so vulnerable and broken like this, but you still commit every detail of her face and her voice to memory.

"Yes. Yes, no matter what it takes, I'll always find you."

"Promise?"

Those are the last words you utter before the universe rips you apart and the world fades to black.

You jolt awake, feeling a suffocating pressure in your chest. It's hard to breathe, even more so now that you realize you're crying. Something shifts to your left, the sound of blankets rustling about - the sudden movement makes you flinch, still dazed in your fear.

A cold hand slips off from yours. Someone yawns and whispers your name in the faint light of dawn.

"...Deep breaths, okay? Make sure to breathe with me." Her words are rehearsed, calm. You breathe in and out as she instructs. Once you calm down, the woman next to you sits up and rests her head on your shoulder. Her long, silver locks tickle against your skin.

"Feeling better, love?"

Almost on instinct, your hand reaches out for hers, now tracing circles on her bare forearm. No more "Storms", no more orange numbers, no more goodbyes.

"Yeah, it was just a... dumb nightmare. Thanks for the help."

This is your happy ever after. You turn just enough to kiss the top of her head and smile into her hair when she yawns again. That one is contagious, you yawn as well, feeling much more relaxed.

"Mhm...Oh, your breath smells like the leftovers we ate for dinner."

"Vertin! Way to ruin the moment!"

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #reverse 1999 x reader #reverse 1999 vertin #vertin #my dramatic ass likes drama. whats new #ANYWAY timetravellers and timeloopers and time related characters are so good bc you can do shit like this #did she fix the whole timeline just for you? just to have you back?#did she save you in a different timeline? did she grow old with you?#who knows who cares its free real estate

81 notes · View notes

itsohh · 7 months

Text

Pavlov Responce

A/N: Female reader, I totally slept through today ngl.

Day 7: Stuck in a wall

Word count: 798

Warnings: smut, safe word usage

AO3 Kinktober Masterlist

Silence filled the room as the pair of you stared at each other. It was rare that Soap was completely speechless. He always had some joke to say, some curse or a headstrong reply. This time he was frozen.

Then the bastard started to laugh. "How fuck the fuck did you-"

"My hips are too big and my shoulders won't let me get out. This isn't funny MacTavish. Get me out."

He only proceeded to laugh harder while you scowled at him. "Surely I can push you through? Your hips aren't that much bigger than the metal bars."

"If you can lift and twist me that might work."

"Got it." John made his way to your back and grabbed hold of your hips ready to lift you when you went the light brush of something against your ass. He coughed for a second and your scowl grew.

"Are you actually fucking hard right now? I swear to god-"

"It's a Pavlov response, come on."

"Oh my fucking God."

"Look I'm sorry- I'm only human." There was a struggle of laughter in his voice as you wriggled a little in his grasp.

"Besides it's not like I'm acting on it." He leaned over you and braced himself on the metal bars. His chest pressed against your back while the tent in his pants prodded against your ass.

"It's not like I'm actually going to fuck you here."

"John…"

"What do you want me to do? Come onnnnn of course I get hard when I see you bent over. Fucking beauty."

"Uh-huh. Compliments won't save you this time."

"Might have watched a bit too much porn over the years." He admitted with a grin. Gods he was hard, completely rock solid. He cleared his throat and his voice became a little bit more serious as he retreated. “So uh, I don’t know how to lift you without hurting you.”

“Fuck, go get the lube from beside the table.” Before you had even finished speaking, the man had vanished. It didn’t take long for him to come back, you could have sworn he sprinted. “Right now put it on my hips and see if you can push me through.”

“Over your jeans?” His voice was slightly strained and you thought about it for a second.

“Take my pants off.” Soap followed your instructions and was quick to lean over your body once more. His hand popped out the button from your jeans with ease and the zip slid down. Next, John pulled the pants over your hips. Unfortunately for you, your underwear moved with the jeans and soon they had both fallen to your ankles. “Soap!”

“Sorry! They got caught- they…” He swallowed and you could feel his hands run over the side of your now bare hips. “You got a nice arse you know that?”

A strained sound came from your lips as his fingers continued to run all over your hips. They grabbed a handful of on cheek then he slid them in between your legs. His fingers slipped between the folds of your cunt with ease where he was met with the soft touch of your wet lips. “Tell me to stop and I will.” John breathed in your ear and parted your lips. Your hands braced on the stairs in front of you while John thrust his fingers in and out of you.

“Fuck don’t know if I want to fuck you more or devour you.” He whispered while his wet fingers curled inside of you. “Fuck it.” John pulled his hand back and stuck those two fingers in his mouth while he yanked away his own pants. A pleased hum came from his mouth at your sweet taste while his cock sprung free from his pants.

Soap wet his cock with the arousal on your cunt before he pushed in completely. The pleasant stretch of your cunt had you moan out and relax. He grabbed hold of your hips and pulled back before he snapped his hips back into you. The force had you rock into the bars that confined you. “Ow ow! Red, red.” Your eyes snapped open as pain protested on your sides. Immediately Soap stopped and you got out from between the town bars. Soap looked at you with concern while the immersion of the fantasy the pair of you were playing out completely broke.

“You alright?” He searched for any signs of discomfort and you nodded your head.

“Just, kinda hurts. Guess it didn’t work out too well.” The side of your lips raised and you shrugged your shoulders.

“Ah, we gave it a go, thanks for trying anyway.”

You placed your hand on his cheek and pulled him in for a kiss. “We can always try one of your other fantasies.”

#soap x reader #john mactavish #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #call of duty #modern warfare 2

139 notes · View notes