#simon ghost riley ask prompt

[antivan-dragon]

♡ line 10 / setting 1 / nsfw ♡

Here, my luuuuuv. I hope you like it! Thanks for the ask!

Line 10. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice.

Setting 1. Bunker

+18/MDNI

*Gif not mine

Warning: NSFW, unprotected sex, fingering, cunnilingus, private/lieutenant, F!Reader, explicit language (a bit)

It's been three days now you're stuck in that damn bunker. Bravo Team messed up with the wrong people and now you're hiding underground, waiting for Laswell who fixes things. You have all the necessities to survive but the boredom is killing all of you and, moreover, being h24 with your obsession won't help.

You've finished your eight minutes shower to save as much water as possible and you're about to close up in your cabin when Ghost prevents it by pushing the door gently.

“Private (y/n), a word.” He says getting in and closing the door behind him.

You don't complain even if you have to hold the shameful embarrassment to be in a very small space with your Lieutenant.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

He takes a moment to answer, scanning your whole body covered by the army green t-shirt and the military trousers, deciding how to proceed to find out what he needs.

“Sir?” Ghost moves his eyes somewhere else for a moment as if he came back to reality.

“I wanted to see how's going, it's a shitty situation for all of us.”

You nod. “It is, sir, but I don't complain. We're prepared for this kind of... shit.”

He slightly nods, moving a step ahead to get closer to you. Instinctively, you lower your glance but you don't move a muscle. You can assume he's testing you but you could be wrong as well.

“I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice.” He says with a low voice.

You look up to meet his inquisitive eyes.

“Am I wrong?” He says analyzing your shocked expression.

Your lips spread apart to answer but it seems like an endless time before your voice goes out.

“No... Sir... You're not wrong.”

“Would you like me to stay for a while?” He asks then.

A burst of warmth crawls into your stomach as you blush. You're not able to hold his look, your eyes drop right in front of you, meeting his dog tags resting over his pecs.

He can see your disorientation and he doesn't want to put you in an uncomfortable position.

“My apologies, Private, I must have been mistaken. Please, forget what happened.”

He's about to leave when you call him back.

“Sir...”

You take off your t-shirt, his eyes fall over your naked breast, your dog tags dangling right in the center of your chest.

“Would you like to stay for a while?” You ask without hesitation.

He comes back to you, taking off his long-sleeves t-shirt and pulling up his mask enough to show just his mouth. You're prepared to be smashed against the wall behind you but the Lieutenant prefers to hold you onto him, bending over to kiss you with gentleness. Your hands slip around his neck and his nape while your buttocks fit perfectly into his hands.

It's not a violent kiss, but full of desire anyway. Ghost is scared to hurt you so he lets you be in charge to know what you want, but when he feels your hand stroking eagerly his hard cock through his cargo pants, he almost loses control.

His mouth falls on your neck, biting the soft skin as he tries to focus. “You better take it easy, Private.” He says against your neck.

“Why?” A tiny smirk appears on your face.

He suddenly stops to look over your teasing face.

“Wanna play rough, uh?”

Watching his lips saying those words without the fabric covering them is something that turns you on instantly. However, you don't have time to reply since Ghost already threw you on the camp bed next to you.

You make a squeak in surprise and he kneels over you to take off your boots and pants. “You better be quiet, hun. We're not alone down here.”

“Make me...” You whisper with a smile.

He throws away your pants, visibly shocked by your insolence.

“I’m still your Lieutenant.”

“Make me... Sir.” You repeat.

At those words, his cock throbs into his boxer pants as he removes your panties in a blink of an eye. He spreads your legs gently and he stares into your eyes while he bends to reach your cunt. His tongue slips easily through your labia since you're already wet.

You take a deep breath in the first contact but the more he eats you, sucking and liking your clit, the more your heavy breath turns into soft moans.

He stops. “Quiet, Private.”

When he resumes his torture between your legs, you bite your lower lip to hold your voice into your throat but it's damn hard. Ghost increases the pleasure by sinking his long fingers into you, reaching the right spot without problems.

You arch your back, moving your cunt against his mouth without control. A couple of loud moan escape right before taking the pillow and pushing your face onto it.

He stops just to free his cock, sinking into you easily while his thumb resumes the torture over your clit. His free hand grabs your hip hard as he can't hold back some hard thrust, feeling your cunt so good.

“Fuck...” He whispers.

You're a view at that moment, all spread for him, and your breast bounces under his pace. Your desperate expression meets his half-masked face and you outstretch a hand to grab his dog tags, forcing him to go down to you.

The making out is a mess since your bodies increase the speed of the fuck.

When you cum, your thighs wrap around his hips with strength as your fingernails sink into the flesh of his back. You shut your eyes, opening wide your mouth, and struggle to hold a loud moan.

“Hush...” He barely whispers against your mouth.

He can feel your cunt stiffening around his cock, it's so tight he almost cums into you.

“Fucking Chr...” Regretfully, he slips outside you to cum on your belly and your tits. He keeps stroking himself even when he releases the last few drops of seed over you.

You both need a long moment to catch your breath but he kindly helps you to clean up.

“Private...”

“Sir...”

You greet each other as if it's the first time you see each other. You chuckle and he gives you a tiny smile that you record in your mind for the rest of your life.

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[all-purpose-dish-soap]

I love you more post apocalypse au I BEG

thank you for boss :) btw this nice message is what nudged me to finish and post parts 2 and 3. (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

all parts:

post-apocalypse/megafauna au part 1 (with Soap)

part 2 (Ghost & Soap)

part 3 (with Price)

the above were like the collective pilot episode, but no other plans for this au atm so here it is on its own little index page :)

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

What would jade do if she found a girl flirting with simon

OH MY. OKAY. SO.

First things first, Jade is an avid observer. She'd pause and wait for Ghost's reaction. Jade completely trusts Simon, and considering how he is, Ghost himself would just steps away/leaves the flirting gal 😶‍🌫️, trying to find Jade.

But if the gal insists and keeps on following him, Jade herself would also probably notice Ghost's discomfort. Coming in between Ghost and the girl would lead to more conversations which she doesn't want to take part of, so she'll just call his first name from the distance. Ghost (who'd recognize her voice, and is absolutely relieved) would then just leave the girl and rv with Jade instead.

Ooorrr if she's feeling a bit infuriated, Jade will come to his side, and spoke to the girl. "Hey, Love. Who's this? Oh! Nice to meet you." And tries to be friendly with her instead, while repeating the fact that the man is taken to assert some soft dominance. After that, she'd say "oh, the movie's about to start. Let's go, Love. See you later!"

[ghcstao3]

I hope your day is as amazing as you.

What would happen is soap was Makarov's son who run away to live with his Scottish Aunt? He knows Russian and how Makarov operates and wants to stop it, that is why he joined up. What would happen with the team and Makarov finding out?

Have a lovely rest of the year. I hope it is restful and relaxing

i actually love this prompt so much !! thank you, and i hope you are doing well :)

-

The first thought in Soap’s head upon being passed a photo of his father isn’t of revenge or abhorrence like he thought it might be—it’s wondering if Ghost notices the tremble in his hand as he’s given the picture.

His second thought is that he must have, because Ghost isn’t even looking at the photo pinched between his fingers.

He’s looking right at Soap.

“Makarov,” Price supplies, though Soap needs no introduction. He’s more familiar with the task force’s newest target than he’d like to be.

But he’d been waiting for this. Soap had been surviving out of spite and the hope that maybe one day he might finally reach this point. That maybe he could be the one to put a bullet in his father's skull for all he's done.

Ghost’s eyes continue to bore into the side of his face up until a passive dismissal from Price, and even then there’s a second set of footsteps behind Soap as he leaves the bar.

His shadow only lets him get as far as the elevator of the run-down hotel they're posted up in for the time being, before the emergency stop toggle is pulled just as the doors slide shut and the car moves upward.

Soap is suddenly shoved up against a wall, Ghost's forearm pressed to his throat while a handlerail digs into his spine. He could fight the lieutenant off, he could—but Soap’s senses tell him it'd be futile. That whatever it is Ghost wants from him would be inescapable, inevitable, no matter how hard he tries.

"You know something," Ghost says, barely loud enough to be heard over the blaring elevator alarm. His eyes are intense, dark—and for a moment Soap is in full understanding of the fear Ghost's enemies carry for him.

"Not sure what you mean, sir," Soap replies. And maybe a part of him knows exactly what it is Ghost is talking about, but a louder majority is panicked. Confused.

Soap's throat is squeezed tighter. A threat, from his own lieutenant.

"About Makarov," Ghost grunts. "I saw your face when you looked at that photo. There's something you're not saying, MacTavish, and I reckon you'd spit it out before I make you."

Soap's eyes go wide, never having even thought of Ghost picking up on his expression. Never having even thought there was an expression. He feels his heartbeat jump pace, thumping in his throat as he struggles to swallow. This isn't how he'd imagine telling anyone his place in this. Who he really is.

In all honesty, he hadn't imagined it happening at all, mostly because he wished for it to never have to come up.

But perhaps Soap should've known that Ghost is too smart for that to be possible.

"Don't think you'd believe me if I told you," Soap rasps. He knows it's the wrong answer for Ghost, but he's not quite sure what else he could say.

Thankfully, Ghost doesn't suffocate Soap further, though he doesn't budge his hold yet, either. Not as he hisses, "Try me."

Soap screws his eyes shut, huffing air through his nose to brace himself for whatever reaction he'll receive. For whatever reaction he doesn't want to wait on.

"I'm—" Soap sighs his uncertainty, his voice quivering, "Makarov is my father."

Though Ghost scoffs, Soap can feel some of the pressure on his windpipe mercifully lift. "Bullshit he is. Why would you be hunting him?"

Soap finally begins to scrabble at the thick forearm at his throat. "I ran away when I was old enough. He... he made me do awful things for him, LT, and I—can you please just let me go?" Tears sting the corners of Soap's eyes. "I'll explain everything, I just—"

Ghost suddenly frees him, and Soap doubles over, heaving in gasping breaths as he rubs at his neck and collarbone. The alarm stops ringing as Ghost pushes the emergency toggle back in place, and the car begins moving again.

It's a blur, being led to Ghost's hotel room, but he's appreciative to not have to think about his steps as Ghost drags him along and seats him on the foot of the made bed.

Soap opens his mouth to let his explanation begin tumbling out, but Ghost shushes him before he gets the chance.

"I'm getting Price, Gaz, and Laswell before you say anything," Ghost tells him. "Whether you like it or not, I'm not keeping this secret from the team if it'll help us take down your f—Makarov's operation."

Soap understands, he does—but that doesn't mean it hurts any less to hear the distrust in Ghost's voice that Soap had only recently managed to work away.

Ghost pauses in the doorway, and for a hopeful second Soap thinks he's changed his mind.

"I'm sorry," he says instead, before turning and heading back into the hallway.

The door clicks loudly shut, the electronic lock mechanism resetting. Soap sighs, feeling his shoulders slump uncomfortably low as he waits. He suspects he has a night of storytelling ahead of him, now.

If only he'd been more careful.

*

The team takes in the new information better than Soap had anticipated.

Ghost says nothing the entire time. Asks no questions and offers nothing more than a grunt or huff to acknowledge what's being said. Soap only hopes his walls haven't been permanently rebuilt.

Price takes the information in stride, just as Laswell does. They both ask questions that pertain more so to their current mission, poking and prodding to see if any of Soap's personal intel could help them find more and easier success in the near future.

Gaz sits with him and tells Soap it changes nothing about who he is. That because he's still fighting for the right cause, nothing else matters—not his past nor paternity.

Soap is just grateful that beyond his confrontation with Ghost in the elevator, no rash decisions have been made otherwise in the face of this revelation.

But after everything—Soap just wants to sleep. He just wants space.

It takes longer than Soap would’ve liked for it to happen, but it does eventually. He’s finally allowed to leave the room and shuffle to his own, though not before Price catches his arm in the hallway, once Gaz and Laswell have both disappeared, Ghost’s door having long since been shut.

“This isn’t to say I don’t trust you to do it,” Price says, “but if it comes down to it, Soap—you can’t hesitate.”

Can’t hesitate to kill Makarov, Price means.

“Of course, sir.” Soap nods. In no world does he need to be told to take action. “I understand. No second-guesses.”

Price hums. “Good,” he says, and pats Soap’s shoulder. “Now rest up, sergeant. Lots of work still to do.”

Soap nods again and bids Price goodnight before finally slipping into his own room. He barely takes the time to toe off his shoes and shed his jacket before collapsing onto the bed, more than ready to curl up and sleep for an eternity.

But alas, as Price had said—there’s still plenty left to do.

[saintship]

okay just hear me out!! 13 but with tf141 wherein reader HATES physical touch like they’re completely repulsed by it but they know they can trust tf141, it’s just a matter of getting used to it and time. i’d imagine like it would be them slowly noticing it like if price pats reader on the shoulder for a job well done or if soap just surprise hugs reader from the back and in each scenario the reader freezes up 🤭 also it’s 1 am and i’ve been bingereading your work it’s so good 😭

Prompt #13 - "Take your time."

Thank you so much<3

I’ve struggled with touch aversion my whole life, and it can be upsetting at times so this is free therapy for me,

Hope you enjoy!

Reader & 141 - A little getting used to

Insert excuse to use this gif

The first time they learned of your aversion was at a loosely named ‘work party’, when Gaz had thrown back enough liquor to kill a small animal, Ghost had gathered a few empty pint glasses, and Price drank Soap under the table, literally, when he collapsed to the wooden floorboards of the bar.

You had quickly helped him to his feet and turned to return to your seat when he suddenly enveloped you in a drunken bear hug from behind you, nearly toppling the both of you over with his staggering balance.

You made a low noise of surprise before freezing in place, your hands held up awkwardly as Gaz hiccupped tears of laughter at the scene.

Soap had apologized profusely through the winces of his hangover the next morning, assured when you told him it wasn’t just him, it was touching. But when you were alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t help but recall how warm it felt, how he held you to him like you were something precious.

It wasn’t long after that night that the 141 had completed another operation, mingling conversation echoing throughout the hangar as they filed out of the jet. Your boots had just touched the concrete floor when you felt a Price’s gloved hand pat your shoulder twice, along with a gentle squeeze and a smile.

“Good work.”

Your rigid body made him retract, but you surprised him by laying your own hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks to the Captain..” You murmured with a nod.

What he took as a small gesture was an act that kept you up that night. It had always seemed like you would always hate touching in general; and you did, but it felt different when it was them.

Maybe it was because they never treated you like a child. Some thought your touch aversion was the result of something terrible, and wanted to talk to you like you were some kind of rescue. But on this team, in this job, they just didn’t care. And it felt good.

You and Ghost shared the same hesitance; he showed his love in different ways. Whether it be his humor, pulling you out of a tight situation in the field, or just staying up when neither of you could sleep because of the flashing images that played behind your eyes. So he was the one who surprised you the most.

The operation hadn’t been going well; there were more hidden explosives than they had prepared for, and the task force were clinging to the only truck that wasn’t shattered into a grotesque metal skeleton. The truck wasn’t meant to fit five bodies, and the uneven weight careened it into a small cluster of metal beams and half-walls that had collapsed from a singed building. The crash wasn’t overly harmful, Price hadn’t been going fast, but you were tossed into a pile of concrete rubble, disturbing a metal beam that fell on your upper arm, snapping the bone and pinning the limb underneath.

Your instinct to struggle only tore at the flesh and ligaments more, a white-hot clamp from your shoulder down. Your nerves spasmed and ricocheted, a fuzzy coating of needles trailing up from the smallest finger of your left hand.

You screamed in a way you likely never would again, your guttural cries of pain alerting Ghost. He knew what you sounded like when you were lacerated, or even shot; you would breathe through the groans, often treating it yourself despite his lecturing that would follow.

Now, there was no breath, no quiet murmurs of discomfort. There was only your screams. Not a high-pitched, piercing tone, but a cry, erupting from deep in your ribs, desperate and hollow.

Gaz was stuck as well, a chunk of concrete the size of a car toppled precariously near him and blocking any route of escape. Price and Soap ran to him while Ghost ran to you, an unspoken divvying of effort. Ghost knelt by you, his adrenaline momentarily halted by your grasping of his gloved hand.

“Please.. please help, please, please-"

You were sobbing from pain, but the beam was too heavy for Simon to lift on his own.

“You’re in shock, Sergeant. You need to keep breathing, you got that?” He spoke steadily, though his eyes darted from one part of your broken body to the next frantically.

“Hurts..”

You felt weak saying it. But that was all that was on your mind. The blinding, stabbing pain.

“I know..” Ghost seemed to murmur under his breath, as if the words escaped him involuntarily.

“Got him!” Soap’s voice rang clear as Price dragged Gaz free. Soap vaulted a pile of brick and cinder blocks, quickly assisting Ghost in lifting the beam off your broken arm. The absence of Ghost’s hand made your palm feel cold.

The pressure being released incited more pain. Your screams increased in severity before you were finally free, Soap discarding the beam roughly. You could see in his eyes he was out of his element. It was unlike you to scream or cry.

“We’ve got to set your arm, we’re too far from a hospital to leave it for later.” Ghost stated. You shook your head vehemently.

“No, no, no..”

“It’s alright, Sergeant..”

He sat behind you, holding your torso in his arms as your injured arm continued to swell.

“Look at the clouds. Don’t look at him.”

Soap had knelt beside you, preparing to set your joint. You obeyed, your eyes fixed on the hazy grey clouds that decorated the muted sky. The season being Autumn accompanied by the fact it was nearing sundown made the sky a gorgeous deep blue, stained with a grey overcoating.

“Just keep looking up..”

Soap set the joint in one fluid motion, and a choked cry escaped you, your flinching only held steady by the arms of a man you hardly even looked in the eye.

“Good.. good job..” Soap touched your knee gently, and any panic seemed to ebb, if only for a fleeting second. You could hear Price radioing for a medical evac through the pounding in your head. You would have slipped into the warm blanket of unconsciousness, had Ghost not been behind you. He had fully settled on the ground, at first to secure you, but now at will. For the first time in a long time, you felt arms around your middle and didn’t want to shrink away.

On the gurney, his gloved hand stayed on your shoulder.

In the helicopter, he held your body steady as the cabin shook during takeoff.

In the medical wing, his palm rested just at your ankle while you were treated.

Every so often, you glanced at his hand, the skeleton print of his gloves stained with grime and blood. And with the warmth of his palm, you figured the touch of someone else might not be as repulsive if it's someone like him.

[mactavishsgfandwife]

OH MY GOD IT'S FOUR AM AND I'M CRYING OVER YIUR SIMON WRITINGS OH MY HOD oh my god i love you so much

I LOVE YOU TOO ANCIENT ANON

please get some rest though (i’m writing this at 2am)

[spectrerie]

Someone send me prompts for Ghost or König x reader fics. I’m okay with anything really. There’s nothing (that I know of) that I’d be uncomfortable writing or receiving as an ask.

I’m particularly fond of:

• Yandere

• military/medic reader

• stalking

• fluff

• pining

• shy reader

• civilian reader

• I could fix him (lol no you can’t)

• toxic couple

• Dacryphilia

• pretty much any dark fic concept

[boxofthings]

Finally finished a prompt and wrote some GhostRoach (kinda) matching gear fluff :) 

I might also go back and do some of the other ideas anon listed

This turned out much longer than expected lmao and isn't as well fleshed out and polished like my two other fics so if there are typos I'm sorry lol (also might be a lil ooc since this was just mindless brainrot writing)

Read on AO3

---

A haphazard smack against his helmet briefly knocks him out of his crouched stance. He grunts softly as he repositions himself near the bushes. Ghost isn't surprised that a task force member got bored and decided to bother him. He's even less surprised when he turns around and comes face to face with Roach, eyes crinkled in a relaxed grin.

"What," he says, unimpressed. They're supposed to be on recon duty, but it's lasted far longer than he thinks is needed, and with the information they've gathered being as dry as it was, Ghost had figured the squad would've started loosening up by now. 

He should've figured Roach would be the first one to get antsy.

"Wanted to check up on you," Roach signs. He lowers himself so that he's at Ghost's level and slings his firearm over his shoulder. "Also, I'm bored." 

Ghost rolls his eyes. "So I see you've made the smart decision and sought me out to help cure your boredom?" He makes a show of raising his brow even though it won't be seen through the mask.

Roach nods, completely unbothered by his lieutenant's snark.

"Of all people..." Ghost mumbles under his breath, but his limbs feel just a little less heavy than they were a minute ago.

He doesn't follow Roach's example and keeps his gun at the ready, barrel pointed straight in front of him. At the same time, the sergeant starts getting himself comfortable (or as comfortable as one can be in a humidly damp forest) with his journal already out and pencil in hand.

Ghost doesn't bother reprimanding him. It'd felt so long ago that he'd nitpick at every minuscule shortcoming displayed by his subordinates. It'd only feel strange if he went back to that now, especially with Roach, who had definitely played a role in the aversion of that overtly rigid demeanour. 

And besides, he knows Roach to be startlingly swift when facing a sudden oncoming threat, and with the added security of Ghost still on alert, their chances of ambush were low.

When had he gotten so soft? 

He turns to the sergeant–the culprit responsible for that development. A rush of fond exasperation churns in his gut, but he doesn't speak, only watches, as he often does with Roach.

He looks down at the open journal page, a current sketch of the foliage around them, some jotted-down thoughts and a drawing of Ghost from earlier in the day.

It doesn't bother him, but he's always surprised to see Roach's sketches of him, even if it'd been established long ago that Roach, much like the captain, tends to draw everyone.

It just means something else when it's Ghost.

Ghost clears his throat, suddenly abashed, "You and MacTavish should have drawing competitions. Bet he'd enjoy that."

The sergeant looks up, then glances down at his page again, pointedly looking at the sketch of the lieutenant.

"We already had one," he responds. "He won." Roach dramatically hangs his head and clutches his heart in a mocking "woe is me" display. Ghost feels the corners of his lips lift.

"Ah," he starts, leaning over to give a quick pat on the shoulder. "Sorry to hear that. S'pose the captain does have a couple of years on ya." 

Roach shrugs lightheartedly, "My creations could definitely use some work." He returns to his previous activity while Ghost turns his gaze back to their targeted area.

He's starting to feel antsy himself, and he's long recognized the source of that familiar precipice. "I like 'em, though," he says, much more hesitant and softer than his tone before, probably hoping the latter won't hear.

Roach's eyes shift upwards and he takes a moment to observe Ghost, crinkled eyes boring deep into his skin, and he feels his body flaring warmer.

He leans forward and gives a quick peck to Ghost's covered cheek, patting the area lightheartedly before returning to his previous ministrations, all too quickly for Ghost to properly process and appreciate what had just happened.

Ghost manages a choked "Mhm" before he's back to steadying his gun in his grasp, albeit a little shakier this time.

They don't say anything else after that–Ghost suddenly hyper-focused on the tree to the left of his barrel, and Roach very obviously content with their current established dynamic.

The silence is, as always, comfortable between them, and it passes for another half an hour before Royce comms in that his area is clear and that there's nothing else to look for.

Ghost stands up, gathering the gear he'd set on the ground, and moves over to offer Roach a hand to hoist him up.

The other closes his journal and brushes off his gear. When he looks up at Ghost, he grins.

"What?" Ghost asks, sensing an aura of inscrutability.

Roach continues to smile as he shakes his head, already turning to trek down the path they came from. Ghost wordlessly follows him.

--

Once they've all settled into their respective rides, Ghost radios in with Soap one last time to confirm extraction before he signals Royce to start driving.

He's just started to relax when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the side-view mirror. 

There's nothing out of the ordinary. Just his masked face as usual, but when he glances slightly upwards to where his helmet sits, that's where he spots it.

A sticker. It's a flower and a soft baby pink, and Ghost stares at it, slightly incredulous as if it appeared out of thin air.

Except–he has a hunch on where it came from, and the earlier smack to his helmet comes back to rattle his brain in a wave of exasperation.

And, of course, Roach chose to ride with Meat in the other car. He'll deal with it later.

--

Seven hours later and they're finally back on base. Ghost is about ready to pass out in his quarters, but as soon as he steps into the common room, Meat approaches him, no doubt to pester Ghost into joining his evening bender.

Ghost is about to wave him off when Meat pauses and squints at him. "The hell is that?"

For a moment, Ghost doesn't understand what Meat's referring to and, by default, is prepared to say it's his face, but the other's gaze is lifted just a tad higher than where Ghost's ears would be, and he realizes. 

"It's just a sticker," he grumbles. He'd almost forgotten about it, "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

Meat only looks more confused. "Yeah, but-" his attention is ripped away by Roach, who makes his way over to the two. "Wow."

"What?" Roach asks.

The other makes a heatless scowl, "So you'll let Roachie here decorate your helmet but if we even suggest you add some personality and glamour to your gear, you just get all huffy?"

It's Ghost's turn to scowl. "I do not get huffy." And he immediately chides himself for sounding like a petulant child arguing with their sibling over who started what. Over a sticker.

"And the sergeant did it without my knowledge." He tries to add with more professionalism, but it doesn't help that Roach is standing next to him, grinning like an idiot.

The answer obviously doesn't satisfy Meat at all--only really exasperates him more. He shakes his head and gives a brief, knowing glance towards Roach, that Ghost heavily glares at, before he gives the lieutenant a light pat as he leaves. "Whatever. Looks cute, L.T."

Before he can respond, Roach is already pulling him away towards the direction of the mess hall.

Once they've sat down with a tray of food in front of them, Ghost takes the time to unbuckle his helmet, deliberately making eye contact with Roach.

"Well?" he says, side-eyeing his partner.

Roach glances down at the aforementioned sticker, then looks back up at Ghost and shrugs.

"Why not?" he signs. "You could add a little colour to your..." he gestures towards Ghost's person haphazardly.

Ghost sighs, placing down his helmet to the side and settling into his seat.

"You know you can take it off. It's all in good fun."

Ghost gives one last glance at the little sticker before digging into his food.

He'll keep it on for now, only because he'd rather focus his attention on his meal over something so ridiculous.

--

The next time they're off on a mission, it's rather quick. A cut-and-dry track and assimilate.

As Soap handles their acquired asset into the carrier, Ghost takes a quick moment to glance at the pop-up shops around them.

They've been deployed to a small village on the east coast of the U.S., where their target had hunkered up in. During their sweep of the area, he'd observed the various shop stands he'd passed by.

Now, as he studies the goods in front of him, his eye catches on a bright sheet in his peripheral. 

He buys it without a second thought. Keeping it tucked in his vest's breast pocket when he meets back up with the others.

--

It's a slow day. He's reading over mission debriefings in his shared office with the captain. 

He'd chosen to look over them during afternoon drills when he knew he wouldn't be disturbed.

With everyone outside sweating their asses off, he'd be granted a couple hours of free time.

He's fifteen minutes into his file readings when Roach walks straight through the door, shoulders slumped from fatigue and half his gear still strapped to his body.

Ghost immediately sits straighter, forgoing his attention on the papers strewn across his desk and taking in Roach's presence. He's back a day early from his latest deployment. One Ghost, unfortunately, wasn't assigned to join.

"Injuries?"

Roach huffs lightheartedly and shakes his head. "Just a few bruised ribs. All good."

He sits down beside Ghost with a heavy sigh and glances over his papers. "How have you been?"

Ghost relaxes as soon as the other situates the other chair, and his hand involuntarily creeps closer to Roach across the table.

Roach zeroes in on it and grasps it without question. 

Ghost swallows. "I've been fine. Slow day. How was the mission?"

The sergeant shrugs. "Nothing special, just a week of mostly sitting around."

Ghost nods, gripping Roach's hand just a little tighter.

Roach removes his helmet and places it on Ghost's desk, leaning closer towards him so their shoulders are touching.

"Mission debriefings?"

"Mm. Just going over a few before I give 'em to MacTavish."

Roach nods, leaning his head against Ghost's shoulder.

Ghost snorts, already knowing where this will go. "If you're tired, you should've headed to the barracks."

Roach makes no show of moving, only whispering a soft "Wanted to see you" that makes Ghost's chest feel funny.

Ghost decides to return to his papers, one hand still intertwined with his partner's, but refusing to let go.

Roach has already begun dozing off when Ghost brings the nearest paper closer to him.

Ghost only manages to get twenty minutes of productive reading in when his mind becomes preoccupied. He's read the same paragraph five times before he throws the paper down and rubs his eyes.

The warm weight on his side hasn't moved an inch, and Ghost feels a faint smile graze his lips when he glances down at Roach, dead to the world, on Ghost's shoulder.

When he turns back to his desk, something catches his eye from his peripheral. It's the small sheet of stickers he'd bought on that mission weeks ago, haphazardly sticking out from between two folders.

He'd forgotten about it, was already apprehensive about using them as soon as he'd arrived back with them in his pocket.

But when he turns to his left, Roach's helmet sits innocently within his reach, and his eyes dart between that and the stickers on his right.

He sighs, feeling a little like a small child scheming to steal an extra snack or two from the pantry.

He reaches forward, mindful of not jostling Roach too much, as he grabs the plastic sheet and slides it out of its clear sleeve.

Ghost gingerly peels a little blue flower off the sheet and delicately places it on the same area where Roach placed his on Ghost's helmet.

After smoothing it out for a few seconds, he debates placing another. Just because. But as he reaches over to grab at the sheet again, he freezes.

The soft breathing from his left had quieted substantially, and he slowly looks down to his shoulder to make eye contact with Roach's amused gaze.

"How long were you awake," he grumbles.

Roach lifts himself, extricating his hand from Ghost's and stretching. "Long enough to watch you lovingly decorate my helmet."

"I wasn't-It was just one."

He doesn't respond, only reaches out to grab his helmet and turns back to Ghost, expression almost triumphant.

Ghost can only look down at Roach's mouth and subconsciously leans closer.

It is then that the captain walks right through the door, papers in hand, approaching his own desk when he catches Ghost and Roach in the act.

The smile that breaks across Mactavish's face is almost comical. Ghost immediately wishes he'd just done this in his own quarters.

"That's real precious, lads," he snorts.

Ghost grimaces, prepared for the onslaught of teasing from his commanding officer.

Soap notices his discomfort and quickly reassures him. "Ah, don't be embarrassed, mate. Roach here used to decorate my helmet when he first joined the squad."

For a moment, Ghost feels an ugly bout of jealousy spark through his gut, which is ridiculous because they're just stickers.

Roach quickly pats Ghost's hand and waves off the captain.

"It was my first mission with him alone, and we got so bored we just did anything to pass the time." As if he sensed Ghost's envy.

"Yeah yeah," MacTavish responds. "No need to feel jealous, Ghost. You're still the special one."

Roach sits back down, turning his body to Ghost while intently making eye contact with Soap. "He also lost the helmet that very same mission."

Soap sneers with zero heat as he walks toward the exit. "Think of it as an unpredicted blessing. Now you can focus all that attention onto Ghost.

The door closes, and Ghost wordlessly turns to Roach.

The other's grin hasn't diminished a bit, and Ghost feels warm under all his layers.

Roach leans forward and encloses Ghost's face between his hands, calloused but gentle, and brings his lips to Ghost's in a tender kiss.

His mask is still on, but Ghost reciprocates regardless and cherishes the moment all the same. He closes his eyes and leans fully into Roach's body heat as the other moves one hand to the back of Ghost's neck to lock them in place.

When they separate, Roach takes a moment to caress Ghost's face before pulling back and standing up.

Ghost already misses the contact.

Roach is about to walk out of the office before he turns back, glancing at the helmet in his hands and giving Ghost one last survey.

"It does look cute, L.T."

Ghost only huffs.

[local-apollo-kid]

I need some writing prompts for more CoD drabbles 😭

Can someone send me some?

(You don't need to ofc)

[mikeisthricedeceased]

One Word Prompts

It’s been a while since I’ve asked for one word prompts, and I think it could be fun! I’m taking a break from a big story outline and need some distractions lol

Just send a word and the name of a character and I’ll see what I can come up with!

Characters I’ve been really thinking about lately are listed below (and I might be open to some others)

Keep in mind that anything that I end up interpreting as sexy/kinky while probably be written with the assumption that the canon character is submissive

Din Djarin

Paz Vizsla

Frank Castle

Matt Murdock

Frankie Morales

Joel Miller

Comandante Veracruz

Ezra (Prospect)

Marcus Moreno

Marcus Pike

Pero Tovar

Max Phillips

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Captain John Price

Adrian Chase - “Vigilante”

Moon Boys - Steven, Marc, Jake

[tamorisana]

Helloooooo! Feel free to ignore me but I was just wondering if you had any plans to continue your "After" fic. I just read it qnd its really good so I was interested to see if it would be a two parter

Again, feel free to completely ignore this, no offence will be taken!

OMG

I thought no one could ask me questions so thanks for that!

To answer your question: Yes, I am kind of busy with one of requests, it was sitting behind my soul for way to long, but after that I am planning on continuing to write «After». Rewrite it all and then add another part OR write both of them and post to AO3, actually. Make it more angsty and ya know tasty😋

But I am so happy you enjoyed!

PAUSE. HOW CAN THIS BE OFFENSIVE?? IT CAN BE OFFENSIVE????

[isthatafuckinggayangel]

This man had to be too brave for his own good, Ghost thought. That, or too stupid.

Simply walking up to a blood child, of all things, had to be the most reckless thing he’d seen anyone do in his very long lifetime. Being the son of a wraith meant he was always regarded as a thing to be feared. Your average person always seemed to sense death on him, even when he was actively hiding any trace of his power. Here though? Here, he didn’t hide anything. He let people feel it. Let people see the dark wisps that seemed to float directly off of his skin and into the surrounding air. It was good for intimidation, keeping people out of his space and keeping them aware of what he could do to them if they stepped out of line. He was a man who kept to the shadows, only emerging for basic necessities and to complete his work.

This particular situation was no different. He was in the midst of working a job with the newest FNG in the 141, just the two of them, when he’d had to actually ‘show out’.

They had gotten shitty intel and were ambushed. Had Ghost not been what he was, they would have died in seconds. But luckily for them, his abilities came in handy. He normally kept his so-called “blood-rage” tamped down, but this situation called for using it to his advantage at full capacity (he didn’t particularly like the term, but it was what was most common amongst the people he’d been around).

Those dark wisps fully materialized, surrounding him, pouring out of his mouth, nose, and seemingly his very pores only to solidify, sharpen, and shoot through every enemy Ghost could sense. It was a horrifying scene, one no human should ever have to witness. And yet, when the carnage was done, when all was silent except for the breathing of Ghost and his partner on this mission, he acted nonchalant about it.

As Ghost was preparing himself to have to call in a separate evac or safe house for himself so the other man could go back to base without panicking and running off, he heard the man sigh and start approaching him.

New.

Odd.

Soap, as they called him, walked toward him like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just looked like a creature out of people’s nightmares. Like he wasn’t something to fear.

“So, Lt, what’s the plan from here?”

Ghost stared at him like he’d grown a second head. There was no way he was just asking about the plan. Not after all of that.

“What? Did I do something?” Soap tilted his head in his confusion.

Cute.

NO, NOT CUTE, VERY NOT CUTE.

He kept a straight face beneath the mask. “Surprised you’re not running away screaming is all.”

Soap laughed, a grin remaining on his face as he spoke. “Ye act like I haven’t seen a wraith before. They’re more common in Scotland than people seem to give ‘em credit for. Nothing I’m nae used to.”

Ghost raised his brow from under the mask, but decided to let it go for another time. They had a mission to finish, after all.

A monster is used to people running, screaming, frozen in fear begging etc. But someone sighing cracking their neck, rolling up their sleeves, and walking towards them is new.

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.

he ghosts you after the first date. you thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime connection with unmatched banter and crackling physical tension. guess not. you lose a couple of nights of sleep over it and chalk it up to men ain’t shit and move on.

simon who can’t stop thinking about your date as he gets shipped out the next day. runs through an op quicker than ever, barking at soap more than usual, toeing the line of unprofessional. every day that passes is a day he can’t touch his personal phone, leaving your text thread abandoned.

you get a text a month later. “you around?” have to check the thread to remember who it was, finding yourself absolutely shocked, struggling to remember the hulking mass of a man who made you giggle so much over that one dinner.

simon shows up to your picnic date with apology flowers and a new leather jacket. explains why he was gone without prompting, a gruff monologue as you find yourself getting distracted by the new scratch on his eyebrow and the scruff on his face. unconsciously, your fingers brush it barely, wanting to make sure it was real.

simon stops mid-sentence, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. the shock of what you did hits you, profuse apologies spilling from your lips as you try to explain and tug your wrist back. he won’t let you though, keeping it in place, your soft skin against his worn calluses.

“‘s okay, love. jus’ ask next time. still jumpy from work.” you finally snatch your hand back, embarrassment warming your body as you nod your head in acknowledgment. he thinks about letting the awkwardness settle and take roots, adding a string of failed dates to his black book.

instead you make the choice for him, attention catching on a nearby curious toddler. you give the little bugger a wave with your biggest smile, sticking out your tongue to make the kid laugh. simon decides then and there that he’s going to keep you.

[bagofshinyrocks]

Government name vs Military callsign

Prompt: What scares them worse? Addressing them by their full government name, or addressing them by their military callsign?

Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Warnings: none

John Price

Government name.

Calling him Captain or Skipper just ends with him sauntering to where ever you are and ask (in an obnoxiously self-satisfied voice) what you wanted. Like a cat pretending it can’t hear the urgency in your tone when you say to get off the counter.

“If you want me to ‘shake a leg’, call my name, luvie.”

Now if you holler “Jonathan Price”, he’ll drop something. Either the newspaper in his hands, or his heart into his stomach. He sure as hell moves his ass with a purpose, and he’s peering into the room with an apology on his lips.

“Yes, luv? What’s wrong, poppet?”

“Lift the other end of the couch, would you?”

He does, and you shimmy it further back in the room. “Anything else I can do, love o’ my life?” He’s hovering, and gently coaxing you into his arms. Gauging how mad you were at him. You curled into him and kissed his chin. Then stepped away with a pat to his chest.

“No, sweetheart, just wanted you to shake a leg is all.”

When he remembers your previous conversation, he groans and tells you to fuck off.

Simon Riley

Military callsign.

When you two are alone, and he’s already given you permission to call him Simon, don’t call him Ghost. When you say that word, he assumes one of his mates are at the door or on the phone, and goes from Simon to Ghost. Stalks into the room with narrowed eyes, only to find you in the kitchen. By yourself.

“Ghost, you want a sandwich too? Turkey and cheese.”

“Fuck you callin’ me that for?” 

Once he sees you’re alone, he swoops in and wraps around you like a hoodie. A firm kiss to your ear, then your cheek, then spun you around. Back pressed to the counter top. Settles his face right close to yours.

“We playin’ games now?” You didn’t want to upset him, so you pressed a kiss to his nose. His grumpy look faded a bit.

“Sorry, baby.” Arms wrapped carefully around his shoulders. And your fingers scratch his scalp. Another kiss to his nose. “I’m sorry for playing games with you. Simon Riley.”

Hearing his name on your lips finally cracked, and he gave you a smile. A little scar on the upper lip. You gave it a kiss, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. 

A quick surge forward, and you only just had time to shove aside the things behind you before you found yourself on the countertop.

Kyle Garrick

Government name.

He doesn’t mind being called Gaz, and you’ll use Kyle and Gaz interchangeably. Doesn’t even mind if you use “Kyle” or “honey” in front of his squadmates. Though “Kylie” he does have some displeasure with.

“I’ll have you know, Soap is still calling me Kylie, you asshole.”

Call him ‘Garrick’, and he knows that you are pretending to be mad at him. He slinks over and rubs his face against your cheek. He’s too cute for you to stay mad.

If you shout “Kyle Garrick”, he comes running. He could have sworn that he put his clothes in the hamper. And did the dishes. And taken out the recycling. Damn, what was it that he forgot?

“Kyle Ga-”

“Yes, dear!” Shit, he didn’t mean to ‘yes, dear’ you. “Yes, my dear, I’m right here.”

You pause your laundry folding and summon him with a crook of your finger. Once he’s close enough, you tap your lip with the same finger. “I need a kiss.”

He blinked once. Then twice. “God damn you.” He squishes your face in his hands and gave you a quick, firm kiss. “Don’t stress me out like that. Thought you were mad.”

“Give me another kiss, or I will be.”

He rapid fire kissed your mouth, chin, and cheeks, then gave you a smack on the ass before returning to the living room. 

“In my own fucking home,” he muttered.

John MacTavish

Military callsign.

He’s got some thick skin. And he’s had his name shouted angrily many a time. He would all but skip into the room with a big smile on his face. The only people who shouted that name (and wore out the scare-factor on it) were his family members. Shouting “John MacTavish” meant you loved him. You were also mad at him, but you loved him. That was more important. Even with your scowl and the gross pile of garbage he kept forgetting to take out. You loved him.

Now shouting his callsign reminded him of his superior officers.

“SOAP!”

Shit shit shit. He put down his beer and ran from the garage to the backyard. Leg brace over his sweats, low cut muscle shirt that you also wolf-whistle at when he wears. You were only weeding the garden boxes.

“JOHNNY!”

“I’m here, bonnie,” he hollered, rounding the corner. You were sitting in the dirt, a tidy pile of weeds and dead plant bits next to you.

“C’mere, c’mere.”

He leaned down next to you, hand on your shoulder and good knee on the ground. “Wassit?”

You pointed to the leaf in your hand. “A caterpillar, Johnny. An itsy-bitsy caterpillar.”

He sighed heavily and kissed your shoulder. “Bonnie, I thought something was wrong.”

“Hm?” You spared him a glance. “What are you talking about, bubba?”

“You called me Soap.”

“Did I? Didn’t mean to spook you, loverboy.” You gave him an apologetic kiss on the lips. “Just wanted you to see the caterpillar before he wiggled off.”

Posted: 2023 Dec 10

[gloomwitchwrites]

You introduce your husband as your "boyfriend" to annoy them.

Anon! This prompt has me screaming! I really enjoyed writing for this one because it's such a fun idea. Sure, our 141 boys might be a little mad that they aren't being called by their proper title, but you know they'll just love punishing you for it.

I went a little different with this one. Instead of introductions, I made it so that reader is constantly referring to them as "boyfriend" in public settings. Depending on the situation, introductions wouldn't make sense if it was with friends, family, or coworkers because they would likely already know that they're "husband" and not "boyfriend." So i changed it up a bit in that way!

Some of these fall into spicy territory without being descriptive.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, non-descriptive mentions of sex, fade to black, brief dirty talk

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shakes his head and you roll your eyes.

“We can ask someone for help,” you suggest, scanning the massive wall of televisions.

Simon grunts and crosses his arms. “No.”

Sometimes Simon’s stubbornness is cute—even sexy—but right now you’re just annoyed with him. It makes you want to stir up trouble, to cause a little chaos just for the fun of it. Pouting, you turn, eyes narrowing to find an associate of the electronics store. When you spot one near the HDMI cables, you take off, not caring if Simon follows.

“Excuse me.”

The man’s head perks up. “How can I help you?”

You gesture behind you, your hand smacking into Simon’s chest. “My boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend?” growls Simon, but you ignore him.

“—can’t decide on a television.”

Simon is not your boyfriend. He’s your husband. But he’s being stubborn, not making a decision, and you want out of this store.

Shifting, you place one hand on Simon’s large bicep, grinning like you haven’t done anything at all. Simon’s hand immediately grabs your ass, squeezing hard. A warning. One that you ignore.

“I can help with that,” replies the associate. You glance at the man’s nametag. Jim.

“Thank you so much, Jim.” You lean against Simon, giving Jim your best smile. “Getting this guy to commit to anything is so hard sometimes, ya know?”

Jim makes a noncommittal noise as he walks toward the wall of televisions. You start to follow but Simon’s hold on your ass tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Simon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

You elbow Simon in the side but it’s not hard. He lets go, keeping close to you as the two of you follow Jim over to the televisions. Standing back, you watch with glee as Simon is forced to talk to Jim. You stay out of it, but notice Simon’s gaze switching to you every so often.

You already know what he’s thinking. He’ll likely want to punish you, and sometimes those punishments are so sweet.

Once Simon selects something and the two of you are at the car, there is no safety net. Simon shuts the trunk and then you’re pressed against the car, your body trapped between it and Simon’s massive form.

“Boyfriend?” he accuses.

You shrug. “What do you mean?”

The growl in Simon’s throat comes out a groan. “Get in the car.” He lightly slaps your ass as you open the passenger door.

As you start to slide in, Simon’s hand returns, this time slipping under your skirt to find your thin, lace underwear. He tugs sharply, ripping the fabric.

“Simon!”

He stuffs the underwear into his pocket. “You don’t need these.” You feel your face growing hot.

Simon shuts your car door and walks around the driver’s side, hopping in. He reaches out, placing one large hand on your bare thigh. It roams upward, squeezing, sending a shiver of lust up your body to make your head spin. “When we get home, I’m fucking that boyfriend nonsense right out of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what my boyfriend ordered.”

Kyle frowns and glances up from his phone’s screen. That’s your voice he hears, but the term of address isn’t right.

Boyfriend. Not husband, as it fucking should be.

Kyle glances in your direction but you’re not looking at him. You’re smiling sweetly at the barista behind the counter.

“It should be hot. Not iced. I might have messed up. I’m so sorry. I can pay for another.” You raise your hands in a placating gesture but the barista doesn’t appear fazed at all.

“No biggie. Keep that one. Won’t take me more than a minute or two.”

“Thank you so much.” You glance at Kyle, and your smirk tells him all he needs to know.

You’re being a tease. You’re doing this on purpose. The drink order is wrong, and you’re using this as an excuse to poke at him.

Kyle locks his phone and casually slides it into his pocket. Do you think you’re going to annoy him by doing this? Maybe. The little smirk on your face tells him that’s entirely what you have in mind.

But the joke is on you. Doesn’t matter if you refer to him as “boyfriend,” because all it’ll earn you is a punishment.

As the barista slides the new drink across the counter to you, you thank them profusely. “Thank you so much. My boyfriend will really appreciate it.”

The barista only nods and turns back to the espresso machine.

As you approach with the coffee, Kyle gentle removes the drink from your grasp.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head like you have no idea what he’s on about. “What?”

Kyle laughs and snags the other drink from your hand. With shock on your face, he strides up to the counter. “Can you set these aside for us? Be right back.”

They only nod and continue working. Kyle snags your wrist and drags you to the little hallway that curves out around. There are a few private corners in there, and the hallway itself opens up into the nearby bookstore.

Kyle checks the handle on the unisex bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he draws you inside.

“Kyle,” you hiss, but he’s not having any of it.

Kyle engages the lock and presses you up against the door.

“You owe me an apology,” he says.

“For what?” Kyle tuts, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, undoing his belt buckle with the other hand. “Apologize with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

John Price

John leans back in his chair, agitation irritating his spine.

House hunting isn’t something he’s particularly excited about. He is happy that it’s with you, his wife, but the tediousness of it all is exhausting to him. John would rather have you select a few places to tour and then be done with it all. Money isn’t the issue. He just wants you to find a place you like and the two of you can go from there.

He’d live in a tent if that’s what you want.

“My boyfriend isn’t all that picky.”

Boyfriend? John is tugged from his inner musings by your voice and that term of address. Boyfriend. Why the fuck would you call him that? John isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your goddamn husband.

You reach out, planting a hand on his thigh. You squeeze softly as you always do when you’re trying to reassure him, but John frowns down at it, and then looks up at you. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the realtor, completely ignoring him.

John licks his lips, considering whether to correct you or not, or leaving it up to a simple mistake, but you do it again.

This time, John didn’t mishear you.

Your hand squeezes his thigh again and Price rests his hand over yours. His fingers enclose your palm and he holds firm. You glance at him and John shoots you his best warning look. You don’t even react. Don’t event blink.

No. He’s going to correct you. He is absolutely fucking correcting you.

The realtor pivots the computer monitor. “I think any boyfriend would agree that these are excellent selections.”

That’s fucking it.

Price shoots up from his seat, keeping a tight grip on your hand. “I need to speak with my—” John pauses, swallowing down his annoyance. “Girlfriend. Privately.”

The realtor shrugs, smiling, but John is already turning around, dragging you out the door. Outside, the stuffy, summer air does nothing to soothe his annoyance.

“Boyfriend? Fucking boyfriend?” John crosses his arms over his chest, looming over you.

You shrug. “What’s the problem?”

“Behave yourself,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Or what?” you ask in mock innocence.

So, this is what you want. John understands the moment the words leave your mouth. You’re fucking teasing him. Fine. He’ll make you learn.

“We are gonna go back in, thank the kind woman for her time, and then we’re leaving.”

“No. I want to stay.”

John leans in but he notices the way you glance away from him and back, clearly flustered. “Good girls don’t play games.”

“Funny,” you reply, head tilting slightly. “That as my boyfriend you have any authority over me.”

John pivots, blocking the view of the front door from you. “I will bend you over that bench so fast, wife.”

“You won’t,” you stammer.

John arches an eyebrow and you visibly swallow. “Want to test me?”

You pout, and then playfully shove him in the chest. “You’re terrible.”

As you turn for the door, John grabs your waist pulling you close. “You started it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“My boyfriend and I are redesigning our bathroom.”

Johnny’s attention splits. The associate showing him floor tiles is a distant thing. He might be talking about the newest ones on the market, but Johnny is no longer interested.

Did he just hear you right? Did you just call him boyfriend?

“That’s wonderful,” comes a reply, and Johnny notes an older woman talking to you near the laminate flooring that mimics wood. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” you wave at him, a smug smile on your face.

Boyfriend? Johnny is your fucking husband.

“Sir?” prompts the hardware store associate. “What do you think of these?”

Johnny grunts. “Fine. We’ll come back.” He waves the man off and starts for you even as you continuously refer to him as your boyfriend.

You’re doing it on purpose. You’re doing it to annoy him.

And it’s fucking working.

Johnny saddles up beside you, snaking his arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him.

“This is the boyfriend,” you begin, smiling.

“Husband,” corrects Johnny, flashing the same devious grin. He holds up his left hand, showing off the simple gold band. “Happily married to this one.”

The older woman’s eyes round.

“She likes to joke,” continues Johnny. “Come on, love. Better get home.”

Johnny easily guides you away. He leans down, whispering. “You little terror.”

“Bite me,” you reply.

“Oh. I will. Everywhere. When we get home.”

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[ceilidho]

prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k) [based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]

-

They say not to feed wild animals. 

It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. It’s a known fact. You can’t go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench. 

You know this. So you really don’t know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbour’s doormat before turning in for the night. 

He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five o’clock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too. 

He never comes home before four o’clock at the earliest. That’s around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress you’d donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kids’ eyes and attention on you. 

You’ve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos. 

You’ve even passed by his current job site once or twice—some new condo complex going up by the canal that’s forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly don’t bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude. 

At least it would be something to talk about though.

It’s not like the two of you talk. You’re not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you haven’t had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, it’s all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest. 

It’s humiliating. You’re a grown woman and you’ve talked to plenty of men before. You’ve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesn’t change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that you’d need both hands to wrap around doesn’t make him any different than any other person.

And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after you’ve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.

It’s humiliating. It’s humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you. 

So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs. 

All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him. 

You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle. 

The problem starts when you don’t leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day. 

You didn’t consider that he might think you’d make it a habit. Perhaps that’s partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt. 

“Open the door,” Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. “Been starving here waiting for you to show up.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You’re at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though. 

Simon doesn’t move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but it’s inevitable. He doesn’t move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him. 

He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilege—not like he has no right being in your space, but you can’t imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday. 

When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, “Well?”

That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. There’s a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You don’t know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.

He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrow’s lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You don’t even get a word in edgewise. 

It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in. 

He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue. 

The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor. 

In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.

“Clean me up, pet,” he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean. 

He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when you’re angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly. 

The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which you’re happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation. 

That’s all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full night’s sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M. 

Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, “S'alright, pet…just need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, you’re okay,” and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple. 

The door slams shut on his way out. 

Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then you’re driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead. 

You’re home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while there’s still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do. 

It’s a wonder you haven’t come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him. 

He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest. 

When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, “Knickers off, love. Haven’t got my fill.”

He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. It’s prickly under your fingertips. 

Simon’s a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot. 

“Please, Simon,” you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It hurts.”

You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. “Greedy aren’t you, pet? Didn’t even say thank you for getting on my knees.”

“You didn’t make me come!”

His voice borders on mocking when he coos, “Poor little thing. It’s gonna be a lot longer ‘til she gets to come if you don’t say thank you.”

Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. It’s rubbish, is what it is. All this time and he’s never said thank you once for the countless meals you’ve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.

The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. It’s hungrier than anything you’ve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. It’s mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows you’ll feed it until it’s full. It knows you won’t let it go hungry anymore. 

So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, “Thank you,” and shiver when he grins. 

There’s a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.