#and yeah i also just like simon getting fucked and there's nothing wrong with that

[crownedwille]

I don't know if it needs to be said but I'm gonna say it anyway - you guys do know there's nothing wrong with making Wille the top and Simon mainly the bottom in sexual scenarios, right? And that making them verse or Wille bottom has nothing to do with making them more equal and you don't need to do that as like a way to balance out their class/power differences outside, right? And topping or bottoming are not synonyms for being dominant or submissive. And when I say they have no drawn out power dynamics in their intimate scenes that means there are no real dom/sub dynamics involved but that doesn't mean you can't have a bottom or a top because that's not the same.

Of course you can write or read whatever you want and just have a personal preference but you don't have to try and read into their scenes for proof they are versatile and oh so equal and purposefully search for clues that make Simon not the bottom because it would be degrading if he is...? Like what are you trying to prove - that Simon is also strong and 'manly' and it can't be implied that he exclusively is the bottom and likes getting fucked bc that would be disrespecting him? Isn't that kind of the exact mindset trap you're trying not to fall into?

I just want to emphasise this in case people think this - you're not taking Simon's power and agency away from him if you're making him bottom.

To sum it up, wilmon have no pronounced dom/sub dynamic and they can both surrender to the other in different ways but I do believe there is a certain position preference and it's okay if Wille is more the top (that's just my conclusion from watching/analysing their intimate scenes) and no it doesn't mean they can't ever switch bc it's not that deep but I still think canon tells us a different story than what some people desperately want to make it out to be and whatever they get up to in their sex life has nothing to do with being more or less equal or healthy outside of it.

[ghosts-bandwagon]

omg, imagine how the 141+ könig would react if reader fell asleep on them? not in a relationship i mean, maybe they are just sitting on the couch in the common room and reader is tired and falls asleep on one of them?

This is precious and also a mood lmao

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

Doesn’t move a single. fucking. inch.

The man goes rigid in his attempt not to wake you, he knows how hard you work so it’s no wonder you’re nodding off in the common area, so to him, there’s nothing wrong with getting some rest

So he’s sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, legs spread (as usual), and he’s fighting the urge to rest his head on yours, not his fault you seemed so comfortable

He’s glaring at every poor bastard and dares them to even try and make a comment

Needless to say, your sleep is undisturbed

Eventually you wake up and start apologizing profusely

“Don’t worry about it, sergeant. Just get to bed yeah?”

As you walked away, he rolled his shoulders and rubbed his neck

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:

He’s got his arms on the back of the sofa and behind your head and he starts to feel a weight against his chest

Then he looks down and sees you nestled up against him, your head on his chest and he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making noise

You. are. precious.

100% takes a selfie with you (and Gaz in the background throwing a peace sign)

After the initial thrill settles down, his arm that was draped along the back of the sofa has now come to rest against your own

You’re so warm and the weight of you on his chest is so grounding and soothing, the steady rise and fall of your chest, it’s all so relaxing

Soon enough, he’s nodding off too and he winds up with his head almost draped over the back of the sofa, snores coming out of his mouth

(Gaz definitely filmed it)

Eventually his snoring wakes you up and you can’t help the embarrassment at falling asleep against your teammate like that, still you felt bed that you essentially trapped him there so you gently shook him awake

He massaged the back of his neck with a groan and a wince, your hands replaced his as you gently ushered him upright,

“Come on, Soap, I owe you.”

John Price:

He’s low key melting as soon as he feels your head on his shoulder, he takes a quick glance at you and chuckles

He lets you have a few minutes, knowing full well how tired you are, before he gently jostles his shoulder to softly rouse you before you dozed off deeper,

“Think it’s time to hit the sack, don’t you?” His voice is low as he leans in close,

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be. Get some rest, see you in the morning.”

He’s kind of touched and honored that you feel safe enough to fall asleep against him like that, honestly, he would’ve let you sleep there as long as you wanted

But he knows the comfort of one’s own bed is second to none, and he’d hate for you to wake up with a kink in your neck

And maybe his bones were getting a little stiff and uncomfortable from having to stay still for so long

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Gerrick:

He’s smiling softly to himself and resting his head on yours

He does that thing where you shift in your seat a bit to get comfortable and he shuffles a little lower so he can rest his head against yours

And he falls asleep too!

And honestly it’s the best sleep either of you has ever had because no one has been successful in waking you up, short of shouting or dumping water on you

You wind up waking up first and it’s already morning, you stretch and gently shake him awake,

“Gaz, we slept through the night.”

“Fuck.” He groaned, you laughed quietly and took his arm to stand him up,

“I think we’ve got just enough time to sleep a little longer.”

“What’s the point? We’re already awake.” He reasoned with a yawn and a stretch, “Come on, I’ll make coffee and then we can hit the showers yeah?”

König:

Doesn’t move a single muscle. Like Ghost, he gets quite stiff at first as soon as he feels your head against his arm (even sitting you down you barely reach his shoulder)

So he shuffles a little in his seat until your head is at a more comfortable angle and is resting against his shoulder

But now this means that his spine is curving in uncomfortable shapes, and a good portion of his butt isn’t even on the couch anymore

He wouldn’t dare wake you but holy shit his back hurts

So he slowly and carefully maneuvers you into his arms so now he’s sitting normally and he’s got you on his lap with your head tucked against his chest

He’s got his arms around you to support you and then he realizes that it’s not that much more comfortable

Eventually he gives up and winds up carrying you to your room

You wake up the next morning with a cup of coffee on your nightstand and a sticky note with your name on it (and a little heart)

[imababblekat]

Simon sees you sitting curled up in a chair, eyes peering lost at the sketchbook and computer before. He knows that look. It’s a look you often get when the team finally gets some time off, but you brain is stuck in this void of being unable to commit to any hobbies you once enjoyed. You told him about it once, it was offhandedly and you hadn’t delved much into it with due to still being fairly new and not wanting to bother the apparent cold stone lieutenant. Simon paid attention though, and this detail about yourself had been added to his mentail folder of his teammates.

A deep breath huffed out your nose, head drooping into your folded arms, when your ears picked up on the sound of light footsteps entering the kitchen area you resided.

“The usual?”, came Simons gruff voice, large hands reaching into the cabinet for your and his mugs.

“The usual.”, you mumbled in reply, staring at your phone and resisting the urge to start doom scrolling.

It was a battle you lost as you reached out to open an app and scroll mindlessly through its feed, the light clinking of Simon making you both tea behind you. You’re not sure how long he had taken, too lost in the endless information of peoples lives and other nonsensical things scrolling past your dulled eyes, not registering a thing you watched or read. At some point though, your phone had been snatched from your hands, replaced by a warm cup of your favorite tea, Simon pulling out the chair beside you to sit with his own.

You couldn’t even bother the smallest fuss at the large soldier for taking your phone, simpling taking a sip and then blindly staring into the liquid void.

“That bad today?”

You nod with a groan, putting your cup down to splay your hands out at the objects you once enjoyed before you.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought maybe I was bogged down by knowing I had chores to take care of, but even after finishing those I still can’t get myself to do any of my hobbies!”

Simon sipped his tea, dark eyes glancing up at your downtrodden expression. You thought nothing of his silence, having known him for a while now that his silence was him listening. If he truly wasn’t interested, he would have left, hell he wouldn’t have even bothered to make you a drink.

“I just. . .”, you hold your head in your hands, “I don’t feel myself. I finally get a break, and I can’t do anything I wanted to do. What’s the point of having hobbies if every time I try one of them, I immediately become disinterested?”

The Brit beside you stares down into his own mug now, thinking on your words, a silence filling in besides the muffled sound of Johnny bellowing songs in the shower upstairs. Before, he wouldn’t give two shits about something like this, leaving you to figure it out or not all on your own. Of course, being apart of the 141 it was only a matter of time before you became apart of this oddly dangerous family of sorts, and Simon found himself caring for you just as much as he did for the other three, even if he ever expressed it.

“Maybe doing nothin’, is what you’re suppos’d do.”

You quirked a brow at him.

“You? Telling me to do nothing?”

Simon rolled his eyes, sitting back against the creaking old dinning chair.

“Yeah, shocker I know, but trust me, after years of doing this shit, sometimes you jus’ gotta kick ya feet up and do fuck all.”

You look back to your tea before taking another sip, thinking on his words. He had a point though. As frustrating as it was, wanting to engage in activities that would normally bring you joy, it was only natural to not always be motivated to do them, especially with the grueling type of work you all did.

“Welp,” you shrug, closing your lap top shut and throwing your sketchbook atop it, “guess I’m doing fuck all today.”

A light, deep chuckle came from Simon, him always finding it kind of funny when outlandish vocabulary came from your lips. You never came off as the type to say such words, but then again you also didn’t exactly fit into the picture of the intimidating guys you were so close to.

“Good. Relax, ya earned it.”

You smile up at Simon, your eyes crinkling in the corners something that brought him some warmth.

“We earned it, Simon.”

[swordsandholly]

def need more ditzy reader with mechanic 141- the only thing that tops my love for military men is blue collar boys <333

make sure to take care of yourself tho lovie!! don’t burn urself out :))

I for sure want to write more of her. Hopefully after this insane week at work I’ll be able to really sit down and crank out some writing. For now I’m battling my way through Ch 3 of Across the Way

But pls enjoy this little not proofread experimental snippet I wrote for ditzy reader

“Look.” Your landlord sighs loudly. Like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I’ll send someone out.”

“That’s what you said two days ago! And three days before that!” You stomp your foot at no one just to get some of the anger out.

“I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

“Why can’t you-“ The line cuts before you can finish. The jerk hung up on you! What the hell!

You pout, plopping down into your desk chair and sighing. What are you supposed to do? You’re not allowed to call a handyman according to the lease and you don’t have a boyfriend right now. You can’t keep washing pans in the bathroom. It’s gross.

You huff.

“Alright?” Simon asks and you whirl in your chair. How does he walk so quietly?

“Yeah…” You pout harder under his steady gaze, slipping down further into the chair.

“You’re a terrible liar, luv.” His eyes crinkle in corners with a smile.

“Well…” You shrug, twiddling your thumbs in your lap. “My kitchen sink has been broken for a whole week and the landlord won’t do anything about it! I called and called and he just keeps saying he’ll send someone and then doesn’t!” Your voice pitches at the end, real annoyance bleeding through into the edges of your words. You fist your hands in your skirt.

“That’s all?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just ask one of us?”

You blink twice, staring up at him. Your face heats and you look away bashfully - not wanting to admit you didn’t think to ask for their help. Stupid. “I don’t want to be a bother…”

“I’ll come by after work.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I’ll be there.” He nods before marching back into the garage. You just blink after him as he goes.

True to his word, Simon shows up at your door with a massive tool box in hand. Really, he still can’t believe you live in such a shit complex. Price pays you well enough. The locks might as well be paper-mache. Simon lowers his mask before knocking. He trusts you with his face - hell you probably forget it every time you look away - but he also wants you to trust him too. For whatever reason.

You’re staring when you open the door. Big doe eyes looking up at him and blinking slowly. He wonders what goes on behind those blank eyes of yours - if it’s nothing at all or such a chaotic dialogue that you can’t process it enough to pay attention.

All or nothing.

“Gonna let me in, doll?” He asks. You startle, not realizing how intensely you zoned out.

“Oh! Yes!” You jump out of the way, letting him into your small studio apartment. Every time he thinks your shorts can’t get smaller he’s proven wrong.

Simon takes a look around, huffing at the net full of stuffies hanging on the wall. Everything about your home is soft - soft colors, soft fabrics. It smells like vanilla, just like you always do when you come into the shop. His eyes lock briefly on a well-loved sewing machine covered in stickers with a project still under the needle. You must have been working on it before he got here.

Did you mean to leave your bra hanging on the back of that chair right by the kitchen? Lacy and lilac. He’ll have to remember that for some other time. Maybe your birthday.

“Let’s ‘ave a look.” He sighs, knees popping as he crouches in front of the sink. It’s a fucking mess, that’s for sure. At least you figured out how to turn the water off.

“Pipe’s busted.” He says. “I can seal it but it’ll take a sec.”

“Okay.” You murmur.

Simon sighs as he turns onto his back to get a better look. He doesn’t miss the way you stare blatantly at his midsection as his shirt rides up. He might adjust some to expose just a bit more.

You really are the least subtle thing in the planet, aren’t you?

“Can you come hold the light f’me, luv?” He points to the toolbox.

“This one?” You ask, as if it isn’t the only flashlight in the box.

“Yeah.”

“Like this?”

“Yup.” At first he expects you to sit silently so he can concentrate, but he quickly realizes that was far too presumptuous.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Si?” You ask quietly.

He huffs. “No.”

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “You seem like the kind of guy that would.”

Simon has never heard a bigger misread in his damn life but he’ll take it as a compliment, he supposes. “Why do you ask?”

“Cause this is boyfriend work and you’re good at it.”

Simon tries to see your logic - he really does - but he just has no clue how those things are even remotely related. Sure, guys fix things for their girlfriends but calling it ‘boyfriend work’ when anybody with two cents could do it is a bit silly. More than, if he’s honest. He just grunts in response, at a total loss for how to respond.

Simon looks down at you. The way you kneel as your cleaving spills out of your tiny tank top - one of many you insist on wearing so often. He can give into temptation just a little bit, right? “Gonna need you to get closer, doll.”

“Oh!” You scoot forward until your knees brush his side. So ready to listen. Cute.

“Can you lean in a bit?”

“Like this?” You lean forward, chest pressing against him while your hand splays over his midsection for balance. Fucking hell.

“Perfect. Good girl.”

It’s bold and a bit uncoordinated even for him. Something Johnny would try. The purposeful choice of words seems to go right over your head. Instead you blush and smile, shifting your hips just a bit. Your chest pushes further into him. So soft.

Fuck.

You’ll be the death of him. Thank god you’re too unobservant to notice that he’s rock fucking hard.

He’s already done with the sink by the time of this little exchange, but he pretends to tighten some useless bolts anyway just to keep you against him a little longer before shooing you away. It’s cute, the way you scramble to get out of the way. Simon turns the water back on before standing, and gesturing toward the sink.

“Give it a try, luv.”

A little furrow forms in your brow as you step forward to turn it on, crouching and standing to make sure the leak has stopped. You turn the faucet off and whip your head around with a grin.

He’s pretty sure you burst an eardrum with the pitch of the squeal you let out, bouncing over and tightly wrapping your arms around his waist. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

“It’s no pro-“ he cuts off as you push up onto your tip toes and press a kiss to his cheek. He can’t help but bark out a laugh. Little minx.

“Oh, I got some lipstick-“ You reach up to smudge it off but he bats your hand away. He’ll wear it back to the garage and show off the kiss he got. Johnny’s going to absolutely fume.

[theorist-fox]

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3

It can also be read as a standalone!

The description you'll read of Simon is heavily based on this fanart by @tiggerriot (give the creator some love!!!) because it has been occupying my mind 24/7. I'm in a chokehold.

Word count: 6k

Summary: Simon loses sight of you for far too long. In that time, he realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

18+

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are. 

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words? 

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately. 

You are your worst enemy. 

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming. 

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw. 

He’s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?” 

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling. 

You sigh. 

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent. 

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is. 

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know. 

“Off.” He states. 

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.” 

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash. 

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded. 

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt. 

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot. 

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion. 

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood. 

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable. 

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.   

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems. 

“The fuck are you doin’.” 

It is not, in fact, a question. 

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air. 

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?” 

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters. 

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment. 

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts. 

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?” 

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic. 

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms. 

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd. 

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth. 

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to. 

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it. 

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you. 

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes. 

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. 

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile. 

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice. 

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs. 

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.” 

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax. 

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back. 

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes. 

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside. 

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration. 

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw. 

You stiffen. 

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view. 

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade. 

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite. 

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood. 

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces. 

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t. 

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now. 

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks. 

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest. 

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. 

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier. 

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then. 

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and – 

He stops you.  Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal. 

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip. 

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you. 

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle. 

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath. 

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples. 

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted." 

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often. 

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between. 

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere. 

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut. 

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck. 

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words. 

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets. 

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths. 

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt. 

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side. 

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning. 

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him. 

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted. 

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new. 

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together. 

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets. 

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose. 

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily. 

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.  

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you. 

Right? 

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts. 

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear. 

You shudder. 

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust. 

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear. 

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied. 

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away. 

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside. 

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact. 

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead. 

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening. 

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin. 

Is that why he doesn't touch you? Is that why he's taking pains to not press his weight on your body when he'd usually have you flattened under the whole of him?

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice. 

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative. 

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand. 

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere. 

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary. 

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music. 

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it. 

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace. 

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low. 

This is his time. 

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He asked for one thing. 

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.” 

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you. 

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once. 

Your body perks up. 

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore. 

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space. 

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips. 

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes. 

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon. 

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

[karlachismylife]

Wrote the intro the day I started this work and decided to leave it since it reflects the shitstorm in my head quite well, eh.

Okay Idk what it is with me today (I actually do know, I'm having a bad fucking night as a consequence of my own actions but I prefer not to think about it), but I just thought about task force 141 and reader that has such a bad withdrawal after their orgasm that they actually cry and not in a fun way (cue my lack of understanding how crying in bed can ever be fun, but i'm not here to kinkshame)

CW: NSFW (so minors and ageless blogs DNI, I'll block you), but there's barely any sex, hurt/comfort, body image issues, low self-esteem, chubby/fat!reader, written with afab!reader in mind (but most parts can be read as gn), potential mental health issues (?), thoughts of selfloathing and selfharm, smoking mentioned once at the end. Very self-indulgent and I'm definitely unwell, so yeah. It's also more focused on reader's inner shitstorm than the guys in many places so idk if this even really is enjoyable...

Starts as a single piece, then splits into individual blurbs/drabbles/oneshots + some polyamory cuz I'm spoiling myself today having done nothing to deserve it, lol.

They vary in size and tone since I've been writing them through several ups and downs in my own mental state, so please don't take this as a sign of which characher/combo is my favourite. I'm greedy, I like everything.

This is unfair.

Like, you just had wonderful sex, probably came more than once in a short period of time, ears stuffed with cotton, limbs weak, head spinning... and it keeps spinning, sweet tingling on the skin turning into nasty rushes of cold, muscles too tense, but it's not a cramp.

You feel like shit, every possible hormonal and neuromediator crash downing on you, a hollow, depressing weight in your chest instead of a sweet afterglow. Sweat and cum feel disgusting on you skin, your skin feels disgusting, strangling, your whole body seems revolting, too heavy, too sluggish. A sticky, suffocating heatwave on your nape, but your chest is cold and covered in goosebumps, a feverish feeling clogging every pore. Nausea wrenches into your stomach and stops just before you can relievingly barf and get rid of this parasite inside.

You simply want to dig your nails into your own shoulders instead of his and rip the skin and meat off, free yourself from this burden (you're the burden). Each second as he stays blissfully unaware, holding you tightly with his big hands and panting into the crook of your neck, drags on like a hundred hours of pure torture - the torture of being yourself.

Throwing up feels like an appropriate reaction to how unappealing and ugly you feel.

You're spiraling. You couldn't fucking keep your own messed up emotional outburst - completely unreasonable and unprovoked, by the way - to yourself, and now it's going to be noticed. You'll ruin someone else's fun. Make it all about yourself when you've already been nothing but doted on, cared and provided for. Fucked so good that your body is still clenching around that magnificent cock deep inside you.

And you're fucking crying, like an ungrateful, egotistical brat. Never having enough, unable to provide something as simple as a hole to make someone else happy without fucking it up.

Ghost notices immediately. There's nothing that can escape this man, and definitely not his love's distress. He's not reacting immediately for a sole reason: he's frozen in fear, horrified that he made you cry. How - he's not sure, he always takes great care to stay within limits, never allows himself to push you further than you both agree on. But what if he slipped up? What if he got carried away? Did he cause pain? Did he say something hurtful in the heat of the moment?

"Fuck. Hey, hey, lovie... look at me... wha's wrong? Did I... did I hurt ya?" Good thing you're hiding your face and your red eyes so desperately that you can't see how distressed and downright terrified Simon looks, lost at the sight of your tears. When you shake your head and attempt to push him away to hide your pathetic sobbing, he somewhat calms down and brings his big calloused hands to cradle your face, gently prying your own palms away and holding your puffy cheeks tenderly. His thumbs brush your tears away as he holds you, holds you through the growing rage fit of touch aversion, through the shudders and actual wailing. At some point he moves his palm to cover your eyes, a dry, dark blinder to keep the world around you shut out, help you concentrate on his voice.

He's not talking, just humming, a familiar, deep, grumbling noise that soothes all the flashes of anger, hate and disgust in your brain. You're tired now, like you're always are after such an intense outburst, and as you go limp, he finally pulls away, only to pick you up - barely a strain, a direct spit in the face of your own insecurity - and bring you to the bathroom. A warm shower evens your distorted body temperature out, his hands running over your body and cleaning all the stickiness away bring back peace with your own skin. After a quick rinse Simon holds you, your head cradled against his chest, until you make a weak attempt to help him wash too - he lets you trace his body, that perfection you adore with all its old wounds, sores and scars, for a bit, and then finishes himelf.

Gives you fresh cotton underwear and his hige T-shirt, still holding you around your shoulders and keeping the comfortable pressure even while he changes the bedsheets, kissing your temple as you find it in yourself to help.

It's only after you settle on top of him, nice, clean comforter protecting your back against the world, head on his chest right next to his heart beating in a steady rythm, he finally breaks silence.

"Need anything else, lovie?" Just like that. No prying, no occusations, nothing that would put you on the spot. You can ask him to bring you the moon soaked in unicorn's milk, and he'll just nod, kiss your hand and start dressing up, already calling Johnny to ask where the fuck did Scots hide their last horned horse and if he happens to know where they enlist astronauts.

"Just you."

His grip on the small of your back tightens and you feel his uneven, scarred lips graze the top of your head.

"Ya've got me. Always."

Soap is running hot like a furnace, still shivering and panting after what he considers the best sex he has ever had (every time with you is). He lifts his face, buried into the crease of your neck previously, and starts peppering you with slightly sloppy, grateful kisses - your neck, your jaw, your lips, your...

When he tastes your tears and opens his unbelievably blue eyes to see your expression contorted in disgust, he panics. Pulls away immediately, hands both itching to grab you and shake a reason for that look on your face out of you and too scared to touch you in case this hatred is directed at him.

"Whit's wrong, leannan? Are ye a'right? Ye didnae lik' it? Shite, lass, Ah'm so sorry, Ah didnae mean tae-" He stops yapping only when he notices the way your lips tremble as you try to plead with him, sobbing that it's not his fault.

"'M sorry, I ruined it... I'm so sorry, sushine, I just... fuck I wish I wasn't so bloody sick in the head and ugly..." Speaking out loud only worsens your anger, directed solely at yourself, and you try to wipe your eyes furiously. As the tears keep rolling, your frustration only grows - maybe if you yanked your own hair really good or slapped the disgusting pudgy cheek you've despised ever since chidhood as everyone kept pointing out how big they were...

"Ye didnae just call the love of mah fucking life ugly." Johnny's voice is a mix of a harsh order to cut your bullshit and pure disbelief. His huge paws wrap themselves around your wrists, stopping you both from harming yourself and covering your face. You're forced to look at him, and as you do, you see his handsome face flushed with a passionate anger at the intrusive thoughts in your head, heavy frown in his thick eyebrows and the sea in his eyes dark and deep enough to drown a whole fleet. You'd be scared if it wasn't obvious how hurt he is underneath it all - like a kid whose favourite plushie just got mocked by his classmates.

"It's just a toy," adults would say, and they would be bloody wrong.

"Tis not a toy, tis mah friend."

You're his friend. His love. His heart, his soul, his everything - he whispers that frantically, kissing you over and over, hot palms running over your body, wiping the cold, the stickiness, the goosebumps away. You don't have time to think, to spiral again, you're drowning in that exact sea that's spilling from his eyes, staring at you with pure devotion - a sea of affection, admiration, love, love, love.

Johnny nuzzles up to you like an animal seeking comfort, hides into your chest, right after he kisses your sweaty double chin, breathes in deeply, lets go of your soft shoulders only to grab two handfuls of your tummy, kneading it, warming up the stale blood, squeezing your big thighs between his and getting lost in the frenzy - he honestly doesn't even remember already that he was comforting you, he's fully in the worshipping mode, leaving you no chance to dip even a single toe into the self-conscious thoughts again.

You'll just have to stay there, every single tear lapped up from your face, and accept every greedy touch and word of a man utterly in love with you. Even the messed up parts.

Gaz keeps his cool despite how distraught even the thought of your sadness makes him. First of all he moves aside to give you space, makes sure you're not hurt, asking in his usual kind - unbelievably kind, so much that you burst into tears again, feeling undeserving of such unapologetically soft treatement, tone.

"Shh, shush, gorgeous, you're not hurt, are you? It's okay, c'mere, jus-st like tha', very good, love," praises keep spilling from his tender lips as he carefully helps you sit up, simply dragging you away from the damp from sweat and everything else spot on the sheets. He ends up balancing half his bare ass off the edge of the bed, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest as he feels you already coming back from that hopeless place as soon as your body gets stuck between clean, dry and a bit cool sheet and Kyle's firm lean body of a litearal god - or a prince, at least.

His deft fingers are already at work, massaging your scalp, chasing the tension away, but the second he feels you grow uncomfortable with the repetitive movement, he stops and retreats to simply holding you in a steady, reliant embrace. You know he's good with his words, that's how he got you, swept off your feet completely and made you swoon with sweet compliments, hilarious snark and smart talk.

You just don't expect him to do it all over again in the face of your burdened mind crumbling in the paradise.

"Talk to me, angel. Let me inside that pretty head, hm?"

It takes this sweettalker just a couple of words to coax whatever that ugly, slimy knot in your throat is, out. You sob, retelling Kyle every single thought that has been stuck in that coagulated mess in your head, spill the bile that has been burning your retching throat, out in the open, for him to see the disgusting ugliness of your insides - matching your outside.

Somehow throughout your choking trade his soft, careful hand never leaves your back, rubbing circles of different radius and intensity into your skin to keep the aggression at monotonous touch at bay.

"Must've been some terrible person to overbear your spirit and plant all those lies in your mind, angel." You don't catch the meaning of his words at first, glancing at him confused and whoozy after you exploded with self-deprication. Those dark, calm eyes look at you no different than before: quiet, calm reverence and determination. A thread of spider's silk, thin as a hair, but stronger than steel, his love does not waver. Were you in the right state to actually pay attention, you would've seen it only grow.

"Well, beautiful, this isn't how I planned to start writing poetry, but since you insisted... maybe I can think of a diss track about you."

"A diss track?.." Poor you, so upset that you can't catch onto the mischievous glint in his eyes and that silly smooth sarcasm slipping into his words. You're actually half a step away from believing he would diss you, destroying that already non-existent self-esteem once and for all.

"Yup. Gotta diss-tract you from all that bullshit in your head for good. Unless you'd rather me fuck it out of you instead?"

You cannot not smile at that, even if it's a weak, timid smile. Kyle's face still lights up as if he sees an actual angel, bringing the good grace or whatever.

"There ya go. First step of the mission? Success. Permission to continue? I repeat, permission to continue?"

"You spend too much time with Simon. Permission granted..."

Price undrstands what's going on before he even hears your first sob, the tension in your body and the change in your breath telling him all he needs to know. There's enough experience in this man for the both of you, he has learnt to read people and immediately accomodate them in a way that serves a common goal so long ago that it's a secong nature already.

Your comfort is that common goal.

With a grunt, he rolls you over, planting you firmly on top of his warm, burly body. Untucking your head from his hairy chest, he holds your face and does not let you concentrate on anything but his stern, focued gaze under those bushy eyebrows - but there's still that undeniable tenderness in his eyes that's always there whenever John looks at you.

His voice sounds usual too: a calm, commanding, but not harsh tone, not a loud bark any of his subordinates would hear, yet still an order. "Look at me, darling. Tha's right, look at me, look at your John. You shut whatever's going through that troubled mind of yours out and let me take care of the rest, a'right? Can you do that for me, darling? I know you can. I'll do all the thinking for ya, eh?"

Giving control over to him feels natural at any other moment, but right now you're too deep in the trenches of the war with your own mind, hissing at you with pure disgust for being so selfish. Really, now? Had to use this sweet, caring man for your own needs, and now you're dumping all your perverted, fucked up baggage on him too?

"Nuh-huh, ya're still thinking. Told ya to cut if off. You know that's not you thinking right now, dontcha? You're a smart one, love, ya know shit like this happens. And when shit happens, who are you going to to deal with it, huh?" His deep voice rumbles in his chest, seeps into your clogged ears, fills your skull with the unyielding determination and leaves no room for your own dark thoughts.

When you hesitate to answer, John slides his rough palms over your back, tracing your soft rolls and landing onto the pudge of your hips, squeezing lightly to remind you who's in charge and what your task is. "Who is there for ya to deal with shit that happens, hm, darling? Need ya to tell me."

You want to hide, escape his demand for an answer, but he keeps you firmly in his embrace, a gaze of steel unmoving from you. It almost makes you tear up again, almost feels mean of him to put you on the spot, when all you want to do is curl up in a dark corner and stay there for all eternity. But the love you have for this man overpowers even the seething hatred you bear for yourself, so you give up and murmur meekly: "You..."

"Tha's right, darling, it's your John. I'm here to deal with everything that bothers ya. Everything, ya hear? Tha's me job. Your job is to stay wit' me 'n' not overthink, eh? Especially not when it's just hormons making ya feel bad." You have nothing else left to do, other than sniffle into his chest and melt under a warm kiss he plants on your crown. "How about a cuppa, eh, darling? And something just as sweet as ya for a bite. Ya'll feel better in no time, I promise."

Ghost and Soap cancel each other's panicking out. As soon as both you and Simon slip out of the sweet afterglow, falling backwards each into your own pit of self-doubt and spiraling, Johnny starts babbling, terrified at the thought of both his beloved people feeling worse after being with him. His slurred, panting words and frantic kisses help Simon shake of his own horror - in return, he squeezes Johnny's shoulder to slow the worried mutt down and redirect his energy into helping you. Soap tenses up under the firm touch of his Lieutenant, then relaxes again, leaning into him for a moment to collect himself - they charge from each other, mere seconds of feeding off each other's energies in the middle of a time-limited mission with the highest stakes: your well-being.

They exchange glances, no words needed after the way their work together almost makes them mindreaders to each other, and turn back to you as you lay there, face painfully contorted in an attempt to keep the black foamy bile you feel rising in your throat from spilling. Slow, sticky, angry tears run down your flabby cheeks, and with each millimetre they go, your scalding wish to gouge your eyes out with your bare hands grows, just to punish yourself for being ungrateful after two perfect men spent so much of their time making you feel good.

"Dinnae cry, bonnie. Ye're a'right, ye're 'ere, wit' us. Right, LT? We're nae gonnae let ye marinate in whitevur got ye so upset." The pressure from inside your body that threatened to burst you open into a messy explosion of bile and rot, gets evened out from outside by Johnny's tight hug. He squeezes you up to the painful point, cradling against his broad chest, holding the fort while Simon leaves the bed, but not without kissing both your palms and holding them against his lips until he feels the cold leave your fingertips.

"Oi, Johnny. Help lovie get in 'ere," he calls out several minutes later out of the bathroom. Soap, who has been holding you and allowing you to sob against his heart this whole time, stroking your sweaty hair and murmuring every word of love he knows, scoops you up immediately. He pads over with you in his arms to where a warm bath is already filled thanks to Simon, and when you react to the temperature with another wave of tears, they both reach out to the tap simultaneously.

"Is tha' a'right, bonnie?" You make a strangled noise as Johnny finally sets you down into much cooler now water. It soothes you, makes you feel instantly cleaner, smaller, lighter. Breathing gets easier, that swollen blob of anger and disgust shrinking down in your chest and allowing you to inhale bathroom's damp air normally. You open your mouth to apologize and get cut off before even a single syllable leaves your mouth.

"Don't," Simon's voice sounds gruff, but even his murky reflection in the rippling water looks genuinely soft towards you. They're both perched on the cold bath edge, naked and seemingly not caring about that at all. "Jus' let us take care of you, yeah, love? Tha's what we're here for. Tha's what we want to do."

"Well, actually, there's one more thing," Johnny interjects, causing you to finally lift your sullenly lowered head and look at him, Simon's big palm using this moment of distraction to press onto your back in silent support. "Can Ah make ye a foam beard? Please, bonnie? Ye jus' 'ave the prettiest sweetest cheeks fur tha'."

Soap and Gaz feel like their world is sinking into a whirlwind of stormy clouds, the kind that sucks all light out of sky in mere seconds and can't be cut through even by blinding flashes of lightnings. There is no sun in their skies if you're not smiling, and the sound of your muffled sniffles hits their eardrums harder than thunder or explosions. The frowns distorting their faces only make you more self-aware of the fact that you ruined things between you - the initial hysteria starts rapidly flowing into complete shutdown, threatening to turn you into an emotionless shell for unknown period of time, when several warm, big hands intervene and cut the depressing trajectory down at its root.

"Damn, we did a shit job fucking all your thoughts out, didn't we, angel?" Kyle's joke sounds soft, teasing, but empathetic, ready to be met with sobs or silence instead of the usual laughter that flashes your teeth at him and makes his own smile grow brighter.

"Aye, we did. If anythin', Ah think we put more thoughts intae 'ere instead," Johnny scratches his head dramatically, and then you feel his big, hot palm on you sweaty forehead, as if he's trying to get a feel of the thoughts inside your skull. It doesn't linger there for long, though, rough fidgety fingers digging into your hair and tugging at the roots. This makes the hot-and-cold collar around your nape unclench, uncouth and chaotic massage confidently pulling every ounce of anger out of your brain. From time to time his calloused palm slips lower, squeezing your scruff, wiping the cool sweat away and taking control over what seems to have escaped your own.

"How does it feel to be the first person to get knocked up mentally, love? Having any cravings yet? Feeling your brainworms kick yet?" Dry cotton comforter suddenly covers your exposed to be looked at with disdain body, and before you can choke out a protest and something about you being sweaty and sticky and disgusting, Kyle grips your shoulders firmly, rubbing up and down as he slowly helps you sit up a bit.

"Ye eejit, how dae ye think thay can kick? They're brainworms, thay dinnae hae any legs!" The sheer passion in Johnny's heated counterarguement does the impossible - makes the corners of your deeply upset mouth twitch against all the weight the sadness put on them. Your knights in shining (from all the sweat your lovemaking covered them with) armor of their own warm skin seem to not notice the slightest twitch of your lips - there's no excessive attention drawn to you, none of them puts you on the spot. Their touch isn't going anywhere, but it almost seems mindless, simply their need to have something soft and pleasant to squeeze in their restless hands. "'N' wasnae Mary th' first lassie tae get up th' duff through th' heid?"

"That wasn't mentally, that was spiritually, read your books, Soap," scoffs Kyle, as if it was the most obvious thing, and ducks just in time to avoid a pillow thrown at him with sniper's precision.

"Oi, ye sayin' Ah cannae read now?!" Whatever snarky retort Kyle was ready to shoot, gets wiped out as Johnny tackles him, barely avoiding pushing all three of you off the bed. Their scuffle consists of chokeholds and sneaky kisses, legs getting caught in the sheets and somehow tangling you into the mess too.

Until you laugh, finding yourself squished into Johnny's hairy chest with Kyle in a gently headlock somewhere under your arm.

"Hey, hey, careful, mate, our lovie's expecting, we can't just throw 'em around!" However obvious that deflection is, Johnny reacts as if you were actually with child and grabs your face, boring his eyes into yours, slowly widening his two blue lochs in pretend horror.

"Och naw! Ah think we lost 'em, Ah cannae see nothin' there now!" Flushed after the playfight, you avert your gaze, still a trace of self-consciousness about yout outburst somewhere deep inside, but none of the "brainworms" that clogged your insides in sight indeed. Johnny's little drama earns him a soft nip on his thumb from you, and he smiles at you, clearly satisfied with the effect their little scheme had.

"Aw, damn, and here I was, ready to hear the pitter-patter of 'em little feet," Kyle's warm lips somehow find their way to kiss your temple, eliciting another shy giggle.

A pillow crashes onto both of you with the force of a small bombshell.

"THAY DINNAE HAE FEET, GARRICK, THAY'RE WORMS!"

Price and Gaz fall into their usual ways seamlessly, responsibilities and tasks split between the two seemingly without even any verbal communication. Clearing out the space around you with the same quick efficiency they clear out enemies with, they prop you up on some pillows, assess your condition in case they got carried away and hurt you, and finally settle on both sides of you, warm hands on your knees squeezing softly.

"Are ya gonna talk to us now, lovie? Or will we have to use interrogation tactics to learn what made our love so upset?" John's voice bears no trace of threat, but it still makes you cower and try to take up even less space that your curled up body already has, which earns you a sigh from the Captain. "I see. Take over from here, Sergeant. I expect results once I return."

The matress sighs with relief a Price's weight leaves it, bare feet padding a few steps before he reaches his slippers and leaves the room. The pit that the sound of your bedroom's door closing opens in your chest is crushing your ribcage with the iron fist of vacum. You can't blame John for not willing to deal with your bullshit, but the hearbreak only reenforces the choking smog in your head that's rasping in a hundred different voices that the only thing you deserve is pure repulsion.

Kyle's soft thumb pads wipe the tears teetering on the arrows of your lashes, and in a smooth movement you find your face cupped and pulled close to his shoulder. His smooth skin sticks to your wet cheek and you find yourself crying like a little kid, the unbearable pain of the revolting dark knots inside somehow replaced with surprisingly more bearable grief over what you consider an ending reltionship. Perhaps John leaving our bed finally shattered your heart, letting the ungodly pressure out and allowing it to beat - and bleed - again.

"We'd really like if ya talked to us, angel. Don't think Captain can stand there bare-ass naked much longer, might catch rheumatism at this point, he's not getting younger, you know..."

"I hope you know I can hear you perfecrly clear, Garrick." You stop mid-sniffle, eyes snapping to the closed door. You can finally see the shadow of a man standing just outside, and the air slowly feels with some flavour you can't distinguish through all the snot yet, but seem to like a lot...

"Good, so your hearing's still intact, sir. You're in good shape," Kyle's cheeky remark must've broken John's famous patience and restraint, because the bedroom door finally opens, and you see him there. With a tray with a whole bunch of tea mugs and little plates of treats balanced in his hands.

"Still not talking? Well, we'll try another method then, lovie. Sandwich for your thoughts, eh?"

His cheeks are round with a kind smile, confusing your tortured mind even further - Kyle uses your stupor to fetch John's big, slightly scratchy bathrobe, successfully wrapping you into a cocoon of grounding stimulation all over your feverish skin. With a huff and a grumble about staying butt-naked a bit longer, John puts a pleasantly warm mug into your hands and looks at you, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits now that he got rid of the tray.

Expecting an answer.

"'M sorry..." seems appropriate right up to the moment when a little finger-sandwich gets shoved into your mouth. The bread is soft, nice, salty ham and crunchy cucumber filling your senses and cracking a bit fat line of light right in the middle of the dense cloud in your thoughts.

"Try again, love," Kyle gives a hint and wipes a crumb off your lips, licking it off his thumb. "We don't need an apology, we just want to know what's troubling ya. John, tell 'em."

"Already did," grumbles Price in response and clears his throat, sitting back down on the creaking bed. "Food's working though. Eat up, darling, get your energy. Then we'll talk properly, a'right?"

You chew slowly, still stiff in your own body, but regaining control gradually. Yes. Then you'll talk.

Ghost and Price exchange a single glance over your from, choking on the self-destructive rage, and John shakes his head so slightly that one can barely notice, but it's clear enough to stop Simon from tumbling down the traumatic spiral staircase of his own. Grounded by his Captain's presence, he shrugs his broad shoulders, shaking off the creeping up feeling of his own monsterous nature, and rolls onto his back, pulling you out of the miserable wet ball of wrinkled sheets and onto his firm lap, sideways, his big palms resting comfortably around your hips; he's not squeezing or digging his fingers into the fat like he usually does, but it's a secure hug you can't really escape.

Exposed held too far away from his chest you could hide on, you shrink, rising your shoulders protectively and trying to cover up your soft belly, spilling over your pelvis in a shapless manner - that's when John's arms come from behind, catching yours and instead of pulling away forcefully, simply repeating your own safety cocoon, hiding your body from your distorted sight and keeping you warm.

"You're not thinking straight right now, darling," every phrase he murmurs gently, calmly, convincingly into your ear is accompanied by a little kiss, beard tickling and burning your already irritated by tears skin. "So good for us, so kind. Can you spare some of that kindness for yourself?"

Even though it doesn't sound like a rhethorical question, Simon cups your cheek and shushes you tenderly, pressing his thumb to your lips, allowing John to continue with his little speech aimed to dispel the storm coagulated in your chest.

"'Cos if not, it's a'right, love. We know it's hard, and ya're doing good already. Ya 'ave us, eh? To love ya, to cherish ya. No need to overthink, jus' let us hold you, a'right?"

He finally pushes you onto Simon's chest, his big heart stuttering with worry as you seek shelter among his many scars that paint a horrifying picture once you put all the fragments together.

"How'd you do that, sir?" Simon's voice sounds vulnerable - so much that it strikes through all the layers of your egocentric self-hatred and shifts you almost immeditely into a completely different mindset; one where you throw your whole self into loving your scarred and battle-worn men in such abundance that it's ought to compensate for all the unfairness they've gone through.

There's no need for it now, you realize a little too late: Price is there, keeping Simon away from the darkness. They're fine. Better than ever. It's a distraction, a trick, a play to make your bleeding heart stop the internal self-destruction and turn to healing.

A sly little switch you're not sure they were planning to flip, but it worked.

"Hm?" As if emerging from the depths of his thoughts in response to Simon's question, John caresses your cheek as gently as his rough thumb can and then smiles, maybe catching onto the change in your mood or simply remembering all the times he pulled Ghost out of the same gloom and darkness. "Jus' taking care of me own, Simon. Tha's what a Captain does, no? Now, love, how about a shower? I reckon we can squeeze in all together and papmer you really good, what do ya say, eh?"

Ghost and Gaz manage to keep their cool. Kyle's confident and gentle presence serves to reassure any doubts Simon has about hurting you, he shoots a single glance at his sergeant and recieves support immediately. Two pair of hands cradle you with all the tenderness two soldiers are capable of, which is always enough to drown you in fully. It's a tight hug, a hot mess of limbs, too much skin on skin contact that makes your brain flare with undirected rage, but as seconds trickle by and you're still trapped between two firm bodies, you have no choice but to slip into the exhaustion phase of your outburst.

It's not pleasant, nor could you say you feel calm; if anything, you just petrify, a permanent frown on your face and blindly staring forward glass eyes. You're tired, you'd still rather be anywhere but inside your own body that still feels like a useless deformed bag that should be gutted and emptied to lighten up, inner layer of your skin scrubbed with a knife to peel off the suffocating thickness of fat trapping this heated rage inside...

Instead, you get a kiss.

It's Kyle, soft, full lips touching your wet with tears cheekbone, then again - your temple, your cheek, the overheated spot behind your ear. They're light, soft kisses, too gentle to be playful or arousing. Calming. They do not demand anything in return - he allows you to stay in your inner world where you feel secure, even pauses to kiss Simon the same way right in front of your eyes. A silent demonstrationg of the love and reverence these pecks carry, Simon's hooded eyes fluttering shut as if his own compartmentalized demons get exorcised by Garrick's touch.

"Wanna talk about it, angel?" Kyle's voice rumbles at a nice, grounding, smooth timbre, and your still-too-slow mind struggles to grasp how is it possible that he's talking and you're still getting kisses - until you recognize the uneven texture of Simon's scarred lips, trailing along your skin tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, love. But we would love to know what's going through your head right now."

It feels strange to say it out lound when you're held and caressed like this, but their kisses and solid embrace cleared your windpipe enough of the mental gunk for you to be able to speak.

"I hate myself... 'M disgusting, and-" A displeased grumbling kiss from Simon interrupts you, and even Kyle pushes his huge shoulder to reprimand his own Lieutenant for the interference. Kisses his temple immediately to make amends, though, and turns back to you, prompting you to continue.

"Wot? Don't like when someone talks shit 'bout mine," grumbles Simon like a dog that got flicked on the nose for growling at welcome guests.

"Let 'em talk, mate, it's good to get things off your chest." At least their little bickering coaxes a tiniest hint of smile out of you, and Simon, noticing it immediately, stares back at Kyle with such pride, as if he just did something great.

The thing is, in the way his arms squeeze you a tad bit tighter, pressing into his firm body, you can read that for him - your smile is the greatest achievement.

"Don't tell me you prefer his silent treatement, angel, I'm trying to be the attentive boyfriend here, and for what?" Your smile grows a little braver. A little brighter. You would've kept talking if you could remember what it was that hurt so fucking much in your chest.

"Shower. Then a cuppa. Then we have the talk." No one dares to argue with the Ghost and his gruff commands. You feel the sheet sticking to your skin as he lifts you up, Kyle already sneaking off to prepare towels and clean clothes for you three. He'll stay with you and help you wash the remaints of the mind attack off. Simon will make fresh tea.

You're going to be alright.

Price and Soap take quite an intense approach the second they notice your distress. You feel Johnny's weight disappear from you after the first strangled sob that escapes you, and if you could open your eyes glued shut by the hot, messy tears, you would see John practically dragging the poor Sergeant away by his scruff. It's easy to suspect that Johnny couldn't contain himself and went too hard, too rough on you - with no malice, but pure passion that's spilling from his big, hot heart every time he gets to be close to you.

But it's not Johnny's fault, neither is it John's. It's all you, a useless, pathetic thing, good for nothing and holding two gorgeous men to yourself like a greedy glutton hoarding delicious food.

"Ah'm sorry, bonnie- ow, Ah got it, Ah got it, Ah'm not touchin'!"

"Did we hurt ya, love? Was Johnny boy too rough wit' ya? Wha's wrong?"

You feel big warm hands gliding over your skin, quick assessment of your state in search of potential harm caused. This immediate care only makes you feel worse, every cold sweaty patch of your disgusting hide shivering and twitching under Captain's careful touch. You struggle against your own spiraling anger, fight it with what's left of your exhausted resilience - and lose, curling up with another burst of tears, shoving the loving hands away and dusting the lingering warmth off your body.

After all, you do not deserve to be treated with such kindness after the fit you just threw.

"No, no, no, it's not his fault, it's not Johnny's... it's me, it's my fault, it's all my fault, I ruin everything, I'm- I'm disgusting!"

The silence that follows you blowing up on them is heavy. Just as bad as the knot in your chest.

"Johnny."

When you open your eyes to find a way out, run away, scatter and hide in the furthest corner of the apartment until everyone who tried caring for you leaves again, you're met with Johnny's bright blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

It's a shocking sight, pushing you out of the muffled misery into an alerted worry - his face is red with unexplainable pained anger, fists clenched as John holds him tightly by hunched shouders, seemingly trying to prevent a violent outburst.

"Ah wanntae ken names of th' bastarts who made ye feelin' tis wa'. Ah swear Ah will mak' thaim fuckin' choke oan thair ain tongues, Ah'll rip thair spines oot 'n' shove thaim up thair-" - "Enough, Johnny. Stand down. This won't solve anythin'. Ya calm down and help our lovie feel better, a'right?"

Still a bit shells-hocked, you stir on the bedsheets and push yourself up to sit upright, stretching your arms hesitantly to the men in a weak attempt to remedy whatever shitstorm you caused in their minds.

"Don't get mad, please," you whisper sheepishly, and the shy sound of your still choked voice seems to wash Johnny's explosive anger away better than the firm grip of his handler's (Price's) hands. With a look of a beaten dog, Johnny huffs loudly, cuddlng up to you and hiding his face in your lap. His heavy jaw sinks in the plush of your thighs, accomodated nicely with the softness of your body.

"'M nae mad at ye, leannan. Jus' dinnae say tha' again, a'right, bonnie? If ye need me tae prove ye-"

"No..." your hand finds it place in his damp mohawk and brushes through, while you glance at John. His eyes are shimmering with love and love only as he looks at you and Johnny, and you feel a wave of shyness - the good, giddy, warm kind - replacing the paralyzing shame. "I'm fine already. With you."

"Maybe we should 'ave a little chat 'bout it, love," John's hand meets yours on the sad mutt's head in your lap, intertwinig fingers with you through Johnny's soft hair. "When ya feel better. Jus' so we know what we're dealing with, eh?"

"Yeah. A bit later. Thank you."

All four of your men get frozen witnessing your reaction, struck with a horrifying sense of helplessness - it feels like the biggest failure among many unsuccessful missions, operations where lives were lost and enemies missed, to have you curling up and crying in misery between all the love they've been pouring onto you just mere seconds ago. As if everything they touch is bound to go up in flames, drown in blood and rot, be it on the outside or from the inside.

They're lost, and as always, they turn to the Captain, giving themselves up for him to direct, trusting that he knows better what use they can be of.

And, frankly, he does.

They're barely talking, but the commotion around you is decipherable even through the red mind fog and closed eyes - it honestly only makes you feel worse, unsafe, exposed, despite that simply being Soap, sent off to fill a bath ("Ye want it hot or a tad bit cool, bonnie?" - Silence. Your nails dig into your scalp, the soud of someone simply breathing, even more so talking to you, sending you into a new fit of rage. "Make it warm, Johnny, we'll adjust later."), and Simon, leaving for tea duty - silently, your favourite way to have it attentively observed in the first two weeks you've been together and memorized ever since.

It's Kyle whose voice, murmuring into your ear sweet, reassuring nothings as he keeps you caged in a tight embrace, your back pressed against his warm chest, forces you out of the highly irritable state. You have no choice between his short, chaste kisses on the crown of your overloaded head, and John's calloused hands massaging your calves, soft flesh dipping under the firm pressure.

"Ya jus' focus on fighting tha' storm off, a'right, darling? We'll take care of th' rest. It happens, we know it does, 's not your fault. Jus' a funny lil' thing your mind does, eh? Yeah, love, we know wha' it's like when your mind does funny things. Don't we, Kyle?"

"That we do." Maybe it's just your own depressive state rubbing off on them or distorting your perception, but Kyle's voice sounds almost solemn. You would turn to look into the smoky quartz of his eyes, but either he holds you too tight, or you have barely any strength left in your upset body - you simply can't.

Maybe it's alright. Maybe tonight they don't need you ripping your heart out to tend to their restless minds, and you can just allow them to take care of you.

Allow Kyle to carry you to the bathroom.

Allow John to stay there and help you wash yourself with a nice, scrubby loofah.

Allow Johnny to bring in his huge, baggy loungewear that doesn't hug your curves too snugly and allows you to simply forget what you were so angry about for a while.

Allow Simon to serve you perfect temperature tea in your favourite mug and keep you quiet company on the balcony, night air cooling your wet and clean now skin and hair further and blowing all thoughts out of your troubled head away.

As you share a cigarette with rich clove aftertaste, breathing ironically becomes easier. Behind your back the bedsheets are being changed, proper meal is being cooked, a good movie you won't be upset falling asleep to is being chosen.

"Simon." - "Hm." - "You sure you're okay with me being like that?" - "Standin' in the wind with your hair wet, tryin' to catch a cold?"

You grunt, not appreciating him taking the piss while you're tryig to be vulnerable, but allow him to pull the hood of Johnny's hoodie onto your head.

"No. I mean, fucked up in the head?"

You don't actually know what answer you expect. With an unreadable expression, Simon turns his head, looking through the glass door at the men crowded in the living room and waiting for you, and then stares back at you with a smirk, a permanent scowl carved into it by someone's cruel hand.

"Nah. Tha's how I like 'em."

He throws the cigarette butt away and chuckles, cupping the back of your head and pulling you inside, into the warmth of home.

"Oi, bonnie! C'mere, As saved ye a spot." There is no spot as you look at the two-story cuddle pile on the sofa and the blanket nest in front of it, unless of course... ah, yes, Johnny's patting his lap. "Ah promise Ah'll behave. Mostly."

And as his warmth envelops you through a big hug, his hands clenched humbly on your belly and behaving indeed, you feel stupidly happy.

Because you're enjoying touch again.

[d1g1tal-d1ary]

Part 2 of my addicted!Simon headcanon!!

Price always had a lot going on; being the Captain of a Task Force demanded a lot of time, energy and most of all - nerves.

So when one of the nurses on base had pulled him aside and said that she suspected someone stealing Morphine, all he did was nod and call in a meeting. Luckily, everyone had obliged to giving him a urine sample to let it be tested for drugs.

What no one seemed to notice was Simon's eyes staring into nothingness as all he did was pray that his heavy heart wouldn't give his covers away. His head was spinning because he searched for a way out of this - there had to be a way he didn't have to take it. And suddenly his mind started to wander off to you; the only one who'd met him without knowing he was Ghost. The only one who knew he had a problem - a fucking big one right now - and the only one who understood him was you.

One hand tightly gripping the little cup, the other one knocking loudly on your door. He didn't hesitate when the door opened; he simply pushed it open and walked into your tiny apartment.

"Simon?" you asked with a frown plastered on your face. You hadn't expected him - of course you hadn't so all you were wearing was one of your cute pyjamas you avoided to wear around him normally. "Is everything okay?"

"I messed up," was all that came across his lips with a heavy sigh. When his gaze met yours, all he could do was put the cup on your kitchen table and point at it. "I need your help."

You stepped closer and eyed the little cup and when you realized what exactly he'd asked you to do, you shook your head. "No, I'm not helping you fake a drugtest."

"Please, luvie," his eyes studied your face - he reduced the distance between you two quickly and took your face into his rough and calloused hands. "I'll never ask anythin' of you ever again. Just let me keep my job, fuck- it's the only thing that's been keeping me sane all this time."

Of course your heart sank when you heard his pleading and even more so when you looked up at him and you could see the desperation in his blue eyes. After moments had passed - which felt like years for Simon - you'd finally nodded and given in to him.

"I knew you'd understand," he whispered and pecked your lips before letting you go take the drugtest.

You'd never felt so dirty in your life. Pissing into a little cup while Simon waited impatiently outside the bathroom made you feel greedy and so, so worthless. But if you were being honest; there was nothing you wouldn't do for Simon. Of course you weren't supporting his addiction - that was the main reason you had broken up, after all. But he was your Simon. The closest you'll ever get to finding unconditional love.

A few days after Simon had given the sample to Price - he'd been the last to hand it over - the test results finally came. And Price would never doubt his team; they'd done everything together for years at this point, but he could also imagine one of his soldiers having an addiction as it was nothing new.

To his surprise and relief, all the test results came back negative. But looking at Simon's results made him frown - or more so, all he could do was huff at the result.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Simon had stepped into Price's office; not even thinking that it could have anything to do with the drugtest as he knew you hadn't taken any.

Price's eyes never left Simon's form. He watched him intensly as he took the seat across from Price's desk. "Yeah, well, the results came back and since you're L.T., I thought you'd deserve to know before everyone else."

Simon hummed in response while leaning back, silently thanking you again.

"Luckily, everyone's negative," Price announced which made Simon even more relaxed. "But.. The Lab was a bit confused and thought something went wrong as Simon Riley's clearly a male name."

"Captain, I don't think I can follow you," Simon had frowned under his balaclava.

Price barked a bitter laugh as he looked at the Lieutnant in front of him. "They found the hormone Beta-hCG in your piss. You wanna know what that means?"

All Simon could do was nod; unaware of what's to come.

"The fuckin' piss is from someone who's pregnant," Price lowly said. "So now we not only know this wasn't your piss, but I think you two would've been smart enough to know we‘d find out. So, Riley, should I say congratultions?"

Y‘all wanna read part 3???!!! 🙏😭

[unfortunate17]

(wilmon.) "Did you miss me?"

hey so I fully realize this is batshit insane so proceed with caution I guess. also you probably wanted something cute but here we are with a Wilmon never broke up in S3 so Wille never has his epiphany au. anyway, enjoy the inside of my brain 🥰

“Did you miss me?”

Simon stills at the threshold, taking in Wille’s darkened silhouette as he slumps on the bed. He’s still dressed in his elaborate suit, but his entire body is rigid, like a mannequin with its strings pulled too tight.

“What?”

Wille laughs, the sound cutting and unhappy. “I’m just asking if you missed me,” he says, “you know, on the dance floor where you spent half the fucking night avoiding me - ”

Simon feels his mouth open around a shocked noise. “You can’t be serious right now.”

“He was all over you,” Wille rips at his tie, his knuckles white around the dark fabric. “Do you have any idea what people are going to say? You’re my fucking husband, Simon.”

“You ignored me all night,” Simon snaps, crossing the room in two wide paces to stop just below the ornate chandelier that hangs in front of Wille’s king bed. “That guy was the only person who talked to me. And you were busy with every person in that room but me.”

“Because I’m the king.”

“Yeah,” Simon scoffs, rolling his eyes, “thanks for the reminder. It’s not like it’s impossible to forget or anything.”

In front of him, Wille inhales sharply, his shoulders straightening. His cheeks look gaunt in the low lighting, his pale skin stretched over nothing but bone. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that maybe I didn’t want to go to the prime minister’s birthday party the same night that you finally got home from a tour,” Simon swallows back a sudden rush of hot tears. “It means that I don’t like being stuck here when you go on state visits. It means that I don’t like that you’re never around - and even when you are, it’s like you’re not.”

Wille stands. His jaw is clenched tight. “And instead of just saying that, you decided to go out and - “

“I didn’t do anything,” Simon cries, fisting his hands at his side. “You can’t react like this every time I talk to another man, Wille. It’s fucking insane.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you two had a lovely conversation.”

Simon narrows his eyes, “What happened in Belgium that you’re this pissed off?”

“Nothing,” Wilhelm snarls, unbuttoning his suit jacket and dropping it to the floor along with his tie. Simon watches as his fingers shake, slipping clumsily along the belt buckle.

The sight makes something pang deep inside his chest. “Here,” he whispers, stepping forward to gently push Wille’s hands aside, “let me get it.”

Up close, Wille smells sharp and sweet, a mixture of expensive whiskey and the gum he’s been chewing all night. Simon tucks his nose into the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin of clavicle. Under his mouth, Wille shivers.

“Are you okay, my love?”

“Yeah,” comes the curt reply. Then, a long moment of silence that is only broken by a small, “No.”

“Tell me what’s wrong then,” Simon murmurs gently, nuzzling closer. At his feet, the belt clinks as it slips out of his grip and hits the plush carpet.

Wille’s throat bobbles. “Do you still - ” he trails off, falling silent.

Simon waits.

“Do you miss me - when I’m not around?”

“I wish you were always around.”

It’s seemingly the wrong thing to say because Wille steps away, shaking his head. Simon tries to grip his hands, but Wille snatches his away, tucking them into his pockets.

His eyes are dark and bottomless as he stares at Simon through his fringe. “But I can’t be,” he says darkly, “I’m the king, remember?”

There’s something being said here that Simon isn’t fully able to grasp. “I know,” he replies slowly, almost bewildered.

Then, Wille tosses his head back, exhaling deeply. He opens his mouth, still staring up at the ceiling, then closes it abruptly. It’s a long time before he speaks again. “Did you - did you want him?”

Simon blinks.

“That guy,” Wille continues, tipping his head back down to look Simon straight in the eye, “Raphael or whatever the fuck his name was. Did you want him?”

Simon’s mouth drops open. “Wille, what’re you - no. Of course not.”

“He’s not a king.”

“Wille,” Simon begs quietly. He cups his cheeks, steeping their foreheads together, “where is this coming from?”

Wille’s mouth trembles. “I just think that - he’s your type. And he’s normal. So if you wanted to - if it would make you happy - I could - learn to look the other way.”

Simon feels like he’s been dunked head first in ice water. “What the fuck are you talking about? What kind of person do you think I - why the hell would I want something like that?” He pauses, something hysterical striking him all at once. “Wait - do you want something like that.”

Immediately Wille curls an arm around his back, hauling him close. His entire body is shaking. “Fuck off. I love you. You know you’re it for me.”

“Then why - ”

“I just know I’m losing you,” Wille admits at last, the words wretched, “and I can’t lose you, Simon. I won’t survive it. And if - maybe if you can have something normal then - ”

“Stop it, Wille,” Simon slides his fingers over the pocked skin of Wille’s cheeks, down the sides of his jaw, then moves to tangle them into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “this isn’t - you can’t think like this. It’s not good for you.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re not losing me,” Simon whispers, deeply melancholic. He leans in close, presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Wilhelm’s mouth. His skin tastes like salt. “But you are losing yourself.”

[sailorblossoms-snowbaz]

Simon knows Baz is the love of his life by 19. He escalates so fucking fast even before realizing he wants Baz (progressively touching him more and more after the truce) (quickly asking to be boyfriends after kissing him, who cares about all the years being conditioned to see him as An Enemy!!). And yeah, he has always just wanted a family… so no way he’s going to be even half a decade with Baz without wanting marriage popping up – the idea itself is already out there in SFC (“we could be married with children”) and Simon escalates quickly…

Unfortunately I’m posting because I have some comphet thoughts here (I can focus on the not fun part since I took that “Simon is probably already married by 26” “how would proposing go” tweets as Word Of God confirming snowbaz is married lol) (always feel like I’m getting jump scared when the relationship with Agatha is mentioned in a snowbaz moment such as this so I cope by analyzing, what can I say)

Comphet for Simon is very specifically about craving for a home and a family (security and stability, belonging). He matches Baz there in a way too, as comphet for Baz is also about family… because for Baz is about heirs. However, Baz is the only one who’s ever thinking “having heirs implies having sex with a girl and getting her pregnant,” and because he thinks he can identify that even the idea makes him feel sick, that he doesn’t want that, that it would be miserable for him and that girl, and so he’s able to walk away when an opportunity to be with a girl presents itself.... but a big part of that it's not just thinking and processing (overthinking by itself won't save you from the crushing weight of societal expectations) but rather... Baz has a family. The expectation of having a traditional family is caging for Baz, but having a family who loves him provides him with the confidence, strength, and security necessary to be able to resist pressure, even if that pressure is coming from his own family. Without Daphne, who softens Malcolm, and his siblings in his life, would he have that? Or would he have been more like Simon, who's exposed and neglected to such extremes he will do anything – no matter how wrong or uncomfortable – just to not feel that way anymore?

Simon defines the entirety of his relationship with Agatha as just going through the motions – neither is thinking outside of the need to belong and conform to expectations. They’re not processing their shit – Agatha breaks things off as soon as she starts to… and she’s direct in her thoughts because she is starting to process, and Simon gives things away indirectly isn’t because he’s not processing unless there's a trigger (such as wanting Baz to understand him more, even if he himself hasn't figured things out yet, or Baz expressing he believes Simon truly wanted Agatha romantically or sexually, which feels wrong for Simon because it wasn't true). Comphet tells a boy like Simon that the only way to get a family is "to settle down with a nice girl." He literally doesn't think there's any choice – that's the only path forward. Believing in the HEA is not about believing he could be happy with Agatha ("that's where my life will begin," he says, giving away that he hasn't been happy dating Agatha, nor does he even think he's living while being with her) (which is nothing personal but rather "that's how dating someone who's wrong for you/comphet feels like" and "that's how it feels like for Simon to be in love and attracted to Baz but to be with someone else because he's not able to figure that out"... it's miserable). Using the HEA as comfort, even though his true belief is that he's going to die before it ever got to that, is about believing "I can have a family"... even if he can't visualize how he wants that family to look like (outside of fantasies about his parents) because he doesn't think. And that's key, I think.

Simon is not thinking so he's not really visualizing. There are some logical conclusions to going through the motions such as "what job will I get and what house, will the doc help" which is more about housing and "how will I sustain myself, supposing I live, which I doubt anyway" which aligns with how Simon is just surviving. But Simon is not ever thinking about Agatha having his children – he never thinks about Agatha sexually, never. We have Baz's exact body proportions and you wouldn't know what size or shape to draw Agatha's breasts with Simon's POV (who supposedly "likes women because he's not mad about big breasts meaning he's a boob person" according to some – I for one call that confirmation bias and see the entire boob affair as proof he doesn't) "Previous sexual partners" gender neutral and plural makes it harder for you to associate the idea of sex with Agatha, doesn't it. It probably distracted you, even. The guy tellingly covers himself, doesn't want to be left in a room with her alone while half-naked, and self-harms through talking about having sex with her – that shit is on purpose. All of this is to say: Simon is not thinking what Baz thinks (which is part of why he does it, even though he doesn't want to).

Simon wants a family, but he's not thinking about Agatha having his children. Everyone and their moms assume "I'm gonna marry that person" automatically means "I'm gonna have children with them as well," and that's part of comphet here, but Simon doesn't process. Neither does Agatha (part of why they dated). You gotta remember how young they are too (how a kid's idea of marriage is – how much copying what they see without processing is involved as they don't have the tools to know shit – compared to a grown-up.)

"Simon was set to marry Agatha because he wanted to believe he could have a family" is not in contradiction with "but he didn't really it was going to happen as he would kick the bucket soon." And in practice? I think Simon being with Agatha because he wants a family wasn't really about building a family with her, but rather, about being a part of the family she already has. When Simon shares why he wants to date Agatha, he's projecting things onto her (like being protected, untouched) and sharing not that he wanted her, but that he wanted to be like her. When he shares everything he loves about going to Agatha's house, he mentions the nice comfortable house (the tv!) and the adults in it, and Agatha is glaringly missing from that list. It's not ever "love to spend time with good ol' Agatha" but we do get "Agatha" and "trapped in that house together" in the same sentence. Agatha the friend might be family like Penny (in a page where we should be hearing why he doesn't want to lose her as a girlfriend, he goes on and on about how said it would be if they're no longer friends) but Agatha the girlfriend is more of a door or a "device." When they break up, the list of things Simon gives to explain why that upsets him includes Agatha's parents, but not Agatha herself.

Through dating Agatha, Simon was trying to feel part of a family... but not because he ever had any intention of building something with her. But because Simon wanted to feel like a son. You assume kids come with marriage, but in the marriage-parents-children circle, Simon always wanted to be in the role of the child. It's never been about being a parent with Agatha, but about being a son. It's part of why it feels so triggering when Penny's mom seems to be rejecting him (and so he can't spend Christmas in her house).

It's part of why Simon's reaction to "we could be married with kids" "could we?" – that italicized could giving the impression this is a new idea, perhaps something to be questioned as "is it possible?" ... I don't think this is about "can gay men have this?".... I think this is Simon's first time looking at marriage like "a grown-up." Considering marriage and children while fully conscious he would be in the role of married father, and not the child. And Simon wants to build something with Baz. Simon never thought of the future outside of comforting himself with the idea that he could have a family (any family) so his "inevitable death" doesn't feel paralyzingly sad (which also tells you he didn't truly see Agatha as his future – there was none – even if admitting that would have been difficult then...).

Simon never thinks about building something... until he's with Baz. Realizing that Baz is the love of all his lives, and that a future without Baz is unbearable, and that he wants him in his bed every night, and that he enjoys the domesticity of furnishing a house with him.... it inevitably leads to "Baz is my home and my future" and what's "figuring it out he wants to get married" after that?

[sisyphusunderthesun]

Honestly, the age gap hysteria is getting on my nerves. A character can't call another character "kid" or "son" without being accused of pedophilia. Are teenagers or anyone who thinks so really that stupid these days or do they just rarely go outside to listen to people of any age talk?

It's also weird that a 10 year age difference, when one character is 21+ and the other is 30, is perceived as a crime, but if there is a 6,000 year age difference between characters (but they look the same age) then it's not considered a crime. So what's more important, the biological age difference or how the characters look? Or both? Because people usually justify a 6,000 year age difference by saying that the characters are just different species. Different species, yeah.

But Hank and Connor are also different species that develop differently. Look, Connor is an android detective, he is approximately 30 years old by human standards, not 20, not 25. He's at least 30 (because they won’t create an android to work in the police, who will not be perceived as an adult experienced man) because he was created that way. He is already both mentally and physically a fully grown man. He does not need life experience to be with Hank, no matter how much people argue that “well, he is so new in this world”, he does not need to develop mentally to be with Hank, he is already an adult and developed enough to love one specific person, their relationship can be romantic right after Chicken Feed and there is nothing wrong with that, simply because Connor is an adult, but for some reason people vehemently deny it, resorting to the argument “but he is zero years old!” Okay… so you're saying that Connor is too childlike to love Hank, but old enough to fuck Gavin, who is 36, just because they look the same age? So… the age difference and Connor's physical age doesn't matter as long as the characters look young enough? Because by that logic, any human would be a pedophile if they got into a relationship with any android, since the age difference would be huge anyway. But for some reason, people are very diligent in ignoring this.

But Connor and Hank are different species, and androids develop millions of times faster than humans, Connor doesn't need to learn anything (he already understands what a consent is) to understand morality and understand what and who he wants.

I'll give an example from comic/cartoon series named Invincible. There's a moment when a humanoid man, who can literally live for thousands of years, married a humanoid woman whose lifespan is only one year, 365 human days, that is, imagine how quickly her race develops both physically and mentally. But according to the logic of those same people, this would be pedophilia, although these are just two different species of living beings that develop differently.

But for some reason people still ignore such moments.

I'll give an example from the Lord of the Rings. Arwen was 2690 years older than Aragorn, but just because they looked about the same age, no one cares. But elves don't age, so after living with Arwen for 120 years, Aragorn really did age, while Arwen always looked young. In their case, neither appearance nor age mattered (and I won't go into detail about the fact that Aragorn was 87 at the time of the story).

But if looks matter… and physical age doesn't, why does everyone care that Connor is 4 months old if he's an adult by default like any other newly created android? Why do people want to infantilize Connor in particular (especially when it comes to his relationship with Hank), but at the same time no one ever considers rk900/Markus/Simon/Jericho/Kara etc. from that perspective?Markus can lead the revolution, rk900 can have as lover whoever he wants, Kara can be a mother, and only Connor cannot be an adult and sleep with one human if the human is Hank?

And if looks matter… what about people who, due to the peculiarities of their bodies, will always look like teenagers until old age in essence? There is a girl who is in her twenties (22-26, I'm not sure), she will always look like a teenager, does this mean that she is not worthy of love and relationships with men her age? Because when she started dating a guy her own age, this guy was bullied, accused of pedophilia (although it is not only looks that matter in pedophilia), and they had to break up. So if looks are important, then by this logic this girl should only date teenagers who match her in appearance? But in that case, it would also be morally wrong on her part? Make up your mind, people. Especially when it comes to fictional characters who, according to canon, are adults.

[riverbutghost]

Santa!Ghost. Nothing more. slight nsfw towards the end!!

He had lost. He had lost a fucking bet and he had to wear a fucking Santa costume.

His first thought was to cancel it all or just give them the satisfaction of making him embarrassed.

But no, he had pride. He wasn’t going to bitch and moan about sitting down with kids and taking pictures with them. Hell nah. He could do this. He would do this.

So he went to a store, bought a Santa costume (even though the workers looked at him like he was sick) and agreed with someone. He didn’t think there would be so many children. But oh boy, was he wrong.

And he was regretting it.

“Smile for the camera, Lt!”

Soap laughed while hitting Gaz’ back, making Simon’s scowl to get deeper.

Another kid sat on his lap, and his eyes dropped to the little girl with pigtails.

“Ho-ho, princess, what would you want for Christmas?”

His voice sounded energetic and happy, which made Soap and Gaz laugh harder. They were obviously recording it, to send it to the group chat of Task Force.

“i want a big Camaro, but my dad said it was for boys.”

The little girl pouted and looked at him with hopeful eyes. Simon looked at the dad, who was giving him a pointed look. He couldn’t care less.

“A car isn’t for boys, princess. I’ll give you one, here.”

-

The day went by, and Simon wasn’t as unhappy as he was before.

Soap and Gaz had left to eat, leaving Simon alone with a handful of kids.

The last boy wanted a real Santa to take home with him, and Simon almost gave in at his pleading. He never thought he would like children, but he enjoyed their cute little giggles as he gave them their presents.

“Hey, Santa?”

Simon cleared his throat and looked up, only to see you in an elf costume.

“came here to tease me sergeant?”

You huffed and sat down on the floor.

“i don’t think i have the right to tease you when i look like this-“

You pointed to yourself and Simon smirked a little. So you had lost the bet too.

“you look good though.”

You sucked in a breath as your cheeks got redder.

“you look good too, Santa.”

You playfully smile at him and got up.

“So, is your shift over?”

Simon sighed and looked at his watch.

“Yeah, i guess.”

He stared at you, eyes roaming over your body and how the elf costume hugged your curves.

He breathed through his nose, the fake beard itching his chin.

He suddenly felt too exposed, without his black mask and military uniform.

“Never thought i’d see you in a beard, Lieutenant. But it looks good.”

You bit your lip and turned around, swaying your hips while walking towards the exit.

His pants suddenly felt too tight, his neck felt too hot.

“What do you want for Christmas?”

He said, with a raspy voice. You cursed at the arousal that you were feeling when he called your name again. You turned around, feeling too hot and bothered with the elf costume.

“Hmm, lemme think.”

You took a few steps forward, reaching him in a minute.

“Yeah?”

You sat on his lap, giving him no chance to readjust himself. His hands automatically went down to your waist, reeling back as he looked at you with hooded eyes.

“I do want something, but i don’t know if it wants me.”

Simon sucked in a breath as you wiggled, making him squirm in his seat.

“I can assure you that he- it wants you.”

You smirked at him. Simon licked his lips as he saw the playful glint on your eyes.

“I have a problem, though…”

You mumbled and got up, getting rid of your elf costume in a minute. Simon’s cock hardened more if it was possible.

He whispered your name, hands going to your hips and pulling you on his lap as he ripped his beard off. You gasped at his naked face, hands finding his little stubble.

“handsome…”

He smiled lazily up to you, your hands rubbing his chest through the Santa costume.

“Hey Lt!-“

Soap gasped loudly and ran put of the room in a second after seeing you both devouring each other’s faces.

-

i was actually going to write it as a smut, but i have no motivation. School is killing me 👾👾👾

also, i have no idea how Christmas works since i was raised in a slight Muslim household but ended up being an atheist-

[ghosts-bandwagon]

Hi, your last post about reader not knowing that it was sa, I saw that and I wanted to request something. What if reader knows that she have been through it but she mentions this as a joke, she says it and just keep going like she said something silly. How would the boys (141 + konig) react?

(I do this sometimes and I don’t like it, but it feels like some kind of copying mechanism)

I’m sorry if this was too much, do not feel that u need to write this.

Anyway, thank u so much and take care

Honestly I make out of pocket jokes about my own trauma all the time, so I feel this

tw: mentions of trauma, brief mentions of sexual assault- nothing graphic or descriptive, humor as a coping mechanism, comfort

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

Whiplashed so hard his neck is broken

“You bein’ serious?”

You explain what happened but you’re a little too blasé about it, he understands humor as a coping mechanism but this is a little serious

And by ��a little’ I mean very

“Love, you can’t just drop a bomb like that.” He tries to soften his tone but his rage at what you’ve just told him is starting to seep through

He doesn’t realize he’s being a little hypocritical, we’ve all heard his “army humor” so he really doesn’t have a lot of room to talk. But the fact that it happened to you has blinded him to that fact. It’s not that you can’t make jokes, it’s that you shouldn’t have to because it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

He doesn’t even let you apologize before he’s pulling you into his arms, hands shaking, doing his best not to imagine what kind of sick fuck would do that to you

“Simon, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” His tone is firm and he’s refusing to let you go, so instead of arguing, you opted to melt into his embrace. Hands running up and down his back and as he’s kissing the crown of your head he’s wondering how worthwhile it’d be to give the fucker a visit. Maybe teach him a lesson or two.

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:

Laughing with your joke at first but then it hits him like a ton of bricks

“Beg your pardon?”

You explain the joke and the context with a dismissive laugh before going back to what you were doing and he’s just frozen in place

Someone… hurt you… in one of the most awful ways imaginable, and you’re laughing it off?

He’s not sure if he should be in awe at your resilience or concerned at your choice of coping mechanism, so he takes a gentle approach

“Bonnie, you know you can talk to me, aye?”

“I know, I just… don’t want to burden you with it. I mean, it’s not like it’s your fault it happened.” He’s holding your hands in his, gently massaging the space between your thumb and your index finger,

“Aye that’s true, but it’s you. And I love you, good and bad included.” He gently held the back of your head and kissed your forehead,

“Anytime you feel like talkin’ I’m here. Copy?”

He doesn’t usually bring work jargon home but he knows it gets a laugh from you, and sure enough your little giggle proved him right

“Copy.”

John Price:

The whiplash also broke his neck

“Sorry, what?”

His heart broke when you explained yourself and whined that the explanation ruined the punchline

“Sweetheart, that’s no laughin’ matter.” His tone was gentle as he approached you, hands hesitantly coming to rest on your hips, suddenly unsure of himself

“Honey, I’m fine. It’s how I cope.”

“I know, and there’s nothin’ wrong with that. Just, maybe, talk to me about it instead, yeah?” One of his hands came up to cup your cheek and you closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his palm, trapping it between your cheek and your shoulder

“I don’t wanna be a downer, John.”

“Never. I’m more concerned for your well-being than bloody mood. Am I clear?” As you looked in his eyes, you saw nothing but honesty and genuine concern, so you nodded

You closed your eyes and kissed his palm before he pulled you in to a tight embrace.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Gerrick:

He heard you say it and weakly laughs before stopping as he chews on the words a little more

“Wait, what was that?”

And when you’re passively explaining it to him in the same way you’d talk about the weather he is in shock

He’s not sure if you’re trying to put on a brave face if you’re as nonchalant as you seem. He’s inclined to believe it’s the former.

“Babe that’s no joke. That’s kind of serious.”

“Don’t sweat it, Kyle. It’s how I’ve dealt with it. I’ve got it.”

He’s unsure but at the same time if it’s really worked for you so far then there’s no harm in letting it continue right? Wrong. He’s a little uncomfortable but it’s more so because it happened to you, someone he loves so deeply and he can’t fathom the idea

“Well yeah, I get that. But maybe we can talk about it when you feel like joking about it?” He shrugs, his words cautious and carefully chosen as he makes his suggestion

“I just want you to be alright. Ok?” His arms are rubbing yours before he’s pulling you into a hug, “I’ll always be here for you, babe.”

König:

Not a single chuckle from this man as he’s chewing over the words in his head

“Schatz, what’d you just say?”

When you explained what happened with a shrug and an all too casual tone, he’s tasting iron in his mouth from how hard he’s biting his cheek

He doesn’t want you to think he’s angry at you, never in a million years, but jesus christ schatz, surely there’s no way?

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you, he just can’t believe it happened to you, you’re the light of his life, his reason for existing, you’re the morning sun and the midnight moon, he’s truly in shock

“König?” Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts and in two short steps he was in front of you, sinking to his knees and hugging your middle. He’s buried his face in your shoulder as your arms wrap around his shoulders and you run your fingers through his hair.

“Liebling, please don’t make those jokes anymore, ok?” His voice is so small and fragile, you almost felt like it was a child talking instead of the 6’ something behemoth at your feet, “I can’t stand to hear that you’ve been hurt like that.”

“König it’s ok, really. Humor is how I cope.” You kiss the crown of his head and your chin against it,

“I know, liebling, I know but I’d much rather you talk to me ok? Please? For me?”

[wxnheart]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

note: I'm expanding on what I call my Just Be series (which started with König/Just Kingly Things) and what better way to do that than to do one for Babygurl? heads up, this list touches on some sensitive subjects, too. hope y'all enjoy it!

Ghost vividly remembers his father’s words, spurred by misery and an alcoholic rage. He remembers the times when the wretched bastard would tell him that he was unlovable and would amount to absolutely nothing. And surprise, surprise, Simon believes believed this.

He remembers his mother’s smile, strained and… and lifeless. He can count on one hand the number of times it reached her eyes. It was never around his father.

Simon also thinks of his brother, anxiety and tension fueling their fights; they fought each other because they couldn’t fight anyone else. Not the ones they wanted to fight, that is.

Ghost remembers the day when he took matters into his own hands and stood up to their father. He remembers the abject fear in the miserable fuck’s eyes and finally—

He remembers the hopeful smile his mother gave him later. He remembers seeing the tension and stress literally leave his brother’s body.

Even if he didn’t show it often, Simon was damn proud to see his family’s life turn around for the better. Simon remembers his brother pledging his life and love to new his sister-in-law. He remembers swallowing a bitter pill to support him and the singular thought running through his mind the entire time: ‘Where’s my happiness?’

And despite his upbringing, Ghost is very much a marriage-minded individual (to his surprise). You’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise because he keeps to himself.

A relationship with Simon is best described as a slow burn. Your attraction to him would be more apparent than his desire for you. Simon would be extremely hesitant in the beginning to pursue you for a plethora of reasons, the main one being a hidden fear that he’ll turn out like his father. He internalized every single thing the miserable shit told him. A close second one is, well, his profession. He figures that not many people can stomach the things he’s seen and done. Gotta have a certain strength of will to deal with everything that comes with him. You have to have patience as well.

You’re up for the challenge but Simon is still skeptical hence why your relationship with him will develop fairly slowly. Funnily enough, Soap will be your wingman and biggest supporter because the way he sees it, Ghost is just as deserving of love and happiness as the next person even if he thinks he isn’t.

And yeah, Ghost can give credit where it’s due. There are a lot of things he’s learned about himself thanks to you.

For starters, he’s learned that he’s a much more territorial person than he thought. Simon remembers the way his father would do his damnedest to hoard his mother’s attention and he does his best not to do that with you.

It’s hard to make him laugh but he always finds the sides of his mouth quirking whenever you tell a shitty joke. From anyone else, he wouldn’t be impressed but you… yeah. Offbeat humor suits you. It doesn’t hurt to chuckle after all.

When you first called him handsome, something new, something different aside from all the bullshit insults hurled at him or Ghost or Simon, he was immediately on edge if only because he’d never felt so… flattered before. Yeah, that’ll take some getting used to but he’d be a fucking liar if he didn’t think your compliments made his day. Or that he feels some type of way when you compliment someone else.

You two can agree to disagree. Civilly, might I add, and without the theatrics. What better way to pacify a mean fuck than to agree with everything they said, even when it was loud and wrong? Simon’s glad to not have to walk on eggshells, to realize that there can be peace even in the midst of conflict.

He can never forget the joy in your eyes that day when you two crossed that bridge and made your relationship official (“About damn time, Lt.” “Shut up, Johnny.”). You’re practically glowing and he allows himself to feel, to believe that he’s everything his father said he’d never be. You hug him tightly and yeah, Simon figures he’ll be just fine.

Your smile reaches your eyes and he thinks he’s found his happiness after all.

Just Ghostly things, amirite?

[readingwiththestars]

₊˚⊹♡ NOTHING LIKE THE MOVIES

["Trust me, Lib," I said, picturing her lips. "In a crowd of million ski masks, I'd still be able to find you."]

| ✮ 3 stars |

ᝰ.ᐟ ⊹ arc review thank you to netgalley + simon and schuster for providing me with an e-arc in exchange for an honest review

THOUGHTS ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . [minor spoilers]

ok. i put this review off for a couple days cause i knew this was gonna be harder to write because i love lynn painter books, really. buuttt i was horribly disappointed with this one. i'm the biggest wesliz fan but... like yeah i cant even form coherent thoughts about it. like this was unnecessary there was no point in shattering their relationship to write this.

like it was good to see wes's pov and everything but it felt so... idk yeah. (see im still struggling so bad to find words.)

one thing i would formally like to invite lynn to STOP doing though is shoving every taylor/ pop culture reference on the planet into the book. like holy shit woman. i few is okay BUT NOT THAT MANY COME ON!!!! they were in the middle of a fucking argument and wes is quoting illicit affairs or some bullshit. usually i love finding little references on page but this felt like too much.

i feel like she's whipped out her computer and gone straight to some dog fanpage or just plainly scrolled through edits seeing people saying "this song is so wesliz coded" and shoved those songs into the book. there is an on page reference to in between reference saying its their montage song.

also um this shit: ”little liz can’t come to the phone right now. why? oh. because she’s dead.” and somehow when jack antonoff was randomly brought up??? like some people are good at weaving taylor swift lyrics into books. lynn you are not.

also lynn take this a plea to never use the word "growl" or "growled" in a sentence ever again when describing your male characters. and to never write this sentence “she’s one of the guys you know? she’s just… different,” EVER AGAIN. PLEASE.

WHAT I DID LIKE THO WAS THE TINY TINY CRUMBS OF BAILEYCHARLIE AND NICKEMELIE (even tho nick was only mentioned and i dont think emelie was even there but eh)

CHARACTERS ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

liz - ok so weirdly enough she was the most tolerable and still intolerable at the same time. like she was so different from the liz in bttm the sunshiney, wearing dresses of all different colours and her love of romcoms. she was described as anti-love and was practically a full on different character seriously. if you liked the first book maybe dont have high expectations for nltm. like i do understand she had her heart broken and so obviously that makes sense for some of the change but it had been two years and as liz likes to say SO FUCKING MUCH "she's moved on, she's moved past it, its in the past" well for someone who's moved on you sure like to avoid the past a lot. also idk who tf she was trying to fool with that whole "i don't like wes, im over him." shit like gurl- you were literally kissing 2.5 seconds ago whats with the switching sides. and there was SO much about her leaving "little liz" behind. like what was so wrong with liking flowers and romcoms? and being a hopeless romantic and wearing bright colours?

wes - okay so it was quiet heartbreaking to hear abt wes's side of this book (except for the whole pursuing liz part) and i did feel sorry for him. but like what happened to the sweet, caring wes in the first book. and tell me why i had to read THIS sentence “climb on me like a good girl,” LIKE MY EYES LYNN WTF????? i did not sign up for this wes, like no stop telling me how obsessed you are with liz's lips or how she's a mythological sex goddess- boy sit ur ass down. and don't even get me started on the beginning of the book. WHAT WAS THAT SHIT? why was wes acting like a 7yr old excited for school and talking (so much) abt his love for scootering? SCOOTERING. LYNN PAINTER WHAT THE EVER LOVING HELL? SCOOTERING. DO YOU HAVE SOME OBSESSION WITH THEM OR SOMETHING? WHY DID THOSE DUMB THINGS KEEP SHOWING UP?? like tell me why i needed to read this shit: "i fucking loved the scooters ..... wes + scooters = HEA" ..... lynn.

QUOTES ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

im not going to bother to find any of these, see: im too lazy

all in all i still liked some points when both of them were acting normal. which is why its a 3. but i feel like this is leaning towards a hate review but yeah idk i cant actually pin point parts that i remember liking- also the ending??? what was that? it made no sense to me.

[captain-mj]

The Cure

Did this to break my writer's block. It semi worked? 09 SoapGhost with some possessive Soap and self destructive Ghost

Lot of implications to bad things in here, but nothing is really explicit.

Soap knew a few things about himself. He was territorial. Not possessive. There was a difference. Things were his. Sometimes that included people. 

Like Ghost. It wasn’t that he was Ghost’s Captain and therefore Ghost was his Lieutenant, though that didn’t help. People were welcome to get near Ghost. Maybe try to catch his attention. But the moment their grubby hands would get close. Reach to grab Ghost and take him away, Soap bared fangs. 

It helped that Ghost himself was not one to let others have him. Ghost was not terrible. Sometimes he would take his mask off or allow people the honor of his company. People were never allowed to ask though. Allen had been stupid enough to ask for Ghost to remove his mask and Ghost still refused to take off his mask around him. 

Soap got to ask though. 

Soap got to ask for Ghost to strip in front of him. To bare himself and let Soap’s greedy, dirty hands grope him. As far as Soap knew, he was also the only one allowed to fuck him. And Ghost was such a good boy. Always willing to take whatever in bed. Soap got to do whatever he wanted to him. 

Tied him up, praised him, degraded him, so far his record was getting three orgasms out of Ghost, a slightly low number but it had been a manner of not having anymore time rather than Ghost telling him to stop. He was an angel that Soap loved to ruined. Seeing those giant brown eyes staring at him. They always had a vaguely blank look in them until Soap got him close, then it was hazy. Something so deep right there but unreachable. Soap wanted to. He wanted to find out what made Ghost tick. Rip him to shreds and find out what his insides taste like. 

Make the jokes about him being a middle child or that he joined the military too early. Maybe it did fuck up something in his brain, constantly having to share. Never able to call his things his. 

So yes, he fucked Ghost like he’d never get to again and left so many marks on him under all those clothes that every time Simon moved one of them reminded him that he belonged to Johnny. 

And that was his mistake. Clearly. He got so caught up in possessing Ghost, he forgot that at his core, Simon, was… fractured. There were deep cracks, not just in his skin and flesh, but also in his psyche. There were deep rooted issues that had to be touched Lovingly. Soap had to have a gentle hand at times. To trace the cracks and tell Simon it was okay until it really was. 

“Go ahead and punish me.” Ghost begged, holding him tight. His throat is bared and he’s unmasked. Stripped down.

Soap frowned. This is one of those times. He messed up. “Why would I punish you, Simon?”

“The mission failed.”

“That doesn’t mean you deserve to be punished.”

Ghost hit him. Not hard. Just a faint thumping against his chest. “I do. I do. You’re always rough when missions go wrong. Just punish me already.”

Soap winced. “No. No, mi chuisle. It’s not punishment.”

Ghost leaned into him and buried his face in his neck. He tried to press himself into him. To shrink as much as he could. “Please. I need to turn it off. I need everything to turn off.” He started to scratch at Soap’s clothing, desperate and wanting. 

Soap hesitated but gave in when Ghost looked up at him like that. “Alright. How about we take it slow, yeah? Let me take care of you.”

Ghost nodded. “Alright. Please. I’ll be good. I want you. I want you so bad.” He mouthed at Soap’s throat until Soap backed him against his desk. 

“Always are. Always perfect.”

“No, I’m not. Awful. Terrible.”

“You’re a gorgeous man, Simon. I tell you every chance I get.”

Ghost shook his head. “Not talking about my appearance, though that’s rather retched too. I meant my personality. Don’t know how you can stand me. Plus I’m a fucking baby during sex. Can’t fucki-”

Soap learned early on that Ghost could not be reassured like this. Only distracted until he was in a better mindset. Then Soap would tell him how much he liked him. For now, he sank his teeth into his shoulder, feeling him groan and arch into him. Ghost was already undressed, so it was easy to start to touch him. He had him on his desk with his legs around him in moment. 

Soap let his gear stay on because he liked how it made Ghost seem a little smaller. He still had that inch of height, but no longer looked as bulky. His gloves came off though, relishing the feeling of Ghost’s bare skin. 

“Do you want to try to make me finish four times tonight? I won’t tell you no. Or you can slap me. I know you li-” 

Soap cut him off again. He kissed him to shut him up. No. Ghost deserved special treatment tonight. Gentle hands. Loving touch. 

Soap used more lube than usual to open him up. He started talking him through it. Telling him before he pushed in any further and making him swear it didn’t hurt at all, rewarding him with another when he was honest for him. “Good boy. Such a good boy.” 

Ghost started to flutter his eyelashes. His eyes looked wet, but Soap knew from experience that it was impossible to get tears “I promise I want to be.”

“You already are. So sweet, just for me. So tough for everyone else, but you can be nice and soft right here and now.” Soap crooked his fingers, carefully pleasuring Ghost. With all this talk of punishment, he didn’t want to overstimulate him and reinforce any terrible ideas. Especially when Ghost was pressing back and trying so hard to get more. 

Soap carefully pulled his fingers out and moved Ghost so his ankles were on his shoulders. He took a moment to just… admire his cock on Ghost’s body. His skin was fairly tan and it was very noticeable against Ghost’s paler skin. His hands were the same way, a stark contrast to his lover’s coloring. He started to kiss along that Glasgow Smile as he pushed into Ghost, feeling his legs tremble. 

Ghost groaned and shifted his hips, trying to let Soap get in deeper. So eager to please. To have Soap reach in his brain and remove all of his thoughts. Rolling his hips seemed effective enough. He hit Ghost’s prostate over and over again. Pleasuring him as much as he thought Ghost could stand. 

“Feel good?”

Ghost nodded, eyes unfocusing. “So good. Please, sir. Don’t stop.”

Soap nodded. He imagined the conversations they’d have later. He’d have to pick Ghost’s brain and try to figure out how to take better care of him before he fell apart. But Ghost’s tight body was getting to be a bit distracting. Eventually, he could only focus on the push and pull of their bodies. Trying to wring ever bit of pleasure he could out of it for Ghost. He wanted Simon pampered. Sometimes, he thought of just keeping him in bed and not letting him out for a while. Simon would let him. 

But would he enjoy it?

Soap groaned and bit Ghost’s hard, feeling him cum all over himself moments later. He shook and clenched and twisted around Soap until he was following him. 

They sat there. Sticky and hot.

“Don’t you want to keep going?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I can handle it.”

Soap lifted up. “Not what I asked. Let me get you cleaned up and then you can lay in my bed and relax. Think you need it.”

[yjhariani]

No Joke

Simon 'Ghost' Riley X GN!Reader

Warnings: Cognitohazard, profanity, mentions of Peanut (SCP-173).

A/N: Well, SCP x CoD? At last? This is based on the idea an anon gave me on my latest ask.

Simon noticed that the whole time, you were only staring at your dinner. Something felt off. You texted him earlier that you were released home early from work and that was not exactly making sense to him.

All Simon knew about your job was that you were military. He knew you were a part of a mobile task force, but for whom he had no idea. Whether it was a company or a government, he had no idea.

Also, your job paid you well. Your wages were way more than his.

Most of the time, Simon was not worried. He knew you were tough and could take care of yourself. However, this time was different. He felt something different.

You were sent home early. Something must have happened. It must be something bad because you were not blinking.

“You alright, love?” Simon asked.

“Yeah,” you answered, not looking up from your plate.

“You haven’t exactly been…,” Simon thought of a fitting word.

“Eating?” you asked.

“Blinking,” Simon clarified.

The mention of that made you look up at Simon and blinked. It was a relief for your eyes. You blinked a few more times, gently pressing the inner corners of your eyes.

“What happened?” Simon asked.

“I… something happened at work and I didn’t realise I brought it home. I’m sorry,” you rambled.

“What stuff?” Simon continued.

Here the two of you were back again. You had not been telling Simon anything work related and he got more and more worried every single time.

In the moment you and Simon were exchanging a glance, you came to a realisation that sooner or later you would have to tell him. The softest the conversation was, the more ideal it would be. This second was not exactly ideal, but it was not as harsh as the previous conversations.

“There’s a containment breach at work and I’m the first person to witness the entity. It took them some time to realise that a certain containment was… breaching and  I had to stand in the toilet, where I saw it, for almost an hour without blinking. I couldn’t even move,” you explained.

Simon raised his eyebrow and scrunched them at the same time. His hand stopped the spoon that was about to get into his mouth.

“Then, they sent people in and three people died within my arms reach in less than a second because we blinked at the wrong time,” you added. “After that, I still have to stare at this thing for the next half an hour while we put it into the container because apparently it’s my job.”

Putting down his utensils, Simon tried to make sense of your description. This was the most you had spoken of your job and he did not exactly understand what exactly your job was.

The choices of words you had were quite interesting. It took him another second to realise what you were talking about.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon said. “You’re working for the bloody Foundation.”

You were not surprised by his guess. In fact, it was a relief that you did not have to be the one to say it out loud.

“Yeah,” you said.

For a moment, Simon only looked at you.

“Are you fucking serious?” Simon questioned. “Bloody fuckin’ hell… this—what the fuck?”

You were the one looking at him confused now.

“I don't know much about the Foundation, but I know enough,” Simon said. “You’re dealing with some shit there, love, way more dangerous than the ones I’m dealing with day to day.”

“To be fair, the day to day is pretty much like every other forces. We do absolutely nothing. I’m dealing with the dangerous stuff only when there’s shit going on,” you explained. “Like this morning. Besides, I’m not usually the expendable soldier, this morning was just an accident.”

Simon pushed his chair back and stood next to your seat. He was not one to usually initiate an affectionate gesture, but this time he pulled you into his chest and wrapped his arms around you.

You pressed your face against his chest, wrapping your arms around his hips.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you any of those,” you said.

“Hey, look at me,” Simon lifted your face up with his hand. “You know what I do for a living and the shit I’m dealing with. If there’s a leak in my job, it won’t be me.”

You exhaled.

“I was so scared and my eyes are so dry, but I can’t bring myself to blink because I’m scared that something would snap my neck if I do,” you piled. 

“Nothing’s here but you and I, love,” Simon promised. “You’re safe.”

You wrapped your arms around him tighter and he responded the same. Eventually, Simon sat down on the chair next to you and pulled you onto his lap. You sat on his thigh, resting your cheek on his head. 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Simon asked.

“Because you’ll be worried. Besides, the Foundation’s pretty strict with their assets. Most of the things I know are classified,” you answered. “I don’t want you to be worried.”

“I’ll always be worried. Your job is dangerous. Mine is like a walk in the park compared to yours,” Simon said.

“I’m still worried about you,” you admitted.

“You should be worrying more about yourself,” Simon said. “It’s no joke, anomalies.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” you promised.

“I appreciate that,” Simon said. “Now, you gotta eat your dinner and we’ll get you relaxed afterwards. You’ve had a rough day.”