#tornadothoughts

[oceantornadoo]

ch14 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: guns and violence. christmas is mentioned but nothing religious

last chapter yall! i did not edit this srry

masterlist

The day your life changes forever, again, is emotional for all the wrong reasons.

Two months after you get rescued (John insists that you rescued yourself, but you like to remember that image of him haloed by light at the top of the stairs like an angel), you send your brother and his husband back home to Manchester. The morning breeze whips the fabric of your coat as you squint at your family in front of you. Simon is dressed in his usual dark slacks and button down, the lines of his tattoos escaping the fabric to trail up his neck. Johnny’s mohawk has grown into a mullet, curly hairs framing his face like a cherub. They stand in front of the Castle doors with their backs to the waiting car, eyes trained on you and occasionally flicking to John or Gaz at your sides.

“I’m going to miss you.” You murmur, hugging Johnny first. He squeezes you until you’re lifted off the ground and pounding on his back to let you go. “Gonna miss ye too, hen.” He sets you on your feet laughing, then leans in to kiss your forehead. “Take care of y’rself.” He says it to you but his eyes meet John’s, a silent conversation happening between them. You turn to Simon, leaving Johnny to have intimidating handshakes with the men by you.

“Bye, Si.” He smothers you in a hug like he’s trying to merge you into him. “Bye, my love.” You sniffle into the crook of his neck, willing yourself not to cry. “You gonna visit more often?” You ask, voice weak with emotion. He nods tightly against you. “And it can’t just be because I got kidnapped. You need to come for fun.” He grumbles something nonsensical at that. Simon’s still sensitive over not finding Phil, a task that had eaten away at him all month. John finally called it after there was evidence Phil fled to Cuba. Simon squeezes you once more, freezing for a second when he feels the Glock tucked in your waistband. He sets you on your feet, his eyes searching yours as you try to tell him why. Satisfied that he found something, Simon nods resolutely. His eyes are wet but in a blink they’re dry, maintaining his tough-guy persona. You snort back a sob like a real woman, turning away as the men shake hands.

“Bye, guys!” You say one last time as they turn, hands almost brushing on their walk to the car. Johnny winks at you before dipping into the car while Simon turns his head upwards like he’s blinking back tears. The door shuts and they disappear in a cloud of exhaust. 

John’s arm wraps around your waist, tugging you into him. You go willingly, hiding your face in his neck as you fold into him. “You’ll see him for Christmas, sweetheart.” Only a few weeks away, but it feels like eons. John kisses the side of your head, squeezing you tight until you can breathe. “John, I just…” You don’t even know what you want to say, just that you already miss your family with a deep ache in your heart. His free hand finds purchase at the nape of your neck, tugging you closer into him. “I know, baby, I know.” The simple acknowledgement of your feelings calms your breathing into a normal rhythm until you can pull back with a small smile on your face.

“I think I’m going to take a walk. Clear my head.” He nods, his beard pulling at the sides. You notice new grey hairs at the sides, a worrying look. “I’ll come?” You shake your head no, then peck him on the lips. “I think I need to be alone, honey. You can have all the men watch me from every corner of the park, I promise.” John knocks his forehead into yours for a second before pulling back with a grim smile on his face. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He pecks your forehead and turns back inside. Gaz nods at you, then taps his ear and speaks something into his earpiece.

You venture across the street into the local park. It reminds you a bit of Central Park in the movies, full of natural structures rather than just a flat patch of grass. You let your feet guide you, taking deep breaths in the crisp winter air. A moment later, you realize this is the first time in a while you haven’t thought about your kidnapping. Your therapist’s breathing techniques make an appearance as you pat yourself on the back. 

Though the leaves are dead and the air is chilly, there’s still a lot of foliage in the park. Considerable bunches of bushes protect you from the wind as you walk in deeper. It’s calming to know that there’s guards watching you from somewhere you can’t see, a safety blanket to fall back on. As you turn left, you notice a tiny hill that rises into an overhang. Your feet weave a path towards it, settling your back to the rock wall and sliding down into a sitting position as you contemplate the last few months. 

Footsteps crunch on dead leaves as someone approaches from behind you. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’d really prefer to be alon-” You stop in the middle of your sentence when you register the man standing in front of you. He’s thinner from when you last saw him, cheeks gaunt and sallow. His hair looks thinner and though you know it’s not possible, he looks shorter. A dark cap blocks you from seeing his eyes, an unsettling realization creeping over you. 

“What, how, I thought you left the country?” Phil shakes his head, advancing near your spot. You scramble to sit up, wincing as your head knocks against the short overhang. You try to step out of its shadow but Phil steps forward again, preventing you from peeling out of the shadows. “Couldn’t leave you, sugar. Was jus’ waiting for your brother to leave.” You shiver at his insinuation. He seems…off. No longer the confident assistant or the wily interrogator. It’s like you are his mission now that Shepherd is gone.

“Why don’t we get out of this cold and grab a tea, Phil? I bet you’re shivering.” He’s not even wearing a coat, dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a cotton long sleeve. If you can just get out of the overhang so security can see you…

Phil shakes his head, fumbling for something at his side. Your dominant hand is still against the hard slab of rock, originally there to steady you as you stood up. “I’ve been watchin’ you. Waiting.” You nod, hand pressing against your pants as you fumble for the Glock tucked in your waistband. “Waiting for what?” You steady your voice so it doesn’t sound nervous. You smile sweetly at him, like you’re excited to be conversing with your kidnapper. Phil smiles back and you hold back your flinch. He’s missing two teeth, like they were pulled out at all the wrong angles. You shiver to think of how else Shepherd punished him.

“To talk to you, sugar. We could’ve had somethin’ great at the bookstore.” You swallow and nod, smiling tightly. Your hand finally finds the cold metal of the gun, fingers falling into a familiar grip at the handle. “I know, I’m sorry it went the way it did. I enjoyed our time there.” He nods sharply, eyes glittering with zeal. Shepherd must have knocked something loose in his brain, some part to turn him into this frenzied stalker. Phil looks at a loss for words so you stumble through a question.

“How were you watching me? Must’ve been pretty clever of you.” You give him a tooth grin, encouraging him to continue with a head nod. “Well, I-” You flick out your gun, hands sure as you aim it at him. “I need you to step backwards, Phil.” He refuses, shaking his head vehemently. “I can’t let you out there, sugar. My mission isn’t complete.” You walk forward with the gun and Phil doesn’t follow your lead, standing tall. “Move, Phil. Let’s talk this out in the park.” 

It happens in a flash.

Phil reaches for the gun and you fire. Years of lessons come back instantly, all those times you pushed yourself to learn self-defense techniques, even when Johnny pleaded exhaustion and Simon pleaded never-ending work. You squeeze the trigger again, shooting through his outstretched fingers. It’s like a release.

The gunshot garners the attention of your security team. Men and women swarm you instantly, securing the body and taking the weapon out of your grip. John is there a minute later, petting your face worriedly. Gaz is asking questions but all you can focus on is the maroon stain of blood drying on the dusty rocks and lifeless grass of the park. You squeeze the gun in your grip before realizing someone took it from you, your fingers only finding air.

“I did it.” Finally, your eyes focus on John’s, noting the concern woven into your skin. “You did.” His hands don’t stop moving, squeezing your face and sides like he can’t believe you’re in front of him. “Let’s get you home, sweetheart. Ok?” You nod once and he smiles like you’ve impressed him. “Ok.”

-

For Christmas, John only buys you one gift.

Well, not exactly.

John cannot bear the sight of his city anymore, so he convinces you to stay, temporarily, in the countryside after you shoot Phil. After you, his wife, killed her own enemy in a park. A fact he reminds himself of everyday, turning it around in his brain like a puzzle he can’t solve. He can’t protect you, plain and simple. There’s only one solution for that.

You beg him to do Christmas in the library in front of the fireplace, a festive tree tucked in the corner. It’s been just you and him since the shooting. He can’t bear losing your attention to any other person and you’re too skittish to be around more than one person at a time. Jumping at every footstep, staring at the corners of the old master bedroom in the estate like there are ghosts watching. Laswell’s wife agreed that an escape to a new location might be good for you since the Castle and its surrounding park hold too many terrifying memories. 

“I want you to open this one first, John.” There you are, haloed by firelight as you hand him a red and green present. You’re clothed in Christmas pajamas, a matching set you forced John to wear as well. He shakes his head no, sliding the envelope from where he was holding it behind his back. “You first, sweetheart.” You drop the present with a frown, snatching the envelope from his waiting hands.

You break the wax seal impatiently, tugging the set of papers out of their cage and setting them on the floor in front of you. Your eyes scan the papers quickly before frowning at him. “What are these?” John scans your face for any sense of a reaction, but it’s a smooth mask. “Read the top, baby.” You don’t look down at the papers, eyes trained on his face. “Let me rephrase. Why are you handing me divorce papers, John?” He sighs frustratedly.

“I can’t protect you. You said it, sweetheart. You’re trapped. I’m lettin’ you out. You never signed up for losin’ your life.” Instead of answering him, you slap your hands on the wooden floors and scramble into a standing position. “You’re an absolute ass, you know that?” You turn smartly and march into the bookshelves, John sharp on your heels. He thought this might happen, but he didn’t expect such an angry reaction. He thought you might be a little distraught but glad to go back to Manchester and put this shamble of a marriage behind you.

You’re muttering things under your breath as he chases you through the bookshelves. Right before the shelf ends, you whip around, flames in your eyes. “I haven’t hated you for months, but I think I do right now.” You bite out. John puts his hands up like you’re a wild animal needing to be calmed. “I thought you’d be glad. You were trapped.” You roll your eyes, nearing him quickly. “If I didn’t choose this marriage, you would know, John. I can clearly use a gun.” You haven’t talked about the shooting too much. John shut you away and waited for you to fall apart, but all you’ve done is…survive. John doesn’t respond, too thrown by your admission. Now you’re in his space, your chest meeting his own with every inhale. When he still doesn’t answer, you continue. “I love you, you absolute idiot. I did before I was kidnapped and I do now. You held me after I killed a man, John. Why would I divorce you?” John has no logical response. He drops to his knee.

“Marry me again. Just us, doin’ it ‘cause we can.” You blink, thrown by the change in events. “You just served me divorce papers.” You blurt. John smiles. “I didn’t sign them so even if you did, we’d be…” He gestures into open air, like he can’t articulate that he intended to trap you again. A terrible, terrible man. He can’t believe you love him.

“I hate you.” You say, smiling. “You love me.” You shake his head at your words. “That’s it?” You murmur, suddenly shy. That’s right, he almost forgot. “I love you too, sweetheart. Have since the weddin’, if we’re bein’ honest.” You bite your lip in surprise. John rises up and you pull him in, kissing him hard. “Tha’ a yes?” He murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Yes, Mr. Price. I’ll marry you again.”

-

GUYSSSS she's over!! she's done!! thank you for all the kind likes and comments and reposts and overall support it means the WORLDDDD. stay tuned for more price content <333

-

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[littlemissbeautybazaar]

Anyone knows this designer?

submitted by /u/tornadothought [link] [comments]

source https://www.reddit.com/r/jewelry/comments/hr1mi9/anyone_knows_this_designer/

[oceantornadoo]

Just thinkn here 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Simon is on his way back from the shops, and when he does get home reader is sat on the floor crying over a broken vase or somthing for absolutely no Reason!

so your ask reminded me of this post i saw! which is price x reader and lovely. because of that i’m going to spice it up a little so im not rewriting it lol. this is f!reader

unedited! simon is able to pick up reader but let's be real that man is built like a tank so yes he could pick up anyone.

stalking simon riley is not for the weak.

well, it’s not exactly stalking if he knows you’re doing it.

ghost doesn’t open up easily. you sensed it when you joined the team, having to translate his grunts and small quips over comms into real facts.

infiltrating an eastern european town, combating snow and christmas lights, just for simon to grunt "fuckin' hate this holiday" in your ear.

commenting on how he only wears a certain sweatshirt one base. he shrugged and said "doesn't have those strings", letting you know he hates the bounce of them against his chest.

you collect these bits like puzzle pieces, building the image that is simon riley. but it's never enough, it doesn't quell this ache in your chest to know your fellow lieutenant. so tonight, you've decided to knock on his door under the guise of checking in after a nasty hit he took from you last mission.

"hi, ghost." he opens the door a crack, scanning you up and down. you take in his medical mask and the remnants of eyeblack surrounding his eyes. it's a casual look on a man you've never seen be casual. "bird." he says, his nickname for you murmured like a secret. "i wanted to check on you after last mission. haven't really seen you around base." he opens the door further, a surprising change of events. you step in cautiously, checking your surroundings like some hostile is going to jump out of his closet. ghost chuckles gruffly at your actions and you relax at the sound, shoulders dropping easily. you toe off your boots silently, then move further in.

ghost plops down on his bed, patting the space beside him. you (and soap) are the only people he lets close to him, but even with that, you've never sat on his bed. "it was your shoulder, right?" he nods, tapping the shoulder closest to you. "nothin' torn to flutter over, bird. jus' sore." you roll your eyes, leaning back on the bed so you can see the back of him. the massive breadth of his shoulders almost blocks the fading sunlight from your vision. you prod at the sore muscle, noticing how he tenses before letting his shoulders fall back down.

"does this hurt?" you ask, almost a whisper. he grunts out a 'no' but lets you continue to poke it this way and that, finding where it hurts the most. the pain seems to be minimal, but ghost feels like the type of soldier to hide a gunshot wound until he fainted from blood loss. "you should go to PT." you press your palm into the meat of him and you can't even pretend it's for medical reasons when truly, you have a morbid curiosity to know the limits of his body. ghost hisses and you jolt back like you've been burned. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry!" he shakes his head, one heavy paw clamping down on your thigh as it kicks out in shock. "'s fine, birdie." when you move forward, his hand stays, anchoring you to the mattress. it's gloved but the heat of it is searing through your fatigues. "maybe you should grab an ice pack for tonight." he squeezes your thigh before returning his hand to his lap like it was never there. suddenly, your body is wracked with chills.

"back soon, then." ghost stands up from the bed, the mattress creaking with effort. he's...leaving? "so i'll see you in the morning?" you make to get up but he shoots you a look, locking you in place. "said i'll be back. you can stay." he moves to the dresser and you watch him peel his mask off, exchanging it for a simple baclava. you've seen his face before but take the time to examine the back of his head. his haircut is choppy, like he did it himself. the image is gone a second later when black fabric encases the rest of his head, hiding his face from view. he leaves with a head nod, favoring his other shoulder to open the door. the moment he leaves, your spring up in fervor.

you start with his desk. ignoring the paperwork and private journals, you look at the few items sprinkled throughout. extra masks, pens for work, a few books on military strategy. no photos of family or friends outside of the military, but one of the task force from a few months after you joined. it was the first time ghost had ever touched you on purpose, his hand around your waist as the five of you smiled at the camera. soap is grinning, gaz looks like he's seducing the person behind the photo, price's smile is hidden by his beard, and you're squealing like a kid while ghost squeezes your waist. his mask is on, of course, but you delude yourself into spotting smile lines around his eyes.

you move on to his windowsill. surprisingly, there's a very dead succulent that was clearly never watered after being gifted. next to it is a small vase, completely out of place with the rest of the barebones room. it only has enough space for a singular flower but sits empty next to the dead plant. you reach out to trace the beautiful blue pattern but with one unsure flick of your thumb, it falls to the ground with a small crash. you freeze.

shards of porcelain surround your socked feet. tears well in your eyes as you think about how disappointed ghost will be. your hands cover your mouth like a bad mime, shock etched clearly on your face. of course, that's when ghost decides to return.

"snagged the last cake slice from mess, figured you'd want- oh." he stands at the door entrance with an ice pack in one hand and a plate of cake in the other. the sweetness of it hits you in the gut and the tears that were already forming fall hard down your cheeks. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, simon. it was so fast and i didn't mean to wreck it." you sniffle out, wiping fiercely at the tears sliding down your face. he sets the cake slice down on the bed, then nears the scene of disaster. "can ya jump?" he asks, standing at the edge of the broken pieces with his arms open. you gulp, then nod. it's a small leap but he catches you easily, awkwardly pressing you to his chest as your legs scramble for purchase. his hands shift downwards and you get the memo, wrapping your arms around his neck as his own hike your legs around his waist. he walks the two of you over to the desk, plopping you down unceremoniously. your legs drop from his waist, but he still stands in between them, letting your feet brush his calves.

"you hurt?" you shake your head 'no', swiping at the remaining tears on your face. "i'm sorry again, simon, i really am." instead of answering, he pulls off his mask and tosses it on the table. he doesn't look mad, per say, but there's conflict in his eyes. you mumble out another apology and train your eyes on his legs instead of his face.

a gloved hand reaches out and tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. "was jus' a stupid vase, bird. nothin' special." you hiccup, unsure. "are you- are you sure? i'll pay you back, i promise." his thumb strokes the soft skin of your lips, a relaxing rhythm back and forth. "saw it in a flea market after my first mission." you frown at how sentimental it was. "that means it was special." he shakes his head. "got somethin' more special an' harder to break." you don't know how to reply to that. he presses down on your lip until his thumb meets your teeth. it's terribly intimate. instead of ending the conversation there, you ask a question, always needing to no more about him.

"like what?" you whisper. he grunts, thumb swiping against your teeth before pulling back to cup your cheek. "this bird who breaks my shit, 'pparently." you bark out a laugh, then stop when you realize he means it. "really?" he nods. you wrap your legs around the back of his, tugging him in closer. "i am really sorry, though. maybe we could buy a new one or-"

he cuts you off with a kiss. it's gentler than you thought he would kiss. there's a scar running through his lip and you love the feel of it, biting his bottom lip playfully as you pull him in closer. "such a magpie, goin' through my shit." he murmurs, breaking the kiss just to give you another one. "simon." you respond, whispering his name like a promise. your hands find purchase in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. he rips away with a low moan and you whine at the loss. "need to clean this up 'fore someone gets hurt." you lurch to slip off the desk but strong hands keep you there, his eyes scrunched in a glare. "one of us is wearin' shoes, birdie." you glance down and sure enough, your socks are already covered in porcelain flakes. skeleton hands tug them off, fingers caressing the delicate bones in your foot reverently before pulling away.

"stay here." you nod, feeling childish with your mistake. he can sense it, always does, so he leans in to peck your forehead. "stay put. no touchin', magpie." you grin. he shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "you don't mind cleaning up my mess?" you ask. he snorts, caressing your chin before pulling away.

"i'll always clean your messes, birdie."

[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.

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley with a very american girlfriend who gets very flustered at every british endearment he throws her way.

“yeah, love?” youre a puddle in his lap, even when you’re just telling him about your day. you tuck your chin and bite your lip to hide the embarrassment but he’s always too cognizant of you, tilting your chin up so he can see the look on your face. “like tha’?”

“here ya go, sweetheart.” all he’s really doing is feeding you a bit of pasta but you moan anyways, the sound going straight to his cock. your tongue peaks out to lick the sauce on your bottom lip, giving him doe eyes. “i like when you call me that.”

“alright, cheeky” he likes calling out your attitude, especially when you’re on your period. knows calling you cheeky will get you to stop talking back as your cheeks warm with a combination of embarrassment and arousal. you’re tucking your face in his neck to hide your feelings as he chuckles, pulling you in further, never letting you go.

shoutout to @peachetteprice who’s been teaching me british (LOL)😌

[oceantornadoo]

inspired by a dramoine fic i read! simon riley x f!reader

it’s the third time today someone has handed you simon’s paperwork and you’re starting to get confused. in fact, there’s the distinct feeling that you’ve missed a memo.

first, it was the visiting captain, so you couldn’t blame him for confusing lieutenants. but then it was johnny turning in his mission report, muttering something about “cannae be late this time if ah give it ye, lass.” which was odd, considering you weren’t his direct report (you were gaz’s). but what really sent you over the edge was getting called into price’s office and being met with a load of folders addressed to one Lt. Ghost (Confidential).

“sir, i’m a bit confused as to why you can’t just give these to him yourself.” price looked up from his desk, eyes flickering from under his boonie hat. “hav’ you seen ‘im today, lieutenant?” you nodded immediately while trying to scoop all of this paperwork (that was not yours!) into your arms. “yessir, i saw him before breakfast and then during training and then…what?” price had silently quirked an eyebrow, his beard echoing the movement. “i haven’t seen ‘im all day, so i figure it’s faster for you to deliver since you’re more well-versed in his movements than i am.” huh. “i’m sure he’s just doing his ghost thing, y’know? slipping into shadows and…”, price patiently gave you an exasperated look, “but i’ll get these to him, sir. see you later!”

the problem was, you knew exactly where simon was. in your office.

his own had an unfortunate ground level window near the track, so he was always complaining about nosy recruits until you offered to share some office space. temporarily, of course. it’s not like you were using all the empty space anyways and it made it much easier to get the opinion of your fellow lieutenant on a report by walking over to his desk, rather than going up and down stairs. that was the second point he made, and who were you to say no?

after pushing open your office door, you beelined for simon’s desk, dumping the stacks of folders on his desk. “wot’s this?” his mask was off so you could see his eyes widen at the mess of papers. “everyone now thinks i’m a drop off box for your paperwork, so i got burdened with all of this when i was doing my rounds.” he nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of his tea. “cheers, love.”

“what do you mean, cheers? don’t you think it’s odd for them to give me your paperwork? and why do we even have so much paperwork? i swear im drowning in it this week.” he snorted at your last sentence, opening the first folder in front of him while you rounded your desk, sitting in your comfy chair with a hmpf. “yer out an’ about more than me, tha’s all.” well, that was true. the infamous ghost was not known to be a sociable person on base. “i guess…” you turned to your old radio, passed down by a retired captain, and turned on simon’s favorite classical station.

“ya want mess or the pub tonight, love?” another great thing about being on base with simon - you never had to pay for dinner. “actually, that thai place we like is doing a special tonight.” he gave you a half-smirk, one cheek ticking up. “bloody raccoon. we had thai two nights ago.” you didn’t respond, instead blinking your best impression of puppy dog eyes at him. simon sighed, then shook his head at his desk. “olrigh’. the things i do.” you smiled and winked, dipping your head back down to your desk. “thanks, si.”

-

two weeks later, you were prepping for a duo mission with simon. price had been grilling the two of you for the past three hours, making sure you had everything memorized. satisfied, he leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his temples, the feeling of a headache coming on. “one more thing.” both of you snapped your head up at price, desperate to leave and eat. you’d already missed dinner and your stomach was complaining.

“the safe house is pretty small, basically a shack. one bed, no couch. i assumed ‘s fine since y’r datin-“ “‘s fine, captain.” simon cut him off, an out of character move that had you frowning. “it’s fine, cap. not like ive never slept on a floor before.” now price was frowning at what you said. he turned to simon, who shook his head imperceptibly before becoming still again. price’s brow furrowed but he didn’t push further. he got up from his chair, eyes flitting suspiciously between you two. “i’ll see you at 0600.”

“what was that about?” you whispered to simon after as you walked down the hall. “‘s nothin’.” you were missing something but it was so unclear what. “he thinks that we’re datin-“ “said it’s nothin’, sweetheart. he’s an old man. let’s get some food in you, yeah?” you nodded, letting him guide you to the kitchen. price wasn’t that old. and you were not dating simon riley.

-

the mission was beautiful, your best one in years. it was the first duo mission between you and simon, so the nerves of pulling your own weight had settled in hard. thankfully, your skills balanced each other out and you’d gotten the target in record time. now, all you had to do was wait in the safe house for exfil.

“you were so good.” you whispered once he’d locked the door. he only hummed a response, checking exit and entry points while you set up your packs, scrounging up MREs and testing the shack for electricity. price wasn’t kidding - it was practically a studio apartment. one bed, a bathroom and a decrepit stove. the soldier part of you was fine with it, but that small soft part of you ached for the warmth of your apartment. memories of yelling at simon for using all your shampoo even though he didn’t live there, of him running you a bath after a long day of training.

“you were good too, baby.” he snuck up from behind your spot on the floor and lifted you onto the mattress that had definitely seen better days. you hadn’t even checked it for bed bugs yet. “c’mere.” he pulled you into his lap, unbuckling your tac vest as you pulled off your bandana. you tugged off his mask - the hard shell since you were on a mission - and ran your nails through his short haircut. simon started kissing your neck, wet and sloppy like he couldn’t get enough. the unrestrained want he displayed sometimes scared you. the respective pulsing in both your chest and cunt scared you more.

“so are you sleeping on the floor or am i?” he flipped you over, your back flush with the mattress as simon loomed over you. there was still eyeblack around his eyes, caught on his blonde eyelashes as well, and you couldn’t help the hand that reached up to brush some of it away. “y’r funny, sweetheart.” you grinned at that - a real toothy smile. he bent down to kiss you, scarred lips caressing your own. simon bit your lip and you moaned, sliding your legs out from under him to wrap them around his torso. when you tugged him in he went willingly, grinding into your clothed cunt. his tac vest was still on, scraping against your shirt, hardening your nipples.

“keepin’ you in this bed all night.” cold fingers dipped past the waist of your pants. you were already wet, his fingers sliding easily up and down your slit as they warmed up. that’s when you realized he still had his glove on, his movements harsher than normal. wide eyes met his own, and simon stopped so you could make a decision.

it didn’t take much as you dug your heels into his back harder, meeting him in a sloppy kiss as his gloved thumb played with your clit. “fuckin’ made for me.” he whispered, and you chalked it up to dirty talk because obviously, you weren’t together. he just knew exactly what to do, giving your clit the right amount of pressure as his other fingers teased your hole, the stretch burning more than usual. it only took a few flicks and you were off, your orgasm settling through your bones like a warm cup of tea. “jesus, si.” he grinned, his scarred lips pulling up to show a beautiful smile. “know ya like th’ back of my hand, huh?” you shook your head, capturing the idiot in another kiss.

-

after the mission, after debrief and a hot shower, you made your way back to your base office. thankfully, paperwork had only slightly piled up. one envelope stood out though - a thick card-stock with glossy, swooping letters. an invite to london’s military gala, addressed to a Lieutenant & Lieutenant. simon’s name was next to yours, connected by a singular symbol. you turned to him in disbelief. simon had been going through his own backlog, but his head snapped up under the focus of your glare.

“simon, are we…dating?”

-

this was fun!!! check out the fic i linked it was so good and i couldn’t put it down.

[oceantornadoo]

this is nasty because i’m insane

bank robber simon riley known as the ghost because of how quietly he slips in and out of vaults. always minimal injuries to innocents with big paydays. he works alone or with a crew called the 141, and he’s never been caught. doesn’t matter how many cameras, guards, door locks or silent alarms, he always gets away. with the amount he’s stolen, people speculate he could be living like a king for generations.

he can’t, unfortunately, because he has a bird who loves shiny things. his little magpie squeals at every new necklace, shiny bracelet, diamond ring. she fucks him better when it’s a rare piece, letting him do whatever he wants, whichever hole in whatever order. doesn’t matter if he’s the one robbing, one look into those pleading eyes and he’s on his knees.

so no, ghost the bank robber cannot retire, because he has a magpie at home who won’t stop until every bank is empty.

[oceantornadoo]

mean!simon riley who’s not someone you’d introduce to your family. he’s a bit cruel, likes to see the bird under him crying or near it, scratching his back. he’s not used to watching his tone or putting in effort, simply doesn’t want to. for some odd reason, though, he wants to with you.

first time he fingers you, he’s a bit too rough, doesn’t understand your body yet. “hurts, simon,” and while usually, he’d fingerfuck someone past the pain, he doesn’t like the tears swelling in your eyes. “i’m sorry, baby.” he kisses your forehead sweetly, pulling back his efforts until you’re sopping wet, welcoming him eagerly. funny how it’s better for the both of you when he takes his time.

he’s half an hour late to a dinner date. took longer to wrap things up on base, and usually he’d cancel the date in favor of his right hand or a try at a pub, but he wants to see you, specifically. simon doesn’t stop to question the why behind it, the way he’s rubbing at a space behind his chest.

when he gets to the restaurant, he catches you leaving, wiping at what suspiciously look like tears. “love.” he calls it out gruffly from far away, noting how your head pops up with hope. “you’re late.” he nods, walking closer until he’s in your orbit. “‘m sorry. forgot to text.” you shake your head, looking back at the restaurant. “the waiter had the most pitying look, si. like i’m just one of those people who gets stood up.” he shushes you, tucking you into him. he’s not used to these soft moments and tries to emulate what he’s seen on a screen. “let’s get some takeaway and eat at mine, yeah? let me make it up to you.” there’s a suspicious weight in his chest that lessens when you give him a small smile. simon decides not to question it. too much mental trouble.

-

more bad date simon at the bottom of this

[oceantornadoo]

when you first start talking to simon riley, you want to check yourself into an insane asylum.

you like to think you’re cool, you’re chill, you’re nonchalant. but he takes eight hours to text back, sending you a “come over.” text at 7pm like he hadn’t just ignored you the whole day. you complain to your friends, of course, which is a terrible move when they tell you to drop him and if he wanted to, he would! and you think he does (want to), he’s just so insanely nonchalant about it. so the next time he comes over, chinese takeout in hand after not texting you back since 8am, you go a little crazy…

you open the door for him, stepping back awkwardly when he tries to peck your forehead. he practically shrugs it off, toeing off his boots before setting the food down on your table. “got tha’ dish ya like.” you nod, forgetting his back is to you. simon unpacks the boxes with precision from the bag, not stopping until it’s all laid out on the table. you’ve been quiet for a while, unusual since you’re the talker of the bunch, and that creeping feeling that’s been sliding up his skin finally sets its hooks in him. he turns around curiously, brows furrowing at the sight of you still standing by the door, biting your lip with a timid look and wet eyes. “love?”

you shake your head with a watery smile. “can we talk?” simon follows you as you walk to your couch, feeling like he’s been dropped into an op with no details. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, just that you’re hurting and he seems to be the cause of it. “i just…don’t get it. how you’re acting so normal.” you’re twisting your hands together. “somethin’ happen, love? got me confused.” you give him that small, weak smile again and it’s like you’ve stabbed him in the heart. “you- you barely talk to me all day and then you just come over here like it’s nothing. it’s just so hot and cold and i’m wrecking myself over it when it’s so clear you don’t care. i’m just so confused, si.”

simon runs through his memories. he texted you good morning, you texted it back, then he went about his duties for the day until he was finally free to ask about dinner. hadn’t even picked up his phone in the meantime, security risks or just plain busyness being the cause. “‘ve been busy, sweetheart. ‘s why i asked t’ come over when i was done.” you shake your head, biting your lip. “it’s the modern day, simon. everyone’s on their phones. i don’t think you’re as into this as me, and that’s fine, but i just want to know!”

now simon’s the one shaking his head, pulling out his phone. he might not be tech savvy but he does know this move from johnny, the fucker constantly complaining about his screen time. he pulls up the screen time tracker and turns it to you. “not everyone.” you’re a bit shocked to be honest. his screen time is ten minutes for the entire day. a few in the morning when he texted you and nothing until nighttime, when he texted you again. you’ve never seen anything like it.

“‘m not a big texter an’ we don’t use personal phones for work, so it’s jus’ a brick i leave at home or lug around. ‘s nothin’ on you. been thinkin’ about you all day, to be honest.” your mouth is open, honestly. any other man would have never shown you their minute-by-minute screen time, would have begged off the “busy” excuse while having been on social media for four hours. simon, by all standards, is genuinely different.

“so, you do like me?” he nods stiffly, gloved hands reaching for you. you slide into his lap easily, tucking your face into his neck to hide your heated cheeks. you’d even shed a few tears over this, how embarrassing. “‘course i like you, sweetheart. an’ im sorry if it didn’t feel like it. let’s have it out, yeah?” you nod into his skin and he takes a deep breath, pulling you closer to his heart.

from that day on, you compromise with phone calls. when he’s got a few minutes and you’ve hit a lull at work, he’ll call you. it’s better than any text in the world - hearing his gruff voice asking questions about your messy coworkers or dinner plans. not so nonchalant as you thought.

-

i wish this was from personal experience but unfortunately for me, it’s closer to the men not responding for days but having a screen time of six hours.

[oceantornadoo]

“who are you?” you asked the dark figure on your doorstep, his hat shielding his face from your lanterns. “your husband.”

you almost slammed the door in his face, opting instead to grip your rifle tighter. “no, you’re not.” he tilted his head down like he was talking to a small child. “yes i am.” you shook your head vigorously. “my husband’s s’pposed to be johnny.” the stranger swallowed hard. “johnny’s dead. i’m y’r next best thing, sweetheart. now let me in ‘fore the neighbors start callin’ the sheriff.”

or a western au where johnny was your arranged husband until he died and ghost took his place.

(more coming soon???)

PART TWO

[oceantornadoo]

my FAVORITE johnny trope is touchy best friend!johnny. he tugs you into his lap while he’s working, one hand on your stomach pudge while the other does paperwork. sits his chin on the crux of your shoulder, scruff nuzzling your jaw as he softly reads out what he’s working on. no one really knows why or how it started; why it’s johnny instead of anyone else. two sergeants, two twin flames, never one without the other but somehow have yet to cross the line to anything more.

“jus’ platonic, bonnie” as you share a bed in a safe house, something about giving the captain more space (there was definitely a free comfy couch, not that it matters). his leg swung over yours, one hand that started on your stomach ending up on your tit, the other curving around your pillow. you’re so used to waking up to his morning wood, grinding against him in your sleep. sometimes he’ll hear you getting off next to him while he feigns sleep, fingers making a mess between your thighs. you’ll wake and hear him in the shower, the skin on skin slap of him jacking off. lines so blurry that you’ll use the bathroom anyways, brushing your teeth or using the toilet while he showers. he practically encourages it, tells you your routine comforts him. he’s your protector, always has your back, always listens to your whining. you both stop mentioning hookups and thirsty ex’s, quenching the need for intimacy with each other.

there’s definitely bets flying around the task force about when you’ll get together, but the lines have always been blurry so unless they genuinely see you fucking, they’ll never really know. you could show up one day with matching rings and it would be shrugged off.

inevitable.

don’t even get me started on when you’re both drunk.

[oceantornadoo]

protective ex-husband!simon, implied violence/break-in

“i know! and that’s when i told her-“ you paused, your hand halfway to the keys at the bottom of your purse. your apartment door was open, a menacing sliver of darkness awaiting you. “hey, i’m going to have to call you back.” you ended the call with your friend, slowly backing away from your door. shit. you knew you locked the door when you left for work, and no one else had a copy of your key. a creeping sensation came over you, like someone was watching from within. slowly, you retreated, taking the elevator down to your apartment’s lobby as the anxiety crawled through your body. you wracked your brain, wondering if you should call the police. wondering if they would even believe you. there was only one call to make.

“come on, pick up.” you tapped your foot impatiently as your ex husband took forever to answer the phone. it was all you could do to not think about your home being violated, about a potential stalker or date gone wrong.

“‘ello?”

“si- simon, it’s me.”

“i know, lovie. that’s why i picked up.” you let out a quiet sob of relief at his voice, the bottle on your emotions starting to leak.

“what’s wrong?” his voice changed, immediately hearing your silent tears. he could always read you too well. “i don’t want to bother you but” you hiccupped. shit. “but my apartment door was open and i’m pretty sure i closed it, i usually do. i don’t know if im being silly but now im in the lobby and im just scared, simon.” there was a fumbling sound, the echoes of simon zipping up his jacket and pulling on his shoes.

“go to that cafe across the street, dove. go get yourself one of those overpriced hot chocolates. i’ll be there in 15.”

9 minutes later, your shaking hands were tapping random patterns on the cafe table, unable to raise your drink to your mouth without spilling it. your eyes were locked onto the wood grain, counting lines to distract yourself.

suddenly, a gloved hand covered yours. you looked up and there he was, your ghost in all his glory. you forgot everything for a second, forgot the past arguments and the strained silences, and flung yourself into his arms. you breathed in his comforting scent of pinewood that masked his cigarettes, a cologne you got him four years ago for christmas. your face was wet, and as he pulled you back to check you for injuries, his thumb brushed a stray tear away from your face. you didn’t even realize you were crying.

“‘s okay, baby. i’m here now. give me your keys.” you fumbled for your keys, purse strap sliding off your shoulder as your hands shook too much to keep it balanced. simon caught it gracefully, finding your keys in the same pocket you always kept them. “stay here. i’ll be back.” you nodded instinctively. only when you saw his figure retreat to your apartment building, clothed in all black like a figure of death, you realized you hadn’t told him your new apartment number.

twenty minutes passed. simon’s presence had worked like medicine as your heart rate has now dropped back down to normal, your hands stable enough to finish your drink. any other person would be worried for simon’s safety, but you knew the only person you should be concerned for was your intruder.

“you’re stayin’ with me tonight.” he was back, looking exactly the same. he wasn’t even winded. “thank you simon, but don’t be ridiculous. i can get a hotel. you live so far from my work anyways.” he approached you, crowding into your space as he leaned over you, even with a cafe table in between. “consider it payment then.” he tilted your chin up with his left hand as he hid his other one, covered with blood, in his pocket. “one way or another, you’re in my bed tonight, dove.” you gulped at that. “and i’ve got riley in the car. you wouldn’t abandon him, would you?” of course he had gotten your cat when he checked out your apartment. riley hated men, but never simon. cheeky bastard.

“you win.”

fast forward a couple of hours and you were getting ready for bed at simon’s, belly full from the meal he had made you. riley made himself at home on the living room couch, of course. “he’s in my spot.” you gestured to your cat on the couch. “wha’ d’ya mean?” your husband simon was now in sweats and sweats only, clean from the shower he had after you both got home back to his place. you pretended not to see him methodically wash blood out of his fingernails, reasoning quite easily with yourself that it was for a good cause.

“my couch for tonight.” simon moved toward you and you avoided his eyes, trying not to stare at how beautiful he still was. muscular but thick, torso adorned with scars you used to trace on sunday mornings when you both stayed in bed until the afternoon. he gripped your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. “told’ya you were in my bed tonight, dovie.” you swallowed and he watched your throat move, memories of you swallowing something else countless times rising to the surface.

“don’t be silly, simon. that would cross a line.”

“what line?” his arms were crossed now, drawing your attention to an unfamiliar tattoo right above his heart. a small dove.

“we’re not together anymore, simon.”

“you’re still my wife.”

silence. he was always like this, pushing you until you broke. he was unwilling to compromise, even on the smallest of issues. usually you’d fight him, spit fire until you lost your voice. tonight though, you were reminded of how he was the only person you were able to call, the only one committing dark sins without asking, all for your safety. instead, you threw your hands up and walked into his bedroom, mechanically stripping as you put on one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. you felt his eyes on you, burning a hole through the fabric. you were tired, so tired of this push and pull.

“what.” you whipped around, all venom. his eyes were impossibly soft, holding yours with a peaceful caress. “you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you.” your fire went out at that. “you’re just trying to get me naked.” you mumbled, looking down as you fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. you watched as his body came into view, pressing your forehead against his bare skin.

“could see you in a thousand layers and you’d still be the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen, dove.” ever so slowly, your hands crept up his body to grab his shoulders and neck. he picked you up with ease, turning the lights off and tucking you both in bed. “when did you get the tattoo?” you asked in the dark.

“3 months and 12 days ago.” what would have been your 3rd year of marriage, your anniversary. you lowered your head and gave him a kiss right where the tattoo was. “can we talk about it in the morning?” you snuggled into him, that familiar scent calming you once again. “always, dove.” he kissed your forehead, smiling in the dark.

----

idk why im obsessed with the break-in and simon to the rescue trope but its fueling me lately

[oceantornadoo]

part one

it had been a year since johnny died, but simon still heard him everywhere. incessant talking in the early mornings while he watered the horses and shook the slumber out of his head. low curses when the weather turned unexpectedly, delaying simon’s journey to his new wife yet again. and of course, johnny’s voice was right there as simon tongue fucked the woman that should have been johnny’s wife.

you had been easy to corral, all jitters and doe eyes like a newborn calf. the rifle had been easy to grab out of your hands, the door easy to push through. he’d muttered about johnny dying a year ago, about his will leaving all his property to simon, including you. you were trying to push against simon’s shoulders, all “if you don’t step back, i’ll scream,” and “i’m not johnny’s property to give away, mister!” simon shushed you with a hand over your mouth, lifting you up onto the kitchen table, nearly knocking off the dough you’d left out to rise.

“his wife, my property, sweetheart. up y’ go.” he’d rucked up your night shift to your thighs, the leather of his belt cold to your sensitive skin. “don’t mess up that dough or i’ll have your head.” he grunted, one hand leaving your hip to move the bowl out of your way. “now why aren’t you a flighty virgin, hm? not nearly scared ‘nough of a stranger in your house.” his hands encircled your waist, tracing the curves of your body, memorizing it.

“aren’t you s’pposed to be my husband, not a stranger?” sharp lass, l.t. she’ll keep you on your toes. johnny was there, sitting on a kitchen stool, a glass of whiskey in his hand. simon tried to keep his hands steady and ignore him, rolling up your shift to your pretty pussy. he heard johnny groan and matched it with a growl of his own. “shut up.” you gasped, smacking the side of his head. “i didn’t say anythin’!” he kissed your cunt once, twice, thrice as an apology. “not you, baby. let me keep goin’.” you huffed, crossing your arms so he couldn’t see your pointed nipples. “if you want to be my husband, you gotta do better than that.” and simon swore he would.

PART THREE

western au appetizer bc i’m too hormonal to write smut rn.

tag list!

@chickennn-soupp

@vmaxis

@samanthamarkle92

@scottpilgrimvsmyfists

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[oceantornadoo]

tw: evil ex wife stereotypes it’s for the plot trust

sorry this is unedited

captain price, divorcee and extreme dilf.

after a soul crushing mission, the safe house is silent as the team waits for morning exfil. you go outside for a breath of fresh air and find your captain, smoking a cigar and looking at a polaroid photo. “hey, cap.” he sends you a nod, then focuses back to the picture in his hand. you let him have this privacy, closing your eyes and breathing slow.

"smoke?" you open your eyes to his hand in front of you, offering a cigar. funny, how soap's been trying to nab one of cap's cigars for months and here he is, offering it to you. you take it silently, reminding yourself how to use it as you exhale slow. a minor cough eeks out, sending you both chuckling. he takes it back and switches hands, his photograph now on the side you share. his show of trust instills you with enough confidence to ask: "is that them?" two dark-haired little girls smile at you through the photograph, cheesy grins cloaking you with warmth. he hums affirmatively, callused thumb stroking the photo. "forced me t' buy a polaroid so they could model their new dresses." you bet he bought them that camera with a smile on his face. the wedding band tanline on his hand, stark when you met him two years ago, has faded completely like it was never there. "they've got you wrapped around their fingers." he nods, tucking the photo back in his vest to focus on his cigar. you both watch the smoke curl into the midnight air.

"open." you do obidiently, both pairs of eyes zeroed in on how close his hands are to your mouth. they brush your lips (not necessary if he'd adjusted his grip), staying there for a few seconds while you inhale and retreating when you exhale. something grows there, in the space between his body and yours. only once the smoke dissipates do you decide to get some sleep. "goodnight, cap." you back away towards the door, eyes on his. "goodnight, lieutenant." his eyes drop in alarm and that's when you see the red light of a sniper gun on your torso. everything goes to shit after that.

-

your hospital stay comes in flashes. your captain, haggard yet handsome, in that uncomfortable-looking chair next to your bed. a blink and there's two angels instead, bickering at the height of the hospital bed. "daddy said not to wake her!" the taller one argues. the younger one shakes her head, an echo of her father, and pets your limp hand. "daddy also said she has a boo-boo and t' kiss it better!" she kisses your hand with a restrained gentleness you wouldn't expect from a little kid. they keeping arguing, anchoring you to the land of the living for a few minutes. "alrigh' rascals, lets let her sleep. what do we say?" they turn to you with toothy smiles, like the picture, and whisper-yell "feel better!" before getting scooped up by their father.

later, time slipping through your fingers like sand, the doctor explains what happened in practiced words. shot to the torso, passed out because of shock and blood loss. simon haunts the space behind her like the ghost he is and you have to laugh at the gall of your fellow lieutenant. once you hear "a month of recovery," you give in to the weight of your eyelids.

-

a month later.

you knock at his door, then let yourself in. it’s something he lets you get away with, no one else.

price is grumbling into his phone and while usually you wouldn’t care, it seems oddly personal. you try to inch back out, but his sharp blue eyes catch yours before you can. “i told ya i’d need this today. gave you a two day warnin’.” he’s frowning at whatever the other person says (high pitched voice, definitely female). “christ, i’ll figure somethin’ out.” he hangs up before they can get another word in.

“everything ok? i can leave if you need some space?” you ask. he shakes his head, dragging a hand through his beard and readjusting his hat (stupid, why does he wear it indoors) before sitting down in his desk chair. “need t’ pick the girls up but this goddamn report is killin’ me.” it’s an intelligence focused night and while you finally broke through to one of your contacts, the creation of reports and communications with higher ups takes forever. your captain is especially chained to his desk, where his bosses could call at any moment and demand a redo.

"oh." you're not sure what the lines are here. not sure what to say to the loving father of two who sat vigil at your hosptial bed for a week. "their mom's at a dinner an' can't drive 'cause she drank a glass of wine." he bites out, almost to himself. "so her boyfriend can drop her home, but simply can't make a stop on the way to pick up the girls from after school care." you think back to the finished reports on your desk and the lack of plans you have.

"i could pick them up?" you tick the end up as a question, easier for him to deny. he does, of course. "can't ask tha' of you, lieutenant. not in y'r job description." you shrug, moving closer to his desk until you're practically sitting on it. "i'm not medically cleared to the field yet but i can still drive. it's not like i'm getting deployed in the next hour. and i'd be glad to do it." he's still unsure, staring at the laptop in front of him. "i've got to thank the angels that kissed my boo-boos." you break the tension with a laugh and when he looks up, there's a small smile under his beard. "you sure you're good t' drive?" you nod, rounding the table so you're a bit closer. he leans back a bit until his eyes meet yours. "passed the driving requirements last week. can't run out a burning building but i can handle pickup." he lifts his hips, tantalizing and strong, to fish out the keys in his pocket. "little one still needs the booster seat. easier f' ya t' take my car." this show of trust is worse, worming its way into your heart.

he texts you the address and says he'll call them ahead of time since you're not on the list. before you leave, price fishes out a sweatshirt from somewhere under his desk. "so ya don't look like a soldier." you're wearing standard olive green wear, t-shirt and camo pants. the sweatshirt (black, has 'price' on the back, smells like him) dulls the look into something almost publicly acceptable. "i'll keep you updated, cap." you're almost out the door when he says it. "thank you, lieutenant."

-

"hello, lovelies." you squat to get on their level, noting how they're holding hands tightly. "i'm a friend of your daddy. he sent me to take you to your mum." the older one squints at you with suspicion. "are you the lady from the hosp- hosp- hospital?" you nod, telling them your name. "i'm all better now thanks to you two. your kisses really worked." that causes them both to blush, inching towards you. the aftercare supervisor nudges them forward, thanking you with a grateful smile when they finally get towards the car. the fact that it's their father's calms them, settling in easy to their seats as the older one shouts unhelpful instructions as to how to buckle the car seat. you text price an update, then head towards their mother's.

when you get there, though, something's off. john picks up on the first ring. "everything ok?" he pants, hard. "yeah, the girls are fine. i'm at their mom's but i don't think anyone's home? the lights are off." he barks out a curse, and shamefully, it sends a spark straight to your core. "if it's ok, i could take them to get dinner? maybe pizza and ice cream since they had a long day? they only had a snack at the after program." he sighs and you can practically see him nodding in agreement.

"yeah, love. get some food in them, their mom should be home in an hour." love. spoken warmly and fluidly, like it was meant to be there. you bid him goodbye and take a deep breath, locking yourself into babysitter mode with no thoughts of their father. "who wants ice cream?" you ask, and smile when they scream.

-

an hour later, you get back to the house with two sugared-up littles. for all the grief their mom has caused john, you don't particularly care. the lady herself is standing on driveway, arms crossed with a frown. when you let the girls out, they hug-attack their mother, and she earns a few points back with her whispered "hello, my darlings. go wash up, mummy will be in soon."

you're closing the doors when she appears next to you. "so you're john's girlfriend." you frown, shaking your head. "no ma'am, i'm one of his lieutenants." the determined expression on her face doesn't change. "exactly, you're the lieutenant." and then she says your name like it's been memorized, even though you didn't offer it to her. all you can do is nod numbly and make an excuse to get back to base, ruminating on her words the whole time.

-

back in price's office, it's like deja vu with how tired he looks. this time, he greets you at the door, only a singular lamp on in the background. "hi cap-" the words get cut off when you're pulled into a bone crushing hug. it takes you a second to readjust: his hands around your waist, head tucked into the cruck of your neck.

slowly, your own hands wrap around his neck, pulling him in deeper. your fingers thread through his hair, cringing when they knock off his hat. he doesn't seem to care, squeezing you tight before pulling back. "thank you." he murmurs, hands still on your waist. your own drop to your sides, floating. "you told her i'm your girlfriend?" you eek out, unable to hold it back. his relieved expression drops, hands unsure at your waist. "i- she asked who the girls were visitin' at the hospital. was easier that way." your face drops at his response. john has an opposite reaction, stepping closer with a rough grip to your hip.

"you wanted another answer?" there's nowhere to go under the force of his stare. "maybe." is what you finally spit out. bravely, your hand finds the rough hair of his beard, exploring. it's as simple as a yes.

his kiss is possessive and bruising, pushing you against the door. your other hand tangles in his hair, pulling him in further. one of your legs wraps around his waist and with some encouragement, he gets you to surrender your position fully, your legs in his hands. "christ, ya taste like sherbert." you giggle, folding yourself further into him. "it was, oh fuck." he licks a stripe up your neck before kissing your jaw. "it was mango." he hums appreciatively.

“such a good wife f’ me.” you freeze, pulling back. “i’m not your wife, john.” yet here you are, his face in your hands like it’s yours to hold. “my hoodie.” he kisses your forehead. “pickin’ up my girls.” your cheek. “usin’ my money.” the credit card you found in the hoodie pocket. he shakes you out of your reverie with a nip to the neck.

“tha’s wha’ i thought.” he murmurs when you don’t argue back. you shut him up with a kiss. “i can see why you got divorced, cave man.” and all he does is laugh, moving to set you down on his office table.

john tugs off your layers one by one until you’re in your bra, legs spread on his office. “john.” he hums, fingers exploring the lines of your bra. “can we talk?” he stops suddenly, eyes on yours. the force of it is too much, making you meek and weak-willed. “so…you like me?” he nods, tracing the lines of your skin until he gets to the wound, healing on your torso. “felt like i died too when ya got shot. right in front of me an’ i couldn’t protect you.” you shake your head, pulling him in by the belt buckle until he’s between your legs. “it wasn’t your fault. we cleared the area best we could.” he kisses the scar, soft and sweet. “let me make it up to you?” you nod.

john pulls down a cup of your bra, laving at your tit like he’s trying to draw milk. “right, love. lay back f’ me.” and like always, you do.

-

i wrote this in between classes and it’s unedited. perhaps will come back to edit. anyways.

[oceantornadoo]

you’ve got a certain captain wrapped around your finger and he’s more than glad to be there.

it’s a celebration of your one year on the team, drinks galore at your favorite local dive in london. johnny insisted on a half-circle booth and as the person of honor, you’re smack dab between him and your captain. your captain who’s been paying your tab all night long, waving off your hands as you try to reach for your wallet.

“lieutenant, give us a dance.” gaz says with a smirk on his face. ghost, on the other side of johnny, is one too many drinks in to move, which means it’s john’s turn to scooch. except he’s leaning his head on the worn wooden backing of the booth, lost in thought. he’s seen you naked in safe houses and shared showers, so why does it feel so obscene to lift yourself over his lap? there’s barely space between his massive thighs and the table, necessitating callused paws to guide your hips over his own. it’s the scrape of denim on denim, your ass firmly over his crotch for a whole second, before he pats your hip to push you all the way. “thanks, cap.” you turn with a glimmer in your eye and he dips his hat like a gentleman of old, making you giggle in your drunken stupor.

you used to hide reactions like these, suffocated by the rigid emotional walls of the military. but now, the team’s given you a safe space to be yourself: a titan on the field and a human with emotions off it.

gaz bows to ask for your hand and you accept with a curtsy. the two of you are the best dancers on the team (not a hard competition to win) and entertain johnny with twists and turns on a dance floor of your own making. he calls out instructions in that grumbly accent of his, causing you to cry with laughter in gaz’s arms. two things happen at once: you go down on the dance floor and simon lurches off the booth. johnny catches him with quick reflexes but you’re not as lucky, landing in a pile of gaz’s limbs and your own.

someone strong lifts you up with hands tucked under your armpits, inducing a ticklish squirm you subdue with years of experience. gaz is up without help, pushing simon back from the other side so he’s straight up again. “righ’ l.t., time to get ye home.” johnny’s strong but the weight and uncoordination of a drunk simon requires gaz’s help as well. “happy anniversary, angel!” he yells out as the three stumble out of the bar and (hopefully) back towards base.

“think he’ll be ok?” despite your alcohol levels, you whip around back towards john, throwing him off guard with raised eyebrows and hands out to steady your shoulders. “man’s a human tank. i’m more worried f’r gaz an’ soap. you ok?” you nod convincingly.

sure, in your year on the team, it’s been necessary to touch your captain. hands brushing over your shoulders as he reaches for his favorite coffee cup in the highest cupboard. fingers crossing as you pour over reports into the wee hours of morning. a fist bump here and there. he slaps his men in the chest but with you he squeezes your shoulder, a movement with longer contact and more thought required. tendons and sinew coming together to acknowledge your own with practiced hand eye coordination. you don’t read into it - he’s just avoiding touching you in an uncomfortable area. you’re familiar enough to initiate it first, a friendly squeeze to his bicep after a rousing pre-battle speech. but touching him has never been like this.

you ask him to become your new dance partner and he does, hands cradling your waist with splayed fingers. your own on the breadth of his shoulders, hard and never ending. instead of the joyful twists you did with gaz, john rocks you slow and steady to the crooning beat of an 80s love song.

“didn’t know you could dance, cap.” he shrugs and it echoes through your grip on him, magnified by a hundred. “every man should be able to waltz.” there was a word he wanted to say after his last and you can’t figure it out, the staccato ending bitter in your ears. instead of pressing, you’re content to sway back and forth. it calms your spinning brain. “got any loved ones yer celebratin’ yer anniversary with?” it’s an oddly personal question, but you doesn’t acknowledge its strangeness. you sway a bit with him before answering, stepping a half foot closer.

“my family and i are celebrating on my next leave. i would celebrate with my close friends, but it’s hard to explain my position without telling them classified information.” he nodded knowingly. the music changes to a faster song but he keeps your peaceful tempo, his chest brushing your own through your well worn civvies. “no’one else?” you shake your head before realizing the implications of what he’s asking. there hasn’t been anyone else for a long time, even before you joined the team. work was busy. once you joined, it felt somehow wrong to seek companionship outside of the four men who’d been gifted to you. one more than others.

“no one else, cap.” his fingers are tracing the small of your back. you can’t tell if he knows or not. before he can say anything, you turn the questions on him. “you got someone you’re going home to?” his eyes meet yours, dark blue and smoldering. “got everythin’ i need righ’ here.” you jump a little at his words. they sober you up instantly as you realize you’re slow dancing with your superior, prolonged eye contact past what’s socially acceptable. he doesn’t let you go too far, tightening his grip on your waist. “had ‘nough?” you nod and clutch your stomach for the full effect. “take me home?” he grabs his coat and dumps it on your shoulders, the intoxicating mix of pine, soap and musk seeping into your pores. john leads you back to base with a hand on your back the whole time.

-

“c’mon, got t’ make sure you’re tucked in alrigh’.” he’s in your barracks room, private thanks to the privilege of your position. you don’t sit down on the bed but he does, seemingly exhausted by the night’s activities. “i knew you were old, but wow.” you nudge his foot to make him look up. when he does its like he’s aged five years, with a scruffier beard and deep wrinkles. “john?” you’re drunk. that’s why you say his name, why you reach out to smooth a crease on his forehead. all the while he’s quiet, content to let you play with his face.

“i’m sorry about last month.” it rolls off your tongue unbidden.

(last month. half a bottle of whiskey in his office. your ass on his desk, his hands on your waist. his beard meets your chin but before he can kiss you, you turn, letting his lips meet your cheek. “i’m sorry.” it comes out as a gasp. he doesn’t say anything, scraping his beard against your cheek. “don’t worry about it.”)

“why’d ya say that?” he murmurs. you shrug. “you seem agitated in my presence. thought it might help.” he gives you an old man groan, peeking an eye out from his hat as you giggle. “y’r killin’ me sweetheart, so i’m askin’ this once. you into this or not? i’ll go home right now.” he’s closer than you thought, almost face-to-stomach.

you pull him closer by his beard until he’s resting against your torso. the angle has to be unflattering with how you’re looking down at him, but he’s not running away screaming. “are you into me even though i turned away?” he bites out a ‘yes’ automatically. you owe him an explanation.

“i got scared. i don’t want to jeopardize my place on this team.” in a move credited to a boot camp instructor somewhere, he flips you so you’re under him on top of the covers, arms pinned by his own. “y’r permanent on this team. no matter what.” you blink at him unbelieving. “laswell picks who comes and leaves. my words are jus’ a suggestion. i’ve barely any influence.” you hardly believe that but when he’s on top of you with these sapphire eyes, it’s hard to deny him.

you kiss your captain slowly like you’ve been wanting to do for months. he captures your bottom lip with his teeth, sucking like he owns your mouth. the pace ebbs and flows, from sweet to possessive in a matter of seconds. “john, oh fuck, john.” you pant out in between kisses. he moves to your neck, sucking the soft skin there. “you gotta promise me.” you nudge him until he gives you his hand. you twist him into a pinky promise, something he didn’t know existed. “i promise, baby. now let me give you your anniversary present.”

-

idk what this is. i’m tired and hungover. pls enjoy.