#COD Fanfic

[quarterlifekitty]

What kind of slasher are they?

cw: violence, slut shaming

Ghost is like Michael Myers or, Bobby from Sorority House Massacre. The reasons for what he does aren’t explicitly clear, and he’s not about to tell you why he’s doing what he’s doing. His kills are indiscriminate and he doesn’t even relish in them— it’s just something that needs to be done. He’s pursuing you because you are (or at least resemble) someone important from his life before. And he has unfinished business with you.

Gaz is like Pearl (from Pearl) or Patrick Bateman— he kills to cope with the meaningless mundanity of his life. He’s meticulous in his appearance and knows he’s not like everyone else— he just can’t be. There’s something rotten inside, so he has to be beautiful on the outside. You’re spared because you don’t play by the rules that he knows society to operate on. You listen when he speaks, you don’t just wait for your turn to talk. There’s something behind your eyes when you smile. You’re real, and he isn’t, and you need to be preserved.

Soap is like Freddy Krueger or the Driller Killer (from Slumber Party Massacre 2). He’s the man of your dreams, and above all else, he’s here to have fun. Usually that means goring pretty things like you and turning them into blood fountains, but if you happen to be more fun alive than screaming for mercy and impaled? He’ll probably wanna keep you around. Too bad about all your friends, though.

Price is a resident killer, like Vincent from Motel Hell or Chuck Connors in Tourist Trap. It’s you who walks into his domain, and it’ll be the last mistake you ever make. He’s nested quite nicely, and made the perfect system to kill, process and dispose— all with a smile and a family name that makes him beloved in the small town. You’re spared because, well… it’s about time for him to settle down. And of course you’re none the wiser now, but when you’ve gotten used to everything? He wants you to help him.

König is like Jason Vorhees. He kills because you’ve done something bad— a violation of his own personal code of ethics. He’ll strike swift and true, clearing out all of the filth from his own little corner of the world. You’re spared because you’re such a good girl— just the kind his mother would’ve loved. You’re not like one of those whores traipsing around in his woods… No, he’ll save you from all of those bad influences you find yourself surrounded by.

[lorilane33]

Uhhh yes please 🥰

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife

You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap

“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for

The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met in his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him

That one smile and he was done for

“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.

“Think that was my wife.”

“Yer what?!”

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife

Well, everyone apart from you apparently

He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves

Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case

Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course

By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway

“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”

By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and his cock into you

You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing

“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand

“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book

“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips

“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch

“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him

Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses

“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind

“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white

“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”

Series masterlist

[nastybuckybarnes]

The Aftermath

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader

Summary: How can what's done be undone? Let's watch.

Warnings: Language, PTSD, Angst, Fluff, Injuries, Angst,

Word Count: 2.3K

A/n: I made y'all wait for this one lol. I hope you enjoy. Yes, there will be more so dont you worry. i really wanna try hammering out more of this and tbp cause i may or may not do another 12 days of ficmas or somethin but we'll see!

~*~

When Task Force 141 finally heads into the basement to free you, the scene before them has more than one of them sick to their stomach.

You're curled up in a ball, whispering to yourself in a language they're not familiar with, and when you finally catch a glimpse of them, it's like gas to a flame.

You're pleading, begging in that same language as you slowly back up, shaking your head at them as tears fall down your cheeks.

The words are desperate, spat with haste and fear, and it hurts Ghost's heart to know that the first time he's hearing your mother tongue is when you're trying to escape him.

"Mouse, it's me. You're safe, please. Please, s'just me," he tries, getting on his knees to seem less imposing.

You only scramble back further, holding your hands out in front of you in a pathetic attempt at protecting yourself from danger that doesn't exist.

The blood on your hand catches his attention and he's immediately looking for the source.

"You're hurt. Let me help, please."

You're hiccuping and sobbing, beyond consolation at this point and he's at a loss.

Slowly, he glances over his shoulder to his teammates, the ones who were so quick to follow the traitorous finger that was pointed in your direction.

Soap's eyes are on you, full of sadness and guilt, while Price has his eyes cast down to the floor.

They were just trying to protect their team. Their family.

An idea pops into Simon's head, and he slowly brings his hands to the chain around his neck.

He pulls off the necklace and holds it out in front of you, watching closely as your gaze slowly focuses on the silver pendant.

Your fighting lessens, breathing evens, and then you're reaching out with trembling fingers, gingerly brushing against the warm metal.

A soft word falls from your lips in the same language you were speaking before, and new tears well up in your eyes as you grab the necklace from him and hold it close to your chest.

Slowly, he backs up, motioning for the other men to get out of the way, and then he's swinging the cell door open as wide as it can go and carefully peeling his mask back.

Your wild eyes are focused on his face as he slowly reveals himself to you, and you feel your stomach flip.

"Simon?" You croak, voice scratchy and hoarse.

"S'right, little one. S'me. C'mon out now, you're safe."

You glance over at the other men in the room, your lip wobbling slightly.

"Don't look at them, look at me. Eyes on me, m'right here 'n m'not goin' anywhere."

Reluctantly, your eyes meet his again and he nods encouragingly at you.

Soap can feel his stomach tying in knots with every moment that passes, every word spoken between the two of you.

He never expected this to be the result of his accusations. Of his efforts to be a good soldier.

Slowly, you crawl toward the door, pausing every few seconds as if bracing yourself for an attack.

When you get to the doorway you take a deep breath, holding it as you cross the threshold.

And then a sob bubbles out of your chest and the dam breaks.

You're hiccuping and crying, reaching for Simon desperately, and he all but yanks you into his arms, shushing you quietly.

"I-I didn't do it!" You gasp, bloody hands grabbing handfuls of his sweater.

Simon only nods, rocking you gently in his arms.

"I know, lovie. I know."

"I-I'll be good! J-just don't... don't bring me ba-ack here, please!"

Price's jaw clenches hard, hard enough to almost crack a tooth. His hands are in tight fists by his sides and the lump in his throat is getting harder and harder to swallow.

Simon hadn't exactly been the most forthcoming with your personal information, your history, but in their search for you, they found your sketchbooks. It wasn't hard to piece together your past after that.

"Shh, it's okay. You're safe. You're never going to come back down here, I swear it. Let me take you upstairs."

Your entire frame is trembling in his arms, your bloodshot eyes focused on the men over his shoulder.

Your pupils are wide and your gaze is piercing, sharper than a blade and harder than the walls that seem to be closing in around you.

"Not safe," you whisper, tugging at his sweater then pushing out of his grip and crawling away.

"You're safe, Mouse."

"No, no not safe! Not here! Not with them!" You hiss, glaring at the men behind him.

"I try so hard! But everywhere I go you-you people... you try to hurt me! You lock me in cage! I do nothing wrong!" You're shouting now, voice hoarse and broken, but it makes Soap wince nonetheless.

You look between the men, the soldiers, and push yourself back until you hit the bars of the cell.

"I know your time here hasn't exactly been the easiest, but I swear I won't let anyone else hurt you," Simon tries, holding his hands up in surrender as he scoots closer.

"This... all of this... is because I met you," you finally whisper, the words slicing Simon to his core.

Because you're right.

From the kidnapping to the Corporal in the shower to the accusations. None of it would've happened if you'd never met the man.

"Her thigh" Gaz says softly, eyes focused on the blood darkening the fabric of your pants.

That snaps Ghost out of his feelings and his focus is on you once more. Your safety, your wellbeing.

"Mouse, you're hurt. Let me help you, please."

You glance down at your leg, the still-bleeding wound from yesterday, then cover it with your hand.

"Don't need help."

"You need medical help. Food, water. Please, Mouse." He glances over his shoulder at his teammates. "Leave."

With that one word, the three of them are gone, leaving you alone with your Ghost.

"S'just you n me now, little one. You know I'd never hurt you. Let me help you. Please."

You swallow hard, looking at him for a long silent moment before dropping your gaze back down to your thigh.

"I'll take you upstairs, we can go straight to medical and then-"

"No."

He frowns.

"No?"

"I-I don't want to see... anyone else. Only you."

He nods immediately, inching toward you carefully, as if you're a wild animal that could lash out at any moment.

It's not like he couldn't handle it, couldn't overpower you. But he wouldn't. Even if you did decide to lash out, he'd take it. S'what he deserves, after all. He should've been faster. Should've convinced Price sooner, killed both Jacobs and Matthews in that alley the first night he met you.

But he didn't.

"Can I touch you? I just want to see how bad it is." He motions to your leg.

Slowly, you give him a nod, watching through puffy eyes as he gets close enough to inspect your wound.

His hands are gentle when he touches you, tilting your leg to the side then looking back up at you.

"Let me take you out of here. Please."

"Where?"

"With me. Our quarters."

Ours. Not his. Ours.

Yours.

That's where you belong.

Up in your quarters with your Ghost and far far away from here.

Far from the holding cells that remind you too much of the cages you used to call home.

Far from people who would hurt you, lie to you, betray you.

Ghost's words from what feels like only days ago ring out in your ears, taunting you, humiliating you.

Johnny's not gonna let anything happen to you.

The man's own words when he'd cleaned that Corporal off of the bathroom floor.

You've saved my arse.....I owe you.

This is how they repay people?

Simon, upon seeing the distant starry look in your eyes, smooths his bare fingers over your wrist, tugging you gently toward him.

You follow wordlessly, lost in thought, in your mind, and he seems to recognize this.

"M'gonna bring you upstairs. Straight to our quarters, yeah? Nobody's gonna be around, I'll be quick."

He takes your silence as understanding and tugs his balaclava back on, then pulls you up into his arms and heads out of the basement and up the stairs.

A shiver rolls down his spine when he emerges in the hallway.

All of this bears an eery closeness to when he first brought you to base.

Your limp body in his arms, the looks from the poor few stragglers around base, the determination in his eyes and the pit in his stomach.

He hates it.

He hates that his team, the men he's supposed to be closest with, are the ones who've brought him back here.

The ones who've pushed you to this.

But he's not absolved of wrongdoing in this.

No, he's the one who closed the cell door behind you. He's the one who locked you in your deepest traumas.

He turned the key and tucked it in his pocket.

He's just as much to blame as they are.

His self-loathing comes to a momentary pause when he finally pushes open the door to your shared quarters.

He sets you down on the desk, much like he did the day he came back to find Corporal Jacobs dead on the bathroom floor, and grabs his first aid kit.

Expert fingers slip the blade of a knife into the tear in your pants, and then he's cutting the fabric away from your leg and spraying the wound with antiseptic.

His eyes dart up to your face, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort as he begins bandaging your wound.

He finds none.

Your eyes are still distant, as if you're not really here with him, and he feels his heart drop into his stomach.

"Mouse?"

Nothing.

Swallowing hard, he reaches for your face, smoothing his fingers over your cheek and jaw. To anyone looking, he's composed, but you feel his fingers tremble the tiniest bit as they meet your skin.

Your eyes flutter to his, pupils dilating slightly as you focus on him.

"You with me?"

You blink a few times then slowly nod, eyes staying focused on his.

"Yes... here... with Ghost."

His eyes get sad for a moment before he nods, tugging off his balaclava and dropping it onto the ground.

"Simon. You're here with Simon."

You let out a quivering sigh and nod, reaching forward to touch his face.

Red stains his pale cheek and you look to the source, brows pulling together when you see the blood on your fingers.

"What...?" You inspect your hands, the blood covering them, then drop your gaze to the half-covered wound on your thigh.

"Oh."

"Looks worse than it is. Just gotta stay off it a bit," he says softly, getting back to work until your wound is wrapped.

You say nothing, your gaze shooting back to your hands. Specifically, the necklace in your left hand.

"Want me to help put that back on?" He asks after a moment, watching the way tears fill your eyes as you nod.

He takes the necklace from you and carefully reaches around your neck, leaning in close to watch himself clasp it.

You're engulfed in his scent as he invades your personal space, and you can't stop your hands from darting out and grabbing onto his sweater to hold him there, to pull him close.

When the necklace is secure, he pulls back just enough to fix his footing, and then he's yanking you to the edge of the desk and wrapping you in his strong arms.

He hunches over the desk, dropping his head to yours and pressing kiss after kiss to the top of your head.

You wrap yourself around him, in him, as much as you can, pressing your face to his chest and burrowing into him deep enough to taste his soul.

He pulls you closer still, eyes squeezed shut tightly as he lets himself feel you. Really feel you.

Feel you in your pain, in your trauma, your helplessness. Feel you in your trust, your fear, your love. For him.

He feels you as much as he feels himself now, and all he wants is to take your pain away. Strip you of it even if it kills him.

But he can't.

So instead, he holds you close until you begin to tug away. And then he's taking your hands in his once more.

"I'll run you a shower, yeah?"

You nod wordlessly, eyes cast down as silent tears trek down your cheeks.

He moves swiftly, turning the water on and testing the temperature.

When it's finally warm enough, he returns to you, reaching for you only to freeze when you flinch back.

Refusing to meet his gaze, you slide off of the desk and step around him, cringing away when dusts his fingers over your arm.

The rejection stings, but he knows he has no right to feel hurt.

"I'll stay right here 'till you're done."

You say nothing, only close the bathroom door and turn the lock.

Simon ends up staying there for hours, long enough to realize that you're not coming out of there anytime soon.

With the lights off, he leans his head against the door separating you.

"I'll be right out here, if you wanna come out. Make sure I save a spot on the bed for ya, yeah?"

You say nothing.

He can hear the steady sound of your breath so he knows that -physically, at least- you're okay.

Sighing softly, he slides his hand down the door then turns away and takes a seat on the bed.

He sits there for a few minutes, hoping he'll hear the lock click, that you'll come to bed and the two of you will be able to put everything behind you.

But he's never been a big dreamer.

Instead, he settles down in bed, his eyes locked on the bathroom door, the faint light shining through the cracks.

Simon goes to bed that night with a full bladder and an empty bed.

[callmecoke]

Thinking of the first time the 141 discover you on a website for Sugar Babies...p2

CW: mention of sex work (being a sugar baby), SFW much like the last one, but it does deal with adult topics so proceed with caution!

Thinking about the time your friends introduced you to this website, partially as a joke. A place where ‘Sugar babies’ can do live videos for rich guys and galls so they can rack in tons of money just by talking. Honestly, you didn’t even consider it initially. It was all just a fun litle joke.

But, eventually, life caught up to you. Out of a job with bills to pay and school to go to, you were left scrambling to get ahead. Of course, friends were more than happy to lend you some cash for your hard times, but that wasn’t even a temporary solution to your problem. You needed something that could keep you afloat long enough to find a job. Ergo, the website. It was the last idea on your mind and honestly, as you were opening up your laptop you were starting to regret it. Felt kinda embarrassing to put yourself out there and admit you needed money from rich older guys to get by. But your dignity would have to wait for later; you had bills to pay and food to put on your table.

You booted up the livestream and, having no idea where to go from there, just started talking. Eventually A small amount of viewers would pop in and you had questions to entertain. No one really tipped over 10 dollars on the stream. You tried to be energetic, hoping that maybe you would bring in more viewers that way, but it clearly wasn’t working. Nearly an hour goes by, and you’re starting to be disillusioned and a little disappointed. You start considering closing the stream down when a 200 dollar tip lights up your laptop screen, followed by a question from a no name account.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You hadn’t been paid that much the entire stream, and it got the excitement back rushing in your veins. You answered “No!” a little too quickly for your liking but when the answer was followed up by another 100 dollar tip, you knew you didn’t embarrass yourself too much. 

All then you started chatting with this mystery account. They asked you all sorts of questions. They asked about your old job, the course you're studying, what you want to be when you leave school, your hobbies, ect. And you started to actually enjoy talking to this person. Not even for the money (All though, admittedly, still a big part of it), but just because there’s someone on the other side of the world that’s interested in your life. 

Eventually the stream did have to end when you looked up and realised how late it had gotten. By the time you were closing the stream and checking your account, you realised you had made around 1,000 dollars already. It felt great to see some actual money in your account for once. Before you finally shut down your laptop for good, you got a private dm request on the website, along with another 500 dollar sent to you.

“Hey, Love. Me and the boys want you to know we appreciate the chat. Hope to hear that sweet voice of yours again soon. 

Sincerely,

-Price.”

[mivalyn]

☆ Tension unraveled ☆

18+, mdni!

Ghost x fem!reader

Cw: unprotected sex, fingering, smut

Word count: 1,392

!!!Requests are open!!!

After a long and grueling mission, all you wanted was peace and quiet. The kind that felt impossible to find in the chaos of base life with Task Force 141. The shower seemed like a good start, something to help you wash off the sweat, dirt, and tension that clung to you like a second skin. You slipped into the steaming water, letting it cascade over your sore muscles, your head leaning against the cool tiles as the adrenaline from the mission faded.

But when you stepped out and toweled off, you realized the tension wasn't gone. Not entirely. Something still coiled tight in your chest, thrumming low in your core. Maybe it was the stress, the close calls, or just the lingering adrenaline-but you were determined to do something about it tonight.

Sliding into an oversized shirt and a pair of simple panties, you made your way to the bed. The room was dimly lit, the faint hum of activity outside your door just background noise. As you reached into your nightstand and pulled out your vibrator, you already felt a flicker of relief-anticipation winding in your stomach as you settled against the pillows. Tonight, you weren't just unwinding. You were taking control.

As the vibrator hummed to life, you let your body relax, your legs falling apart as you teased yourself through the thin fabric of your underwear. The buzz against your sensitive skin drew a soft moan from your lips, and you slipped the panties off, tossing them carelessly to the floor. Sliding the toy between your folds, you sighed deeply, closing your eyes and letting the pleasure build slowly.

You were so lost in the sensations - the vibrations, the way your hips moved instinctively against the toy - that you didn't notice the faint sound of footsteps just outside your door.

Ghost had been on his way to his own room, intending to grab some sleep, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the faint moan he thought he'd imagined, or maybe it was curiosity. Whatever it was, it drew him closer to your door.

The sight through the slightly ajar door made him stop in his tracks.

There you were, sprawled on your bed, your legs spread wide, your head thrown back in bliss as your vibrator worked slowly inside you. The oversized shirt you wore had ridden up, leaving you completely bare to his view, the toy glistening with your arousal as you moved it in and out with deliberate, lazy strokes.

Ghost felt his pulse quicken, heat rushing through his body as a primal urge overtook him. His cock stirred against his combat pants, hardening at the sight of you. You were so lost in your own world, so vulnerable, and all he could think about was how desperately he wanted to replace that vibrator with his fingers, his tongue - his cock.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward, his gloved hand lightly brushing the door as he pushed it open just a fraction more. But that tiny sound - the door creaking - snapped you out of your trance.

Your eyes darted to the door, your breath catching as you saw him standing there, his tall figure shadowed by the dim light of the hallway. For a moment, you both froze. His gaze locked onto yours, his dark eyes betraying the lust that simmered beneath his otherwise stoic mask.

"I - uh - didn't mean to..." he stammered, an unusual crack in his composed demeanor. His cheeks flushed slightly, but there was no hiding the hunger in his gaze as his eyes drifted back to your exposed body.

Your lips curled into a wicked smile. "Ghost," you said softly, teasingly, "are you just going to stand there, or are you planning to help me out?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, the embarrassment melting into something darker, something more dangerous. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

"You cheeky little minx," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver through your body. "Do you have any idea what you're asking for?"

Your smirk widened as you leaned back against the pillows, your legs still shamelessly spread. "Not really," you admitted, your tone dripping with challenge, "but I'm more than willing to find out."

That was all the invitation he needed. Ghost crossed the room in long, deliberate strides, his intense gaze never leaving yours. The way he looked at you made your heart race, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between your legs as his large hands slid up your thighs, spreading you even wider.

His hand moved to yours, stopping your slow motions with the vibrator. "Let me handle this," he said in a low, commanding tone. You let go, and he pulled the toy out of you, his movements slow and deliberate. He studied it for a moment before his eyes returned to your slick folds, glistening and ready for him.

"You taste as good as you look, don't you?" he muttered, more to himself than to you. His lips curled into a predatory grin as he leaned down, his hot breath brushing against your most sensitive spot.

The first swipe of his tongue against your clit sent a jolt through your body, and you let out a shaky moan. He chuckled against you, the vibration teasing your skin. "So sensitive already," he murmured before diving back in, his tongue swirling and flicking in ways that made your head spin.

You gasped when he slid a finger inside you, his thick digit stretching you just enough to make you arch off the bed. He worked it slowly, curling it upward to hit that perfect spot, his tongue never ceasing its assault on your clit.

When he added a second finger, you couldn't hold back the stream of moans that spilled from your lips. Your hips moved against his hand, chasing the pleasure as his pace quickened.

"F-fuck, Ghost-"

His low groan in response vibrated through your core, and the sensation pushed you closer to the edge. "That's it," he growled, his voice rough and full of desire. "Come for me."

Your climax hit like a tidal wave, your entire body trembling as he coaxed you through it, his fingers and tongue unrelenting until you were gasping for breath.

When he finally pulled away, he licked his fingers clean, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "We're not done yet," he said, his tone promising so much more. He stripped off his clothes, revealing a body honed from years of combat and discipline. His cock stood hard and proud, the tip glistening with pre-cum as he climbed back over you.

He climbed back on top of you, removed your oversized shirt, and gazed appreciatively at your exposed body. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, gently pinching and rolling one of your nipples between his fingers. His mouth then descended, and he began to suckle your other nipple, cupping your breast from below. He alternated his attentions, lavishing kisses and caresses on your sensitive peaks.

"Do you feel that?" he murmured then, his cock brushing against your slick entrance as he leaned down to kiss you, his tongue claiming yours in a fierce, dominating kiss. "That's all for you."

And when he finally pushed inside, filling you completely, you couldn't hold back the cry that escaped your lips. The way he moved - slow, deliberate, hitting every spot that made you see stars - left you trembling beneath him.

"Mine," he growled against your neck as his pace quickened, his thrusts deep and relentless. "You're mine."

The way he claimed you - body, soul, and everything in between - left no room for doubt. As you both reached your peak together, his release filling you with warmth, you knew this wouldn't be the last time he showed you exactly how he'd take care of you.

And as you lay in his arms afterward, your head resting against his chest, his possessive grip around your waist, you couldn't help but smile.

"You'll never need that toy again," he murmured, his voice low and firm. "If you're ever tense, you come to me. Understood?"

"Understood," you whispered, closing your eyes as sleep pulled you under, safe and sated in his arms.

[iskinpeople]

LMAO

Girl Dad!Simon who had to get his newborn baby girl taken away from him because he was practically drowning them in his tears. (He denies that it ever happened now)

Girl Dad!Simon who went dead asleep after the delivery, it was unintentional of course, he wanted to help you as much as he could but his body just dropped on it's own. The worst part was is that he basically missed all of the baby's 'firsts' although he managed to wake up just in time for the first nappy change.

Girl Dad!Simon who spends a little bit too much of his free time staring at his daughter. It only worsened when you guys finally got dismissed from the hospital, you tend to find Simon crouching by the crib and watching the baby's every move pretty often. It's like bird watching, he says when you ask him.

Girl Dad!Simon who sobbed more than his daughter during her first day of school, was going to say the most melancholic goodbye but she just excitedly runs off to school and leaves her dad hanging.

Girl Dad!Simon who refuses to miss any important event in her life, no matter how small it is. Will literally call during a mission so he could see his daughter's piano recital.

"Simon? Why do I hear gunshots??"

"Don't mind 'em luv."

"How do you even have your phone right now??"

"Sneaked it."

[maryangelex]

loser!reader x simon riley

loser!reader who’s hired by lasswel to help price with the immense amount of paperwork that he never gets to. who’s assigned to sit pretty at the beaten desk outside of his office. but I like the idea of reader not being the typical “sexy assistant” but more like loser girl frumpy sweater and thick rimmed glasses type of assistant who still gets these Kyle and Johnny riled up working extra hard and making dorks out of themselves trying to woo you but you’re just too oblivious to men’s advances. not simon though, he’s the one that’s the most awkward yet somehow effective? you get hired and on your first day, as you acclimate to your office with your matching pastel supplies that you so delicately organize across your desk to give this t-filled office a feminine touch, one by one the boys drop off their report files at your desk to be revised and handed over to price. the first one’s Kyle, who showers you in compliments that go way over your head, “sargeant Garrick sure is polite!” Is all you really think of it; kinda frustrating for him. the next one coming over is Johnny, who hands you his files with his eyes eating you up like you’re a bar of chocolate. Johnny makes you feel um, intimidated? it’s the way he’s got that look in his eyes that feels like he’ll eat you whole, like he’s got X-ray vision staring right through that bulky knitted sweater. It makes your cheeks turn beet red in embarrassment when he makes comments and one-liners to get you worked up. the last one to visit your desk that first day caught you off-guard. while you were turned around alphabetizing the manila folders in the file cabinet behind you, you turned around to the large apparition of a skull-faced man that might as well have been a hallucination because 2 seconds ago he was not there and a man that size should be impossible to go unnoticed. your heart jumps and gets caught in your throat when you turn around and see him; dark and massive and the only visible human feature in him are the dark brown eyes behind that mask. you greet him politely through a stutter as you return to your seat, and all he responds with is an extended arm with the reports in hand. you mutter a thank you, your throat constricted, and what you get in return is a grunt before he turns on his heels and disappears down the hallway.

you’re scared shitless of that man on your very first day.

little did you know, simon’s face under the mask was scarlet red and flushed hot the second he saw your innocent glimmering eyes behind your skewed frames, making him unable to get a word out and having no other option but to retreat.

[alkaline-wtr]

Dirty Talk 141 Head-cannon

Description: How I imagine the boys would feel about dirty talk. Warnings/Genres: 141 x fem!reader, smut, blowjob, fingering, pwp, head-cannon WC:742

** A bit rough but I just wanted to get this up. Enjoy.

Soap: Johnny enjoys dirty talk so much, in fact, he does most of the talking. While you lie on your back pinned into the mattress by his body weight, he spews a string of praises through heavy pants and grunts. Needily bucking his hips into you.

"You like that, huh, feeling me inside you? You feel so good Darlin'. So wet for me, yeah?"

Each sentence comes out as breathy whines. The words nearly caught in his throat as he struggled to keep a steady rhythm. You feel Johnny's length deep with each sloppy thrust.

"Fuck,"

He whimpers,

"I'm getting close darlin’ you just drive me crazy every time."

You could hardly get a word in if you wanted, but you don't mind much.

Gaz: For Kyle, dirty talk is useless and unproductive. He doesn’t care to hear your filthy mewls when your mouth is better suited for other activities.

His 'Shut up and take it' attitude leads him to find any way he can think to keep your tongue occupied, whether it's giving you a couple of slender fingers to suck on or guiding you to your knees the moment you start to speak.

Your eyes ogle the spot of his muscular chest where your palm is splayed out.

“Don’t speak baby, just use that pretty little mouth of yours to show me how you feel huh?”

No more needed to be said, you're eagerly taking his cock into your mouth, coating it in your saliva so your hand glides along his shaft with ease.

You can’t help but gaze up at Kyle through your glassy eyes to watch as he bites back moans. A hand holding a fist full of your hair to make sure the tip of his cock reaches the back of your throat.

"See Darlin'?"

He grumbled. Words weren’t necessary when the gargled moans that vibrated around him were validating enough.

Simon: It's not that he doesn't like dirty talk, but rather, he uses it as a form of measurement for his performance.

After all, if you're able to form anything more than strangled moans and incoherent babbling, slipping curses out under your breath about how good it feels to have his cock buried deep inside your sopping cunt, or how hungrily he laps at your overstimulated clit, then he just isn't doing well enough.

His only goal is to have you shaking with beads of sweat glistening over your soft skin. Your mind is too clouded by ecstasy to remember your own name. Words were just that, a meter to indicate your level of pleasure in that given moment.

"Oh, Simon,"

you exhale.

"Feels good."

Your content hum was too stable for him. He picks up the pace, two of his knuckles pressing deeper into you, curling in time with his thumb that circles your clit.

The gasp you let out as you squirm against his palm is reassuring to him. It isn't much longer that you try and speak again, Driving Simon to add another finger, fucking into your bucking hips so hard that you can't help but close your eyes and grip the sheet. The only noise left in the room besides the wet squelching of your tight cunt, is the squeals of pleasure replacing your intended pleas.

Price: John is his own type of animal, his tip just barely nuzzled against your heat. You can squirm and whimper all you want,

"You'll have ta use your words, sweetheart."

He teases,

"Please, please. I just need to feel you already I can't take it anymore."

Your pussy aches and throbs with the need to release. It's been almost an hour of this. John edges you for as long as it takes, only continuing when he deems your begging and pleading to be satisfactory.

"Come on sweetheart you can do better than that."

The mischievous chuckle that follows frustrates you even more. For an older man, he seemed to have a little too much patience and stamina for this type of thing. And your guess was as good as anyone's on what he wanted to hear for you to finally cum.

Still, you continue to try, fighting through the overstimulation. You weren't sure if your jumbled words had met his standards or if maybe he just pitied you seeing the tears forming in your water line. But he leaves you writhing and screaming out his name as you ride out your most intense orgasm yet.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; tensions rise as you take a stand during dinner, voicing long-held truths and setting the stage for change within the coven. meanwhile, the pack finally confronts leah, each grappling with the weight of their choices and the path forward.

★ warnings; none

☆ story masterlist

The grand dining room’s dark wood-panelled walls and deep burgundy drapes lent the space a sombre atmosphere. Flickering candles set in wrought-iron candelabras cast dancing shadows across the intricate carvings of the mahogany table, which gleamed faintly in the dim, golden light of the chandelier above.

The faint rustle of skirts and the soft clink of silverware on porcelain marked the presence of the maids, moving with quiet precision as they served the meal. Their dark uniforms blended seamlessly with the subdued decor, their heads bowed respectfully as they placed steaming dishes before each of you. One paused briefly to pour wine into your glass, her hands steady despite the tension that permeated the room.

Sybil lay curled at your feet, her snow-white fur stark against the dark, polished floors. Her head rested lightly on your foot, her large, intelligent eyes occasionally flicked toward the maids as they moved about, her tail thumping faintly when one of them dared a soft smile in her direction.

Cath Palug lounged on the armrest of your Mother’s chair, his sharp eyes following the maids’ every move with a predatory stillness. Barghest lingered by your Mom’s side, her sleek form almost melting into the shadows cast by the heavy drapes. 

Your Mother sat at the head of the table, her posture rigid, the sharp lines of her profile illuminated by the soft glow of the candles. She addressed the room with the measured authority that left no room for deviation.

“The preparations for your ascension are nearly complete,” she began, tone clipped and commanding. “The wards have been strengthened, the ceremony will commence as planned, and the council has been informed. They await your formal acceptance of the position.”

The weight of her words pressed against you like the very shadows that clung to the room. The maids, having finished their task, withdrew quietly, the faint creak of the heavy doors closing behind them leaving the space cloaked in an uneasy silence.

You stared at your plate, the rich aroma of the meal doing little to stir your appetite. Your Mom sat to your left, her usual warmth tempered by an undercurrent of unease. She sipped her own drink delicately, her gaze flicking between you and your Mother, though she remained silent.

“We will resume your training tomorrow,” your Mother continued. “There is no room for error, and you will—”

“I’ll do it.” Your voice cut through the air, quiet but resolute, halting her mid-sentence. Her sharp gaze turned to you, her brow lifting slightly in surprise. “As promised, I’ll assume the position.”

For a fleeting moment, the room stilled. Even Cath Palug paused, his ears pricking forward as he regarded you intently. Barghest raised her head from where she lay by your Mom’s chair, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. Sybil shifted slightly at your feet, her tail brushing lightly against your leg as if grounding you.

Your Mother inclined her head slightly. “Good. Then—”

“But,” you interjected, your voice gaining strength as you straightened in your chair. “It’s my turn to speak now.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the flickering candlelight casting shifting patterns across the table as everyone stilled. Your Mom’s fingers trembled slightly as she set her utensils down, the soft clink echoing in the tense space. 

Your Mother’s lips thinned, her gaze sharp enough to pierce. “Very well,” she said, her voice low and measured. “Speak.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the oppressive air thickening as you prepared to finally voice the words that had been lodged deep in your chest for so, so long.

You took a deep breath, your voice steady but carrying the weight of years of unspoken truths. “My time away gave me time to think,” you began, each word sharp and deliberate. “And I’ve come to realise a few things—things I didn’t have the courage to say before I left.”

Your Mother tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable but the tension in her posture betraying her irritation. “Go on,” she said, her voice clipped, as if daring you to falter.

You met her gaze, refusing to look away. “Your suffocating expectations—your constant need for control over every aspect of my life—are the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt, her silence more cutting than words.

“You’ve created an environment so stifling, so oppressive, that it’s not just me who’s suffocating,” you continued, your voice rising slightly. “The coven itself is choking under your hold. Families are leaving. Women are moving away just to avoid sending their daughters here. They don’t see the protection of the coven anymore—they see a prison. And it’s because of you.”

A flicker of something—discomfort, perhaps—passed over her face, but she quickly masked it, her jaw tightening. Cath Palug’s tail swayed, his sharp pale eyes fixed intently on you.

You shifted your attention to your Mom, whose face had paled slightly. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles tight against the dark wood. “And you,” you said, your tone softer but no less pointed. “You’re kind and nurturing, yes. But you’ve overlooked everything to appease her.”

Your Mom flinched, the words landing like a solid blow.

“You’ve turned a blind eye to how much damage she’s done—to me, to the coven, to the very people we’re supposed to protect.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed on. “You tell me you love me, that you care about my well-being, but when it mattered most, you did nothing. You let this happen.”

The weight of your accusations hung heavy in the air, the oppressive silence only broken by the soft rustle of Sybil shifting at your feet. 

“So yes,” you said finally, your voice firm and resolute, “I will take over the coven. I will assume the position you’ve prepared me for my entire life. But I won’t do it in your image.”

Your Mother stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line, while your Mom’s eyes filled with unshed tears.

“I’ll change everything,” you continued, your words like a hammer striking an anvil. “I’ll rebuild the coven into something better, something kinder, something people can actually trust. And I’ll do it so thoroughly that no one will even remember your names.”

Your Mother didn’t rise from her seat as you had expected. Instead, she picked up her wine glass, the deep crimson liquid catching the flicker of candlelight, and took a measured sip. The faintest curve of a smile touched her lips as she set the glass back down with deliberate precision.

She leaned back slightly in her chair, her sharp gaze fixed on you. “Well,” she said, her voice calm and cold, yet carrying an undertone of something you couldn’t quite place. Was it satisfaction? Amusement? “There you are.”

Her words lingered, cryptic and cutting, as though she had been waiting for this moment all along. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her poise unshaken, and her expression—though cool and composed—betrayed a flicker of something almost... pleased.

Your Mom, however, looked far less composed. Her hands trembled as she wiped at the tears staining her cheeks, her warm gaze flickering uncertainly between you and your Mother. Though her lips tightened in disapproval, she followed your Mother’s lead, forcing herself to pick up her utensils and return to her meal, though her movements were stiff and mechanical.

The silence of the dining room pressed against you like a weight, the flicker of candlelight casting dancing shadows across the richly adorned walls. As you ran your fingers absently through Sybil’s soft fur, your thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the pack.

It was their presence in your life—the good and the bad—that had brought you to this moment. Their kindness, their laughter, and even their flaws had shown you what it meant to belong somewhere, to feel valued not because of your lineage or your role but simply for being yourself. And yet, it was their involuntary betrayal, their failures, that had lit the fire that now burned within you, giving you the courage to face the people who had shaped your life in a different but no less suffocating way.

A sad smile touched your lips as you stared down at your untouched plate. If things had been different, you thought bitterly, how satisfying it would have been to have them here, watching as you told your Mother off, as you shattered the chains of expectation she had bound you with. You could almost see Johnny’s grin, hear Gaz’s low whistle of approval, feel Ghost’s quiet, steady presence at your back, and see Price’s sharp nod of acknowledgment.

But it was just a pipe dream—a fleeting, wistful fantasy that dissolved as quickly as it had formed. You knew better than to hope for their presence now, to think they could ever be by your side again after what had happened. The pain of their absence twisted in your chest, a dull ache you’d long grown used to but never fully accepted.

Sybil nudged your leg gently, pulling you back to the present. Her dark eyes gazed up at you with a silent understanding that made your throat tighten. You reached down, brushing your fingers over her head, drawing strength from her unwavering loyalty.

The dinner continued in tense silence, and as the clink of silverware filled the void, you swallowed down the lump in your throat, sitting a little straighter in your chair. Whatever heartbreak lingered in your soul, whatever pieces of yourself had been scattered along the way, you were here now. 

You had spoken up. And for once, you hadn’t been silenced.

. . .

The tension in the hallway was unbearable, thick as the heavy air before a storm. Johnny paced back and forth, his bare feet thudding against the floorboards, the frustration radiating off him in waves. His hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and his face was flushed with barely contained anger. His hand covered his nose and mouth as if to shield himself from something he couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

“I’m not going in there!” he snapped, voice raw and desperate. “I’m not doin’ it. You can’t make me.” He turned sharply, pointing an accusatory finger at Price, his brows furrowed in a mixture of fury and panic. “You shouldn’t even be askin’ me to!”

Price stood firm, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The faint smell of cigar smoke still clung to him, grounding but stale in the oppressive atmosphere. “We need to,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “Together. As a pack.”

“It’s not a bloody pack if it’s falling apart!” Johnny shot back, his words biting. His hand gestured wildly toward Ghost, who sat slumped in a chair by the wall. His face was pale beneath the shadow of his hood, his mask absent. The dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness in his expression made him look like a man already half-broken.

“Look at him!” Johnny barked, his voice cracking. “He’s the one who—” He stopped himself short, clenching his fists as if the words were too much to speak aloud. “And you want us all in there? Together? With her?”

Gaz, leaning against the opposite wall, pinched the bridge of his nose. His leg bounced anxiously, but he stayed silent, his jaw tight as he glanced toward Ghost, then to Price.

Price exhaled heavily, his frustration evident but controlled. “None of this is easy,” he said, his voice calmer but no less firm. “But we need answers. And she’s the only one who might have them.”

“She’s innocent,” Gaz added, his voice quiet but strained. “She didn’t ask for this.”

Johnny shook his head violently, his ponytail swishing with the motion. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the house settling. For a moment, no one moved, the weight of the decision pressing down on them all.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Ghost spoke. His voice was low and hoarse, like it had been dragged from the depths of his soul. “Let’s do it.”

Johnny froze mid-step, turning to stare at him. “What?”

Ghost straightened slowly, his movements stiff and deliberate. His gaze, though dull, was steady as he looked at Price. “I’ll go in,” he repeated, his voice firmer this time. “We need to. I need to.”

Johnny opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. For a moment, he looked torn between anger and something else—something softer, almost pitying. Finally, he cursed under his breath and turned away, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Price nodded, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Alright,” he said, glancing at the others. “We do this together. No more running.”

With that, he stepped forward and pushed the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the stillness. Inside, the room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out the fading light of day. Leah sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked small and fragile, her face pale but calm, her eyes shadowed by a deep weariness.

Laswell stood nearby, her expression neutral but her posture stiff. She glanced at the pack as they entered, her sharp gaze sweeping over each of them in turn. “Took you long enough,” she said dryly, though there was no bite in her tone.

Ghost was the last to step inside, his heavy boots barely making a sound as he moved. His gaze flicked to Leah for the briefest moment before dropping to the floor. His broad frame seemed even more imposing in the confined space, but his hunched posture betrayed the turmoil within him.

Leah looked up slowly, her eyes meeting theirs for a fleeting second before darting away. Her hands tightened on her lap, her knuckles turning white.

Laswell broke the silence, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Alright,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Let’s get this over with.”

The room seemed to tighten around them as Leah began to speak, her voice trembling but steady enough to command attention. Her fingers twisted in her lap, her knuckles white against her pale skin as she glanced nervously between the pack members, Laswell, and the floor.

“I live in the city,” she began quietly, her words measured and slow. “It’s not far from here, just a few hours’ drive. The last thing I remember was…being out with my friends. We went to a club—one of those trendy places everyone talks about.”

Price leaned forward slightly, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp blue eyes bore into her, urging her to continue.

Leah hesitated, her brow furrowing as she tried to piece together the fragments of her memory. “I was having fun. Dancing, drinking, laughing. And then… this man approached me.” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “He was… handsome, I think. Hypnotising. He just had this presence. It was like… like I couldn’t say no to him, even if I wanted to.”

Johnny shifted uncomfortably where he stood, arms still crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to shield himself from her words. Gaz glanced at Ghost, but the latter remained still, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

Price’s voice was low but commanding when he finally spoke. “Can you describe him? Anything you remember about how he looked?”

Leah’s lips parted, but she hesitated again, her face twisting with frustration. “I… I can’t,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly. “It’s like there’s this wall in my mind, keeping me from remembering him properly. I can almost see his face, but it’s blurry, like I’m not supposed to remember.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, the implications clear. Whoever this man was, he had gone to great lengths to erase himself from her memory.

Price frowned, his jaw tightening. “Alright. What about anything else? Details about the club, the people, anything out of the ordinary?”

Leah bit her lip, her gaze distant as she searched her mind. “There was… a logo,” she said after a moment. “On the wall behind the bar. It was… strange. A skull, I think? But not a human one—something else. Maybe a snake or… something reptilian. And there was a sword or a knife stabbing through it. That’s the only thing I remember clearly.”

Price exchanged a glance with Laswell, whose brows furrowed slightly in thought. “A logo like that isn’t exactly subtle,” she said. “It could narrow things down.”

“It’s not much, but it’s a start,” Price muttered, his tone grim. He turned his gaze back to Leah. “Anything else? Anything at all?”

Leah shook her head, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of her fractured memories was too much to bear. “No. That’s all I remember before… before everything went black. The next thing I knew, I was....here.”

Price straightened, his expression hardening. “Alright. We’ll figure out what that logo belongs to,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But this man—whoever he is—knew what he was doing. He didn’t just pick you at random. This was deliberate.”

Leah’s lips trembled, but she nodded, clutching her hands tightly together as if trying to hold herself together. “I just want this to be over,” she whispered.

“We all do,” Price said firmly. “And we’ll get to the bottom of it. But it starts with finding him.”

For the first time since this ordeal began, they truly looked at her. She was undeniably beautiful, in a way that felt deliberate—her features delicate yet striking, her presence almost magnetic. It was easy to see why someone would choose her as the host for a curse like this.

Price’s mind churned as he pieced together Leah’s account with Alejandro and Rudy’s earlier explanations. Curses like this worked best with hosts who could draw people in naturally, breaking down their defences before the magic took over. Leah’s appearance, her charm—it all made sense now. She had been chosen intentionally, not just for her beauty but for her ability to disarm.

And yet, as they stood before her now, there was nothing. No pull, no compulsion, no lingering feelings of obsession. The spell was broken, and what remained was just a frightened, broken young woman, stripped of the influence that had ensnared them all.

Leah’s voice wavered, and her composure finally shattered. Tears streamed down her face as she broke down, her shoulders shaking with sobs. “I’m so sorry,” she choked out, her voice thick with genuine remorse. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t even know—” She covered her face with her hands, her words dissolving into unintelligible cries. “I’m so sorry… to all of you.”

The pack said nothing.

Gaz’s jaw tightened as he looked away, his face shadowed with guilt and unease. Johnny’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he stood frozen in place, clearly fighting the urge to bolt. Ghost, who had been silent the entire time, finally moved. He turned sharply on his heel and walked out, his boots striking the floor with heavy, deliberate steps. He didn’t say a word, his exit leaving an echo of finality in the room.

Gaz followed soon after, his steps slower but just as weighted. Johnny lingered for a moment, his gaze flicking toward Leah with something that looked like conflicted anger before he, too, left without a word.

Price stayed behind, his presence steady but heavy with unspoken judgement. Leah’s sobs softened into hiccups, and she glanced up at him, her tear-streaked face pleading. He didn’t meet her eyes, instead turning to Laswell.

“She stays with you for now,” Price said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll cover her relocation, but until we’ve sorted this out and gotten every scrap of information we can, she doesn’t go anywhere else.”

Laswell nodded, her sharp gaze sweeping over Leah before softening slightly. “Understood. I’ll handle her.”

Leah sniffled, looking between Price and Laswell with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I’ll do whatever you need,” she said shakily. “Anything. Just… please, I want to go home.”

Price’s eyes flicked to her briefly, his expression unreadable. “You’ll stay safe with Laswell,” he said curtly. “That’s all you need to focus on for now.”

With that, he turned and strode toward the door, his shoulders squared as if bracing against the weight of everything they’d just heard. Laswell lingered behind, her hand resting lightly on Leah’s shoulder, her sharp gaze following Price’s retreating figure.

As Price stepped out into the hallway, he cast a quick glance down the corridor where the pack had disappeared. Ghost’s silhouette was barely visible at the far end, his shoulders hunched as he walked away, the weight of his guilt and silence heavy in the air.

Price exhaled sharply, the faint glow of his cigar ember casting fleeting light against his weathered face. This wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

banner credit

[cumikering]

Barista Keegan x reader

4.8k | fluff The barista at your campus library had the prettiest icy blues, striking against his black leather jacket

It was ten minutes to your next lecture. You gathered your laptop and notes off the table and took the last sip of your coffee – bland now because the ice had melted.

On your way out, you placed the dirty glass on the counter as you mumbled a thanks. The barista, always the same one with the prominent blue eyes, turned from the machine and nodded wordlessly over his shoulder.

The class was always slow, but the coffee helped you to not doze off. Besides, you had something to look forward to after. Outside the lecture hall, your best friend waved at you with a grin. You couldn’t help but return it. She linked arms with you and headed to the parking lot.

“I think I’m getting this,” Monty said as she held her phone out, showing you the birthday dress for her dinner the coming month. She’d been looking forward to the trip to the boutique for her dress fitting.

“Oh, that’s a lovely colour!” you gushed, admiring the pinkish champagne fabric. She would look gorgeous in it.

As you climbed into the front seat of her car, you stalled as you saw the barista again. It was your first time seeing him without his signature apron, but it wasn’t hard to recognise his jet-black hair and sharp jaw. He zipped up his leather jacket and swung his leg over his bike before looking up. The eye contact made your heart stop, but you quickly snapped your gaze away and strapped yourself in.

Monty chuckled, following your previous line of sight. “Is that the barista from the library?”

Out the windshield, he tipped his chin up slightly to fasten his helmet. It was enough for you to catch a glimpse of the movement of his thick neck. He leaned in, looking impressively built grasping the handlebar of his black motorbike as it came to life with a rumble. With the back of his boot, he flipped the kickstand up and rode away.

“I knew you always had a thing for bikers,” she teased.

You waved your hand dismissively, the heat creeping up your neck.

“Well, I was asking if you’d like a dress in a matching shade?”

“Of course! I have time this weekend, I can find-”             

“Great, because I was thinking you can try on some dresses with me too.” She beamed, starting her car. “The sooner the better, right?”

The outing lasted longer than expected - the both of you had too much fun trying on all the cute dresses. While Monty settled with her initial choice, you found a simple one in a complimentary shade. After dinner and a movie, she dropped you home close to 11. Unfortunately, it meant you had more schoolwork to do the next day to make up for it.

Last semester, the university got the library revamped with an atrium and a coffee shop. You’d made it a habit to study there, and inadvertently saw the barista a lot. You didn’t mean to. It was not your fault he worked there on the days you came in.

You usually came between classes, but that Friday was an exception. When you found yourself heading to the library after your only class, you told yourself it was because the atmosphere was less depressing than your cramped studio apartment. It didn’t hurt that the drinks were good.

Definitely not because of the handsome and tattooed barista with his pretty eyes. Or that his voice was ridiculously silky like he was purring when he repeated your order at the register. Did he always sound like that, or was it just his library voice?

“One iced caramel latte,” he called in a gentle tone.

From across the room, you made your way to the counter. When you looked up, he smiled at you.

Despite his deadpan tone and sharp eyes, it wasn’t that he was unfriendly. He was always polite, but it was your first time seeing him really smile – like he meant to.

You flashed him a smile in return as the butterflies stirred in your belly, but averted your gaze down to his nametag. Keegan R. Obviously still the same since you first saw it those months ago.

“Thank you,” you mumbled. You grabbed your drink and hurried back to your table.

You weren’t there to see him – wasn’t trying to. It wasn’t your fault he worked there, was it?

As you sipped between the pages of your textbook, you looked up to the darkening sky, the clouds swirling. The trees swayed in the wind before the first drop of rain splattered on the tall glass ceiling.

It looked like the rain would last a while. You pulled out your earbuds, preferring the pitter patter of the rain and powered through your essay. Thankfully, you weren’t stuck somewhere unpleasant, and you had almost two hours until the library closed. Surely the rain would have passed by then.

Wrong.

When a figure approached you, the rain had barely slowed.

“Just a heads up, dear, we close in 15 minutes,” the librarian said, always with the polite smile.

“Right. Okay.“

“Diana, mind if I lock up today? I’ll have to wait the rain out anyway,” Keegan chimed from his counter.

“Oh, sure,” she answered and looked back at you. “Well, you can stay longer then.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

As the last few students left the building, you thought it was Diana approaching your table once more, but it was Keegan instead.

“Would you like anything else to drink? On the house.”

“Sorry?”

“I get a free drink for each shift. I figured I’d make you something since you come here a lot.”

You didn’t know what to make of the fact that he noticed, but you smiled. “Dealer’s choice? Whatever’s convenient for you.”

You looked up when Diana bade her goodbyes to Keegan and dropped her keys off on the counter, leaving the both of you in the building. You supposed it was time for a break. You packed your books aside and pulled up a gameplay video of your latest obsession.

“One iced Franken-latte.” Keegan placed two cups on the table. “Or two. It didn’t fit in one glass.”

“A what?”

“Frankenstein latte. I’ve never tried it, but my coworker always makes it after his shift.”

So it wasn’t his library voice. His voice was that honeyed for no reason.

You tried to bite down your grin. “One for you then.”

“Why not.” He shrugged, blue eyes wondering to your laptop screen. “Is that A Way Out?”

“Yes! Have you played?”

He pulled out the chair next to you. “My roommate absolutely sucks at games so not more than an hour unfortunately. Have you?”

You shook your head. “Got no console,” you said, reaching for the cup. “Well, thanks for this.”

He hummed and followed suit after you took a sip of the unsuspecting latte.

You didn’t want to be rude, but your brows couldn’t help but knit. Your wary gaze slid to him. Was this a prank?

Keegan turned to you with a deadpan expression before sighing. “That tastes terrible.” He placed the cup back on the table. “I knew it. I shouldn’t have trusted Kick and his fruity, salted caramel toothpaste.”

You laughed. “What the hell is in this?”

“A dash of every syrup.” He got up, heat colouring his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. He swears it’s the best, but I’m not sure what he smokes anymore these days.” He gathered your cups and made his way behind the counter.

You followed him, still chuckling as he dumped the cursed lattes in the sink.

“Could I make you something else?” he called behind his shoulder.

“That’s fine.” You looked out the window. “I think the rain won’t last much longer anyway.”

He turned to you, seemingly wounded by the rejection. “I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t do it on purpose. I do hope that wouldn’t stop you from coming back.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be back, of course,” you reassured. “At least we can say we’ve tried every syrup.”

His shoulders relaxed as he gave you a small smile. As he cleaned his station for closing, you leaned against the wooden counter and asked what he’d been playing on his console. You discussed your favourite games and upcoming releases, finding that you both had a common taste in games.

You made him laugh. The way the deep rumble from his chest made you bite your lip, it was just as well he had his back to you. At least he wouldn’t catch you staring at his muscles casually flexing as he wiped down the already-spotless stainless-steel counters.

“All done now,” he announced, taking one last look at his work. He reached behind to remove his apron before excusing himself to the back of the house.

You almost didn’t notice the rain had stopped to a mere trickle. You, too, retreated to your table to pack your laptop. Embarrassment flared at how much you enjoyed looking at him and his tattooed arms. You could only do it from across the room, so how could anyone blame you for being greedy when you could stand so close? But you weren’t supposed to be admiring him any more than you already did whenever you studied, yet there you were, fuelling your aimless infatuation.

Moments after, he joined you at the door, now clad in his leather jacket and backpack, his shiny black helmet in hand.

“Thanks again for the drink,” you said as he locked up. “Keegan,” you added, albeit a little too late for it to sound natural.

He turned to you with a sparkle in his vibrant blue eyes. “You’re welcome. I promise to make you something better next time.”

You only realised now he was a few inches taller than you. You smiled before shifting your gaze to your feet and nodded.

“Where did you park?”

“I’m walking home.”

“Do you want a ride?” he asked, not missing a beat.

Keegan rode slow the few minutes to your apartment. He wore his backpack in reverse and said you could hold onto its straps - out of courtesy you hoped. He’d been too nice with the drink and ride, but at least your place was on his way to his, so you didn’t feel too bad.

You thanked him in front of your building, earning you a nod. Or maybe more, who knew, he had his helmet on. With that, you turned, chewing on your lip. The flutters were more than just from the thrill of the ride.

Being so close to him, you couldn’t help but inhale him in the breeze.  The sweet earthiness of leather, robust coffee, a hint of sweat, and a dash of smoke and gasoline somewhere in there. The scent would haunt you for a little longer.

After two steps, he called, “H-Hey- uh, hold on.“

Keegan couldn’t believe it. He got your number.

Never mind that he stumbled over his words when he asked. It didn’t help that the wind had tousled your hair making you even more adorable. But you smiled so sweetly when you handed his phone back to him and he had your number.

For months, each week you’d come to the library two out of the four days he worked. Of course he noticed. You’d pick the table in the far corner and study with your earphones on. You were always a little shy, never meeting his eyes for more than a few seconds each time. No matter, it meant he had more time to look at your pretty face up close, because otherwise he could only steal glances from afar.

In his last year of engineering degree, he had far fewer classes and could work more hours. But when he studied behind the counter, it didn’t feel as lonely with you there across the room.

But you were always just that to him: a muse, a fantasy, a distant company. He didn’t know any more than your name. He didn’t know what you studied, if you had a boyfriend… He didn’t even want to smile nor acknowledge this - what if he got too attached?

But that Thursday when you tore your gaze away from his in the parking lot, something shifted. Maybe he wasn’t just a dude who made your coffee after all.

So on Friday the next day when you unexpectantly came, Keegan couldn’t hold back his excitement. You usually came on Tuesday and Thursday, he assumed between classes. It was just his luck you stayed until closing so he could make a complimentary drink for his favourite customer. Baristas did that all the time, right?

However, in the flurry, he didn’t think through Kick’s recipe. He’d always been skeptical, but why else would his colleague make it so often? He should have listened to his guts because it was repulsive. But you laughed, and- oh God, you were so pretty. And you liked the games he liked? It was unbelievable.

So with his back to you, he scrubbed and scrubbed the counters as you chatted until his arms ached. He didn’t want to turn to you and look creepy with his uncontainable grin. Would he ever get another chance to talk to you like this again?

He spent his entire weekend itching to say something to you, but he couldn’t figure out what to text and therefore was forced to wait until you’d drop by the library again. He didn’t see you on Monday, as he’d expected. But when Tuesday afternoon came around, the buzz in him intensified. Any minute now.

When you approached the glass door, he busied himself, not wanting to look like a puppy with its wet nose against the window as its tail wagged. But when you said hello, he whipped to you so fast, the grin already on his face.

“Hi. What can I get you today?”

You smiled, maybe even laughed a little. Did his voice crack?

Your gaze dropped to the summer menu. “One pink lemonade, please.”

He tapped on the tablet. “My treat. To make up for the other day.”

“Oh, no. You can’t do that-“

He turned to the fridge. “Coming right up.”

You placed the bills into the tip jar instead.

On your way to your next class, you placed the dirty cup on the counter. “Thanks, Keegan. See you around.”

He made his way to you and cleared his throat. “I can give you a ride home on Thursday if you want,” he said, remembering last week when he saw you at the parking lot. “I’ll bring my old helmet you can wear.”

“Oh, you’ve been too nice. Thanks so much, but I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I really don’t mind, but that’s only if you want to.”

You smiled. “If you say so.”

When your lecture ended that Thursday, Keegan was already waiting with a tumbler of lemonade and two helmets. You came out with a girl next to you, radiant as you chatted with her. She’d come to the library a few times with you to get her caramel macchiato with oat milk.

You did a double take, but your smile widened when your pretty eyes met his. You were supposed to meet him at the library, but he’d taken the liberty to surprise you instead. You introduced him to your friend Montana who didn’t bother to hide the knowing look she shot your way.

It only made his stomach flip. Was he being too obvious?

In front of his bike, you waved goodbye at Montana as she drove off. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea riding in the summer, a fact he’d never mulled over until he stood there as you sipped your ice cold lemonade. He gulped.

With a small laugh, you offered the last half of the drink, which he gladly chugged. It was just what he needed.

He handed you his old helmet, deep red - his first one. It was perfectly functional, albeit scuffed up from all the times he carelessly dropped it onto the grating pavement, or knocked it over tables and chairs over the years.

“Do you have anywhere to be?”

He zipped his jacket up. “No. Why?”

“You want to get something to eat?”

He smiled. “We can go anywhere.”

Keegan picked his favourite burger joint, the one at the pier. You chatted as you ate, and as pretty as the ocean was outside, the air conditioning indoors was too comfortable to pass up on. You shared another serving of fries, and he wished the table was smaller so he could be closer to you.

Why did it feel so good being around you? There was no awkward silence even when no words were exchanged. The quiet was easy; on his brain too, because he’d never been the chattiest in the room. You exuded serenity, the kind that gave him a dash of nervousness that kept his stomach tossing in delight. He couldn’t look away - he wanted to lean in closer and closer.

You insisted on paying, and with a pleased smile, he let you. It would simply be an excuse to return the favour with more drinks.

Later when you hopped on his bike, he didn’t expect for your arms to wrap around his waist. His breath hitched. Was this really happening? Surely, you only did this for safety purposes. He shouldn’t be reading that much into it. Although it would be embarrassing if you could feel his heartbeat going crazy if you leaned in any longer.

When you got off his bike in front of your building, he turned to you and popped his visor up.

You took the helmet off and handed it back to him. “Thanks for today, Keegan.”

“You’re welcome.” He took it with a grin. “I had fun.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

“I was wondering… If you’d like to come over and play A Way Out tomorrow? Alex should be home too. We can get pizza for dinner after.” He was glad his face was covered because he could have sworn he was beet red under it. “Only if you have time, of course.”

You averted your eyes, but your smile only brightened. “I’d like that.”

“Then you keep this. For tomorrow.” He held out the helmet towards you.

And so it became a routine.

Some days, Keegan would wait with a drink in his tumbler in front of your lecture hall before heading to his own class. Once a week, you’d make him sandwiches for lunch and drop them off at the library. Sometimes you’d do schoolwork there together.

He tried to not make it obvious that every now and then he’d linger around to spend a little more time with you, be it to grab a bite or to simply give you a ride home – something he always did when your schedules allowed anyway. But on Fridays, you always came over to his place to game.

Not only was co-op gaming with you insanely fun, he also guided you on how to play some of his favourite single-player games. The way you’d laugh in delight, he could listen to you all day. And he did, sitting next to you watching you play. This was more his thing anyway: enjoying your presence without having to always talk.

Ajax, who was reserved (if he wasn’t, Keegan wouldn’t have been close friends with him since high school, let alone be his flatmate), didn’t take long to warm up to you either. While he was quiet at the first pizza dinner, he lingered whenever he emerged out of his room, standing by the couch munching on his potato chips as he nodded approvingly at each shot you got. Soon, he would wedge himself next to Keegan to cheer you on and hype you up.

You’d turn to him with a proud smile. Yeah, he could sit there next to you all day.

Meanwhile, something had been brewing in Keegan’s mind. He’d been wanting to take you to the helmet shop too pick out something you like, but he was worried it was too forward, too much of a commitment. What if you got the wrong idea? Well, evidently, he did want to articulate that idea, but what if he scared you away instead? He hadn’t even held your hand.

And so he did what he did best: be patient and wait. He’d rather be sure you were comfortable with him than rush into things and ruin any chance he had with you. No matter how subtle, you would give him signs, right?

The last Saturday before Monty’s birthday, you went out for ice cream with her before going to her final fitting. When she suggested dinner afterwards, you told her you’d made plans with Keegan.

“So what’s going on with you and him?” she asked as she smoothed down her dress, smiling teasingly through the large full length mirror.

“Nothing.”

“He’ll be your plus one at my dinner, right?” She twisted, inspecting the dress on her.

“What? No! He doesn’t see me like that.” You swatted your hand. “We’re just friends,” you trailed off, trying to not slump in your seat.

“He definitely likes you! Why else would you be out with him on Saturday night?”

“He doesn’t. He… He never makes a move.” Your gaze dropped to the ground.

Monty marched to you and gripped you by the shoulders. “Oh my God! How is waiting outside your lecture hall with a freshly made drink only to give you a ride home not a move?”

“But…”

“I would have believed if you told me he didn’t have the muscles to smile, until I saw him with you.” She shook her head. “The poor guy. Put him out of his misery already!”

When Keegan picked you up for dinner from the boutique, Montana was all smiles while you couldn’t seem to hold his gaze.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, handing you the helmet.

You shook your head, fastening the strap.

You’d tell him when you were ready, and he could be patient. But at the taco place as he stared at you staring at your hands under the table – it was uncharacteristic of him, the silence grated against him. Did he do something?

“Did I-“

“Keegan,” you started at the same time, eyes flicking to him before dropping back.

“Yes?” he asked hopefully.

“Would you want to come to Monty’s dinner with me?”

He grinned, relieved. “Of course, yes. It would be my pleasure.”

As if the tension had melted, you were your normal self again, giggly and warm. He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but you held his gaze longer than usual. He liked it. He loved looking into your pretty eyes. He scooted his seat closer to the table, letting his foot rest against yours. You didn’t move away.

For dessert, he got you a churro from the food truck nearby. His stomach flipped when your fingers brushed his when he handed it to you.

On the way to yours, at the red light – oh, he’d been aching to do this for weeks - he finally plucked up the courage to squeeze his hand over yours as you held onto his waist. You held on tighter. He liked to think you smiled behind him, the shy kind perhaps. You always looked adorable with it.

Over the next week, you sat a little closer to him – maybe only an inch or two, but it didn’t elude him. You didn’t look away nearly as much as you used to either. He liked that you were finally comfortable enough with him.

In a burst of confidence, he grasped your hand as he walked you to class. It made his heart flutter whenever you’d look up at him with a smile like that. You walked closer to him, your other hand clasped over his tattooed arm. He bit down his grin.

Before Keegan knew it, it was Montana’s birthday.

That evening, in front of the bathroom mirror, he brushed his fingers through his hair and leaned in, inspecting his handiwork. Was it supposed to look this way? He hadn’t had to style his hair in such a long time (his helmet wouldn’t have allowed it).

“Dude, you look fine, I swear,” Ajax called from the couch. “She already likes you anyway.”

He stood in front of the doorway facing his roommate, voice hopeful. “Are you sure?”

He did a once over as Keegan smoothed down his crisp black button down and dark jeans. Freshly shaved, he’d also put on some cologne for the occasion.

“Affirmative. Just go already!” He slipped past him, slamming the bathroom door behind him. “I’ve been holding my piss in for half an hour!”

He laughed and bade his goodbye, not forgetting to pick up the keys on the table. Ajax had told him to drive his car for the night, an offer he gratefully took.

At your door, Keegan shifted his weight as he, once more, examined his boots, his hands shoved in his pockets. When you opened the door, his greeting wedged in his throat.

“You’re-“ His eyes scanned down your outfit, letting out an inaudible ‘wow’. “You’re gorgeous.”

You were stunning in your peach dress, the shade complementing your skin. You’d done your hair too, pretty in your heels and glossy lips.

You smiled, reaching to place a hand on his forearm. “Thank you. You look really nice yourself.”

At the venue, Montana lit up when she saw you, but clasped her hand over her laughter when she registered the large gift you carried. She donned a sequin dress, the shade similar to yours. You embraced and gushed over each other’s outfit before her attention turned to the Hello Kitty plushie you cradled. She wore a pink helmet and a matching racing suit - you told him she was a Formula One fan. He smiled. It was endearing how much you adored each other.

Montana had assigned her boyfriend, Troy, and you to sit next to her, with Keegan by your side. She would have liked the Hello Kitty to get her own seat at the table too, alas, she didn’t RSVP and had to sit among the other gifts. As you chatted with the neighbouring guests at dinner, your hand on his thigh comforted him. He didn’t usually like large gatherings, especially one where he didn’t know most of the attendants, but you didn’t make him feel left out as you included him in the conversation. His hand enveloped yours in appreciation as he tried to hide his smile behind his glass.

After dessert, the ladies got up to dance to the upbeat music. You and your girls laughed on the dancefloor, enjoying yourselves. He couldn’t help the grin that bloomed on his face. Did you always look that beautiful?

Focused on you, he didn’t realise Montana had made her way to him.

“Go dance with her.”

Keegan chuckled. He didn’t know how to dance.

“Come on, don’t make her wait too long now.” She walked away, shooting a teasing smile over her shoulder.

He let out a small laugh as he pushed his chair back. If he had to embarrass himself, you were the only one he wanted to do it for. As he approached, your girls stepped away with a giggle, making you frown in confusion.

At the sight of him, you relaxed.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

You nodded, your smile widening.

He took a step in, tentatively resting his hands on your waist. You wrapped your arms around his neck and started swaying. He followed, careful to not step on your toes, but honestly, he was content to bask in the proximity and simply stare into your eyes like so.

Just as he thought the electronic music wasn’t ideal, the song abruptly changed into something slower. You laughed. Montana couldn’t have been more obvious with this, huh?

Your thumb brushed the nape of his neck, sending tingles down his spine. With a shaky breath, he leaned in, forehead resting against yours before shutting his eyes. This close, he could smell you – sweet and soft.

Were his palms sweating? Probably, but he couldn’t tell with the way they fitted perfectly on your waist.

You rested your cheek on his shoulder, but must have felt his heartbeat picking up because you looked up at him with an amused look.

His icy blues were already on you, tender yet intense. “Can I kiss you?”

Your brilliant smile was all the answer he needed. Against your lips, he sighed deeply as his fingers curled over your waist, wanting to stay in the moment longer. You seemed to feel the same, your arms wrapping tighter around him as you pressed your body against his.

When you pulled away, he chuckled in awe while you looked away.

He tilted your face up to him, thumb brushing over your cheek. “We should get you your own helmet.”

“I’d like that,” your murmured against his smile.

Masterlist Tinder Keegan Neighbour Keegan Werewolf Keegan

Happy birthday to @operationdeadbolt my first ever Keegan simp friend!! You’re such a cutie bundle of sunshine. I adore the way you love so much, so generously, gushing over the things you like. Talking to you always makes me smile, and you inspire me to keep enjoying life, to be grateful. You gave me the moon and I always think of you when I see it

Thank you for reminding me there is joy to be found everywhere. I hope happiness and resilience are always with you every step of the way. Here’s to many more times we’re going to crush on cod dudes <3

[fireya-x]

they say don't open old wounds

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

The mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.

[3,7k words]

cw: angst, smut, piv sex

they say don't open old wounds

but this is still brand new

and I've got nothing left to lose besides you

and I've already lost you once

what more could you do?

they say don't open old wounds

but I want to

PVRIS - old wounds

It had been months since you joined the 141, months of missions that pushed you to the edge, missions that forged an unexpected bond with your team. A sense of mutual respect and care for each other, a blend of professionalism and camaraderie that softened the harsh realities of the work you did. Soap was always ready with a joke, Gaz offered tactical insights and support, Price kept a watchful eye on your well-being — but Ghost… Ghost remained an enigma. Shrouded in mystery. He rarely spoke more than a grunt or a clipped command, the complete opposite to the warmth of the others.

He was the same hidden figure, strict and cold, like he had been a few years ago when you had the honour of being trained by him and Captain Price. He was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a cipher you hadn't even intended to attempt to crack, yet the easy familiarity with which the others interacted with him, offering their vulnerabilities to someone who resembled Death himself without a second thought, left you constantly bewildered. You needed to know more. How could they trust someone implicitly who was hidden behind a mask, someone whose past remained a blank slate?

He could be anyone, a traitor in their midst, and no one would know. You shook your head, catching yourself staring yet again, your gaze tracing the lines of the thick skull sewn to his balaclava, desperately trying to find a flicker of the man beneath.

Missions blurred into weeks, then months, and the uneasy feeling just didn’t let go. You had an eye of him always, your gut telling you to, but you found something different than you were hoping for.

It began with small, almost imperceptible observations that chipped away at the carefully constructed wall of Ghost’s persona. Subtle movements, like the precise, almost ritualistic way he adjusted his gloves like he had always done; a subtle tilt of his head as he listened, mirroring his thoughtful pose from years ago. The way he favoured the knife in the strap on his left, like he had always shown off his favourite weapon to you, shown you how to use it to defend yourself if you ever had to grab it from him. The subtle shift in his breathing when under stress, something he tried to conceal but you recognized it with an unnerving familiarity.

You’d catch yourself staring, again and again, searching for something, anything, beneath that mask to prove your mind wrong — or right.

You scoffed at yourself, pushing the thoughts away. Wishful thinking. Ridiculous. Simon was gone. He is and always will be.

It was your mind playing tricks on you, you reasoned, grasping for closure. You were back in the field, surrounded by danger, by ghosts of your past. Of course, you’d see him in every shadow, hear his voice in every whisper of the wind. Your heart, starved for the his presence, filled the void with illusions.

But you couldn’t help it. The mask. A blank canvas that taunted you, allowed your mind to paint his face onto it a million times over, feeding your impossible, unrealistic hopes with the absurdity of ever seeing him again.

Then, a mission had gone sideways. A sudden ambush, a chaotic scramble for cover. Shots were exchanged, but the target was hit, the job done. But in the chaos, you’d gotten separated from the team, wandering some endless fields, unsuccessfully trying to contact anyone through the deafening static of your radio.

Suddenly, you saw him — Ghost, slumped against the rough-hewn timbers of an abandoned barn, a gash bleeding freely on his forearm beneath the torn fabric of his jacket.

Adrenaline surging, you raced towards him, your medic instincts taking over. 

Inside the barn, the air was thick with the scent of dust and hay. Ghost leaned against the bales and exhaled loudly, avoiding looking at you.

You carefully set down your rifle in the hay. “We have to wait here and hope we can contact the others. Comms are down.”

No response.

“Let me look at the wound, Lieutenant.” Not a question, but a command, softened by the implicit understanding that he couldn’t afford to ignore the wound, not now, not while still being out in the field.

You knelt beside him, your hands already moving to assess the damage. “Fuck,” he swore, the word muffled by the mask. You assumed it was the pain, but later you would understand the true reason behind the swearing.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, your focus narrowing to the task at hand. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.” You pressed an alcohol-soaked cotton against the wound, retrieved form your medkit, your touch surprisingly steady despite the frantic beating of your heart. Even through the layers of his tactical gear, you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Something about the feel of him, the solid weight of his body against yours as you leaned in to examine the wound, sparked a disconcerting sense of déjà vu. Stop it, you berated yourself. This is not the time.

All those times he'd been around you, he’d kept his distance, interactions brief, clipped, professional. But now, trapped with you in the suffocating silence of the barn, with nowhere to run, no excuses to offer, no escape from your touch, his carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble, inch by agonizing inch. With your hands on him, gentle and caring as they had been countless times before —

You heard the thud of his helmet hitting the ground, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he shifted, loosening your hold on his arm. “You need to hold still, sir.”

And then you heard it. Your name. Not your call sign, not the impersonal formality of military protocol, but your name. Whispered with the same cadence like it had been in your dreams, and you were sure fatigue had finally driven you beyond sanity. 

Your blood ran cold. No. It couldn't be. He’s gone. It was impossible. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare. He is not here.

But when you turned, you froze. You looked at a ghost. Not the Ghost, but that ghost from your past that had haunted your every single waking moment, your dreams, your nightmares. It had been stalking you, mocking you, reminding you of a love lost and irrevocably buried. The ghost with its dirty blond hair and scarred face and hazel brown eyes.

Simon.

The man who had stolen your heart, then shattered it with his sudden, unexplained disappearance. 

A strangled sob tore through you, the sound raw with disbelief, with years of suppressed grief.

A torrent of emotions washed over you – shock, denial, a resurgence of a love you thought long buried, a burning anger at his deception, at the years of silence, of unanswered questions. “Why?” you choked out, the word laced with accusation. “Why, Simon? All this time… we were here. Together. You knew.”

He winced, his gaze dropping to his injured arm, unable to meet the intensity of your gaze.  “I… I couldn't risk it,” he murmured, the words a strained whisper. “Risk you.” 

A wave of nausea washed over you. He knew. All those stolen glances, the way you always gravitated towards him—he'd known. The realization struck you, and fury warred with the irrational surge of joy. Alive. But he chose this. Chose to hide, to let you grieve.

“The things I've done…” His voice cracked, the weight of his secrets heavy in the air. “…The things I had to do…” He met your gaze, bracing himself for the storm of your anger. “I couldn't risk you getting hurt.” A weak excuse, a pathetic justification, but the only truth he could offer. 

Shame burned in his gaze, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he’d lost you, before you even had the chance to find each other again. The anger, the hurt, the unanswered questions — he saw it all swirling within you.

“Hurt?” The word was hollow, edged with bitterness. “You left me to rot in hell for seven years, wondering if you were even alive, and you talk about hurt? You were here, Simon. You even trained me!” He flinched at the pain in your voice, a pain he inflicted. Something he deserved, not you.

You felt a flash of anger towards Price, who had kept this from you, knowing how much Simon’s disappearance wrecked you. But you also knew that Price, above all else, was loyal to his men. 

“I know what you're thinking,” he whispered. “I asked them to keep it from you. I asked them not to say my name around you… I thought… it would be easier.” He knew now how wrong he'd been. How could he not know? How selfish and misguided this attempt at keeping you safe had been. He was supposed to protect you, not hurt you. “If you’re angry, be angry at me.” He was the only one to blame. It was never up to his comrades to take this weight off his shoulders. 

Then suddenly, he closed the distance between you, and his hand, trembling, cupped your cheek. A jolt, a spark, in the desolate wasteland of his guilt. Your skin, soft and warm beneath his fingertips. A reminder of everything he’d lost. Everything he risked losing again by revealing himself.

No. Your mind screamed in protest, wanting to pull away from the unwelcome tenderness. Don't you dare forgive him. But the words remained unspoken. His thumb gently stroked your skin, a familiar caress, and a sob escaped your lips. This is wrong. He hurt you. But the voice of reason was a faint whisper against the roaring tide of longing. Your hands trembled, wanting to push him away, to distance yourself, anything but this aching tenderness. But at the same time, you wanted nothing more to feel him.

“I don’t want to be angry,” your hand found its place above his on your cheek. “Just… tell me why, Simon? Why?”

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, his lips found yours, a kiss that was both a question and an answer, a desperate, hungry reconnection of two souls separated by time and circumstance. 

He knew you’d push him away, he expected it, he deserved it. But he needed this, this moment of contact, the fleeting taste of a past he had thought was lost forever. He had been dreaming of this moment for too long, torturing himself with imagined reunions, each encounter an agonizing exercise in self-control. Every time you were near, he’d shackled himself mentally, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach for you, to touch you, to scream at you that he is alive and yours, and to beg for your forgiveness.

Your lips on his were like watering a withered flower that his heart had turned into, dry and shrivelled, unable to let love close if it wasn’t yours. He’d sworn never to love again when he left, believing it was that easy, believing it was the only way to protect you.

He had hoped that each mission and kill helped to bury his heart and his emotions until there was nothing left but death. Bury the part of himself that yearned for you, that ached for your touch, and leave only the Ghost behind.

But then you were there. On his team. You stood before him, more beautiful than he remembered, your long hair braided back, your uniform hugging your curves, a vision that made his breath catch in his throat. He could have died then and there, content to simply exist in the same space as you, to breathe the same air.

And with your return, so was he, whether he wanted to or not. He was powerless against you. Simon Riley, the man who loved you, resurfaced from beneath the mask, shattering the carefully constructed illusion he'd built around himself. 

The moment he dreaded haunted his work now, and he considered running, again. Leave the team, like a dog with its tail between its legs, give up and run from his past.

But Price had promised him that he wouldn’t tell you, if he stayed. He had almost begged him not to run again, knowing his past and his pain, and somewhere, he knew Price was right. He needed them. And he realized he needed you.

From then, he cherished every moment with you together, and it pained him to be so harsh to you. But he had to be, afraid the mask would slip, literally. Conversations cut short, orders barked, the subtle flinch in your eyes when his voice cut through the air — each interaction was a battle, a constant war against the overwhelming urge to reach out, to soothe the hurt he knew he was inflicting, to pull you close and beg you to forgive him.

And now, with your hands on him, so gentle and caring, the dam had finally broken. He couldn’t bear it any longer, this agonizing distance from you.

And your lips, so sweet and so soft, like no time had passed at all, they were his salvation, his damnation, his only hope of redemption.

A sigh left your body, distorted from the sobs, and he pressed your face closer to him. He never wanted to let go anymore. Never again.

He still expected you to push him away, to be angry, to unleash your wrath upon him for abandoning you — but you didn’t. Your hands touched every single inch of skin that was exposed, and he didn’t stop you.

He was ashamed of the relief that flooded through him, ashamed of the way his body responded to your touch, ashamed that he dared to enjoy this moment, a moment that should never have existed, a moment born of his lies and his carefully constructed deceptions. Then your hands cupped his length through his jeans, and an unexpected groan escaped his lips. 

He should stop you. You should be furious. You shouldn’t be rewarding him for the years of silence, for the agonizing absence that had left a gaping wound in your life. But the moment your hand touched him through the fabric, every carefully constructed defense crumbled to dust. He was lost.

“Show me you’re real, Si,” you whispered against his jaw, your lips leaving a hot, wet trail along his stubble, your hips pressing against his thighs, the friction igniting a fire in his blood. “Show me… I need… I need to know this is real.”

How could he deny you? How could he deny himself this one moment of reckless abandon, this one chance to reclaim a piece of the past he had so carelessly thrown away?

“Are you sure?” 

He felt the zip of his jeans slide down, heard the quiet clink of his discarded weapons against the hay. He felt you nudging his thighs open, a sense of anticipation coursing through his blood like pure, electric adrenaline.

“I don’t know.” You whispered, looking up at him. Your sight was blurry from the tears, but you saw real concern in his eyes. Mixed with confusion. He had expected you to react differently, you were sure of that. 

If this was just a fever dream, a hallucination conjured by a mind desperate for solace, then so be it. You would savor every moment, every touch, every stolen kiss, before the inevitable awakening, before the cruel return to reality.

You kissed him again, your hand now firmly stroking him, the familiar texture of his skin, the throb of his arousal beneath your palm, sending a wave of heat through you. His hands found their way beneath your uniform, slowly pushing your pants down as far as your position allowed, and the catch in your breath when his touch found your centre was his undoing. The small, shuddering breath that passed through your body, an unconscious reaction to his finger as it played against your sweet spot. And he felt the blood rush to his cock, hardening it, causing it to ache with a need he hadn't felt in years.

You crawled closer onto his thighs and slowly eased yourself onto his waiting length, and that puzzle that was Ghost, the unsolvable mystery, finally clicked into place, a puzzle piece finding its perfect fit, making you both whole.

The world around you ceased to exist. It was just you and him and nothing else. The wound and blood were long forgotten. If there were enemies outside, you didn’t care. You could die right then and there, if it meant you were in your lovers arms for all eternity and beyond.

The stretch of his cock inside your sensetive walls was pure bliss, and you sighed into his neck. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Just you. Always you.” You whispered in confession, and you earned a groan in return.

“I swore to never love again,” he murmured against your hair, as he began to move inside you, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. “And then,” a hard thrust, a gasp escaping your lips, “you were right there again. Fuck.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his uniform as he moved within you. The rhythm was both familiar and achingly new, years of longing poured into every thrust. The feel of him, solid and real, chased away the ghosts of the past, the years of wondering, of imagining, of hoping. This was real. He was here.

You sobbed, a mixture of relief and the lingering sting of betrayal, and he responded with a guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath, hot and ragged against your skin, mingled with incoherent apologies whispered against your ear.

“Si…” you breathed, his name a prayer, a plea, a reaffirmation of a love that had endured despite the years of silence and pain.

His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your rhythm to match his, the friction building and building. It wasn't just the physical pleasure, though it was like a white-hot fire spreading through you; it was the reconnection, the desperate need to erase the years of separation, to meld back into the person you were before he disappeared. 

“I missed you,” he groaned. “So fucking much.”

“Me too,” you whispered back, the tears you thought you'd cried out returning.

The world narrowed, shrinking down to the feel of his clothed body against yours, the heat of his breath, the relentless rhythm that was driving you both toward the edge. 

There was no pretense, no holding back. Just the raw need to be close, to reconnect, to find solace in each other's arms after so long apart, even with the limitations imposed by the circumstances.

You arched into him, the friction of clothing against skin a delicious torment, and a wave of pleasure ripped through you. His grip tightened, and his name tore from your throat as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you, shattered you, dragging you under.

He followed close behind, his release a shuddering groan against your ear, his length pulsing inside you. For a long moment, you just held each other, hearts pounding, breaths ragged, the silence broken only by the occasional shuddering sigh. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t poetic. It was messy, desperate, and utterly perfect.

Even as the aftershocks subsided, you kept your eyes closed, clinging to the warmth of his embrace, afraid to break the spell, terrified that opening them would erase him again, that this precious moment would dissolve into the cruel, cold reality of his absence. You felt a kiss on your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a pang of fear through you. Was he going to leave again? 

But he didn't move.

“I’m so sorry, love” he whispered, his voice ragged, breath warm against your skin. “Please… look at me.”

You opened your eyes, your gaze locking with his. Scarred skin, hazel eyes filled with remorse, but also with an unmistakable love.

He was still there.

He hadn’t disappeared.

He didn’t walk away.

“I promise,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, “I won't ever leave you again.”

You clung to his words, your heart swelling with a cautious hope. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but his eyes held yours. Watching you these past months, your strength, your resilience in the face of unimaginable danger, revealed a simple truth that would strip him of any excuses not to tell you. You were stronger than he’d given you credit for, stronger than even he had believed. You deserved the truth, no matter how dark, no matter how painful. And he would give it to you. He swore it to himself.

 “I will.”

“Bravo Six… in the blind… you… copy?” The radio crackled, a jarring intrusion into the fragile intimacy of the moment. He reached for it immediately. 

“Bravo Six, this is Ghost. We're in the blind. What's your status?” 

His voice, when he responded to Price, was still tinged with the softness you’d heard only moments before, a subtle reassurance that despite the return of the impersonal detachment, despite the mask he wore for the world, for his team, he was still there, somewhere beneath the surface.

“When we go back,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the static of the radio, laced with a vulnerability you hadn’t intended to reveal, “…when Ghost comes back,” you corrected yourself, the words catching in your throat, “will I still have… Simon?” 

He paused, his hand hovering over the radio, his gaze locking with yours. “You, always,” he said, without any hesitation. “And I promise,” he added, his voice softening, the warmth of him breaking through, “I'll help you understand… Ghost.”

He would reveal the darkness, the secrets, the pain that had driven him to become the masked soldier. He would trust you with the broken pieces of himself, the fragments he’d kept hidden for so long. He owed you that much, if not more. 

He’d give you every little piece of him he could offer.

[quarterlifekitty]

“Just the tip”

cw: includes some dubcon/noncon depending on interpretation

Gaz is saying it to tease you when he’s just barely inside of you. “Is that enough for you, love?” He can feel you pulse around him as you whine, just short of begging.

Soap is saying it when he’s drunk, you’re drunk, and you definitely shouldn’t be doing it. He’s promising you don’t have the go all the way— just a little, just to help him get it out of his system, ok?

Ghost is just straight up tricking you. Told you he’d take it slow tonight, but then he snaps his hips against yours so hard that your ass flesh of your ass ripples. “Can’t believe you keep fallin’ for that one, birdie.”

Price is condescending as all hell. He’s talking to you in that babying way when you’re horny and desperate. “Just the tip— that’s all she needs, yeah? This sweet little pussy… Aw, does that feel better, darl’?”

König really meant it in the moment that he said it. He knows you’re anxious about taking him— and for good reason. But once he finds himself inside, how is he supposed to resist? You’re just too sweet. Too warm. Too wet. Too tight. Too breathtaking beneath him. He’s only a man, leibling.

[lorilane33]

Oh Simon 🫠😏🥰 you big lug

in case you missed it, little add on to this idea where Simon decides you’re his wife

When the Captain first overhears tidbits about how his Lieutenant is supposedly giving the newest recruits an especially hard time, he chuckles to himself, thinking that it isn’t anything they can’t handle, not if they’re going to make it in this line of work anyway

But then he catches the end of a conversation between two medics, complaining about how they’ve never had to tend to so many injuries from the rookies in training before, and he thinks maybe Ghost was having an off day at the time, needed to let off some steam, no real harm done in the end

Which is strange though, when one of his sergeants comes whining about how ‘LT’s gone right soft, pure gallus! One bonnie lass was all it took and he’s now got manners, ya ken! Absolutely braw sight I tell ya, Cupid’s arrow stickin’ out of his arse-’

Price wasn’t even entirely sure Simon knew how to use his cell phone, surprised to find him suddenly glued to the device, answering only for a specific chime, but always answering instantly when it went off

It isn’t all that long however, until Price walks into his office one day and finds Ghost already sat at his desk and waiting for him, wanting to know more about marital leave, and benefits for spouses, and how soon could the Captain become ordained because there’s a ceremony he’d like him to officiate soon if he wouldn’t mind-

You’re especially confused when the guard who checks your ID at the gate each morning tells you ‘Congratulations by the way, Mrs Riley’ as he hands you a new pass that- sure enough- has Riley written as your last name

Series masterlist

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

Construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

tws: death of a parent, suicidal ideation, abuse/harassment, self inflicted burn (sh), trauma

chapter 1

word count: 1.2k

Even when you were nestled in your mother's warm belly, coddled by her own blood and flesh, you could tell you were a burden. A miracle, the doctors said when you were born. Your mother's heart stopped beating for 4 minutes while in labor—vital to a fetus and its host. The miracle was the baby bathed in blood and mucus, not the lifeless mother, puckered and pearl.

You didn’t cry when you were born, too occupied trying to get your walnut-sized heart to betray you, set you free of the hell you’d just begun.

You were never a child who cried for attention. Instead, you swallowed your sounds, held your breath, and watched the world through the lens of someone who wasn’t meant to stay. The hole in the shape of a woman you never met was always there, a mark left in the silence—a picture on the wood-paneled wall. Belly swollen, smile wide. No stories to tell, no lullabies, no warmth from the one person who was supposed to make you feel like you belonged.

Instead, it was just the quiet hum of a broken home, where nothing was ever whole enough to be considered sound.

The nurses said you were a fighter, wrapped in white cotton and a pink cap. You survived the nightmare. You were strong.

But strength doesn’t mean survival, does it? It just means you keep waking up. And waking up—day after day—feels more like a punishment.

You spilled coffee down your shirt today. It seared into your skin and left it hot and freckled. Ronny coughed a whiskey-smelling bark into your face when you stammered into the kitchen with water in your eyes and a half-empty coffee pot trembling in your hand. You felt the pull, the familiar flicker in your neck—small but sharp, like a wire snapping in your spine. It tugged your head to the side before you could stop it. Ronny’s face twisted, his lip curling around the cigarette as though your body’s rebellion were some kind of offense. You watched through blurred vision as he slapped a damp rag against your chest and snarled Clean yourself up, bitch through his cigarette before brushing past you, too close to be accidental. You keep your eyes on the streaked linoleum and mutter an apology.

“Blue, honey,” Olive gasped through the doorway, rushing in and plucking the pot from your shaking hand as though it might shatter, “Are you alright?”

You nodded, shallowing back shards of glass. If you tried to speak, you knew it would come out warbly and wet. The buzz radiated under the damp rag like it wanted to remind you it was there, that you were here. Alive, maybe. Existing, at least.

She steered you into the employee bathroom, the fluorescent light hissing overhead like an unwelcome witness. Perched on the cold, cracked toilet seat, you felt her fingers hastily unbuttoning the top four pins of your blouse. When she saw the angry red blooming across your collarbone and down to your breasts, she winced as if the burn had somehow reached out and burned her too.

Twenty-five minutes and half a roll of gauze later, you were back on your heels, tray in hand, weaving through the diner like a ghost. Grease clung in the air, mixing with the sting of antiseptic rising from your skin. You didn’t glance at Ronny as you passed, but the weight of his eyes was enough of a reminder that he was there.

By 11, the diner was mostly empty, its silence broken only by the occasional clatter of a spoon against porcelain. Three regulars slouched over the bar like wilted plants, nursing their coffees and bacon, while two new faces lingered in the shadows of the back corner.

Olive had locked out at 8, leaving the newcomers to your care. Their eyes snapped to the bandages the moment you approached, their stares like tiny spotlights burning through your sticky skin.

You tugged at the puppet strings of your face, drawing your lips into a smile that felt brittle enough to crack. “Hi. What can I get for you guys?”

Their dirtied hands moved in unison, flipping through the laminated menus with a sound like shuffling paper. Both men hummed, low and indecisive, until the one with the prickly, dark mohawk spoke first.

“I’ll tek ah ham n’ cheese toastie, and some orange juice, bonnie,” he chirped, his voice thick with a Scottish accent, coarse as gravel. His crooked smile curled like a frayed ribbon across his chapped lips, his eyes lingering on your bandages for a beat too long before snapping back to the menu.

“And I’ll jus’ ‘ave a cuppa, light an’ sweet,” the blond huffed in a British accent, his dirt-covered palms sliding the menus across the counter.

“Those will be right out for you,” you say with a small smile before retreating to the back to put in their orders.

Rain taps a steady rhythm on the metal roof as you wait for Tony, the cook, to finish. Glancing out the window, you watch the downpour drench the empty lot. The walk home is going to suck. Of course, you don’t even have an umbrella.

The food bell rings and you're quickly balancing a plate in one hand and their drinks in another. The toastie sizzled on the plate as you slid it in front of the mohawk man—Johnny, you decided, based on the stitched patch on his jacket. The mug landed gently in front of the blond, whose tag says Riley. His eyes flickered up at you as if weighing something, but he said nothing. Johnny didn’t bother hiding his stare.

“Yer chest,” he started, jerking his chin toward the gauze peeking from your blouse. “Looks nasty. Burn?”

Your hand hovered on the edge of the table, fingers tightening around the curve like it might anchor you. For a moment, the words sat heavily on your tongue, like pills you were too afraid to swallow.

“Just an accident,” you muttered, the smile on your lips wilting at the edges.

“That so?” Johnny leaned back, his yellow construction jacket creaking as he shifted. His accent softened, as though he was testing the weight of your lie. “Guess this place gets rougher than it looks, eh?”

You huff out a laugh that makes your sternum stutter like a kindergartner on the first day of school.

Riley—the blond—stirred sugar into his coffee with slow, deliberate motions. His gaze is like a dagger, the blade barely nicking your skin. Johnny’s stare doesn't let go either. He’s waiting for more, expecting more—like it’s not enough. You can feel the tick of the words in your neck, the way they press against your skin like a bruise.

Before you can stop it, you feel the familiar flicker—a twitch, a sharp pull that catches your breath. Your head jerks sideways, and you hear the strange, strangled sound of a laugh—an involuntary, sharp noise escaping you, even though it isn’t funny. You want to shove it back down and swallow it back inside you, but it’s out there, splintered in the air between you.

Riley doesn’t seem surprised. His eyes flicker between you and Johnny, an unreadable expression passing over his face. You know he’s noticed. They both have.

But then the tension, thick and bruising, is broken by the shuffle of feet behind you as another customer slides into a booth. You feel the burn of their stares fade just as quickly as it came, but the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade. Still, your hands shake as you back away, your smile a brittle thing you have to patch together before you disappear back into the shadows of the diner, pleading for Tony to hand them the check

[callmecoke]

sugar baby headcanons!

CW: Mention of sex work, This is sfw generally but still deals with adult topics so proceed with caution.

Tf141 x reader

What you’ve realised about your favourite mystery account is that A) it's run by multiple people, and B) At least one of them is called Price.

You can’t exactly pinpoint who the rest are or how many, but you’ve managed to identify a few common themes when interacting with the account.

First, you know who Price is, and you can almost always tell it's him when he’s interacting with you. He’s the one you go to first regarding bills and fees you physically can’t pay. Within seconds, he transfers you the money and never lets you thank him for any of it. He also does his weekly check-ins to make sure everything is good. “Have you eaten?” “How’d you sleep?” “Did you take your meds last night?” That kind of thing. He’s also the one who calls you ‘Dolly’, a nickname he reserved for you. 

But you're also pretty sure this other guy (Simon) lurks in the chat when you’re streaming. He won’t ask questions; he just sends you random tips throughout the stream while he watches silently. He’s not as talkative as Price or the others, and that’s kind of how you know it's him. But you’ve realised that just because he’s quiet doesn't mean he doesn't want to talk. It’s quite the opposite. He enjoys hearing you talk about your life and day and silently rewards you. When you DM him, you even get a little conversation. Nothing more than money and a “Nice”, but still conversation nonetheless.

You know one other fellow spends most of his time in the livestreams and not in your DMs (Gaz). He’s the one who engages with you in conversation the most, asking endless questions about your life. And he always comes back on the next live stream, remembering everything you said in the last. He’ll want the update on that project you were working on for school or if that job interview went as well as you both had hoped. If you weren’t Live to complete strangers, you’d probably open up to him about stuff you’ve never told anyone.

Now…One more person shows up now and again, mainly in your DMs. Part of the service for the website is that people can pay you to take a selfie and give it to them. They can be dirty or completely innocent; it all depends on what you’re advertising. There’s this one person who rather frequently asks for pictures of you, especially those with you smiling. You know it’s a different guy from the others you’ve spotted because he’s the only one who's outright flirtatious with you. Initially, you were wary. A man spending a lot of money on pictures of your face and upper body just screams trouble. But you grew to trust the account, so when you sent them the image, you were surprised by how quickly he showered you with praise.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ll give a strong man a heart attack walking around that gorgous.”

“Makes me wonder how cute you look in person.” “I’m surprised no ones come along and snatched you up all ready. Can’t complain though. Means I get more of you to myself.”

You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a slight blush on your cheeks after reading his responses.