ontherunnt

[ontherunnt]

You didn't follow orders. Price needs to do something about it.

pairing: John Price x afab!reader

wc: 1191

warnings: smut, a bit of dom!Price, spanking, teasing, unprotected piv sex (just barely lol).

an: this was meant to be a short one, but I might write a second part for it because I feel rather unfulfilled 🧍🏼‍♂️

Price had built wall after wall when it came to you. He’d buried every feeling, pretending he didn’t care—pretending his gaze didn’t linger whenever you walked into the room, that his heart didn’t leap to his throat at the slightest brush of contact. He tried—he really did—to feign a nonchalance that simply wasn’t real. Not with you.

He’d been warned—by countless people—not to get involved with anyone he worked with. Mixing love and duty, they said, would never swing in his favour. Rank came at a cost, and sooner or later, he’d find himself entangled in a power dynamic that would strain everything.

And, to his dismay, they’d been right.

Whenever you were in the picture, it was near impossible for the captain to think straight. He dreaded missions where your name appeared on the briefing file. Hated having to play the role of your commanding officer and nothing more. Hated the look on your face whenever he had to put his foot down—when duty demanded he reprimand you, not protect you.

It had been taxing on the relationship—until John found a way to correct you without letting it bleed into the relationship. 

“John,” you moaned against the pillow, voice muffled and strained. “Please—fuck. Please, John.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears. The sound of your whimpers blended almost seamlessly with every slap he let fall on your ass. The sound of his palm against the tender flesh made his cock twitch in his pants, still fully clothed as he hovered behind your naked frame on the bed—face down against the pillow, hands tied behind your back with your own shirt, ass perked up. 

He took a long look, licking his lips like a thirsty man. The sight was enough to make him come undone, which is why he’d deliberately focused on you. 

His hand fell roughly on your ass, the skin reddened and swollen from the aggressive, nonstop slapping you’d endured for the past twenty minutes. You whimpered at the contact, burying yourself deeper into the pillow. 

“How many times,” he groaned, violent hands now turning kind as he caressed one swollen cheek in gentle motions, “have I told you I’m your captain?”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes closed and mind clouded in what could only be described as a trance. Sweat beaded along your brow and neck, lip quivering from the sheer, painful bliss of being completely under John’s control.

Every nerve in your body seemed to pulse in rhythm with his voice—low, deliberate, impossible to ignore. You were hyper-aware of everything: the heat of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the way your body responded without permission. That acute awareness was both a blessing and a curse.

When he pressed his hot mouth against your swollen cunt, you could’ve sworn you saw stars. The noise that escaped your throat didn’t feel human, but he didn’t care. He lapped at the slit, arms trapping your thighs with nearly painful force. The bed beneath you creaked as the repositioned himself, dragging his tongue from bottom to top. It circled around your clit in a rhythm that made your eyes roll so far back, you could’ve seen your brain. 

He was relentless. Ruthless in the way he lavished attention on you. The warmth of his mouth sent an electric shock all the way up your spine, rendering you useless and incapable of straining together coherent sentences. His tongue found your entrance, pushing inside exquisitely slow. One of his hands found your reddened cheek, rubbing slow circles on it before harshly slapping it, drawing a whimper from you.

He sucked on your cunt once, causing you to reach for him with your bound hands, useless and infuriating. Before you could ask what he was doing, you heard the sound of his belt unbuckling. 

“Out there, I’m your captain,” he repeated, voice gruff and undeniably angry. “I’m not your partner, and I sure as hell am not your friend.”

On that last word, he delivered a painful slap to your ass. The sound you made was something between a whimper and a sob, testament of how close to the edge you were. John had been brutal for the last thirty minutes, insistent on getting his point across. 

“John,” you pleaded, tears welling your eyes. You couldn’t see anything behind you, but you could feel everything.

You flinched when he caressed your ass, recoiling away from his touch when his lips trailed lazy kisses from one cheek to the other, lingering on your soaked lips while he dragged his tongue across the slit one last time. 

The unmistakeable sound of fabric rustling signalled to your aching cunt that the torture was over. His calloused hands were now soft, even tender as they rubbed the angry skin. You felt his legs pressing against the back of your thighs, and the familiar weight of his cock lined up against your entrance. 

He dragged the tip across your swollen lips, letting out a groan as he did. You leaned further back, desperate to feel him, only to hiss in pain when he lay a palm on your cheek—not as punishment, but as a warning. 

“You listen to me,” he said with a low growl. He gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. You moaned with anticipation, biting your lip as to not tell him to just fuck you already. 

When you felt the tip push in only an inch, you couldn’t help it anymore.

“Christ—okay,” you cried out. “Please, please, please—.”

He yanked a fistful of your hair, bending over your arched back in an attempt to close the distance between you. The sudden pull rubbed his thighs against your ass, eliciting a painful moan from your throat. The movement pushed his tip even further in, which you couldn’t have been more grateful for.

His lips were close enough to your ear to raise every hair on your body. His voice was low, grave, dangerously velvety despite the situation. “Ask nicely, love.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so desperate, you would’ve. But your skin was painfully raw and bruised, you were sweating from places you didn’t know sweat, and you were so empty it was nearly tortuous. Instead of asking, you thrusted back in a swift move, and whimpered against the pillow when his entire girth filled you, stretching you so, so deliciously painful. 

He was caught so off guard he momentarily lost all strength, letting his weight fall on your back. With your hair still tightly in his grip, you had to crane your neck in an unnatural angle. Despite the pain on your bottom, you couldn’t stop yourself from smirking victoriously at the sight of this man, this captain, fall like a puppet without strings when buried deep inside you. 

That victory was short lived, because once he regained his strength he yanked on your hair forcefully, breath ragged and laboured. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

He rammed into you at full force, and you wondered how the hell you were meant to survive the following hours. 

[ontherunnt]

omg !! i love the way u write simon riley!! would it be okay to ask you toy do a cute one where he picks her up from like a girls night or a bar and she doesn’t recognize him and goes on and on abt how “my boyfriend will beat you up!” yk that trope? sorry if this made like absolutely no sense 😔😔

hi!! tysm <3 he's my fixation, unfortunately. I love him too much. It made all the sense, dw pookie. I hope you enjoy ᢉ𐭩

"I have a boyfriend" with boyfriend!Simon Riley

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

wc: 923

warnings: slightly suggestive at the end?

Simon stood by the entrance, a cigarette hung between his fingers, back against the wall, chin tilted to the dark night sky. The smoke curled over him in patterns only visible when the light from the nearby lamppost hit just right. His feet were firmly planted on the ground, and his eyes were set on the cloudless sky above him. 

He could hear the sound of the loud music seeping through the walls, making the ground shake with every low note and beating of drums. He had no idea what was playing—he didn’t indulge in the nightlife style very much. Not at all, actually. Not unless you were in the mix. 

He couldn’t have cared less for bright lights or loud music or drinking scotch at three times the regular price. There was nothing appealing about people bumping into him, sweaty and hot and obnoxious enough to make him wish he hadn’t shown up in the first place. He didn’t find it entertaining to navigate through swarms of people, shielding you from the worst of the bumps and shoves, only so you could go to the bathroom in peace. 

He hated it, but he loved you. 

He loved you enough to be outside the club at three in the morning, and he loved you enough to be only mildly amused when you stumbled outside, squinting your eyes at the bright screen illuminating your face, and shoved him to the side without sparing him another glance. 

Simon watched you frown down at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, eyes set on his last text. Barefoot on the concrete, heels dangling from two fingers, you shifted your weight and moved a step away from him, still without looking.

He called out your name, only for you to wave him off like an annoying fly buzzing in your periphery.

“I have a boyfriend,” you mumbled, barely loud enough to hear over the bass vibrating through the pavement.

Simon exhaled, smoke catching the light again. His brow twitched. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

You frowned harder, clearly not listening. You took another step. Your phone screen lit your face in cold blue light, eyes narrowed with suspicion, thumb tapping out something before you deleted it with a sigh.

“I’m serious. He’s big.” You wobbled, pointing vaguely at the club behind you. “Tall. Ripped. Military. Won’t like you talkin’ to me.”

Simon could only stare at you in disbelief.

He watched your face scrunch up, clearly gathering your strength to tell him off properly. You weren’t even looking at him. Not at the way he stood, casual as ever, against the wall he’d been guarding all night. Not at the familiar tilt of his head, the broad, familiar shape of his body. Not at the man you’d been dating for well over a year now. 

“You don’t want that, mate,” you added with a sigh, like you pitied him. “He’s fucking scary.”

Simon’s mouth tugged at the corner. He’d give you that one.

“I’ll go then.” He pushed off the wall, voice slow. “Tell your boyfriend I said good luck.”

You startled at the sound of his voice, finally lifting your head. The light caught the shape of him properly now—the shape you knew as well as your own heartbeat.

“Wait.” Your gaze sharpened. Recognition clicked across your face in slow motion. “Wait, wait, wait—”

You peered closer, blinking hard. Your heels clattered softly against your thigh where you’d let them swing, forgotten.

“Simon?”

He arched a brow, already halfway turned to leave.

“Oh my God,” you breathed out, relieved. “I thought you were some creep—”

“I gathered.”

You closed the distance between you, nearly tripping over your own feet in the process, heels discarded as they clattered to the ground. Your arms wrapped around his neck, careless and unbalanced, and you started kissing his face in quick movements. His cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

He groaned, but it wasn’t the kind meant to sound annoyed. His hands found your waist, steadying you, pulling you in the way he’d been waiting all night to do it. When you pressed a kiss to his lips, slow and soft, you felt the curl of a smile beneath it.

“Since when have you been here?” you whispered against his mouth.

Simon hummed, the sound low and pleased as his fingers traced lazy patterns against the small of your back. “Never left.”

That made you smile, lips still brushing his. God, you looked good like this. Barefoot, tipsy, grinning at him like this was the first time you saw each other. Like you were still in that dumb, honeymoon phase of the relationship—madly in love and nervous all at once. 

You kissed him again, slower this time. You tastes like lime and tequila, which made him smile against your lips. Still, he pressed you tightly against him, his hands trailing the small of your back, your waist, running up your neck. He felt something inside him stir dangerously when you groaned against his mouth. 

When you pulled back, he didn’t let you go far. He kept you close, thumb dragging soft strokes along the line of your hip.

“Sure hope your boyfriend doesn’t mind that.”

You giggled, nose brushing his. “I don’t think he will.”

He groaned again, but this time it was heavier, dragged from somewhere lower in his chest. His mouth found your jaw, your throat, words muffled against your skin.

“Good,” he said, breath warm and wanting. “Because I need you out of that dress.”

[ontherunnt]

i followed you a few days ago but im obsessed already 😭😭 i loved your writing

tysm!! I'm just coming back and saw this. You're too sweet <3 I hope you continue to enjoy!!<3

[ontherunnt]

Hi love!! I looove your writings so much!!

May I please request Simon with a people-pleaser reader? Like whenever she walk around the market, she would always come back with ridiculous things because “the saleswoman took her time to explain and demonstrate this product on me, Si :(“ or “the lady called me pretty so I have to buy it :((((” so everytime reader wanna walk around the market Simon would always have to be by her side to prevent her from getting scammed

Hi!! So sorry, I'm just catching up with requests 😭 tysm!!!<3 I hope you like it ❀

I went to my local market yesterday and almost LOST MY MIND to the amount of Etsy and Temu products, so I'm taking it out on this blurb.

Boyfriend!Simon with a people-pleaser reader

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

wc: 973

warnings: none!

Simon thought you had a wide variety of peculiar tastes. Surely, that had to be the reason you always skipped over to him holding things he couldn’t help but classifying as useless junk. It had to be the reason he’d look away for a second, or answer a call, or tie his shoelaces—only to find you next to a stand, serious and determined to buy a salt lamp. 

“You don’t need that, love,” he muttered under his breath, guiding you away from the colourful stand full of trinkets and mass-produced items. His hand rested on the small of your back, eyes set on the nearest way out of this sea of people you’d dragged them to. 

That was far from the last time you returned to him with a sheepish smile and a useless item between your hands. 

A resin pyramid—small, full of glitter, layers in different colours, a charm he couldn’t make out lodged in the middle. Something that served no purpose to either of you. Something that didn’t even look nice. You pouted your lips at him, soft eyes staring up at him as you clutched it against your chest. “She said her dog’s vet bill had stacked, Si. And it’s kind of cute!”

It absolutely wasn’t—a bit of an eyesore that he had no idea where in your flat you’d place. He shifted his gaze to the stand behind you, where you’d just gotten it, and raised an eyebrow at the woman, who avoided his glare like he was the plague. 

The next time, it was essential oils. Simon didn’t notice until he whiffed the scent of clove and peppermint that he realized it was you, the figure walking in front of him, who smelled like you’d gone on a trip to a temple. When asked, you simply shrugged, lifting your wrist to his face so he’d smell better—not that he had any desire to, but he obliged.

“He told me it boosts the immune system,” you said, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Not possible, I don’t think. But he really took his time trying to explain it to me.”

Simon wanted to strangle that man. Instead, he took in a long breath, wiped his hands down his face, and nodded his head. “Smells great, love. Just don’t buy anymore.”

He finally drew the line when he spotted you talking to a flimsy, lanky man who looked like he hadn’t had a shower since he’d lost his last milk tooth—a good millennia or so ago. His stand was so far down the road, removed from all others, that it looked borderline illegal. Simon couldn’t hear the words coming out of his mouth, but he could see him getting increasingly flustered as Simon approached you. He didn’t blame him—hood pulled up, black face mask, eyebrows knit together tightly. 

Once you felt his presence, you turned to look at him, small box between your hands. You smiled at him—wide, genuine, beautiful enough to have earned a smile of his own, had you not been in the middle of purchasing pills. 

“Look, for weight-loss!” You showed him the box, which he took with a frown drawn sharp on his features. “He said these are organic.”

While he spoke to you, his eyes were set on the man, who looked a second away from bolting down the street and leave everything behind. 

“These are laxatives,” he groaned. “What’d’ya need to lose weight for, anyway?”

You shrugged, turning your gaze to face the vendor. “He told me I could do with a couple of pounds less.”

The look Simon gave the man must’ve been threatening enough for him to snatch the box from the blond’s hand and shove most of his belongings in a bag. You stood rooted in place, mouth slightly agape, as you watched the man practically sprint away from the two of you. 

You hummed, tilting your face up to look at him. “What an odd guy.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

From that point on, Simon made it his mission to leave you alone as little as possible. When you stopped by the stand that sold dog treats, he stood with a hand on your waist, your back pressed firmly to his chest. The woman explaining how these vegan, organic, low-calorie treats lost more and more spirit with every glance he gave her, and gave up entirely once she realized she’d lost you thanks to the gargoyle that trailed behind you. 

Your regular sellers now steered clear from you. The resin ashtrays man didn’t look at you when you walked across from him. The cancer-curing crystals lady stopped meeting your eyes whenever you spoke to her. The mass-produced “artisan” bracelets woman stopped trying to tell you how she’d personally found some of the stones embedded on the jewellery—the same stones he’d seen in another display a few stands down. 

When you returned to your flat that night, worn down from walking all day and, for the first time in forever, empty handed, he plopped down on the couch, pulling you on his lap with a satisfied hum. 

You pressed your forehead to his cheek, your warm breath hitting the curve of his neck. “I’ve gotten better at saving money,” you sing-songed, proud. 

He almost snorted, because if there’d been a single reason you’d managed to keep your money in your wallet and your flat from being infested with more useless trinkets, it had been him. But he didn’t say it—he let you believe. Because he was determined to spend the rest of his life with you, and that included keeping you from burning away your money. 

He pulled you closer against him, lips warm against your temple. “You have, love.”

You gave a victorious hum, letting yourself melt into his embrace. 

[ontherunnt]

Hello, just wanted to tell you that I've been reading your works and they're so great. I live the personality and little quirks you put into the characters. It's so fun to read your stuff! Hope you write some more soon!!! You're so talented

thank you so much!!! this is so nice :') i love being able to differentiate the characters while im writing them (even if it's with headcanons lol). I hope I can post more in the upcoming week <3 tysm for leaving such a kind message <33

[ontherunnt]

Hi! I'm so excited to read your soap post but I don't want to forget so I need to ask first, what would it be like for Soap to be with a touch starved reader, one who grew up hardly ever even getting a hug kinda touch well famished? Your ghost being touch starved was amazing! But like I'm so touch starved myself and we all know Soap is very touchy and I just... I need him to touch me please 🥺

hiii <3!! i understand what you mean lol, somebody HOLD ME. Soap is a cutie and i think he'd be super touchy and affectionate. it's a bit short, but hopefully you'll like it!! ♥︎

Boyfriend!Soap with a touch-starved reader

pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader

wc: 778

warnings: my beautiful Scottish husband (none!!)

Johnny grew up with nine aunts. Five on his mum’s side, four on his dad’s—all of them obsessed with pinching his cheeks. Being the only boy out of the six children was no easy feat, and he wore it like a badge of honour. 

Nine aunts meant nine women asking, every Christmas, when he’d finally start a family of his own—at the age of fifteen, mind you. Nine aunts, too, meant nine long, gruelling, entirely unnecessary embraces. Nine aunts equalled eighteen minutes of hugging, twenty-seven minutes of talking, and at least forty-five minutes of smiling like he enjoyed the situation. 

His entire family was touchy. His mum always hugged him before going to school, his sisters would pat the top of his head after tying him to a chair and leaving him in the closet, his cousins would pat his back after scoring a goal. 

Therefore, Johnny was touchy. 

He snaked your waist and kissed your cheek when you walked past each other in the courtyard. He lifted your chin and kissed you fiercely whenever you looked at him a second too long. He snuck into your quarters in the middle of the night just to crawl under the covers and feel your breath against his neck. 

You? You were odd when it came to it. He couldn’t quite figure it out. You hadn’t been together for very long, but it had been long enough for him to notice you craved physical touch the way a kid craves biscuits—desperately, albeit scared of consequences. Which consequences, he didn’t know. 

It slowly made sense as you shared more and more about your life. How there’d never been any warm embraces after scraping your knee, how no one had comforted you after a nightmare, how tears had always been met with silence. He’d asked, once, when was the last time you’d been held by anyone other than him, and had to change the subject when you looked away, eyes reddened. 

From there on, he made it his mission to hold you whenever possible. 

In the mess hall, while Garrick talked about something Price had said—or had it been Ghost? He wasn’t sure. All his focus was set on you. An arm draped over your shoulders, your hair tickling his chin. He could feel your laugh against his chest, and he pressed a kiss to your temple before he replied to something Gaz had said. 

Before an op, adjusting the straps of your vest for you while you hummed under your breath. He took a step back, hands on his hips, and gave you an approving nod. Before you could speak, he pulled you by the front of your vest and smothered you between his arms, laughing at your loud complaints. Still, you didn’t try to move away, rather leaning into the warmth of his embrace. 

During downtime, while you pointed at the clouds above you. He sat with his back against a crate, your back pressed against his chest. His long legs bracketed your own and his arms wrapped around your shoulders, his chin rested on the curve of your neck. He enjoyed the soft giggles that left your mouth whenever he’d press a kiss to the crown of your head, your jaw, the spot behind your ear that caused every hair on your body to stick up. You tried to keep pointing at the clouds, but gave up after the third time you felt his warm lips on your sensitive neck. 

After a rough op, his hands still bloodied and his entire body sore from nearly dying. He was quiet, for once, as he pulled you closer to him like he needed it more than you did. He tangled one hand in your hair, taking in your scent in a desperate attempt to separate the hell he’d just survived and the haven he’d walked into. 

After having a nightmare, your chest rising and falling in a desperate tempo that made him fear you’d pass out on the spot. He found you in the dark, sitting on the bed, and pulled you onto his lap, legs around his waist, arms around his neck. His fingers dug into the softness of your hips, using the grip to pull you even closer. 

“M’here, bonnie,” he whispered softly, a sharp contrast to your ragged breathing. “Yer safe with me.”

He kissed every tear you shed, then your cheeks, your eyelids, your forehead. He kissed every inch of your face, over and over, until you fell asleep against this chest. 

Johnny held you a little longer, willing to make up for all the hugs you’d missed out on as a child. 

[ontherunnt]

MASTERLIST

(❗) = smut

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Boyfriend!Simon Riley picking you up after a night out

Boyfriend!Simon won't let you overwork yourself

Simon Riley with a partner who just wants to be held

Ghost with a sleeptalking partner

Touch starved Ghost

Boyfriend!Simon with a people-pleaser reader

"I have a boyfriend" with boyfriend!Simon Riley

John "Soap" MacTavish

Ex-boyfriend!Soap watches you go down during an op

Boyfriend!Soap with a touch-starved reader

John Price

Boyfriend!Price gets mad when you don't follow orders

Price with a sleeptalking partner

You didn't follow orders. Price needs to do something about it (❗)

[ontherunnt]

Boyfriend!Simon won't let you overwork yourself

pairing: Simon Riley x reader

wc: 1082

warnings: none c:

Simon admired your determination. While he’d never been entirely clueless when it came to school, he was never a gold-star student, nor did he ever care to be. He showed up, did his work, and dragged himself back home. He understood the material, got good enough grades to pass, and was satisfied with it. 

For a mind like his, the military made sense. His brain had to analyse, integrate, refocus, and adapt in a matter of seconds. He could predict a strike or dodge bullets that hadn’t been fired yet, but the papers laid out on your dining table made his brain feel like his neurons had committed collective suicide. 

You looked horrible, and he meant that in the nicest way possible. 

There were dark shadows beneath your eyes, testament to the many sleepless nights you’d subjected your body to for the past two weeks. There was a faint tremor in your fingers that no one would notice, save for the man who happened to know you better than you knew yourself. You sat slouched on the chair like your spine had given up on supporting you and your body had yet to catch up. There was a mug next to your laptop, but the drink looked so forgotten it had practically grown cobwebs. 

He looked at the clock above the stove—four in the morning, on the dot. Outside, your street was dark. Inside, every single light was on. 

Simon padded into the dining room wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey joggers that had lived in your drawer since you first met. Despite the faint drizzle hitting the window, his body was warm from lying under your duvet. The two of you had gone to bed hours ago—supposedly. He didn’t know when you’d snuck out, only that he woke up and the only thing between his arms was your pillow.

You didn’t notice him until he planted himself right in front of you. By the time you finally looked up from the screen, hands still hovering over the keyboard of your laptop, Simon was tempted to hit you on the back of the head and get it over with, but you looked too over the edge already. 

He couldn’t get a word out before your lip quivered.

“I’m so tired,” you breathed out, voice utterly broken. “This guy—he’s useless, Si. He won’t answer my texts, he keeps using Wikipedia as his only source, and he doesn’t even know how to use citations. I was paired with a toddler.”

Simon walked over behind you, leaning forward with his eyes set on the screen. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand while the other rested on your shoulder, fingers warm on your cold skin. The words on the file made no sense to him—he’d always known you were smart, but it became even more apparent now that he stared at words that meant nothing to him. It could’ve been another language and he’d have no clue. He hummed once.

“Is it backed up?”

You turned your head to look at him, mouth inches away from his cheek. “What? The file?”

He nodded his head, still staring at the screen. 

“Yeah,” you replied, confused. 

His question made sense only when he slammed your laptop shut. You opened your mouth to say something—probably cuss him out—but he stopped you by crashing his lips against yours. He tasted like sleep, you tasted like peppermint tea. 

When he pulled away, you pouted at him. He smirked at the sight.

“Alright,” he jerked his chin toward your bedroom door. “You’re done.”

You sighed loud and deeply, like the entire weight of the world rested on your shoulders. “I can’t.”

“Not askin’,” he shrugged his shoulders as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll do whatever that muppet was supposed to do. I’ll learn to play the bloody violin if that’s what you need.”

You sniffed, the sound mixing with a sad, not convincing chuckle. “You’d do a better job.”

“Nice to have a backup plan if I get discharged.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “I’ve been sitting here so long my legs turned to spaghetti.”

He didn’t ask. He leaned down and slid one arm under your knees, the other under your arm. You’d been together long enough to stop arguing with him about it—I can carry Johnny and Garrick at the same time, I sure as hell can carry you, he always said.  You nuzzled his warm skin as you wrapped both arms around his neck. He used his elbow to turn off all the lights, the darkness not hindering him in the slightest when it came to navigating your flat.

“The semester’s almost over,” you pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Then I won’t see that guy ever again.”

He ignored the shiver that seemed to run through his entire spine at your soft touch, one he still wasn’t sure he deserved. He kicked the door open, instantly swarmed with the scent of that candle of yours you only ever lit when he visited between deployments. 

“There’s still next semester,” he added, entirely unhelpful. 

He didn’t need the light to see you stare daggers at him. “You’re a real charmer, Simon.”

Simon’s laugh—an unfamiliar sound he only knew when you were around—bubbled from his chest. He lowered you on your side of the bed, quickly marching over to his side. 

Once he covered you both with the duvet, all the exhaustion you’d been pushing to the side washed over your body like warm water. He pulled you closer to him, arm wrapped around your middle, the other under your neck. 

Your back hit his chest, drawing a soft sigh from you. His hand covered yours, his lips against your ear. He could feel your energy seep through your pores, slowly easing all the tension in your bones and causing your body to go limp between his arms.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, brief as it was tender. “If that wanker doesn’t do his job, I’ll kill him.”

Despite the exhaustion, you laughed—tired, but genuine. “Murder isn’t all that common in my line of work, Si.”

He closed his eyes, letting his body rest now that you were pressed against him again. “Fine. I’ll just rough him up a bit.”

Simon didn’t need to see your face—he could hear your smile, loud and clear. 

[ontherunnt]

Hihii! You write so perfectly for Simon, and I just had to ask...

Could we get Simon x fem!reader where she makes an offhand comment about how she randomly gets really strong urges to be hugged throughout the day? Like she'll just be going about her day, then BOOM. She needs the fullest, coziest hug and it'll ruin the next few hours for her if she can't have one.

I know Simon isn't the most snuggly, PDA guy ever, so I thought this would be interesting 😭

hi!! thank you, pookie <3 i love a soft Simon even though his character is…odd, so it's definitely interesting lmfao. i hope you like it ᵔᵕᵔ

Simon Riley with a partner who just wants to be held

pairing: Simon Riley x reader

wc: 1519

warnings: none!

Simon Riley had never known physical affection. He’d known fists, knives, and kicks to the stomach. He’d known the smell of bourbon and cigarettes from the second he’d been born. He’d known violence and pain from a man supposed to love him—or at the very least, shield him from danger. Unfortunately for Simon, it’d been his father who’d presented the biggest threat to him. 

His brother hadn’t been much better. While he’d never hurt Simon, he hadn’t been any help. His mother hadn’t been the worst, but she hadn’t been the best. She’d never been one to go to talent shows or to hang Simon’s picture on a wall. There hadn’t been a single person in his life who’d cared about him enough to keep him safe.

He’d never known a gentle touch, and he’d never been bothered enough to seek it. 

He didn’t mean for it to happen—it just did. When you spend your entire life correlating someone’s touch to being hurt, you learn to cower away from it. Simon didn’t do hugs, or hand holding, or cuddles. He didn’t care about which side of the pavement he walked on or what temperature the thermostat was set to. 

Until you rolled around, that is. 

You came into his life mercilessly—in the best possible way. Simon had been through more than enough unforgiving shit to believe in any higher power, but if he did, then there wouldn’t be a single doubt in his heart that God himself had sent you. You fit into him like you’d been put on earth for that purpose. Everything he’d been through suddenly wasn’t nearly as bad, so long as he could have you in his life.   

You understood him without speaking, you comforted him without prodding, and you loved him without hurting. 

The night terrors didn’t startle you—you still slept by his side and poured him water when he couldn’t even form coherent sentences, too shaken by his memories to think straight. The scars that adorned every inch of his skin had become a familiar map you traced with feather-light touches every night to put him to sleep. Whenever you spoke about him, there was always a trace of pride in your voice he’d never heard from anyone else—like he mattered, like he was worth something.

Maybe Simon Riley didn’t do hugs or kisses or cuddles. But you did. 

You sought his touch like your life depended on it. While you didn’t shy away from mundane, fleeting moments—squeezing his arm, running a hand through his hair, planting soft kisses on his cheek—what you really craved was to be held.

It took him embarrassingly long to notice the link between your shift in attitude and how long it’d been since his arms had been wrapped around you. It would’ve been easier if you’d used your words, until it became clear to him even you weren’t aware of it. 

It was gradual, but not subtle. One moment, you’d be curled on the sofa, book on your lap and humming something absentmindedly. You’d smile at him, or compliment him, or give him that look so full of love it made his brain short-circuit. Then you’d be irritable, annoyed the slightest of noise, and would stop whatever you were doing.

Today, you gave him a small wave before returning your focus to the book who’d stolen you from him for the past three days—something about dragons, something about riders. He had no idea, but he’d gotten you the second one already, just in case. 

He kissed the top of your head, drawing a satisfied hum from you. 

“M’getting’ a drink with Johnny,” he said, tapping the page of your book so you’d pay attention to him. “Won’t be long.”

You barely registered his words as you waved at him the way he’d wave at a cashier. He rolled his eyes, a gesture he never knew could carry affection, and grabbed his keys from the counter. 

By the time he walked through the doorway, he heard the clock ticking in his head. He heard it while he sipped on his first pint of Boddies. He heard it while Johnny talked about his football team like the Celtic had any chance at winning anything outside the confines of Scotland. He heard it while he waited by the pump at the petrol station, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete. He heard it while he fumbled with his keys at the door, well aware of how long he’d been gone. 

It wasn’t until he stepped into the flat that the clocked stopped ticking, and in its place rang an alarm. A loud, jarring one in the shape of your abandoned book on the coffee table and the sound of the shower running. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he roamed through the flat, slowly removing his layers. 

He knew how to play the game—a game you weren’t aware of. 

He left his coat on the rack, next to your own. His shoes were left by the door, otherwise you would’ve cut off his legs. His face-mask had been thrown in the bin the second he walked into the bedroom. He left his phone on the nightstand and lowered himself on the bed, just by the edge. 

By the time you walked out of the bathroom—hair dripping wet, Simon’s shirt sticking to your body in ways that made him wish he hadn’t gone out with Johnny, shorts so short they barely covered anything—he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin rested on one of his palms. 

You were upset. 

He could see it on your furrowed brows and slow, practiced breaths. He could see it on the way you walked up to him without saying a word, silently looking down at him with those eyes of yours. He could see it on the almost-there pout on your lips. 

He didn’t give you the time to speak. He reached and intertwined his fingers with yours. You smelled like that bodywash that drove him crazy—the one you’d used since you first met. The shirt smelled like him, which threw him off guard only for a second before he pulled you onto his lap. 

You straddled him with ease, a clear sign of how many times you’d done this. His lap had become your preferred spot—reading, kissing, talking. He let go of your hand only to move his palms to the small of your back. You wrapped your legs around his middle and let your forehead crash against the curve of his neck, taking in his scent. 

The alarm in his head went out. 

He ran a slow hand up and down your spine, letting the moment simmer in comfortable silence for a beat longer. You wrapped your arms around him—one over his shoulder, the other under his arm. Your hold wasn’t tight, but it felt desperate. You nuzzled the curve of his neck, and Simon felt almost pathetic for the low groan you drew from him. 

The same arms that had held military-grade weapons now wrapped around your frame with utmost care. He pressed you against his chest tighter as he placed a slow kiss on your temple, your skin warm against his lips. 

Like a plant that’d finally been watered, you perked up at the gesture. You sighed softly before placing a kiss on his neck, finally lifting your head. 

He grunted at the sudden warmth that spread through his body. “Careful there.”

You giggled, arms now wrapped around his neck. He took in the sight—your now bright eyes, your frown gone, and your smile wide. You placed a kiss to the corner of his lips, and it was then that Simon knew your tank was nearly full. 

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft, exposed flesh. He closed the distance between the two of you, lips crashing against your own. You tasted like toothpaste, he probably still tasted like beer—it didn’t matter. You let out a surprised groan against his lips, which lit a fire in his chest. 

You pulled away smiling. With your arms still wrapped around his neck, you leaned back, trusting Simon to keep you from falling over. He couldn’t help but smile back at you, almost involuntarily. His hold didn’t falter—he’d never let you fall.

“How’s the book?” he rasped, eyes still locked onto your kiss-swollen lips. 

You huffed. “Couldn’t finish it. Suddenly didn’t feel like reading anymore, dunno why.”

He chuckled, full of amusement and entertainment. Maybe you hadn’t figured it out, but he knew why. But he wouldn’t say it, because if you’d been put on this earth for him, then he’d also been put on this earth for you. And Simon Riley would hold you in his arms for the rest of his life if you’d let him. 

He wrapped his arms around you and threw himself back on the bed, loving the way your giggles echoed in his head while he kissed you like a starved man. 

[ontherunnt]

somebody sedate me im about to come to your house and kiss you and get on my knees and build an altar YOUR FICS ARE SO GOOD. YOUR FICS ARE THE KEY TO WORLD PEACE. NEVER STOP WRITING.

CMERE I'LL KISS YOU RIGHT NOW 💍 tysm!!! I'm so so happy you like my work <3 I'll write more just for you pookie

[ontherunnt]

do u accept requests 🥹

i do!!<3 im currently working on some lengthier ones, but if I haven't replied to your ask, it means im working on it!! I'll always let you know if I wont be completing your request <3

[ontherunnt]

Ex-boyfriend!Soap watches you go down during an op

pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader

wc: 1495

warnings: mentions of blood, gunshot wound, nothing descriptive.

The breakup had been amicable—or so he told himself every single day. You still nodded your head when you walked past him in the corridor, he still held the door open for you when you entered a building behind him, and the two of you hadn’t deleted each other’s contacts from your phones. In his book, that meant you two were golden. 

Except it didn’t feel that way. 

Sure, you still smiled at him—but it was the same smile you gave Ghost when he was being a moron and you were trying to be polite. He still saved you a seat in the mess hall during breakfast—the same seat he’d save for Garrick were he to be late. You two still said good morning to each other—except you didn’t wake up next to each other anymore. 

Everyone noticed it. Johnny had always been an open book, and it worked entirely against him when it came to you. 

Price couldn’t stop himself from frowning whenever you walked into the room, well aware that his sergeant’s attention would now be contested by a pair of pretty eyes that didn’t bother looking back at him. Gaz always snorted when the Scotsman mentioned anything remotely related to you, muttering something under his breath about “still being head-over-heels”. Ghost? Ghost wanted to shoot Soap. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” he groaned as he looked through his scope, eyes set on the barren desert before them. He didn’t look away for a second. “I’m done hearin’ you whine ‘bout this shit. Grow some balls and get back together already.” 

Soap scoffed, face pressed against his own scope. They both lay flat on their stomachs, on top of a hill that overlooked a small river where their op would, hopefully, finally come to an end—a hostage exchange between rebels and the military. They’d done it a dozen times, but never had Ghost been in such a shit mood, and rarely had Soap worked alongside you.

“Aye, well—yer supposed to hear this shite, Lt. We’re friends.”

Ghost practically snorted. “Don’t recall agreein’ to that.”

Soap had to stop himself from rolling his eyes and focus on the sight before him—you. By the river, half a click away from him. You stood next to the hostage, hand dangerously close to the empty holster on your thigh. You scanned your surroundings with those sharp eyes he’d never quite managed to forget, and your lips were pressed into a thin line. 

He’d been half listening during the briefing, too preoccupied with the way you kept rubbing your neck and shoulder. You’d pushed yourself too much—again. You never learned, but now Soap couldn’t stop you or comfort you. In the briefing, Price had explained how you came into play, but Soap had barely heard it.  

He should’ve paid more attention—then he would’ve understood why the hell you got shot without a warning. 

Soap moved like all his years of training had been wiped clean. He heard Ghost yell something behind him, but didn’t slow down to listen. His form was off, but his instincts were sharp. He slid down the dune he'd been perched on, heart banging mercilessly against his chest like a bomb had taken its place. 

His comms crackled, giving way to Ghost’s more than furious voice. “Soap—what the hell?”

The Scotsman didn’t slow. “Just cover me.”

And he trusted him to do it. He ran without bothering to look behind him, without even making sure the person who’d shot you didn’t have you in their sights anymore. He ran like it was his life on the line rather than yours. 

By the time he reached you, the hostage was nowhere to be found. He looked around, finally spotting a small group a couple of metres to the side, and mere seconds later two men fell on the ground, limp from a deadly bullet to the head. He didn’t thank Ghost—there was no time. 

He fell on his knees by your side, his breath ragged and suddenly void of any oxygen. The bullet had gone through your shoulder, missing anything important. But the bleeding wasn’t pretty. The sand beneath you had already tainted red with the blood seeping through your clothes. Your opposite hand pressed on the wound, but it was clear from the way you bit your lip that you were doing a shit job at applying pressure. 

He clicked on his comms. “Get us medevac. We’ve got one wounded, GSW to the shoulder—through and through, but heavy bleedin’. Conscious but fadin’.”

Soap took in a sharp breath as he, ignoring all military protocol drilled into him, slid his hands under your arms and dragged you until your head rested on his lap. He grabbed his sidearm from the holster, eyes sharp and taking in every single detail around you.

“Got eyes on the shooter,” Gaz spoke through the comms. “Hostages are secured.”

“Take the shot,” Price ordered, voice firm. “Soap—bird’s inbound in five minutes.”

Soap gave a weak reply, barely audible. He didn’t care. He swallowed dryly as his hands cupped your face, pale and slick with sweat.  Your eyes shot up to look at him, and you winced when the movement pulled something. He shook his head and quickly swatted your hand away from the wound, covering it with his instead. 

“Love,” he muttered apologetically. “This’ll hurt.”

He gave you no time to answer, pressing harshly against the wound with much more force than you’d used. One of your hands quickly reached for his wrist, accidentally—or intentionally, he couldn’t be too sure—scratching his skin. He barely registered the sting, too preoccupied with keeping you from dying on him. 

“Didn’t even see the fucker,” you hissed, voice hoarse and strained. You tried to move, only to grunt in pain when the shift caused more blood to leak from the wound. 

“Stop it,” he snapped. “Just—stop movin’. Stay still.”

Your eyes met his. Those stupid, beautiful eyes he used to stare into before going to sleep. Those bright eyes that always twinkled when you laughed and teared slightly when you watched those stupid videos about dogs. The same eyes that now looked duller and tired. You smiled weakly at him. 

“You still care about me,” you whispered, tone full of disbelief. Soap nearly broke. 

He chuckled, although it lacked conviction. He shook his head. “Ye’ve got to be an absolute idiot to think I wouldn’t.”

The sight of your mouth twisting into something painful and your eyes darkening with what he could only describe as fear was heartbreaking. Soap stroked your cheek with his thumb, his other hand still pressing tightly on the wound. 

“I’m sorry,” you choked back a sob. “Because of how things ended.”

Soap shook his head, trying his hardest to ignore the way his heart was practically crawling up his throat. “Shut up. Ye’ve got nothin’ to apologize for. Just stop movin’, for Christ’s sake.”

That made you chuckle weakly, which made Soap want to smother you with his arms so you’d fucking listen to him. 

“Bonnie,” he pleaded, and the desperate look in his eyes must’ve struck something, because you soon quieted down. “Bird’s almost here. And ye’re not goin’ anywhere.”

You let out a breath—long, strained, painful—and finally let your body go limp. The feeling of your head lulling to the side almost sickened him, but your eyes were still somewhat there. Not entirely, but enough to keep him from losing his mind. You nuzzled his thigh like it could offer any comfort in a situation that was nothing but utter shit. 

After a beat, you finally spoke. Soap struggled to hear you as the overpowering sound of rotor blades drowned out the noise. Still, he didn’t allow himself to breathe properly just yet. Not until you were safe. 

“I don’t want us to be apart anymore,” your voice was quiet, but your tone was honest. 

Johnny smiled weakly at you, thumb rubbing gentle circles on your cheek. “We won’t be, bonnie. M’not lettin’ ye get away from me ‘gain.”

The chopper landed metres away from you, loud and heavy enough to make the ground beneath you shake. Price spoke in his comms, but Soap yanked the bud from his ear and leaned forward, tilting his ear closer to your lips in an attempt to hear you. 

“Give me a kiss, Johnny.”

Soap could be a sergeant, a brother, a friend, and a soldier. But, above everything, he was yours. Despite the uncomfortable angle, despite the blood slipping through his fingers, despite the way you struggled to breathe, he leaned forward. Your lips were dry and chapped, your mouth tasted like copper, and Johnny felt like he had a stone in his throat that wouldn’t let him swallow that uncomfortable knot—despite all that, this would still be his most treasured kiss. 

Because you were still alive, and you were his alone.

[ontherunnt]

Hi! Would you write for Soap too?

hiii <3 of course!! i write for everyone :] i just haven't gotten around to posting about the rest!

[ontherunnt]

Boyfriend!Price gets mad when you don't follow orders

pairing: John Price x reader

wc: 1430

warnings: some blood, nothing descriptive

You fucked up. 

The entire squad knew it. Ghost rolled his eyes at you when you exited the Humvee, Gaz ducked his head low to avoid eye-contact when he walked past you, and even Soap, who usually had your back, gave you a long sigh as you rubbed the back of your neck and walked toward the admin building.  

You hadn’t meant to. You were a sergeant, for Christ’s sake—you knew better than this. You had years of experience under your belt. You’d been under fire more than enough times to know how to keep your head cool and your hands steady. You’d gone through ops like this one countless times—you could’ve done it front to back, start to finish with your eyes closed and your hands tied behind your back.  

Could’ve—had you not been under Price’s command. 

He wasn’t the problem. He was a good captain—probably the best one you’d had since you first enlisted. He’d seen enough to know exactly what he didn’t want to be and how to be a man he’d follow into battle. He’d made it his mission to know his people and synergize with them. Price cared for his team. 

You two, unfortunately, cared about each other a little too much. 

He stood by the window when you entered the room, doing your best to hide the limp in your leg and the blood seeping through your shirt—a stray bullet you caught after leaving the safety of the cover Soap had dragged you to. The sun outside was setting slow, casting his face in orange light that, despite everything, felt merciless on your heart.

From his temple to his chin ran a river of dried blood. There was a frown on his face that deepened further when the door closed behind you. You let out a pained hiss as you closed the distance between you, one hand gripping the side of your abdomen while the other gripped the edge of his desk, leaning on it. Your leg throbbed in pain—you’d clearly gotten hit. 

Still, you didn’t allow yourself to say anything. You didn’t complain, you didn’t apologize. You stood still behind him, watching his shoulders rise and fall with such restraint it felt like he was trying his best not to snap.  

It took almost a minute before he opened his mouth. Even then, he opened it and closed it several times, almost like a fish on dry land. The sight was upsetting. Price wasn’t a man to be rendered speechless, which meant he was furious, disappointed, or both. 

You felt blood dripping down your shin. Price finally spoke. 

“Do you think ranks mean nothing, Sergeant?”

The question felt like someone had thrown scalding water at you—you felt it dripping, head to toe, burning every inch of your skin. If the tone hadn’t been cold enough to fog your breath, calling you by your rank had nailed the coffin shut. That was something he only ever did when he’d reached a breaking point, and it had never been you who’d been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of his fury. 

He didn’t give you a second to reply—he clearly hadn’t been expecting an answer. 

“I’m your captain,” he hissed, still looking outside. He gripped the windowsill and shut his eyes, speaking through his teeth. “When I say stay, you stay.”

You swallowed dryly, hating the way your face flushed and your neckline was suddenly covered in sweat. How your heart hammered against your chest for reasons that had nothing to do with being scolded by your CO and everything to do with the fact that John had kissed you seconds before boarding the Humvee. 

This is why he’d fought so hard against his feelings. Why he had shut you down on countless occasions. He’d warned you, time and time again, the day would come where he’d have to be your captain and nothing else. You’d assured him you could manage—you would manage, when the time came. But your head hurt, your leg shook beneath you trying to hold your weight, and somewhere on your abdomen was a wound that had soaked the entire front of your shirt. 

“He had you in his crosshair,” you bit your tongue when his name almost slipped from your lips. “I knew I could take on him.”

He slammed his hands on the windowsill with such force the window rattled. You didn’t flinch or squeal—you stood in place, even when you felt like an ice cube ran down your spine and your sight blurred at the edges. He pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation printed out on his every feature. 

“I don’t care,” he snapped, voice tinged with concern, somewhere beneath the palpable fury. He took in a sharp breath, forehead pressed to the glass. “I don’t care if you could’ve taken on a bloody tank. What I say goes.”

“He would’ve shot you, John,” you finally raised your voice, running your hands down your face. You had to bite down on your lip when the sudden movement pulled something—what you pulled exactly, you didn’t know. “Would youhave followed orders?”

He didn’t reply. You pushed yourself off the desk, struggling and limping every step of the way until you stood no more than a foot behind him. He still hadn’t turned to face you, and it hit you then that it’d been intentional—that maybe he couldn’t stand looking at the person he slept next to every night and say the things he had to say as a captain. 

“Say it,” you muttered, tone defeated now that the pain had drained all the fight from you. “Say you would’ve followed orders if it had been my life on the line. Tell me you would’ve stayed behind cover knowing you could’ve done something.”

Finally, with a tired expression and exhaustion dragging him down, he turned to look at you. Immediately, his face paled as he gave you a quick once-over, eyes full of concern. He took a step forward, and the man who lifted your shirt without bothering to ask wasn’t your captain—it was the same man who knew how you liked your tea and which drawer you put your socks in. 

When he pressed his fingers to the wound, you folded inward, shielding yourself from the pain. John supported one of your elbows with his hand while the other traced the edges of the wound gently, eyebrows knitted together. You didn’t meant to, but one of your hands gripped his shoulder while your forehead crashed against his chest. 

“Oh, love,” he breathed out. He lifted your weight further, which your leg was thankful for. 

You shook your head against his chest, almost incapable of speaking. Swallowing proved to be impossible—it felt like a hot coal had been placed on your throat. “I couldn’t let it happen, John. I—”

He didn’t say anything when you sobbed into his chest, your body finally overpowered by the pain and mental strain of seeing the man your heart beat for almost get killed. He pulled you closer against his chest, careful as to not put more weight on your leg. One hand cradled the back of your neck with care, a sharp contrast to the violent situation you’d escaped—just barely. 

“Thank you,” he breathed against the top of your head. He ran his hand down your back, and you could’ve sworn he was shaking too. “Just—please be careful.” 

You nodded your head once, all you could manage with the turmoil coursing through your mind and the blood abandoning your body.  He moved forward, gently guiding you onto his desk. He moved files, notebooks, and pens to the side until you had a space to sit on. He didn’t let you try—no, John eased you onto the table with little effort, eyes still locked onto yours. 

“Didn’t think it was this bad,” he muttered as he cupped your cheek with one of his hands. 

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, barely any strength left in you, as you leaned into his touch. You barely heard him as he spoke into his comms—something about a medic, something about blood loss. For now, all you cared about was the feeling of his palm against your cheek and the gentle fingers that rested on your abdomen. 

You smiled. “Are you done yelling at me?”

He let out a strangled laugh, but his eyes couldn't hide the affection he felt. “You’re still on latrine duty.”

“Bastard.”

[ontherunnt]

masterlist?

⁠dont have one yet!! i dont have enough works to bother just yet, but i'll make one soon ⁠♡

[ontherunnt]

hii. do you mind doing a sleep talker reader with ghost?

hii! of course, pookie ˙ᵕ˙ hope you enjoy! <33

Ghost with a sleeptalking partner

pairing: ghost x reader

wc: 1085

warnings: none!

To say Ghost’s sleeping schedule was thoroughly fucked would be an understatement. Even before he enlisted, he’d had his fair share of reasons to indulge in insomnia. Sleep had never come easy to him, no matter what pills he took, which meditation techniques Gaz wouldn’t shut up about, or the amount of times Soap had offered to knock him out with the butt of his gun—tempting, but not sustainable. 

Which is why it was so jarring to have met you. A soldier, hardened by bloodshed and angry COs who, somehow, was able to fall asleep on command. At first, it was odd to find you sleeping in every possible place, flat surface available or not. Briefing room, supply tent, comms building, mess hall—sometimes your head would fall against a table, sometimes you’d be seated, sometimes, somehow, you’d be standing up, asleep like a mummy. 

He didn’t understand how you’d developed the habit—not until he slept with you for the first time. It was that night, when both of you were covered with a shit blanket that did little to keep out the cold, that he realized why you were exhausted all the time. 

You talked in your sleep. And not just talked—you rambled like crazy. It made sense why you got no rest, given you spent most of your time asleep arguing with people who didn’t exist. 

Tonight, far from the gunfire, safely tucked in your flat while the two of you awaited deployment instructions, you were still plagued by dreams you couldn’t explain once awake.

He exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another—the one he always stole from you after insisting he didn’t need a second one. Steam followed behind him as he took quiet steps across the room, eyes locked on your sleeping form. 

You lay sprawled on the bed, wearing nothing but your underwear and an old shirt he’d accidentally forgotten once and never managed to recover. Not that he’d tried very hard to get it back—he loved seeing you in it. The only source of light in the room came from the bathroom behind him, engulfing you in a warm hue of yellow in an otherwise dark room. The blanket was kicked to the feet of the bed, covering only half of your leg. The clock on the nightstand glowed in neon-red, late enough to let Simon know he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. 

As he was about to turn to the dresser where you’d mercifully given him a quarter of a drawer to put all of his belongings in, you muttered something under your breath. He halted at the noise, knowing exactly what would follow. You had the same routine—mumble, conversation, yawning, sleep. He’d memorized it, as he had memorized all the…characters that seemed to live in your dreams. 

Tonight, however, it wasn’t a non-existent figure who had earned your anger. Tonight, you were mad at Soap.

“Can’t understand shit he says, Simon,” you whined lowly, barely comprehensible as you drawled out the words. “Stop him.”

Ghost stilled, hand covering his mouth to keep his smile from breaking into a full grin. He walked closer to the bed, legs pressed against the mattress by your feet. He tilted his head, wondering what Johnny could’ve done to be a subject of your irritation tonight. He let the spare towel fall to the floor, knowing you’d be annoyed at it the following morning.

“Those bloody Scots,” you huffed out. Despite the arm thrown over your eyes, he could practically hear the frown forming on your face. 

He pressed his lips into a thin line, bending forward to place his hands on your ankles. “Yeah? What’d he do this time?”

You hummed at the touch, seemingly struggling to form a sentence as he ran his hands up your leg, fingers digging into your skin once he reached your thighs. After a beat, you dropped your arm from your face and sighed softly, eyes still closed. Ghost lifted a knee to the bed, letting some of his weight fall on your thigh as he leaned forward, eyes practically glowing with amusement. 

It seemed the topic was too much for you to linger on Ghost’s touch, however. You pouted as you answered, as if this weighed heavily on you. “He keeps askin’ me to eat haggis, Simon. Haggis.”

 He couldn’t stop himself from snorting. The sentence was so ridiculous he couldn’t help it. Yet, a small part of him wondered how much of it was true—Johnny did like haggis, after all. 

He dipped his head lower and planted a kiss on your hipbone. “You don’t have to eat haggis,” he assured you, enjoying the way you shivered beneath him as he placed a kiss on the other side. “I’ll kill him if he makes you.”

Ghost finally placed both knees on the bed—one between your legs, the other to the side. He placed slow kisses on your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. Each kiss caused your voice to come out quieter and slower than before. As much as he enjoyed your nonsense and barely-coherent conversations, the longer you talked, the less you rested. 

By the time his lips reached your jaw, you had stopped talking about sheep intestines and Soap—thank God. Speaking about Johnny in your bedroom at four in the morning was far from his definition of late-night romance. 

He planted a slow kiss on your jaw, feeling the vibrations of your hum against his lips. You yawned once, loud and wide. That was the cue he’d learned to interpret as your rambling finally coming to an end. He let himself fall by your side, still wearing nothing but a towel that seemed to struggle to stay in place. 

You turned your body with impressive speed. In a blink, you had already wrapped a leg over his, and had snaked his middle with your arm. After another, briefer yawn, you placed a slow, lingering kiss on his throat. If you felt the way he swallowed dryly at the sudden proximity, you showed no signs. 

“Haggis,” you muttered, and it was the last thing Ghost heard from you that night. 

He shook his head as he pressed his palm against your warm cheek, rubbing your cheekbone gently. He let his forehead fall against your own, smiling at the sight. 

“Bloody haggis,” he muttered back, well aware that you wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. 

[ontherunnt]

Annie ⋆⭒˚.⋆ | 23 | requests open | MASTERLIST

hi!! this is where I post all the shit that goes through my mind. I write, read, and play an unhealthy amount of video games. I love plants, cats, music, and cooking! Not anymore.

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