#COD MW fanfic

[nastybuckybarnes]

Street Mouse

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader

Summary:

Warnings: Language, Violence, Minor Angst, Hinted attempted assault, fluff, military inaccuracies (teehee)

Word Count: 2.3K

A/n: i've got a whole bunch written for this pairing, and i might make some hc explanations. I've never played COD, sue me. I hope y'all enjoy and I'm gonna probably keep pumping out more parts of this cause i love love love it.

~*~

The distant sound of gunshots is akin to a lullaby now.

You're curled up in a rundown building, a tattered blanket draped over your legs as you try to get some rest.

The sound of more gunshots, these ones much closer, jolt you upright.

Risking a glance out the broken window, you peer down at the street below you, eyes widening as you see two men fighting intensely.

Your heart jumps into your throat at the display, and you can't tear your eyes away.

Eventually, the larger of the two plunges a knife into the smaller man, watching as his body crumples to the ground in a heap.

A shiver races down Simon's back, and he straightens, eyes carefully scanning the area for danger.

He turns around, glancing into each window before finally resting on the eyes he could feel piercing through his gear. His hand twitches toward one of the many weapons strapped to his body, but something about the wild curiosity in her eyes has him pausing.

You hold his gaze, unblinking and absolutely entranced.

He's a huge man, with a skull mask covering his face. Only his eyes are visible, and they all but gaze through your soul. He holds the staring contest, turning to face you fully until there's a soft grunt from behind him.

He glances over his shoulder as his comrade comes into view, and when he glances back at the building, you're gone.

He turns back to Soap slowly, risking one more glance over his shoulder, but it's as if you were never there in the first place.

"What is it? Ya see somethin', Lt?"

Ghost says nothing, only starts heading back the way he came, pausing to rid the corpse on the street of the weapons he was carrying.

You slowly peek out the window again, watching as the two disappear into the darkness of the night.

For weeks, maybe months, the country you now call home has been war-torn.

Schools have long since shut down, and the majority of the population has fled to find refuge elsewhere.

Which makes it a perfect place to hide.

And even though you know you should be keeping a low profile, you can't help but be intrigued by the skull-faced man.

And so you begin to follow him.

The streets are familiar now, as are the schedules of the soldiers and the hostiles.

Which is how you find yourself here.

You're not dumb enough to follow him onto the base or anywhere near it, but in the city when he's on patrol, those hours are all yours to observe.

Your curiosity does have you venturing farther outside of your comfort zone than you normally would, but it pays off every time your eyes meet.

And he's not oblivious to the new eyes that seem to be following him whenever he's in the city. Sure, he's gotten used to the locals staring whenever any of them walk through the streets, but these eyes aren't afraid or hostile. No, these ones are curious. Excited.

The next time he feels the gaze on him, he's outside at just past one in the morning, puffing on a cigarette in one of the few safer areas of the city. Goosebumps rise on his skin and he flicks the end of his cigarette, watching as the ash floats to the ground.

"As much as you try, you're not going to sneak up on me," He says softly, flicking his cigarette onto the ground and crushing it with the steel toe of his boot.

You say nothing, only watch curiously from the second floor of the house he's leaning against.

He turns around, backing up a few paces as his eyes dart from window to window, searching for your face until finally, they land on you.

"Show yourself."

You cock your head to the side, eyes shining in the moonlight.

"Come on, I won't hurt you, but I won't ask again," he warns.

A little grin pulls at your lips and you lean forward in the moonlight, not enough to fully show yourself, but enough for him to see the outline of your face.

You shake your head at him and bring your hand up to the side of your head. With your pointer and middle finger extended, you curl your ring and pinky finger in, pointing the faux gun at your head.

'Bang,' you mouth, knocking your head to the side dramatically.

Ghost lets out a breathy chuckle at your theatrics, his hands resting on his tactical belt.

"Why have you been following me?" He finally asks.

He's not one to second guess himself, not after all he's seen, all that he's endured. But he has to give you credit - you made him question his sanity for a day or two there.

Knowing that you're real, that someone has, in fact, been following him, puts his mind at ease.

You give him a soft smile then lean forward and press your lips to the glass.

He stares at the kiss mark left on the window, traces the soft pink mark with his eyes and then looks back up to where your eyes were, only to find that you've disappeared once again.

Simon Riley is a man who prides himself on his attention to detail, his situational awareness. But he cannot, for the life of him, understand how you manage to disappear into thin air like that.

This starts happening more and more frequently. Little run-ins, kisses left on windows, your twinkling eyes in the pale moonlight.

It's gotten to the point where he volunteers to go out on patrol if only for the possibility of catching a glimpse of your pretty eyes hidden between shadows.

And soon enough, the drawings start to appear.

The first one is drawn on a window, and he doesn't even notice it. Soap is the one who points it out.

"Look, Lt, looks like you've got a fan," he says, pointing to the window across the ally.

He glances over, following Soap's finger, and his brows raise.

On the window, drawn in what looks like marker, is a skull that matches the hard-plated mask on his face.

He scoffs, but deep down, he knows exactly who put that there. His suspicions are confirmed when he catches a lightning-quick glimpse of your eyes peeking through the curtains.

He starts seeing them more often. It surprises him how you manage to get into some of the most dangerous parts of the city and leave nothing but a skull drawing behind.

What really gets him, however, is one particular day, when they're tasked with a particular assignment.

Hostage rescue.

But the exact location of the hostages is unknown.

That is, until he notices little skulls drawn on the windows of one building. More skulls than he's ever seen you draw before.

Trusting his gut, he nods toward the building, signalling for his team to follow him as he approaches.

Sure enough, the skulls lead them better than breadcrumbs exactly to the hostages, and the hostiles are taken out quickly.

"How did you know it was this one?" Gaz asks once the building is secure, leaning outside with his Lieutenant as he lights up a cigarette.

He takes a long drag from it the blows out a cloud of smoke, his eyes flickering around in search of his helper.

"A little mouse told me," is his reply.

Never one to question his Lt, Gaz only nods and heads back inside to meet up with Soap.

As he smokes, Ghost notices a small piece of paper fluttering in the wind, half hidden beneath a rock on the ground.

Crouching down, he picks it up and unfolds it, scoffing out a chuckle.

On it is none other than one of your signature skulls. His little Banksy.

With his cigarette tucked between his lips, he grabs a pen from his breast pocket and scribbles down a half-assed picture on the paper, then tucks it beneath the rock one more time.

Though he can't see you, he knows you're nearby. He can feel your ever-present gaze.

"Ghost! Let's go!" Price calls from inside.

Tossing his cigarette onto the ground, Ghost turns on his heel and heads back inside to meet up with his team.

His back is turned for what feels like only seconds, but when he glances over his shoulder to check on the paper it's already gone.

~*~

You don't see the man with the skull face for a while after that, but you keep his drawing on you at all times.

It serves as a pleasant little reminder that life isn't so bad. Not all the time.

Your thoughts are shattered when you bump into a hard chest, tumbling to the ground with a grunt.

The night may be dark, but the moon shines brightly enough above you to illuminate the back alley you were sneaking through.

"Well, well, boys. Look what we've got here," the man says, a sick grin on his face.

He wears a similar uniform that your skull-faced soldier does, but this man's eyes are sick and snake-like. They send a shudder racing down your spine as you scramble back, scraping your hands on the ground until your back hits a wall.

"It's a long time past curfew, sweet cheeks. What're you doing out so late?" The ringleader asks, stepping closer to tower over you while his comrades circle around you, leaving you with no escape.

One of them grabs your arms and yanks you to your feet in front of them, and your heart almost jumps out of your chest.

The leader drags a dirty finger down your cheek, his brows drawing together when you yank your head back.

"I asked you a question, bitch," he snarls, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to keep your head where he wants it.

You glare up at him, then spit directly in his face, watching with satisfaction as he flinches back.

He chuckles after a moment, squeezing your face harder and glancing at his friends.

"Looks like we've got a fighter. That's okay, we know what to do with those, don't we, boys?" He asks.

This elicits chuckles from the men around you, and you feel your stomach drop.

"Do we?"

The voice is like the crack of a whip in a still room, and the laughter stops immediately.

The men beside you straighten up, hands coming up in salute.

Like water dousing a flame, you feel some of your fear ease at the newcomer.

"Tell me, Corporal, just what might we do with those?" Ghost asks, stepping out of the shadows.

"Lieutenant! We were just... this street rat was out past curfew," the man holding your chin tries to reason, quickly dropping your face.

Ghost nods, looking between the men, his eyes scanning over their names before finally resting on your eyes.

"This is what you lot spend your nights doing? Terrorizing the locals? The people we're supposed to be helping?" He asks, stepping even closer.

The tension grows thick, and you watch as the man in front of you turns around to face his superior.

Ghost chuckles dryly, the sound lacking any humour.

"You know bloody well what we do to terrorists, Corporal," he whispers, his voice deadly, dangerous.

"Now, would you care to explain to me what exactly you were doing to this nice young lady?" He asks again.

You stare up at his icy blue eyes as he makes the man cower, absolutely bewildered and warm inside.

"She's out past curfew," the Corporal tries again, his voice whiny and afraid.

Ghost nods, "and if I remember correctly, we give the citizens a warning and escort them home, we don't corner them against a wall and try to have our way with them. Or did you miss that day of training?"

The soldier's mouth opens and closes several times, but Ghost stays stoically staring at him, gaze sharp enough to kill.

"I asked you a question, Corporal, and I expect an answer!" He snarls, stepping into the man's personal space.

"There's a place for scum like you, and it's not on my team. You're removed, go back to base." His eyes find the other men, "if I ever catch you lot in the city pulling a stunt like this again, I won't be so forgiving. Dismissed."

With that final word, the three men all but sprint away, leaving you alone with the man who's consumed your every thought for the past several weeks.

He watches the men leave, and you're tempted to make your escape.

As if reading your mind, his gaze snaps back to you and his head cocks to the side.

"Even you can't go everywhere unseen, can you, mouse?" He asks.

You blink up at him, your heart racing in your chest.

He watches you for a moment longer, his brows drawing together.

"You speak English?"

You blink up at him again and he sighs, "Christ."

Slowly, you reach into the pocket of your sweater and pull out a piece of paper, opening it up and showing it to him.

His lips twitch upward when he sees his scribbled mouse next to the skull you've drawn.

"Mouse," you whisper, touching the paper.

He nods, pointing to the little drawing.

"Mouse. S'what you are. Quick, hard to catch."

You cock your head to the side and he takes that moment to take you in.

Since that first day, he's imagined what you look like, what you really look like, and he has to admit, he's not disappointed.

You're pretty, lovely even. If circumstances were different... if he were to see you in a bar, he might buy you a drink, ask for your number.

But you're a local, a street mouse, and he's here on business.

He gently pushes the paper back into your grasp and takes a small step back.

"You keep yourself safe. Try to stay out of the streets after curfew." He turns his back to you and takes a step away, then pauses.

"Or at least don't get caught."

[sentientcave]

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Read on AO3

Chapter 3- Busted

<Prev Chapter -

Contains: OC x Gaz, Lorelai "Rory" "Scout" Blackmoore-Price, Age gap romance (Scout is roughly 25), Annoying old men, Schemes and Plots, Mentions of John Price's many divorces, Poor decisions, alcohol mention, embarrassing conversations with a parent, Brandon (Derogative), Inadvisable Flirting x2 electric boogaloo, Gaz does not know what he wants and he makes it everyone elses problem

~6.4k - 18+ Only - MDNI

“Mornin’, Scout. Goin’ for a run?”

Rory screwed the top onto her water bottle and turned slowly, frowning at Gaz. He was, for some unfathomable reason, dressed for a run himself, and grinning a little too widely. “Uh. Yeah.”

“I’ll join you.” Not even an ask, just an statement. “See if you can keep up with me.”

Rory really didn’t like the purr of suggestion in his voice. That spelled trouble. “Listen, you—”

“Good morning,” John said, clapping Gaz on the shoulder as he came into the kitchen. He gave Scout a half hug and kissed the top of her head.

“When did you get in?” Rory asked. “I didn’t hear the door.”

“Late. Things didn’t work out with Carrie, so I went back to base to do some paperwork and debrief Soap and the kids when they got in.” He shrugged. “Go have your run, if you’re feelin’ nosy I’ll tell you over breakfast when you get back.”

“Alright. I’m probably not going to feel nosy, but I look forward to you telling me anyway. Be back in an hour or so.” Rory pushed past Gaz and headed for the door. He followed close on her heels, like he was worried that she’d take off without him if he didn’t. Which was fair, because she would have skipped her warm-ups and taken off if it meant shaking him loose.

She shot him a glare from between her legs when she dipped down to touch her toes. He was very openly ogling her, hands on his hips.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

He grinned, entirely “No. I don’t mind at all.”

“What’s your problem?” she asked. “You’re all over the place.” She didn’t wait for a response before she bounded away, light on her feet.

Gaz leapt into action, quickly catching up, setting a pace that looked infuriatingly easy beside her. She resisted the urge to run full out so early, before her muscles were fully warmed up, but it was so tempting when Gaz opened his mouth again. “Look, there’s obviously something here. Neither of us wants there to be, but I think it’s pretty hard to deny at this point.”

“There isn’t. Could you try not to imprint on the only woman in your immediate vicinity? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

He laughed, shaking his head, but he dropped it, blessedly, until she stopped for a water break at her usual halfway point. He motioned for her to toss him the water bottle.

“Why didn’t you bring your own?”

“Aw, come on Scout, didn’t we learn our lesson about sharing last night?”

“Apparently not! I think the lesson was that we shouldn’t or Ghost will point a gun at your head. I don’t want your old man germs anyway.”

“I’m not afraid of Ghost.”

“Then you fell out of one too many helicopters,” she snapped, but she handed over the water bottle anyway. It was too early to get into an argument.

“There’s a good girl,” he said.

“Garrick, I’m going to kill you if you keep that up.”

“You could try. You gonna come out with us tonight? Soap’s back with the rest of the kids, and we always go out for drinks. You’d get on with ‘em.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“With Soap and Ghost there to keep an eye on us? I think you’ll be just fine.”

“I’ll think about it. Might see what Bill’s up to. I’d rather hang out with her, if I’m being honest.”

He handed back the water, shrugging. “It’s no big deal if you don’t want to. Just thought I should offer.”

“I’ll think about it. Now come on. I need a coffee before I can deal with any more nonsense from you.” She tucked the water back into her sling bag and hit the road again, looking very forward to getting into the shower and getting a moment alone. He was going to be a pain in the arse if he kept this up.

John was, as always, drinking his coffee and smoking a cigar when they returned. Scout hit the ground to do her usual stretches, and Gaz headed straight in for a shower.

“You two gettin’ on alright?” John asked. “You look a bit sour.”

“He’s just—” Scout thought about what she could say that wouldn’t get either her or Gaz in trouble. “He’s just an interruption to my routine. I’ll adjust.”

“Got a routine, do you?” John asked. “Not just layin’ about?”

Rory rolled her eyes. “Dad. You know I’m not. I’m a Blackmoore-Price, we don’t know how to do nothing. I literally just published a new book yesterday. Do not ask to read it.”

“That’s five now, and you still won’t let me read them?” John asked. “Has Sadie read them?”

She grimaced. If he knew that her mum hadn’t just read them, but read first drafts and advised her, he’d start getting a lot more insistent. “No,” she lied. “Mum’s too busy to read my silly little stories.” Another lie. Sadie always made time for her.

John made an unconvinced noise. “Scout, I just want to support you. You should let me.”

“It’s just embarrassing. I’ll think about it, okay? You can read my next one. Even the rough draft if you want, it’s kind of a spy thriller, you might like it. I was going to try publishing it under my own name and everything.” Rory grinned. “And mom hasn’t read that one at all.”

John hummed, blue eyes sharp. “I thought you said she hadn’t read any of them.”

Busted. “Yeah, alright, she has.”

“I thought as much. If you don’t let me read the rest I’m going to get nosy, and you won’t like that.” He pointed his cigar at her, the threat meant lightly, but serious enough that Scout knew he meant business. He was already a nosy old man and thought that was normal, if he was going to get what he considered nosy then Scout would have zero privacy. Not ideal for a grown woman living with a parent.

“Fuck. Fine. I’ll drop them on your desk. Do not speak to me about them. I don’t think I can handle the embarrassment. I’ve a delicate constitution.”

“No you don’t. Thank you, pumpkin.”

Rory rolled her eyes and pushed herself back up onto her feet. “If I die from humiliation it’ll be all your fault.”

He hummed, shaking his head with amusement. “Go get changed, I’m making pancakes.”

Rory bounced up the stairs, reaching the top just as Gaz exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. He was unfairly fit, lean and muscled like a classical statue carved by a very loving hand. The few scars that marred his skin only made him look better, adding a dangerous edge to an almost too perfect body. She dragged her eyes off the bead of water that slid down his chest before it reached far enough to get her in real trouble.

“Put some fucking clothes on!” she hissed.

“I’m about to. You worried you like what you see?”

“I’m worried that you’re a whore, Garrick! Get out of my sight!” Rory whirled around and firmly shut herself in her own room, grimacing. Maybe she should move back to London. At least there she wouldn’t have to worry about this.

She’d have to worry about other things, of course, like the press and the events and the lack of freedom. Out here, even with an overbearing father and his stupid protective friends, she could do a lot more without anyone bothering her about it.

She had a quick shower once she heard Gaz head downstairs, and got fully dressed before she left the bathroom. She wasn’t even going to risk a repeat of last night. Gaz was never going to catch her half-dressed ever again, that was for sure.

“Alright, what happened with Carrie?” Rory asked, throwing herself into one of the island chairs, leaving two seats between her and Gaz, just in case. “You’d been trying to get her to go out for ages.”

John wrinkled his nose. “Turned out she was usin’ me to make her ex jealous. Found out as much when he stormed into her flat when we were havin’ a drink. Didn’t need to be asked to go more’n once.”

“What a bitch,” Rory said, turning a small narrow-eyed glance at Gaz so he knew that her next words were meant for him too. “That’s just childish.”

“Well. It is what it is. How’s your mother doing, Scout?”

“Dad. You can’t keep throwing yourself at mom every time it doesn’t work out with someone else.”

“I suppose she hasn’t changed her mind anyway. Sadie’s even more stubborn than I am.” John handed Scout a mug of coffee and a plate of blueberry pancakes. “Just miss her. She never played games like this.”

“Thanks dad. And honestly, you need to meet someone nice, someone that doesn’t know you as Captain or Major Price, that you can just be, you know, yourself with. Maybe someone without any ex husbands. You have more than enough marital baggage for two people.”

John laughed. “You know anyone?”

“No! I am absolutely not going through that again. My friends are off limits.”

Gaz snickered. “You dated one of her friends?”

“She was older!” John said defensively. “She was a TA for one of Scout’s classes, and they lived together for a bit so we met— That’s besides the point. I’m not the one who’s love life we should be talkin’ about.” He looked at Gaz. “You got a game plan for Billie yet?”

“Not yet. Gonna give her some space, let her realize she misses me. Maybe I’ll bump into her at the grocery store or coffee shop, if I’m lucky.” Gaz dug into his own pancakes and chewed thoughtfully. “But I’m not going out of my way. Might try going on a few dates myself, honestly. Maybe Bill was right. We had a good run. Maybe we should call it.”

“You’re just gonna let her go without a fight?” John asked, sitting down with his own stack of pancakes. “That’s not like you.”

“No offense sir, but I don’t want to be sittin’ where you are down a few years down the line, still chasin’ an ex-wife who doesn’t love me. Maybe I should start lookin’ for someone new.”

“Sadie still loves me. It’d be easier to let her go if she didn’t. It doesn’t all just go away because you sign a few papers.”

“Sometimes people can’t give each other what they need. Love isn’t enough,” Rory said. “It’s just one ingredient. Common goals, clear expectations, communication— These are things that make a relationship last.” She knew that she was talking to some of the thickest men alive, but she still had to try to set them back on course. “You both have to stop thinking about it like that. The ‘she loves me, she loves me not’ shit is for kids on the playground. You’re grown men, and you need to start acting like it.”

John sighed, but Gaz looked down at his breakfast, contemplative. Rory was pretty sure her father was beyond help, but Gaz might not be.

She dropped her books on John’s desk after breakfast, and holed up in her room most of the day, texting her out of town friends about everything that had happened, and checking in to see if Billie was free to hang out that night. She wasn’t, which sucked. Rory wasn’t really keen on the idea of going out with Gaz and his task force, but she liked the idea of staying in the house less.

She was getting restless. Settling into a new place and a new routine had staved off the itch to behave badly for a little while, but she needed to blow off steam or she’d do something really stupid.

It was Brandon that tipped the scales in favour of going out, texting her out of the blue late in the afternoon.

Brandon: Gonna be in London for a week. Would love to see you, Lorelai.

Scout: I don’t live in London.

Brandon: I’d still like to see you. I miss you every day, you know. I get that you’re seeing other people now, but I think we can still work things out.

Seeing other people? Where had he gotten that idea?

Oh, right. Soap and Ghost answering her phone a few weeks ago.

Scout: I’m not. The guys who answered my phone were my dad’s friends.

Brandon: Oh?

Brandon: So you’d be free for dinner next Saturday? I’ll come to you.

Brandon: Hereford, right? If you’re staying with your father.

Rory groaned and tipped herself off her bed. She was definitely going to need a drink now.

Scout: Yeah. Sure. Great.

Brandon: Wonderful (: It’ll be good to see you. And to talk.

Ominous.

She thumped downstairs to make a tea, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, taking in the view of Gaz shaking his hips to some top one hundred pop song on the radio, chopping up some veg to throw into a bubbling pot that smelled enticingly of curry. He grinned when he noticed her, and reached over to turn down the music. “Hey, Scout. You decide if you’re comin’ out with us tonight?”

She slid past him to grab the kettle and fill it with water. “I think I will. Tea?”

“Please. What changed your mind?”

“My ex is badgering me to go out to dinner with him next week. I’m annoyed by him and I need a drink.”

“What’s his deal, anyway?” Gaz asked. “You were together for a bit.”

“Oh, he’s like, a rich asshole. We met at some fundraiser my mom got invited to, and he was the only person there who was remotely cute, so we hung out all night. And then he wanted to keep hanging out, and then he wanted to date, and I couldn’t really come up with a good reason not to. And then the next thing I knew, we were living together, and his mum started trying to get to know me, and when she started getting all weird, I knew I needed to get out before Brandon proposed. So I moved out over a weekend I knew he wouldn’t be home, and left him a note.” Rory huffed. “Cowardly, I know. But I knew he’d talk me down if I did it face to face.”

Gaz frowned, the few faint lines on his forehead creasing slightly. "That's not what I was expecting."

"I hesitate to ask, but what did you expect?"

"The opposite, I guess. Figured he was some immature college kid who didn't want to commit. Didn't think you would be the one runnin' away."

"With parents like mine?" Rory laughed bitterly, pulling mugs down from the cupboard. "I'm not the rushing in half-cocked type. I'm not going to marry the first guy who makes an offer just 'cause he's there. I don't ever want to go through a divorce, so I'm going to wait until I find someone who gets me. Give myself the best chance I can."

"Admirable. But it doesn't always work out that way. I thought Bill and I got each other."

"That's why I said that common goals and communication are important. You and Billie want different things. You want someone to come home to, and she wants a partner she can grow with. That doesn't work if you're not there."

"How are you such an expert?"

"I listen to what people say to me." The kettle clicked off, and she made tea, letting the radio and the soft domestic sounds of the kitchen fill the space. He was a lot more bearable when he shut his pretty mouth and kept his opinions to himself. She slid one mug to him when she finished, and carried one out to the living room, setting it on the end table next to John. He was reading her book, glasses balanced on the end of his nose.

He murmured his thanks, barely glancing up from the page, and Rory quickly retreated back into the kitchen.

"How d'you know how I take my tea?" Gaz asked.

"It's a splash of milk, its not exactly hard to remember." Rory sipped her tea, wincing when she scalded her tongue. “Do you want me to wash rice for dinner? Since you’ve got everything else covered.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s not a lot of effort, Gaz, I think I can handle it.” She didn’t wait for confirmation before she started on the task, gently pushing him out of the way so she could grab the rice cooker out from the island cupboard.

He stayed quiet until she’d finished and pressed the button to start the little machine. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said, and his pretty brown eyes were sincere, voice lacking the usual sardonic edge. “And this morning. Keep actin’ a right tit around you. Gets me right in the ego when you say you’re not interested. And you shouldn’t be— I shouldn’t be. Think I’m just worried that Bill was my only shot, and I’m tryin’ to prove that I still have somethin’ to offer.”

“Refreshingly honest, Garrick,” Rory said. “Keep that up. I’m gonna go shave my legs and figure out what I’m wearing tonight. I’m hoping to get laid. I was texting a guy for a while but he went dead silent on me, so I’m back to square one.”

“I don’t need to know that.”

“What do you care? All I need from you is to keep Captain Clean and Mr. Bones off my back. I already have one over protective dad, really don’t need you lads taking up the task too.” She picked up her tea and headed back upstairs, shaking her head.

She sifted through her closet for the right outfit, laying a few out on the bed while she shaved her legs and ironed the near-permanent ponytail crease out of her hair. It was hard to decide without knowing where they were going, so she asked over dinner, earning a raised eyebrow from John.

“Are the two of you goin’ somewhere?” he asked, the slightest hint of you’d better fuckin’ not be colouring his voice.

Rory pretended not to notice the undercurrent in his voice, even if a flicker of panic skittered across Gaz’s face. “Ghost and Soap invited me to come out and meet the kids. I’m looking forward to meeting Nitro. She sounds fun.” Rory was an expert study in the art of giving her parents just enough information to settle them down. “And I haven’t really been out to see the nightlife in this town yet. I’m pretty sure you can rely on Ghost to keep me out of too much trouble.”

“We’re going to that bar we went to last month,” Gaz said. “But Nitro and Lucky might manage to drag us out to that club they always want to go to. We’ll see.”

“Are you driving?” she asked. “Or are we taking a cab?”

“I’m drivin’,” he confirmed. “If we have to take a cab back or hitch a ride from Ghost, we will.”

“It’s a nice walk too.” Rory hummed, re-evaluating her short-list of outfits. “But that depends on what shoes I’m wearing.”

John nodded, content to leave it at that, just happy that it wasn’t what he had initially jumped to. It was a bit funny that he trusted Gaz so little, although it was hard to say if that was based off of their behaviour, or if he was just remembering some wilder, younger Gaz before Billie. Gaz was a charmer now, but Rory suspected that with looks like his, he could have been a real fuck boy. Probably had been.

With that in mind, she picked a tight black dress that showed off miles of leg, and pulled a pair of black jeans over top. Grown woman or no, she knew her father— There was no way he’d let her out of the house with that much skin showing. She didn’t need to waste energy on a losing battle with John Price before she even made it outside.

She pulled on her shoes while she waited for Gaz, eyeing the book sitting on the coffee table. The bookmark was close to the middle already, but John was keeping his end of the bargain and pointedly not talking about it. He’d been buried in it most of the day, which was terrifying. It was a very weird feeling, sharing her creative work with John. Sadie had always been the parent she opened up to.

Luckily Gaz didn’t take too long to hop down the stairs, wearing a nice button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Don’t wait up,” she called over her shoulder as she shuffled Gaz out the door, barely giving him time to snatch his car keys off the hook.

“You know I will,” John called back.

“What’s the rush?” Gaz asked. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“I know! But dad is reading one of my books and I can’t deal. I need a drink to cope.”

Gaz raised his eyebrows, grinning. “That’s your book?”

Rory groaned, throwing herself into the passenger seat. “Please don’t tell me you’ve read it.”

“Alright,” he said peaceably, turning the keys in the ignition. “I won’t.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Ghost really likes ‘em, recommended them a few times. Hadn’t got around to readin’, but I certainly will now. Does he know you wrote them?”

“No! And please do not tell him. Also, don’t read them. This is all plenty weird enough.” Rory shifted in her seat, kicking her shoes off so she could wriggle her jeans down her legs.

“What— What are you doing?” The panic in Gaz’s voice was very funny.

“I only wore these jeans so I could get out the door without a fight. I told you I was trying to get laid tonight.” She shook her head, folding the discarded denim neatly and tossing it into the backseat. It was like he hadn’t even been listening.

“Fuckin’ hell. You’re a menace.”

“That’s what I’m going for, thank you.”

“You don’t need to show that much leg to get attention, you know. You’re plenty hot with your trousers on.”

“Of course I am,” Rory scoffed. “But I’m not looking for some guy who’s going to appreciate me for my brains and wit, I’m looking for an easy lay in the back of a car from a big stupid military lunkhead who barely respects me.”

“Why?”

“Because if he’s an ass I don’t have to feel bad about using him, and we all get what we want and never speak again.”

“You can do better than that,” Gaz protested.

“Obviously. This isn’t about better, or about long term, or about anything except for sex. Didn’t you have ill-advised hook-ups with girls and boys you didn’t care about when you were my age? I know it was a long time ago, but I’m sure you can think back that far.” Rory shoved her hair over her shoulder and pulled her shoes back on.

“I mean— I guess some. But it’s better when you care about each other.”

“Well, yeah, obviously. But I’m not about to throw myself into another relationship just so I can get some dick. That would be stupid.”

“And fuckin’ some meathead in the back of his car is a real bright idea, yeah?” By the tension in his jaw and the way he gripped the steering wheel, Gaz was really unhappy with her plan for the evening. Was he jealous?

“What’s your problem?”

“Are you so hard up that you’d rather jump on the first cock you see instead of waitin’ for someone that you actually like?”

He was jealous. She really needed to find a way to nip this behaviour in the bud. “It could be ages before I meet someone I actually like. And It’s important to get laid before I see Brandon or he’s gonna work his way under my skirt. He sucks, but not at that.” When he didn’t respond, glaring out the windshield like the road ahead had personally offended him, Rory sighed. “Oh don’t take it personally, Garrick. I’m just looking for easy and uncomplicated. You’re hot, but I think we both know that this” — She gestured to the space between them— “would be extremely complicated. And possibly deadly, in your case.”

He shot her a look that was a little too affronted. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

“Of course not.”

He worked his jaw loose, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, letting silence fill the space for a long minute. When Rory reached for the radio, he spoke again. “I think you’re right, you know. About needing to think about what I actually want. I was just holding onto the way things were because it was comfortable. I knew what to expect with Bill. And it’s nice to come home to predictable and familiar when you’re dealing with all the shit I do in the field.”

“Well, I’m here if you need to talk through it. Just not tonight, on account of the me getting laid thing.”

He laughed, turning the car into the lot down the street from the pub. The street parking closer looked all full up already. “Right, yeah. Don’t fuck any of my soldiers, by the way. I don’t want to deal with that.”

“Of course,” Rory agreed, hopping out of the car and pulling her dress down a little further. “I think I can handle that, unless they’re really cute.”

They walked the short distance to the pub side by side, and Gaz opened the door for her, following her in. It wasn’t too busy yet, but Ghost and Soap were already there, staking out a space in one of the larger booths, with two women sitting across from them.

The taller one, a short-haired tank of a woman, grinned at them. “Hey Captain! Who’s the smokeshow?” She had a faint Welsh accent, a little bounciness to her words that would be delightful to listen to all night, and a slight gap between her front teeth.

“I’m Rory,” she said, stopping at the top of the table and sticking a hand out. “Some of the old men around here call me Scout.”

“Spencer. Call me Nitro. This is Alex— Shivs.” Shivs was a slender, serious looking young woman, her dark hair pulled back in a braid, revealing the blondish roots around her hairline. “Lucky and Roach should be back in a minute,” Nitro continued. “They just went out for a smoke.”

Soap slid out of his seat next to Ghost and pointed to it. “Scout. Yer sittin’ where we can keep an eye on ye. Yer up tae no good, dressed like tha’. Surprised the old man let yeh out of the house.”

“She was wearing pants when we left,” Gaz said tiredly, dropping into the seat beside Nitro. “Nearly crashed the car when she started takin’ ‘em off.”

“I can see why. Those are some nice legs.” Nitro winked at Rory. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ ‘em—”

“Lieutenant,” Gaz said warningly. “That’s Price’s daughter. Off limits.”

“Scout, sit your arse down,” Soap said, glaring over his shoulder. “Best keep yer eyes tae yerself, lads, or Ah’m gonnae pry ‘em out.”

Rory glanced back at whoever Soap was talking to, frowning at the three men who were very pointedly looking anywhere else now. “Oh come on, Mactavish, let a girl live.”

“Sit,” he repeated firmly. “I’ll get ye a drink. Wouldnae be safe to let you near the bar.”

Rory sat, sighing heavily when Ghost pulled her tight against his side. "We're not 'avin' any funny business from you. If you can't behave I'll drag you back 'ome myself, got it?"

"Oh cut her some slack, Riley," Nitro said. "She's young and hot. Let some meatheads buy her drinks. If I looked like that I'd never pay for alcohol again."

"You look pretty good as is." Rory leaned forward, her eyes making an unsubtle sweep of Nitro's thick arms. "I'd buy you a drink if Mr. Bones wasn't holding me hostage over here."

“Scout.” Gaz pointed at her sternly. “No.”

“They’re so mean,” Rory complained. “Think that just because they’re friends with my dad that they have to act like this.”

“They’re worse than my dad,” Shivs said sympathetically. “And he dangled one of my first boyfriends over a second story balcony.”

“He was nice to me,” Nitro said.

“That’s because he doesn’t know we’ve fucked.” Shivs sent a sly glance down the table at Gaz. “Before she was my Lieutenant, of course. No fraternizing here.”

“Oh relax, Shivs. I’ve fucked three out of five of the people at this table right now.” Nitro pulled Shivs into her lap and slid further down the bench to make room. “But give it time.”

“You— When?” Shivs looked from Ghost to Soap to Gaz, eyes wide, trying to decide which two of the three men seemed the most likely. “The captains?”

Nitro shrugged, grinning. “Maybe.”

“What are we talking about?” A young man that looked a lot like Nitro settled into the seat beside Gaz.

“None of your business, kiddo,” Nitro said, hooking her chin over Shivs’ shoulder. “This is Lucky, by the by,” she added for Rory’s benefit. “And the lanky son of a bitch that looks like he’s seen a ghost is Roach. Lads, this is Rory. If you hit on her Soap will pull out your eyeballs and eat them.”

Rory glanced up at a familiar freckled face and propped her elbows on the table, dropping her chin into her hands. “Oh, hi Gary,” she said. “You never texted me back.”

He gave Gaz a slightly panicked look before returning his attention to Rory. “Um. Yeah. I should’ve. I’m sorry, I just, uh—”

“Ah told him he’d better leave ye be,” Soap said, sliding past Roach and onto the bench, setting a glass in front of Rory and sliding one further down to Ghost. “He’s a good soldier, I cannae ha’e yer da stranglin’ him tae death.”

“I’m sorry,” Roach said, grimacing. “I was going to— I just hadn’t figured out what to say yet.”

“It’s fine, really,” Rory said, peering around Soap’s bulky frame. “I know how these arseholes can be.”

“Jest bought ye a drink and yer callin’ us names.”

“I would gladly buy my own drinks but you’ve banned me from the bar. What is this anyway?”

“Dark an’ stormy. Gingerbeer an’ rum. Ah’ll switch ye if ye’d rather ha’e the scotch, but Ah think ye’ll like it.”

“I love gingerbeer. Good pick, Captain Clean.”

It was easy to fall into the easy camaraderie at the table, even if Gaz or Soap scolded Nitro every time she said something remotely flirty (which only made Nitro do it more).

She needed a plan to get Soap and Ghost off her back, however. They weren’t going to budge if she went at them head on, so she needed to get them to want to get a little distance. Just annoying them wouldn’t be enough, so she would have to go with the nuclear option.

After a couple more drinks, when everyone was relaxed and settled into the conversation, she put her hand on Soap’s thigh. He tensed up, giving her a wild-eyed look, which caught Gaz’s attention. None of the others seemed to notice, although Nitro gave Rory a sly look from across the table. She launched into a story, pulling the eyes at the table towards her, and Rory dug her nails in, not hard enough to do any damage through his jeans, but enough to make Soap inhale sharply, eyebrows snapping together when he looked at her. Scout kept her eyes on Nitro, pretending to be fully engrossed in what Nitro was saying, leaning forward to sip her drink, looking at Soap only when she already had the straw between her lips, eyes wide and innocent.

Soap sent a panicked look over her head, and Ghost shifted his arm down to hold her arm tight to her body so that when he pulled her toward himself her hand was pulled from Soap’s thigh. Ghost leaned in close, his breath stirring her hair when he spoke. “What are you doin’?” he asked, voice so low that even she barely caught it.

Rather than try to break away, she just snuggled in closer. “Nothing.”

Ghost sat up straight in his seat, every muscle locking up tight. “Let’s play a couple rounds of darts,” he suggested. “You’re gettin’ restless.”

Rory tipped her head back against his shoulder to look at him. “Mm, good idea. I do need to stretch my legs.” She stretched her legs out under the table, sliding the toe of her shoe up the inside of Gaz’s calf, putting him on high alert as well. If she played this right, they’d all be watching each other too closely to notice when she made a break for it.

There was another pub a couple blocks over. She could make it there and find a bit of fun before they realized where she’d gone. Or, judging by the look that Lucky was periodically sending her way, she might not have to go that far. She held eye contact for a beat, just long enough to let him know it was intentional, and then followed Soap out of the booth. It was too bad that Gary had turned out to be a dead end, but Lucky was cute too, a bit wilder looking. He had the same grin that Nitro did, one that spelled trouble and a lack of concern for consequence.

“What do you think you’re up to?” Ghost asked, eyes narrowed while he watched Soap throw the first few darts.

“Why do you think I’m up to something?” Rory asked.

“You’re actin’ like a little tart,” he said flatly.

Rory tapped the ends of her cluster of darts against his chest, tipping her head to the side and smiling up at him. “Maybe I am a little tart. You gonna do something about it?”

“You don’t want me doin’ somethin’ about it, princess.”

The thrill that his growl sent down her spine was unexpected. In truth, she’d never considered the possibility that Ghost would entertain even the thought, but suddenly she was the one thinking about it. “That’s okay. I’ll ask Gaz to do something about it.”

“No ye willnae,” Soap said, pushing her into place so she could throw. “Yer barkin’ up the wrong trees, Scout. Barkin’ in the wrong forest. Ye dinnae want anythin’ ye’ll find around here.”

“I don’t know about that.” She squared herself up, sending the darts flying in quick succession. “I figure there’s enthusiasm around here in spades, if it comes to it, but I prefer experience.”

“Somethin’ wrong with ye,” Soap grumbled. “D’ye no’ want a nice boy yer own age?”

“Roach is a nice boy my age. You told him to get. Gaz’s cousin was a nice boy my age, and you tossed him into the garden. So who exactly do you think I should be flirting with?” Rory went to fetch the darts, handing half off to Soap. “Who among us is worthy, John?”

Soap sent Ghost a helpless look that said you deal with her. Rory hummed, turning her attention back to Ghost, head tipped to the side expectantly.

“We’re lookin’ out for you.”

“Oh I know. But if you don’t give me enough space to find a dick to ride I’m gonna be looking to you three for a volunteer.”

Soap’s last dart hit the very edge of the board and fell to the floor. He gave Rory and Ghost a wide, blue-eyed stare, the game already half forgotten. “Did ye just say what I think ye did?”

“I don’t know.” Rory switched places with him so she could line up for her turn. “Your hearing isn’t what it used to be. What do you think I said?”

“Ah think yer a wicked wee temptress, is what I think,” he said. “Tryna get us kilt by yer da, you are.”

“Johnny,” Ghost said, grabbing him by a belt-loop and pulling him in close. Johnny’s face flushed red when Ghost’s other hand tipped his chin up, the picture of a man with strained patience scolding his dog for digging around in the flower beds for the third time this week. “Price ain’t gonna ‘ave any reason to kill you, is ‘e?”

“Weel—”

“Johnny.”

“She’s grown, we cannae tell her what tae do,” Soap protested. Funny how quick he was to change his tune when she suggested that she might try to sleep with him. “An’ maybe it’d be better for one of us—”

“Bloody ‘ell, Johnny, use your upstairs ‘ead. You’ve got enough will-power t’say no, don’t you?”

“I dinnae ken if Ah do, Si. Tha’s a lot of leg.”

Rory tossed a look over her shoulder at the table, meeting Lucky’s eyes for a moment. He winked. She tossed her hair over her shoulder as she turned back toward the board, throwing another tight cluster of darts close to the bullseye. Soap was having a bad game, his head clearly somewhere else. She went to collect the darts, bending at the waist to pick up the fallen one.

“Steamin’ Jaysus,” Soap groaned, leaning his forehead against Ghost’s shoulder. “Ah’m a dead man.”

“Don’t worry,” Rory said cheerfully. “At least one of you will survive to look after your kids.”

“Don’t be so sure. If I let go of our lad’s leash and let ‘im ‘ump you, I’ll be in ‘ot water too. Just behave yourself.”

“Oh alright. You’re no fun.”

She handily beat Johnny, and purposefully lost to Ghost (although she had to admit that she might not have won against Ghost even if she had been giving it her all) so that Ghost and Johnny were set to play against each other. Once they set up, she slipped off through the back hallway and out into the alley. She was good at melting into the background when she wanted to, it would take a minute for them to realize that she was gone and not at the table with the others either.

They’d be glad for the reprieve. So was she. It was hard work walking the line of keeping Soap just riled up enough that Ghost’s attention was on him instead of her.

She started walking toward the street, buzzing with victory and drinks she hadn’t needed to buy herself, when someone stepped into the mouth of the alley, blocking her path.

“Hey, Scout,” Gaz said, placing a cigarette between his lips, smirking at her as he brought the shivering orange flame from his lighter up. “Are you goin’ somewhere?”

Busted.

Image Credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - Banners by @/cafekitsune

[x3no9]

Started my first ever mpreg fic. (C-section removal) Omegaverse idea that anyone can get pregnant but it is different for males in that it's detected much sooner.

It's a Call of duty fanfic featuring Soap x Ghost and Makarov x Graves. I keep them all in character most of the time too. Which was a challenge in this scenario lol.

WiP

[khioneee]

simon is possessive and obsessive.

“you’re mine.”

the sound of his hips slapping against yours echoed through the room, each thrust harder and faster than the last. the force of him inside you was overwhelming, leaving you gasping for breath. a broken cry escaped your lips as your orgasm hit, tearing through you at the unforgiving pace he’d set. your body trembled beneath him, bouncing uncontrollably with each thrust as you clawed at the floor, desperate for anything to hold on to.

tears blurred your vision, but even through the haze, you could see him—ghost. his massive frame loomed behind you, the white skull mask glowing dimly in the low light. his blue eyes pierced through the shadows, flickering occasionally into a deep, predatory stare before shifting back, as if a monster lurked just beneath the surface.

a shaky, heated smile curled your lips as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—wrecked, helpless, taken completely by the man behind you. every thrust sent shockwaves through your body, and the way he possessed you made it clear there was no escape.

simon leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice low and rough. “i’m going to make you watch me take you over and over again until you’re nothing but a numb, broken thing.”

then he slammed into you harder, pulling a ragged cry from deep within you. your nails scraped the floor in desperation, but there was no reprieve, only his unrelenting rhythm.

“i’m still angry,” he growled, his words vibrating through you as he thrust deeper, faster. “and i’m going to make sure you understand, love—no other man will ever satisfy you again.”

his pace quickened, every thrust a punishment, every motion a claim. you could feel it—his rage, his desire, and the dark promise that dripped from his voice. and in the mirror, it was all laid bare: the power he had over you, the way he unraveled you completely.

simon was taking you, body and soul, and there was no turning back.

[sweetiecutie]

Husband! König is very happy that your parents decide to finally come over to your house for a week to spend Christmas and New Year with you two. König does genuinely enjoy their company - they’re his family now after all, not only by law but by feelings that connect you all.

But there’s a little but. Husband! König just can’t help but feel frustrated at the lack of intimacy between you two these past days. Not only have you been occupied with holiday preparations, shortening the usual amount of attention you gave him, but constant presence of both your parents around the house meant nearly to no sex. From fucking you whenever and wherever he pleased, König now had to settle for a quick hand- or blowjob from you in a bathroom before going back to your parents, all broad smiles and innocence in your eyes.

Husband! König who clenches his chiseled jaw, throwing his head back so it hits the wall behind with a soft ‘thud’ as he tries his absolute hardest to bite back all the moans and groans threatening to slip off his tongue. You coo sweet apologies to him as your hand fists his leaking cock before the warmth of your mouth wraps around thick shaft, sinking down on it until your nose is buried into small bush of dark blonde hair on König’s pubic.

König can barely stay upright, the lack of any sexual interaction between you two in these past days making him even more sensitive. A string of hissed curses falling from bitten lips as your throat moulded to the shape of his dick, clenching down on him as you bob your head up and down, fucking the cum out of your husband with your mouth.

Husband! König who doesn’t last for long, soon flooding your throat with his thick pearly cum, making you gag and cough around his softening dick. You slip your mouth off his cock, tucking it back into his boxers and pressing a small kiss right under his bellybutton, practically making König melt in your arms. “I’m sorry baby, I promise that I’ll make it up to you once they leave” you whisper, pressing another quick kiss to his tummy before standing up and exiting the bathroom, leaving your hubby all hot and bothered still>:[

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Give writers some love, we live off your feedback<3

[tame-the-lion-writes]

For the dog!141 pack. Reader getting wine drunk at home and them taking care of her. It would be so cuteeeeee

Yes pls keep feeding me w fluff ideas I love you

“And— and— he’s such an asshole!”

Gaz and Price side-eye each other as you sob, a babbling mess on the floor of the kitchen. It had been a tough week at work, and now the straw had broken the camel’s back. A snide comment from your coworker, a mild correction from your boss. It all came to a head when one of your jeans’ belt loops got stuck in the handle of your door, and you’d angrily wrenched yourself away, only to fall flat on your face.

It was straight to the liquor cabinet from there.

Granted, you were never a heavy drinker. Maybe a sip or two during social outings, but you’d never drank to get drunk. Not until tonight. Which is probably why the four looks looked so concerned, Soap lying across your legs while you ranted aimlessly, hiccups and stutters choking your words. You’re halfway through your third glass of wine when the exhaustion starts to hit, and Price nudges the glass out of your hands with a disciplinary chuff.

“Oh, great,” you slur, tippy toeing on the edge of sleep. “Now you’re starting to judge me, too.”

The next few seconds are a blur. You swear you can hear someone speaking. A voice gruff yet soft, and an answer that follows—a voice even lower. And you can swear that you’re being picked up, cradled, carried off to bed to the sound of steady footsteps.

“Take care of us, but y’ can’t take care of yourself, huh, love?” the guardian angel asks. In response, you make a pathetic noise at the back of your throat, leaning into the crook of his neck, where barely, just barely, you can make out scars that mimic those on your Shepherd.

“Ghost?” you mumble, only to giggle at the possibility. A dog shapeshifting into a man? How silly.

“Just go to sleep, love. We’ll be here for ya in the morning.”

[chamomiletealeaf]

@naivegh0ul writing about Mommy kink Simon has been rotting my brain like a parasite.

Like fuckin hell, you’d be riding him, his hands on your hips pulling you down as he thrusts up into you and his poor little head would be too fucked out and dizzy to comprehend the words he says.

His mouth open and eyes half lidded, he says “fuck mommy mmph, feel so good.”

And you slow down a little bit, smirk on your face.

“What’d you say Si?” You say tilting your head to the side, using his nickname only you call him, knowing it already makes him flustered in the first place.

He looks up at you with his big honey colored puppy eyes that are wide with confusion, trying to remember what he said.

When he remembers, he places his forehead on your shoulder with a groan trying to fuck up into you again hoping it’ll make you forget.

You place one hand on his chest and the other under his chin to tilt his head up to look at you.

You know what he said, you heard it loud and clear, you just wanted him to say it again.

“What’d you say honey?” You asked in the sweetest, softest pitched voice that had him whine in response.

“I-“ he blushes, his cheeks the prettiest shade of pink.

You trace your thumb over his lips.

“I- said mama.” He admits like he was confessing a sin.

“No.” you giggle, “close, but that’s not what you said Si.”

“Mommy.” He whispers breathlessly, and you smile at his honesty.

“I didn’t know you liked that Simmy.” You tilt your head again, smile still plastered on your face, your thumb now tracing over the blush on his cheekbone.

“Go on, say it again.” You start to bounce on him again, nuzzling your head on his shoulder into his neck, whispering praises in his ear.

He tightens his grip on your hips and his eyes roll back.

“Yeah mommy, fuck, just like that, please, fuck me like that.”

[pokechbi]

🎀König’s fave positions🎀

NSFW 🔞

Although he loves to watch your face contort with pleasure as he slides his long, thick meaty cock in and out of you, he can’t help but submit to the idea of watching the fat of your ass jiggle against his hips as he fucks you doggy style. This can also be said for reverse cowgirl.

He loves to watch your cunt grip him from behind, relishing the view and sounds of your soppy walls squelching around him.

The main reason he loves to fuck you from behind, has to be because he can easily slip a thumb right into your virgin ass, handling you like a bowling ball as he pumps into you. He’ll use his thick thumb to control your speed, not allowing you to throw your ass back onto his dick and drive him crazy like you know you do.

König is obsessed with having you on top of him, your back to his chest and your feet propped up on his knees as he drills into you mercilessly. He can easily reach around and wrap his big hand around your throat, play with your nipples and ferociously rub at your clit. You love this position too, savoring the feeling of him moaning into your hair.

He often finds himself unable to contain himself from slipping into you during spoon-time, holding your leg up with one hand as he chokes you with the other. Cuddle time leads to this more often than not, but you weren’t complaining. His insatiable appetite for your sopping cunt was the reason you both couldn’t last long while embracing each other.

The mating press is also among his favorites. He favors the way your breathing restricts as he presses his weight into your thighs, folding you like a lawn chair. It also allows him to get so deep into you, filling you up to the brim with his hot cum. He can feel the way your body jolts with delicious pain as he slams into your cervix, practically feeling your womb graze the tip of his fat dick. He loves the way this position fuels his breeding kink.

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[nastybuckybarnes]

Bumps and Bruises

Pairing: Ghost X Reader

Summary: The tension between Ghost and his little street mouse finally snaps.

Warnings: Language, Violence, Implied Assault, Mouse has a sad back story, Mentioned Murder, Smut, unprotected sex, creampie, choking, probably more,

Word Count: 2.7K

A/n: The way that i have so many ideas for this series. also idk why but this smut was hard to write?? felt like my first time writing smut in a while which isnt the case??? anywho! I hope you enjoy 🩵

~*~

His footsteps are silent as he moves through the building, searching for any hostiles.

As he steps through a doorway, his hand comes up instinctively, grabbing onto someone's wrist as they swing the blade of a knife at him.

He grunts in surprise, yanking the person forward and pressing the gun to their head, only to immediately lower the weapon when he recognizes the eyes glaring up at him.

"Jesus, Mouse. Coulda killed ya," he huffs, tilting your hand to the side and inspecting the knife in your grasp.

"'ve been lookin' for this. Shoulda known you had it," he murmurs.

You tug out of his grip and hold the knife tightly to your chest, your eyes wild.

"Please. I need it."

His brows furrow, and then his eyes zero in on your split lip and the bruise on your cheek.

He takes a step closer, raising a hand toward your face only to pause when you flinch.

"Who did this to you?" He asks gruffly, gloved thumb lightly dusting over the cut on your lip.

You tug your head back, away from him, and step further into the darkness.

"I asked you a question and I expect an answer, Mouse. You know how this works."

You roll your eyes and shake your head, arms crossing over your chest as you try to forget the man who tried to take advantage of you.

He got what was coming to him.

"I tripped."

Ghost scoffs from behind you, shaking his head and following you as you walk into the dusty old bathroom.

You peer at yourself in the mirror, the darkness of the room making it hard to see, but the outline is there, as is the darker bruise blooming on your cheek.

"Let me have a look," he says, waiting until you turn around to take another look.

You finally turn to face him, your eyes finding his for a long moment before he brings his gaze down to your lips.

One big, strong hand holds the side of your face, tilting your head this way and that so he can take a better look at the damage.

He hums, thumb stroking your cheek gently, absentmindedly, and then his eyes flicker back up to yours.

"Tell me who did this so I can put a bullet in their head," he whispers.

How dare anyone ever lay a finger on you, his soft little mouse.

Your gaze softens and you lean your head into his hand a bit more.

"He is dead," you whisper, nuzzling into his hand.

An eyebrow raises beneath his mask and Ghost finds himself leaning closer to you, thumb dragging down over your split lip.

"By your hand?" He asks quietly, his heart skipping a beat when you look up at him with those big beautiful eyes and nod.

"Good girl."

Those two words make your heart double in pace and warmth pool between your legs.

His eyes are fiery and focused on yours, reading your mind, your soul, until he speaks.

"Close your eyes for me, mouse."

You obey him as if it's second nature, letting your lashes kiss your cheeks.

You're about to question him when you suddenly feel his warm lips press against your own.

All thoughts die in your head as you melt into the kiss, your hands splaying on his vest as he leans in to deepen it, tongue flickering out to finally, finally get a taste of you.

You let out a soft sigh, one hand reaching around to the back of his neck and pulling him closer to you, desperate to feel more of him, to have more of him. All of him.

He obeys like the good soldier he is, pressing the entirety of his firm body against yours, slotting a thigh between your legs and holding steady when you buck your hips.

"Easy, love," he whispers against your mouth, pulling away to spin you around.

You tumble forward, hands bracing yourself on the bathroom counter, and he's quick to yank your pants down your legs.

Your panties follow next, but he's not even patient enough to take them off completely. No, instead he lets them dangle from your ankle as he lifts your leg and rests your knee on the counter.

He yanks his gloves off with his teeth, desperate to feel your bare skin.

"Gonna take me like the good little mouse you are?" He asks, wetting his fingers on his tongue then sliding them through your folds.

The noise that leaves your mouth nearly makes him cum in his pants.

"Fuckin' hell, 've barely touched you an' you're already fuckin' soaked. Naughty little thing," he whispers, warm breath fanning against your ear.

You can hardly see him in the mirror with how dark it is, but that only makes you wetter.

One of his thick fingers slips into your heat, pumping slowly and he groans at the tight grip your walls have on the digit.

"Tightest little cunt."

His lewd words make you clench around him and he wonders for a moment if you can even take his cock.

When you rock your hips back against his hand, desperately searching for more, he decides that he doesn't care. You're going to take it. He's going to make it fit.

He quickly slips a second finger inside of you, scissoring you open and relishing in the breathy moans falling from your pretty lips.

"Take your top off. Wanna see those pretty tits 'f yours," he murmurs. using his free hand to shove his pants down just enough to free his aching cock.

Your fingers tremble as you tug your shirt off, bra going next and leaving you completely exposed to his hungry gaze.

Your eyes find his in the mirror, his gaze hot and heavy, and your walls clamp down around his fingers.

He's surprised at the sudden flutter of your walls, the way your legs shake and your back arches, but not at all disappointed.

"Poor little mouse," he whispers, smoothing one big warm hand over your bare back. "Nobody's touched this pretty little cunt in a while, hmm?"

You shiver, arching into his touch and sighing like the sweet little thing you are.

He thinks back to your confession earlier, of you killing the man who tried, and he feels his cock throb at the very idea of it. The fact that you would kill someone else for touching you, yet here you are, putty in his hands. A man whose face you've never even seen. Who's name you don't know.

A dark chuckle leaves his lips and he lines his hips up with your ass, sliding his cock through your twitching folds.

You flinch, then lean into it, arching your back impossibly further, putting your sopping pussy on display for him, and he grunts softly at the feeling of you.

He knows he's forgone his shot at heaven, but this is close enough.

He can only imagine what it'll be like to be inside of you.

With both hands on your ass, spreading you open, he watches intently as the thick hot tip of his cock catches in your sloppy little cunt.

He inches his hips forward the tiniest bit, pausing when you let out a sound akin to a yelp.

"Come now, love, none of that. This greedy little pussy's just achin' for a big cock to fill 'er up. Let me take care of her, yeah?"

He slides one hand up around your neck, pulling you up so your back is to his chest while his other hand comes up to shove two fingers in your mouth.

As his fingers plunge between your lips, he snaps his hips forward, sheathing every thick inch of him inside of your sensitive quivering walls.

The moan that escapes you is muffled by his fingers, and your vision starts to blur as you feel him pulse inside of you.

"Fuck," he hisses, teeth scraping your neck.

"Fuckin.... ah fuck."

You don't even have the strength to make a sound. All you can do is drool helplessly and take his fat cock in your cunt.

Slowly, he rolls his hips, pressing his head against yours as your walls grip his length.

"Fuckin' tight..." he whispers, groaning deeply when your walls clench at his words, his voice.

"Say my name," he growls, teeth nipping at your ear.

You whine around his thick fingers, and he drags them from your mouth, only to grab your face and smear the mess on your cheeks.

"G-ghost," you try, weakly, only to get a harsh smack on your ass as punishment.

"Simon," he corrects, the hand on your ass moving to grope at your chest, "say it." He punctuates his demand with a particularly rough thrust and you mewl, your eyes rolling back as pleasure rolls through your body.

"Simon," you whisper, clenching around him every time the tip of his cock hits that spongey spot inside of you.

He grinds his teeth together, sweat rolling down his back as he pistons his hips harder, faster, desperate to hear you say his name again.

"Yeah, that's right. Tell me who's makin' you feel this good, mouse."

You whine again as your second orgasm of the night approaches, and he forces you to take it.

Splayed out on the counter, he fucks into you like you're a doll, fucks you through the waves of bliss, through your quivering walls and aching muscles.

Fucks you through it all just to hear you preen and moan and cry his name.

"Simon! O-oh yes... yes... Simon..."

He lets out an animalistic guttural groan at the sound of his name falling from your pretty lips, and loses himself in his own high.

His hips still, and you almost sob at the feeling of his hot cum coating your walls. Your cunt practically milks his cock, so tight around him that not a drop leaks out.

You breathe heavily, gasping and whining every now and then as aftershocks wrack your frame.

Simon's no better, but he manages to wrap his arms around you and pull you closer to him, nuzzling his nose into your hair and taking a few deep breaths. The scratch of his gear against your back serves as a reminder of just how wrong this is, but neither one of you seems to care.

"You a'right, mouse?"

It takes a moment, but eventually you nod, relaxing into his arms even as his cock softens inside of you.

A few precious, tender moments go by like this, and you wouldn't change them for the world.

Eventually, he lets out a heavy sigh and brings one hand to your thigh, carefully sliding your knee off of the counter and helping you stand on trembling legs.

He slides his cock from you and you feel your poor little hole gape at the loss. You swear your body has been permanently re-sized to fit his cock, but you're not mad about that.

He spins you around once again, eyes drinking in your figure from your feet all the way up to your own eyes, staring up at him with that same wonder, same awe that you always do.

If anything, it's amplified now.

He stays still as your fingers reach forward, tracing over his scarred lips.

"Simon," you whisper, tracing over the stubble on his jaw.

"Hmm?"

You only smile shyly up at him, then lean up on your toes to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He's momentarily stunned by the intimacy behind it, the softness.

When you go to pull away he grabs you by the back of the neck firmly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to get you to stop moving.

He leans down and slots his lips against yours fully, kissing you once more.

It's softer than the kiss you shared earlier, less hurried. He takes his time, lets his lips explore yours for a long while before slowly pulling away.

He brings his free hand up and strokes your cheek gently, watching as you nuzzle into his touch once more.

It amazes him how freely you let him touch you. You've seen firsthand what this man can do, what he's capable of, yet here you are, seeking out his touch.

The same hands that have ended lives without a moment of hesitation, and you're letting him hold you with them.

"C'mon, little one. Let's get you cleaned up."

He does, in fact, get you cleaned up, and in turn, you show him to one of the new places that you call home.

It's a large house, with a mostly intact upper level. Your few belongings are tucked away safely, and you've made a bed out of all the blankets and pillows you can find.

The two of you lie together on what you call your bed, his arm wrapped around you and your head on his chest. His vest has been discarded next to the two of you, and you can hear his heart beating beneath your head.

"Ghost leave?" You ask, nails scraping at his exposed wrist.

He shakes his head, "not yet, not for a while."

You nod happily and snuggle closer to him, sighing heavily as sleep threatens to overtake you.

"Where are you from, Mouse?" He asks after a moment of silence, holding your little hand gently in his and inspecting it closely.

"And what happened here?"

You hum, lifting your head and watching as he traces a finger over your smooth palm, the scar tissue hiding any trace of your fingerprints.

Your eyes float up to his face and you spend a moment admiring him.

The hard skull plate of his mask is on the floor beside him, and the black balaclava is pushed up over his nose.

You can see more of his face than you ever have before.

"Not from here... not on map. I spend... long time trying to come here. Through trees... on boat... that is how I come here."

He nods slowly, absorbing every word of broken English that you're speaking.

"I live with mother... and father. But he... he is not good man. There were many young children... like me... and he keep us in... box for dog."

"Cage?" He asks, his heart hurting when you nod.

"Yes. We are kept in cage, in cold dark room. No food... no water... for days. But mother... she bring us food and water. She teach us to hide, to be quiet, to not be found. Show us how to leave cage. But one day... father find me."

Your eyes get a little distant as you remember that day. The way he didn't scream or yell, simply grabbed you and brought you into the kitchen. Forced your mother to boil the kettle. You remember her pleas, her cries. He was quick to silence her. You didn't understand what was going to happen at the time.

"He put hands in... bad water... burns... and he say that I... deserve it. That... it is what happens... when girls try to leave. He say that I will stay forever, until someone want to buy me... for babies."

The pieces start to make more sense.

Of course you're stealthy and quiet. You've been forced to be, all but trained to be. Your survival depended on it, and it still does now.

Rage builds up in Simon's chest and he wants nothing more than to find this motherfucker and put a bullet in his head.

"Where is he now?"

You sigh and rest your head back on his chest.

"One day, mother say... to run. Run and do not stop. Do not look back. She open cage and so I run. But I do look back. And I see... fire... big fire... and mother... is gone. But so is father. She... sacrifice for me. Everything."

You've had nothing but time to reflect on your childhood since escaping, and it's nothing new to you.

You miss your mother dearly, the only sense of comfort you've had until now.

"I'm sorry, Mouse."

You frown at his words and look up at him. Why is he sorry? He didn't burn your hands, rip your mother from you. He didn't keep you locked in a cage with the intention of selling you, your body, your purity, to the highest bidder.

Why should he be sorry?

Ghost says nothing more though, only pulls you closer to his body, plants a kiss on your forehead, and silently vows to do everything in his power to protect you. To keep you safe.

[sentientcave]

Let's Riot!

When the Reader St arena gets bought out from under them by Morgan’s vengeful ex, Pippa Graves, The Reader St Riots suddenly find themselves without a practice space. Pippa may say she’ll play nice, but Morgan knows that she’ll either have to get back under Pippa’s manicured thumb or the whole team will be out on their ass in no time. Problem is, the only other practice space around that’s not booked up to the tits belongs to Jo Price, captain of the Femme41, and well… Morgan has a bit of ugly history with her too.

Still, Jo’s at least a little more reasonable than Pippa, and Morgan may hate to beg, but she’d hate to see the Riots disbanded more. And well, maybe there’s room for a little cooperation, especially when their teams get along so well.

Contains: Lesbians! Almost everyone is a woman (Alex is NB and there are like. A few men mentioned.) and most of them are gay, OCs: Readers and OCs from a bunch of my projects and also Bambi and Bricks who belong to the esteemed @dragonnarrative-writes , Roller Derby!, complicated dating histories, this is just a fun little palette cleanser because I got sad working on one of my other projects lmao, alcohol consumption, cannabis consumption

~3k - 18+ MDNI

“Frank, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Come on, sweetheart, calm down—”

“I am calm!” Morgan snapped.

Chelsea quickly put an arm in front of Morgan and dragged her back a step. Calling Morgan sweetheart was a great shortcut to her blowing her top. “You are definitely not calm.” She looked back at Frank. He stood between them and the doors to the arena, a short, balding man that looked a bit sweaty and nervous in the low light. “You couldn’t give us any notice?”

“Look, I’ll return your deposits for the month—”

“That’s not the issue!” Morgan's brown eyes flashed with fury, her jaw tight, like she wanted to bite the man, which would be distinctly unhelpful.

Chelsea dragged her back another step. “It is a little the issue. What happened? We’ve never had any trouble, we’ve always paid on time, there’s no reason why you’d drop us like this.”

“New owners,” he said weakly. “I’m sorry, they cancelled everyone. You were just at the bottom of the call list, and you got here before I could.”

“New owners! Since when was it for sale?”

“Hell if I know. They don’t tell me shit either. All I know is that Gerry came in here with some blond bi—" He thought twice about his wording, giving Morgan another nervous glance. "--Woman and she’s the boss now.”

Morgan walked in a tight circle, looking up at the sky, hands on her hips. This wasn’t happening. It didn’t have to be her. Maybe it was some other blond woman with money to burn. “Fuck.”

The doors behind Frank opened. “Oh, hey sugar,” a too-familiar voice rang out, southern accent distinctive. “Fancy meetin' you here.”

Morgan turned around sharply. “Pippa.”

Chelsea groaned. “Oh here we go.”

“Go back to your office, Frank. I think I’ve got this from here.” Phillipa Graves patted Frank on the shoulder and walked past him. “Morgan, I’ve missed you. You never return my calls anymore.”

“Is that what this is about?” Morgan shifted her grip on her bag, glancing toward the parking lot. Bricks and Doll were lingering at the edge, talking to each other and looking back with worried expressions. They knew the history between Morgan and Pippa well enough to be wary of what might happen next. “You’re gonna steal our practice space because I won’t call you back?”

“Aw, honey, don’t be like that. We’re all big girls. I figure we can learn to share. Why don’t you join us tonight? And early next week we can grab dinner and make a new schedule. I’m sure there’s a way to make sure we’re all… satisfied.” Pippa twisted one of Morgan’s curls around her finger, leaning in close. Even ready for practice, she looked perfect as always, more like she was about to model for a roller skate advertisement than actually practice. Sleek blonde hair swept back in a low braid, a tight pink tank top, leggings that clung to her thighs, pads on, skates off, preparation interrupted by all the fuss she was certainly expecting.

“I’m the one that does the scheduling, usually,” Chelsea interjected. “Maybe it’s us that should get dinner.”

“If you like,” Pippa said smoothly, barely sparing Chelsea a glance. “The more the merrier, of course. Though I do have some personal business to talk over with Morgan too. Suppose it can wait.” She tapped Morgan under the chin with her first knuckle. “Come on, sugar, practice with us. We’re not so bad. And you’re all already here, ain’t you?”

“We’ll have to talk it over.”

“Course. Y’all come on in when you’re done talkin’.” Pippa winked at Morgan and sauntered back inside.

Chelsea sighed, elbowing Morgan as they walked over to the others. The rest of the team had gathered around Bricks, her height marked among the group of shorter women. “You’re gonna have to sleep with her.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I’d really rather not.”

“She’s not going to be reasonable,” Billie pointed out. “She’s pure evil. She’s the head of the PTA at Ellie’s school, and she runs that shit like the navy. She’s gonna bend us over a barrel to get what she wants.”

“Have you ever tried not having antagonistic relationships with your exes?” Bricks asked. “Because that’s what I do, and no one has bought a whole arena just to fuck with me.”

“Yet,” Doll said reassuringly. “It could still happen.”

“The whole team is awful,” Bambi said. “One of them works in my office, and she’s a real— Well, I don’t like her.”

“Harsh words, DB.” Bricks propped her hands on her hips. “We can suck it up for one night, a free practice is a free practice. And if you have to flutter your eyelashes at her the whole time, you’re gonna do it.” She pointed at Morgan accusingly. “This is your fault.”

“It is not!”

“It is,” Chelsea said solemnly, fixing her pink bun from on top of her head to low on the nape of her neck to fit under her helmet. “Pussy game is clearly too strong. Maybe try being a worse fuck.”

“She can’t.” Bricks gently turned Morgan around so that she was facing the doors, and nudged her forward a step. “She doesn’t know how.”

Chelsea turned fully toward the others, walking backward. “Alright, drills only, we’re not going to let them goad us into a scrimmage, they’re gonna play dirty as hell with no refs, and we can’t afford an injury this close to a game. Keep it loose, and if anyone hassles you, come to me, or come to Bricks. Do not tell Morgan or she’s gonna punch someone and we’re gonna lose our space for good.”

“I’m not!”

Bricks laughed and caught Chelsea’s arm, spinning her before she hit the edge of the door. “Yes you are, Morgan. Stay on your best behaviour. Maybe even try being charming.”

Bunny nudged Dancer, grinning. “If you’d joined up last year, like I told you to, you could have been here for the whole explosion. It was great.”

“Great?” Billie asked, raising her eyebrows. “Were we watching the same breakup?”

Bricks glanced over her shoulder warningly. “Save it for drinks, ladies, or Morgan’s gonna make us skate line drills till we drop.”

They dropped their bags along the benches and geared up, watching the Shadows zip around the track. The Shadows were mean, not just on the track, but off too, in that sugar sweet way that left you wondering if you were just reading into it. They were a pretty well-rounded team, and coordinated, thanks to Pippa. She did nothing in half-measures. It seemed impossible that she’d be able to raise children, run school events, coach a junior team as well as an adult one, somehow have a job on top, and still have time to run around keeping two relationships secret from each other for nearly eight months, but Pippa was the kind of woman who really could have it all.

The Riots were… A good team. Pippa had poached two of their players during the breakup drama, and Pepper had moved back home to take care of her grandmother, and they were still trying to get back to where they had been a year ago. Kitten Caboodle and Break Dancer were pretty solid for fresh meat, but with a small team and only four of them with more than a few years experience, it was rough going out there. Hard not to get demoralized when Kortac had beaten them 240 to 60 during their last game. No one’s fault really— Bunny and Sweetpea had been out sick and neither Kitty or Dancer were prepared to jam more than a few rounds with players that rough. They’d gotten shaken, so Morgan and Billie had done most of the jams. Nobody and Freddie Kruger had just torn right through their weakened pack while Morgan and Bill tried to wrestle their way past Queenie.

Once Dancer and Kitty got more confident, they’d be hard to catch. Kitty was tiny, and Dancer was agile, but they both needed more time. Doll and Bambi, who had joined a little over a year ago had turned out to be a highly effective set of blockers— Small, but sturdy and hard to knock down. When they were out on the track with Bricks or Chelsea, they were nigh impossible to get past, which would leave their fourth blocker free to assist the jammer, in an ideal world.

The ideal world simply had five more players in it. Maybe more, since no one but Morgan and Bricks made it to every game.

Later on, worn out and sweaty from practice, crammed into the biggest booth at a diner that was roughly equidistant between everyone’s homes and the arena (and the young man that worked the fryers had a massive crush on Sweetpea, which meant everyone got more fries), they debriefed.

“That’s gonna be tricky for me to stomach long term,” Morgan admitted. “I’m gonna sleep with Pip if I have to be too nice.”

“You don’t actually have to sleep with her, you know,” Bricks said.

“No… I’m gonna.”

“We can find somewhere else,” Billie suggested. “I don’t want Morgan and Pip to get back together, it was so annoying when they were. All in favour of Morgan not fucking Pippa, say aye.” She raised her hand to note the measure.

“Aye,” they intoned together, all raising their hands as well.

“Simone says the Femme41 practice out of Jo’s warehouse now. Pippa did the same thing to them eight months ago. I bet they’d let us skate there.” Bricks tossed another fry into her mouth. “If someone behaves herself.”

Morgan scoffed. “It’s impossible for me to date another one of her girlfriends, her relationships hardly last the weekends now.”

Bunny mouthed the word Pippa at Kitty and Dancer.

“Then you won’t have a problem asking her,” Chelsea said. “Maybe bake her something nice as an overture. A pie or something. You make good pies.”

Morgan winced. “We have a game against them this weekend. We could ask her all together.”

Billie shook her head. “No, this one’s on you. Captain to captain conversation. You have Chelsea’s schedule key, you can negotiate for a time that works.”

“And if she says no? She hates my guts.”

“Wear something low cut and bake her a pie,” Bricks suggested. “Maybe just go wearing nothing but an apron.”

“I’ve got one that says Born To Be A Lesbian Housewife,” Doll said. “You can borrow it. It’s very frilly.”

Bambi giggled. “I’ve got one that says Vagitarian.”

Doll laughed too, knocking her head against Bambi’s shoulder. “That’s way better, Morgan, borrow that one.”

"I'm not going to-- Did you people hear me when I said she hates my guts?"

"She still has eyes, Morgan," Bricks said. "And you have nice tits."

"If you don't sort this out, we might have to disband to other teams. And I don't want to. I like you guys." Chelsea looped an arm around Kitty. "We started this team because we wanted to get together and have fun and challenge ourselves without it getting so damn competitive or mean. Bill and I are not going back to the Shadows, and there's no way Bricks wants to go back to Kortac. So put on your big girl panties and a cute dress, and charm Jo into sharing the warehouse with us. Got it?"

"Got it." Morgan sank back into her seat with a groan. I'll talk to her after work tomorrow."

"Good," Billie said, a note of finality in her voice. "Now, did anyone else watch Game of Dragons last night? I have opinions."

By the time Morgan got home, walked Laika, showered, ate cold leftovers out of the fridge and stepped out on her balcony with a joint, it was well past dark, and she was bone tired. Jo was out on her own balcony, feet up, smoking a cigar. She was a thick, barrel chested woman, wearing a tank top and jeans, cigar in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other. Her hair was longer than usual, tucked behind her ears, like she'd been growing it out. It had been a while since Morgan saw her without a hat on.

They acknowledged each other with a curt nod, and Morgan settled into her swing chair, tucking her feet up underneath her. Laika went to the railing to give Jo the biggest, saddest eyes she could.

Jo maybe didn't like Morgan much, but it was hard not to like Laika. The big goofy rottweiler loved almost everyone, and knew exactly how to get what she wanted (big sad eyes, a few pathetic whines, a raised paw, if need be). It was only a minute before Jo was up and leaning over the railing to give Laika a pet.

Usually they didn't speak. The smallest things seemed to spark up into fights between them, and Morgan found it was easier just to keep their interactions to a minimum.

So it was a surprise when Jo spoke first. "Rough night?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

“Thank you for pretending to care, but not really.” She grimaced. It really was the perfect opportunity to ask, but it was hard to shake the habit of brushing Jo off.

Jo snorted. “You know, I really preferred fightin’ to this cold shoulder treatment.”

“That’s because you’re a disagreeable sort of woman.”

“That’s the spirit, pet. But you can do better than that. C’mere.”

Morgan glared at her. “No. I’m good where I am actually.” She looked the other way, puffing on the joint. She could ask tomorrow. She wasn’t in a mood to deal with anyone else tonight. Having to smile and play nice with Pippa had been bad enough. She needed a good sleep before she could even pretend to be friendly to anyone else.

She startled when Jo’s thick fingers plucked the joint out of her hand. “Hey! I didn’t invite you over here.”

“Your weed’s better than mine.”

“Probably because I grow it myself. What do you want?”

Jo sat down on the solid little coffee table in front of Morgan, holding her cigar and whiskey glass in one hand. She leaned forward, glass resting lightly on her knee, bleeding condensation into the denim. Mixed drink, then, not straight whiskey. Jo drank the better stuff neat. “Pip called me today.”

“Oh yeah?”

Jo hummed, offering the joint back, blue eyes stern. “Don’t be coy, if you’re fuckin’ her again I’d rather know than get blindsided bumpin’ into her in the hallway.”

“Did she tell you we were?”

Jo’s jaw clenched tight. “She said she was lookin’ forward to seein’ you tonight.”

“Well I’m sure it was super nice for her. She bought my team’s arena. I am gonna have to start fucking her if I want to keep our usual practice slots. She made that… Well about as clear as she ever makes anything.” Morgan handed the joint over again. “So not very, but I still got the gist of it.” She scrunched up Laika’s ears, humming. Laika’s tail solidly thumped against Jo’s shin, bridging the space between them.

“Extortionist,” Jo scoffed.

“Yeah. Pretty much. Bricks said you might take pity on us if I asked nicely. I know you practice out of your warehouse.” Morgan lifted her eyes back up to Jo’s face.

“Is this you askin’ nicely?” Jo leaned forward slightly, her soft stomach spilling over her belt a bit, biceps flexing as she leaned more weight on her arms. “You can do better than that. Not so much as a please.”

“It was not me asking nicely. I had no intention of talking to you until tomorrow, and I’m still not asking until I’ve had at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Surprised you’d come to me.”

Morgan looked away first, just like she always did. Jo had an intensity to her that was hard to match, blue eyes drilling into her own like she was looking for faults she could use to crack her open entirely. It was much easier to study the freckles on the top of her shoulder, just above the pinup girl sitting on the curve of a crescent moon that looked rather a lot like her ex wife, Sadie. “I wouldn’t if I had literally any other option. But I have to admit that you are slightly more tolerable than Pippa. Even if you do park half in my spot and fuck squealing college girls at all hours of the night.”

“You don’t need the space. You have a bike.”

“So that gives you the right to park your big-dick pickup truck wherever you please?”

“Sure does, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart! We have one conversation that doesn’t make me want to punch you, and you have to ruin it.”

She grinned, shifting back again. “Not being very nice to someone you want to ask a favour from.”

“I’m not asking the favour until tomorrow. I’m too grumpy to be nice tonight. You invited yourself over and plopped yourself down in front of me and started smoking my weed.” This was not helpful. Why did Jo always manage to get her this worked up? She drew in a centring breath. “No, you’re right, I should be nicer.”

"I did bogart your joint," Jo conceded. "That's on me." Rather than hand it back, she took a long drag, the cherry burning bright all the way down to the folded cardboard filter, and dropped the remains in the ashtray. She leaned forward again, cupping the back of Morgan's neck with a strong hand, and blew smoke directly into Morgan's face. She grinned wickedly when Morgan spluttered a bit. "What's wrong, pet? Thought you wanted me to share better."

"Maybe I am better off negotiating with Pippa," Morgan grumbled, swatting Jo's hand away.

"Hm. Maybe. Why don't you think about how you'll ask me about practice space tomorrow, and I'll get out of your hair." Jo stood up, gave Laika another pat, and climbed back over to her side of the balcony without another word.

Morgan ushered Laika inside, fuming again, and furiously got ready for bed.

She was sure of one thing; Jo Price was going to make a truce between them nigh impossible.

Title card made on Canva - Image Credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 (Stickers are Canva assets) Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[x3no9]

It's done!

Ghost x Soap, Makarov x Graves, Graves x Alex Keller, Makarov x Alex Keller and a surprise at the end lol.

This has it all. Love, betrayal, gunfights, mpreg, polygamy, sex and more ( odd kinks here and there but very briefly). If you like domestic, tender Ghost x Soap ( bottom Ghost) and Makarov being himself but with Graves this is it! Also might be the first Alex Keller x Makarov fic out there lol.

[2kiran]

subbot!ghost that's shy about how loud he can be >< he can barely see with tears in his eyes because you're making him feel so good :(( domtop!m!reader with prompt 10! take ur time <33

SIMON RILEY X TOP!READER

prompt, let me hear you

“Fuckin’ hell, luv,” Simon groans, large hand wrapping around the back of your neck. His head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut and he drags out a whine. “Yeah?” Teasingly rolling your hips, brushing past his sweet spot to feel the impatient tug provoked by a sharp twist of his calloused fingers. “Hngh, do-don’t be such a tease.”

“You like it when I am.” Simon rocks against you in response, thighs squeezing around yours, and he’s too far gone to snap. Shit, your cock is keeping his greedy hole so full, head light with pleasure when you suddenly pull all the way out, rim clenching and unclenching on your tip — then burrowing in again with a rough slam.

“Ah, haah—” His free hand clamps down on his mouth, silencing himself before he lets out an embarrassing moan.

His eyes fly open, jaw tensing as his hard length weeps pre. His whimper is muffled, tears catching on his lashes, and he’s suddenly conscious of how thin the walls of your home must be. He swears he’s almost going cross-eyed, you’re right in his throat and he’s lewdly quivering on your cock. Simon’s desperately stopping himself from yanking on your hair, uncertain if it’s whether to shove you away or force you closer.

Gently, your hand search for his, panting when you’re wrapped in his tight warmth again. “Oh, baby,” your thumb swipes across Simon’s knuckles, attempting to pry his palm away though his teeth are already sinking into his bottom lip. “Let me hear you, yeah?”

You take both of his wrists, pinning them above his head and you’re almost concerned he’ll draw blood with how hard he’s biting himself. Has there always been two of you?

Oh, now you’re a blurred group of three, and it makes him clench on you harder through the dizziness. He can feel himself shying away from the firm grasp of consciousness, all that is left of his thoughts are you and your big, stupid cock that keeps teasing his insides, forcing out choked-out moans.

He doesn’t want to seem like an idiot, doesn’t want to sound like one. He’s close to piercing his own lip, all in vain to keep his little groans from echoing throughout the quiet space.

But then Simon cries out as you ram back deep in him — cock pulsing and fuck he doesn’t want you to stop — finally unable to contain the needy whimpers that threaten to humiliate him. It’s raw, hoarse, aching when it finally breaches its confines. He’s trying to blink away the beads pooling from his eyes, simmering down his cheeks but you’re here to help him, wiping them away sweetly.

He’s shivering, too fucked out to think about anything besides your warmth and soft stare being constant reminders of how good you are to him. “Please,” a pathetic, little plea. He needs you so bad it’s physically hurting him. “More, nnh, I n-need you.”

[killerpancakeburger]

KNIGHT IN SHINING KHAKI

Gif by @bastardcompany

SUMMARY: You've angered the wrong officer. You think you're a goner when Johnny sweeps in to save the day.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader ("her" is used to refer to reader once, that's it) (+ Reader's hair is long enough to grab)

TAGS: Civilian!Reader, Depressed!Reader, Insecure!Reader, Angry!Soap, Protective!Soap, GuardDog!Soap, canon violence, hurt/comfort, swearing, blood mention. Ghost makes an appearance as a matchmaker lol. The love is requited they're just insecure idiots. Making Shit Up for the Plot/military inaccuracies.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

A/N: My original prompt for this was: civilian!reader sees Soap in action and gets Horny. No Scared Just Horny.

Then I found out that Soap canonically beat up an officer. I am also obsessed with this video.

Part 1. Part 3.

This is it, you thought to yourself. 

This is how I die.

The day had unfolded like any other. Your shift was over and you were locking up your office, as usual. Your attention was focused on your hands’ motion, your guard dropped, your back exposed.

This explained why, when the stranger grabbed your hair and bashed your head against the door mercilessly, you didn’t see it coming in the slightest. The fact that you had zero combat experience while the person manhandling you was a decorated military officer obviously made matters worse, but at the moment of the assault, you didn’t know that.

The thud of the collision was eclipsed almost immediately by the pain exploding in your face. Half-stunned, all you could comprehend at the moment, every single signal sent by your brain was compacted in one word: suffering. Sharp, all-encompassing. You yelped, your hands vainly pushing against the cold, hard surface to get away.

“I've finally found you, you little snitch. Didn’t think you'd get away with it, now did you?”

Despite the blood thumping in your ears, and how groggy the hit on your head made you, his words reached you perfectly. They were seeping with fury and disdain. His voice didn’t ring a bell, so you tried to turn your head to glimpse him, if only at the corner of your eye, and he granted you some leeway to do so.

Perplexity filled you as you finally caught sight of your aggressor: you've never seen that man before.

“I don't even know who you are,” you winced.

Talking back in your situation would be judged stupid and reckless by a majority of people. Laying low assured more chances to avoid harm.

However most people hadn't been mugged at knifepoint like you had been, and most people valued their lives way more than you did.

Once the confusion and incredulity subsided, the pain still vivid but manageable, you were left with frustration and anger towards your interminable bad luck and the man behind you. His aversion was harder to take seriously when it seemed to have no foundation.

The grip on your hair tightened, making you grit your teeth.

“I'll refresh your memory, then.”

One part of you managed to be pleased to know that this mystery would be solved; the rest was ringing alarm bells when hearing the underlying threats in his tone.

“Weeks ago, you filed a report for embezzlement.”

You frowned, having no recollection of his claims, before a memory emerged. You saw them in flashes: the sudden, abnormally high spendings, the certificates full of anomalies, the incoherent dates; all this lead you to complete a reporting form, just as your job required you to. It was just a formality. You hadn't even even paid attention to the name attached to the expenses, therefore the officer was still anonymous.

Your aggressor scoffs menacingly, easily reading on your face that you remembered.

“They're gonna strip me of my rank and throw me in jail because of you. I'll make you pay even if it’s the last thing I do.”

That last sentence was finished in an almost shout, making you flinch, wishing you could pass through the door.

You quietly resigned yourself to your fate. No one was coming for you. You were no stranger to the inner workings of the military - no one would dare cross an officer that high-ranked for your sake. 

I've lived a good li- well, no. A pretty shitty life, actually. But at least I can say I did the right thing.

Just as you closed your eyes and braced yourself, hoping this wouldn’t drag on, a Scottish-accentuated roar resonated in the empty hall.

“Get yer hands off her-”

You had never heard Soap sound so enraged, nor his pitch so gravelly. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, blended with gratitude. Tears stinged the corners of your eyes.

All of a sudden the unyielding grip on your hair was gone, the sound of something violently hitting the wall punctuating your newfound freedom. 

“-ye fucking bastard!”

You immediately turned around to see what was happening, leaning against the door behind you. Your legs were too shaky to be reliable. The harmed side of your face was throbbing in pain as you took in the scene with wide eyes.

Johnny had pinned the officer against the wall with one forearm across his chest. He dealt him a punch to the face powerful enough that the resulting thud made you grimace, despite not feeling any sympathy for his target.

He managed to administer a second blow before his adversary snapped out of his stupor, and the advantage he gained from taking him by surprise ran its course.

As your assailant defended himself with the strength of someone backed into a corner, you couldn't help but fear for Soap's safety for a moment. Despite knowing that one's rank didn’t reflect their fighting prowess, a rush of anxiety passed through you at the idea that he could lose that confrontation.

Nonetheless, he quickly put your mind at ease as his skills proved to be largely superior. The gap between the two was deep enough that it was obvious even to a neophyte like you.

Paralyzed, you couldn’t do anything but stare at the display of violence with a mix of morbid fascination and sadistic satisfaction. Honestly, if you could borrow Soap's body, you would without a doubt inflict the same treatment on that man. Maybe worse. Fair payback for the threats, the smashing of your face, the probable trauma you'd get from this. Maybe not that fair. But maybe for once you'd stop trying to act like a paragon of virtue.

You should have been scared, you realized. You had never been involved in a fight before. You had never witnessed firsthand the brutality Johnny was capable of, despite being aware of it, between his status as a soldier and the reports you read. The dog tags jingling from his neck and the khaki of his uniform were like so many visual reminders that he was a killing machine. His ferocious wrath, his yelling and his punches should have made you cower in fright.

However the only feeling inhabiting you was safety, as paradoxical as it sounded. Soap was safe, you were convinced of it, consciously or not.

This whole ordeal felt like it lasted an eternity and a minute at the same time. You blinked and out of nowhere, Johnny was straddling the officer on the floor. Blows kept pouring in but they were one-sided - the sergeant had gained the upper hand. The rhythm of his strikes seemed attuned to the beatings of your heart. Each resonated inside of your ears with your skull as their echo chamber. The noise was loud enough to cover your own thoughts.

As you focused on your breathing, you managed to slow down your heartbeats, and the blood-fueled pump between your ribs no longer felt like it could burst out of your chest at any moment. You failed however to contain the tremor in your hands.

You chose to focus on Soap's hands instead. They were soaked red from blood spilled, but not his. Specks of crimson sprinkled his hair, his face, his neck, his t-shirt.

There was a certain sort of lethal beauty to this brutal display that you couldn't help but contemplate in reverent silence: the way his bicep swole when he threw his arm back before hitting his target. The tightening of the muscles beneath the tanned skin of his arms. His icy stare. The harsh line of his jaw. His stern, inflexible expression, one he usually wore in meetings or after Price gave the order to leave.

The expression of someone who would stop at nothing, provided a bleak little voice in the back of your mind. The idea didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

“Not gonna make him stop?”

The familiar grunt of Ghost's voice almost made you jump out of your skin. You pivoted and the behemoth of a lieutenant was there, in casual clothes, right by your side. You had no idea when he arrived or how long he's been standing there, quiet like a shadow.

Something dark flashed in his brown eyes as his gaze lingered on the hurt side of your face.

“Why would I show mercy to someone who would have granted me none?” you scoffed bitterly.

“Someone's bloodthirsty.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You turned your attention back to Soap and Ghost did the same.

“I doubt he would listen to me.”

“He would,” stated the masked man, with the assertiveness of someone announcing a conviction. 

“But if ya don't believe me…”

A beat, then.

“Oï, Johnny!”

The shout was nonchalant, like it was something he did often, calling off his sergeant from some prey like the Scotsman was his personal attack dog.

The effect was immediate.

Soap abruptly froze, blinking a couple times as if awakening from a trance. Then he perked up, and turned around, eyes searching. The first sound that left his lips was a call of your name. His gaze latched onto you and didn’t let go as he stood up and rushed towards you. The naked vulnerability, the raw openness in his voice and on his face were so earnest that they felt like a Cupid's arrow shot straight between your lungs. It left you devoid of speech and motion, so as Johnny reached for you, all you could do was try to convey your reassurances through your eyes; that you were mostly fine, and so grateful, but worried for him, that he made everything better-

His arms closing around you made the outside disappear, and suddenly the whole world came down to Johnny, and only him. His embrace was enjoyable for a second before the pressure of his body against your face woke up your contusions. You let out a muffled cry of pain and he released you immediately, swearing and apologizing. However his hands didn’t leave you, grasping your shoulders.

“C'mere hen, lemme have a look at ye.”

“Oh, I'm fine, you should worry about-”

Your voice pathetically died in your throat as he cupped your face, leaning over, way too close for your heart to not start stammering uncontrollably.

The combined attention of his fingertips on your skin and the turquoise of his eyes roaming your visage turned your cheeks into a blazing inferno.

Unable to maintain eye contact, your gaze wandered over his own injuries, a split lip and a couple of bruises.

Suddenly he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index, tilting your face one way and the other. Your skin flared up at the contact, pleasant yet nervous tingles scattering all over your body.

“Ye sure he didn’t hit ye on that side? Yer a wee bit red.”

You bit back a whine of complaint at that comment. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

“Yer makin’ it worse, Johnny.” sneaked Ghost, the amusement manifest in his voice - at least to you.

Soap looked up to him, frowning in incomprehension, indignant. 

“The hell ya on aboot L.T.? How am ah makin’ it worse?”

You panicked.

“Shut up Riley!” you hissed, in a desperate attempt to put a stop to his shenanigans, forgetting that you were supposed to be severely intimidated by the masked man.

That drew a gruff chuckle out of him. Your sudden outburst caused Johnny to release you.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you two even here, anyway?”

You were kind of proud of your ability to change the subject.

“Was comin’ tae get ye fer a game,” smiled Soap, and it reminded you of a pet proudly presenting its owners with its findings.

“This one wasn’t coming back, and neither of you were answering your phones, so we figured somethin’ went wrong. And we were right. This poor fucker is wanted. Called in reinforcements to deal with him.”

Footsteps’ noises caught your attention. A group of soldiers in uniform seized your aggressor and brought him to his feet, before unceremoniously shoving him in the direction opposite of you.

“Gotta tell Gaz the game ain't happening tonight.”

By the time you took in what Ghost had said, and turned away from the procession, he had already disappeared.

“This isn’t over,” menaced the officer, passing by your spot as he was hauled away. “When I get out-”

“Shut the fuck up,” snarled Soap instantly, protectively positionning himself in front of you.

“Found yourself a faithful guard dog, uh?” the other man taunted.

One one hand, that last remark wasn’t so far from the truth - he had been acting a lot like that: barking threats, baring his teeths, standing between you and the menace, reducing a man to a bloody pulp for hitting you…

But on the other hand, letting that piece of shit talk to Johnny this way was simply out of the question.

Before thinking, you found yourself walking in front of the sergeant and retorting.

“What, jealous he's ten times the man you'll never be?”

Fortunately for you, he was dragged away before he could snap anything back. That didn’t prevent you from regretting your snarky comment immediately. It had been a purely impulsive urge, the kind that could make you feel heavy remorse for days, if not years. As if this seasoned combat expert needed your aid to defend himself. The idea was ludicrous.

You didn’t get a moment to mope around however, as Johnny proceeded to grab you by the hips and press you flush against him with a jubilant smirk. You couldn’t do much except prop yourself with both hands on his pectorals to avoid stumbling.

“My hero.” he praised like a smitten damsel in distress.

“Look who's talking.”

You lowered your gaze despite yourself, mumbling your reply, a half smile on your lips, embarrassed but amused.

“Going after bastards is mah job, not yours. You gutsy little thing.”

You refrained a sarcastic laughter at the nickname - gutsy and little were two things you have never been called, as far as you can remember. But you weren't about to argue with the man who just saved your sorry ass.

His fingers pressed into your flesh, sending tickles at the bottom of your spine.You were about to ask him to let you go, the position too incriminating for this public setting, when you noticed how dilated his pupils were. He had to be high on adrenaline from the fight.

You may have let yourself get lost in the blue pools of his eyes, until his expression turned grave.

“Ye sure yer good? Yer too calm about this. No need tae put oan a brave face fer me, aye?”

The genuine, serious concern in his eyes made the inside of your stomach twist.

“I'm good. You arrived just in time,” you assured.

How peculiar it felt to be the one to comfort Johnny, rather than the opposite; that the lionhearted, superhuman sergeant Mactavish might even need such a thing; that he might require it from you, of all people.

“He didn’t get to do much.”

His pretty features contorted into a scowl at the reminder of your attacker.

“That sonuvabitch… raising a hand on ye in broad fuckin’ daylight… if he ever touches ye again, I swear I’ll…”

As he kept fulminating against your assailant, you couldn’t stop an endeared smile from spreading on your lips. Listening to one of Soap's rants brightened your mood; it was familiar. The sincerity in his words and his tone was welcome. He wasn’t able to fake those emotions even if he wanted to; they spilled out of him like a waterfall. His honest worry and righteous ire towards someone who hurt you was… flattering, in a sense. It made you feel cared for, like you mattered.

Then red started dripping.

“Johnny… your nose is bleeding.”

He wiped it negligently with the back of his hand, only succeeding in smearing it over his face. You couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Bend over. It will stop faster.”

“Buy me dinner first.”

He punctuated his quip with a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows. You rolled your eyes.

“Let's just go to medical already.” you grumbled, starting to walk decisively, albeit stiffly, in the right direction.

“Aye, aye,” acquiesced your savior, jogging a bit to catch up to you.

[gothghostiie]

something babysitter!reader waiting for price to drive them home while he's on video call with one of his friends, the little one in his lap, tapping around on the screen; until it somehow does something to make the screen go weird. he chuckles and shows you, inevitably holding the camera right onto you for a moment and showing you before turning it back on him. all you hear from the phone now is a curious hum. "who's the lil' tulip on the couch?"

[lundenloves]

dad!simon masterlist | taglist | masterlist | request info

dad!simon who will near fall asleep on the sofa, sat upright with wide legs and his arms crossed, only opening one eye to pretend he’s listening while one of his daughters rambles about school drama.

dad!simon who scoffs when another monthly subscription or amazon payment goes through his card, brows knitted together after asking just why the house has to be subscribed to four separate streaming services.

dad!simon who never remembers his kids’ friends names. it could be his daughters best friend of seven years and he still wouldn’t remember.

dad!simon who visually could not care less about the gossip his daughter waffles about, mumbling “mhm” every so often to appear engaged though shrugging when called out on his evident boredom.

dad!simon who tsks at all the parcels that come through the door day-to-day. living with three daughters and a wife, it’s constant. he detests being the only one home and having to sign for something — will actively ignore a knock on the door when there’s other people in the house.

dad!simon who (when drunk) is the height of amusement for his eldest. many snapchats exist of him being handed the phone already recording and goofily grinning into it while looking up at her “what am i supposed to be looking at?”

dad!simon who sticks post-it notes in bold handwriting to the fridge whenever anyone has an appointment due the following day. “don’t forget.” complete with a fullstop and a harsh underline of the time in military digits.

dad!simon who replies sarcastically to almost every obvious question with his natural glare, something each of his kids had genetically taken: “don’t ask stupid questions and you won’t get stupid answers.” he loves them really.

dad!simon who silenced the family groupchat as soon as he had figured out how to, only replying every other day with a thumbs up reaction or more likely a thumbs down.

dad!simon who side eyes his kids. he doesn’t mean it, yet it happens. watching throw away tv? side eye. talking too loud on the phone? side eye. wearing a questionable outfit? side eye.

dad!simon who has a firm routine. he fucking detests being interrupted, and or spoken to from the hours of five till seven in the morning. he’ll get up, have food and go to the gym all in this time frame before anyone can dent his peace.

dad!simon who sighs avidly. a long and painful sigh after any merely simple question is asked or he’s to pick up one of his kids from a night out. “fucking well told ‘er not to expect me past twelve.” while accidentally slamming the door behind him, keys jingling around his finger.

dad!simon who struggles to show affection in any other way than a short pat of the shoulder or a one armed hug, pulling his kids into his chest for mere seconds before stepping back.

dad!simon who groans whenever anything gets moved in the house. his military mind in favour of keeping things in one position, untouched and moved for preferably ever unless he was told. though, having kids didn’t quite work like that.

dad!simon who: “do i ‘av to do fucking everything in this house? eh?”

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @maki-z @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffeee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @bubbyblob

˗ˏˋ university is still kicking my arse into next week. i joined the football team too, fuck knows why i’m making myself busier than i have to be. alas here we are, and i’m feeding the pigeons! aka sprinkling dad headcannons until i get traction again. pls love me, pls follow me, pls reblog, pls validate me.

the reason i tag this as ‘x reader’ as it’s ur fuckin family with him. no one bite my head off man i can’t be bothered tonight.