anangelwhodidntfall

[anangelwhodidntfall]

“Folded, Faded, Hidden” 

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

He carries your picture. Carries you in silence.

You’d never seen it.

Not once.

Not taped to the wall of his bunk, not tucked inside his wallet, not swiped through on his phone. You used to wonder – just briefly – if he even kept something of you when he left for missions.

But you never asked. Not because you didn’t want to know. But because he didn’t want to say.

So when he tells you – months later, after coming home with bruised ribs and a stitched-up shoulder – it’s not during a moment of vulnerability.

It’s when you’re folding laundry. Quiet, routine, domestic. That’s when he says it.

“I carry your photo,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought.

You pause, hands still on the fabric.

“What?”

“Printed. Small. Folded. Sewn into the inside of my vest, right over my heart.”

A beat. Then, “So no one could find it. No one could use it against me.”

There’s no softness in his voice. Just steel.

You realize then – he’s kept you close, closer than you ever imagined.

Not as a comfort token, but as something sacred.

Something worth hiding. Something worth surviving for.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

Then another night, somewhere miles away —

The mission goes bad.

Extraction late.

Too fast. Too many. Blood seeps down his side, thick and hot. Leaking through the tactical fabric like black water. He’s behind cover, vision graying at the edges. No one’s answering comms. He knows he’s alone.

He doesn’t panic.

Simon Riley doesn’t panic.

But he does press one trembling hand against his chest – right over the hidden seam, the tiny flap of cloth hand-stitched shut by his own needle and thread.

And beneath it: a small picture.

Crinkled from wear. The ink faded. Folded into fourths until your face is barely visible, but it’s you all the same.

You, smiling. Head tilted. Unaware he ever took the shot.

He presses his palm harder. Breathes deep.

“Still with me.”

That’s what he thinks, right before the darkness takes him.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

When he wakes in the med bay, broken but alive, the first thing he checks is that vest. That hidden seam.

It’s still there.

You’re still there.

Always. First and last.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

Later on, you find the vest. He doesn’t let anyone else patch it.

You stumble upon the pocket by accident – fingers brushing a seam that feels thicker than the others.

And when you tug the thread free and unfold the tiny square, the photo slips into your hand. Your face. Smudged. The colors faded to warm sepia. Corners worn nearly to tissue.

It’s been kissed. Or clutched. Maybe both.

Simon doesn’t say anything when he sees you holding it.

But he watches you like you’re the only anchor in a storm-ripped sea. Like if he speaks, the weight of that tenderness might crush him.

And still — no “I love you.”

Just this,

“You don’t go in my phone. You go with me.”

──── ⊹⊱⊱♡⊰⊰⊹ ────

“The first thing that steadies his breath.

The last thing he thinks about before the dark close in.

It's you.”

[anangelwhodidntfall]

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[anangelwhodidntfall]

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on any empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces. actually winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Okay don't get me wrong, seeing all this about crybaby!reader x Simon "I don't cry wtf do you mean tears are natural" Riley is adorable.

But like. Hear me out.

Angry!tears!reader.

Simon has never seen you cry. It's a little unnerving. When you're sad you're sluggish. Even that time you stubbed your toe so hard it bled you didn't shed a tear.

But one night he scares the hell out of you. He didn't return your calls, didn't leave a message, nothing.

What did you think? He left you. Completely gone.

The truth? He had a last minute mission.

So when he came home 72 hours later, he didn't expect to see you on the couch, staring at the TV, face pinched, eating ice cream in a robe while your favourite TV show shows two people kissing.

Then your head picks up and you see Simon. Your face unpinches, eyes wide. Then they harden quickly, "Where were you?" You demand, setting your ice cream carton down, approaching with heavy feet.

"Got called on a last minute mission, Bird."

"So last minute you couldn't call? Text?"

His eyes shoot down to his boots, brow knitting.

"You're a damn liar, Simon." Your words are harsh, tears welling. He can hear it in your voice. "A damn liar."

His face entirely falls and his eyes lift to meet yours, your glossy eyes that're filled with tears.

"Birdie I--"

"Simon all I'm asking for is a note! A text! A voicemail! Something that tells me you didn't--" your voice cracks, tears streaming, but you ignore it, still shouting "--leave me! That you're not gone for good!"

He nods solemnly, approaching. He takes your hands and you're glaring, a sniffle escaping.

"You're right. I should have. Come 'ere," he mutters, tugging you into his chest.

When he showers and goes to bed, he's right beside you. His entire body is exhausted, but all he can do is stare at your puffy eyes, your slightly damp skin, those wet eyelashes.

This isn't just the first time you've cried infront of him. It's the first time he's made you cry.

It takes him a while to feel less guilty over that.

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Papa's here. - Smoke Moore

We was free. - Stack Moore

Sinners 2025 Movie

[anangelwhodidntfall]

„Sober“ Ghost x reader

It was a rare night off for the 141, and the pub was already buzzing with the kind of boisterous energy that only a group of highly-trained, perpetually-stressed soldiers could generate. You were perched on a stool, nursing a pint, and thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of Soap trying (and failing) to flirt with the bartender.

"C'mon, Johnny, you're losing your touch," you ribbed, taking a swig. "Thought you were supposed to be the charmer of the outfit."

Soap turned, a wide grin splitting his face. "Ach, what do you know? You're just jealous of my undeniable appeal." He leaned closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "Speaking of appeal, how long are you gonna pretend you don't see the way our dear Lieutenant looks at you?"

You choked on your drink, sputtering. "What?! Are you insane? Ghost? Please. He probably just tolerates my existence."

"Oh, he tolerates it alright," Soap chuckled, taking a swig of his own. "Tolerates it right into a full-blown crush, if you ask me."

Your eyes darted to where Ghost was predictably sitting in a shadowy corner, nursing a drink and observing the chaos with his usual stoic silence. Even from across the room, you could feel the intensity of his gaze, though you’d always attributed it to his general air of watchful command.

"Don't be ridiculous," you scoffed, though a faint blush was creeping up your neck. "He’s probably just judging my drinking form."

Soap just winked. "Nah, he's judging how long it'll take for you to notice him properly." He leaned back, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Seriously, though, how many shots would it take you for one round with the lieutenant?"

„Sober…“

You took another long swig of your beer, the playful challenge lingering in the air. "It would take me exactly zero shots."

Soap's eyes widened, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. He looked from you to Ghost, who remained impassive in his corner, though you could have sworn his head tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

"Well now," Soap said, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "That's certainly a bold statement." He raised his glass. "To your boldness, then!"

You clink your glass against his, the warmth of the alcohol spreading through you, mixing with the unexpected heat in your cheeks. The thought of it, of Ghost, of a "round" with the lieutenant, suddenly felt less like a joke and more like a daring, exhilarating possibility.

„All jokes aside, he is my commanding officer. I am just fresh meat.“

You leaned back on the stool, the bravado of your previous statement fading a little under the weight of reality. But Soap knew you were intrigued by the lieutenant.

Soap's grin softened, understanding flickering in his eyes. He knew the unspoken rules, the line between friendly banter and the rigid hierarchy of their unit. "Aye, I get it, " he said, his voice unusually gentle. "Rank's rank, and all that." He took a long swig of his beer, then set the glass down with a thud. "But even commanding officers are still just men, in the end. And 'fresh meat' or not, you're one of the best we've got. Don't forget that."

He nudged your arm playfully. "Besides," he added, a mischievous glint returning to his eye, "doesn't mean a man can't look, eh? Or a woman, for that matter. I assure you, Ghost does." He gestured vaguely in Ghost's direction, then chuckled. "Just sayin'."

Soap continues, “I think he loves to be in command. Or maybe when you call him a good old boy. Soap grinned as he yapped and you spit out your drink, „Imagine you sitting on his lap, red underwear. Looking down his abs under your soft legs: oh, Simon, you're such a good boy.“

You spluttered, nearly choking on your drink as Soap's words hit you. "Oh my god, Soap! You're deranged!" You wiped your mouth, still coughing slightly between laughs. The image he painted was so ludicrous, so wildly out of place with the stoic, terrifying Ghost, that it was impossible not to react.

Soap, however, was delighted by your reaction, a wide, unholy grin plastered across his face. "Imagine it, though, eh? You, on his lap, maybe in some wee bit of red underwear," he continued, completely unfazed by your protests. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Looking down at those abs of his, all hard under your soft legs, and you just whispering, 'Oh, Si-mon, you're such a good boy. He would die for you after that.'

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm going to die of embarrassment," you mumbled, peeking through your fingers at the silent figure in the corner. He hadn't moved a muscle, but you could practically feel the silent judgment emanating from him. Or was it something else? You couldn't tell. The thought of even imagining that scene with Ghost was enough to make your ears burn.

"You're a menace, Johnny," you finally managed, shaking your head. "A complete and utter menace."

You finally managed to straighten up, still shaking your head, a residual giggle bubbling up. "You're lucky Ghost has the emotional range of a brick wall, Soap, or he'd have you doing push-ups 'til Christmas for that little fantasy of yours."

Soap just shrugged, taking a leisurely sip of his beer. "Ach, he just needs a good laugh, our Simon does. Too serious, that one." He leaned forward again, eyes twinkling. "But seriously, if you weren't terrified of getting court-martialed, you'd admit there's something there, wouldn't you? The way he watches you during training, or how he always seems to be just... there when you need a hand with something heavy."

You scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant. "He watches everyone during training, Johnny, it's called being a good l.t, and helping with heavy gear? That's just common courtesy. He's not exactly queuing up to carry my shopping bags, is he?"

"Maybe he would," Soap mused, stroking his chin in mock contemplation. "If they were filled with, say, a brand new set of red lingerie."

You threw a coaster at him, which he deftly caught with a laugh. "You are incorrigible! I can't believe I hang out with you."

"And yet, here you are," he retorted, a smug smirk on his face. "Besides, you're the only one who can make him twitch an eyebrow. It's subtle, mind, but it happens. And the way his shoulders go is just a tad less rigid when you're around? He's a softie for you, mark my words."

You rolled your eyes, but a tiny, traitorous part of you couldn't help but wonder. Ghost, a softie?

"Okay, okay, you're officially certifiable," you said, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "But fine, let's entertain your wild theories. If Ghost were a 'softie' for me, what would that even look like?" You leaned in, playing along. "Would he knit me a balaclava? Bring me tactical tea and biscuits in the field?"

Soap's eyes lit up, clearly thrilled you were biting. "See? I knew you had a secret soft spot for him, too! Nah, not balaclavas, too obvious. And tea and biscuits? Please, that's just basic human decency, even from Ghost." He paused dramatically, lowering his voice. "No, for you, he'd probably... let you pick the mission's codenames. Or, even better, he'd let you wear his skull mask for a selfie."

You snorted. "Now that's truly delusional. The man probably sleeps in that thing."

"Exactly!" Soap countered, snapping his fingers. "Which is why it'd be the ultimate sign of affection! Imagine the trust! The intimacy!" He then squinted, his gaze drifting over to Ghost's corner, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know what? I'm gonna go test this theory."

Before you could stop him, Soap slid off his stool and, with a swagger born of several pints, made a beeline for Ghost. You watched in a mixture of horror and morbid fascination as he approached the silent lieutenant.

Soap clapped a hand on Ghost's armored shoulder, leaning in close. You couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but you saw Soap gesture wildly in your direction, then saw him nudge Ghost with his elbow, a broad, knowing smirk on his face. Ghost, for his part, remained a statue, a silent, imposing figure. But then, as Soap continued to jabber, Ghost slowly turned his head, his masked gaze settling on you across the room.

A shiver went down your spine. You suddenly felt very, very exposed. You tried to pretend you weren't watching, taking a huge gulp of your beer, but your eyes kept darting back. Was that... amusement in his eyes? Or just his usual, unnerving intensity?

You watched in a growing mixture of mortification and a strange thrill as Soap continued his one-man show in front of Ghost. The way Ghost's masked gaze seemed to bore into you across the room made your skin prickle. This was it. Soap was going to get them both into trouble and probably an awkward conversation.

"Alright, that's enough of your drunken missions," you hissed, practically slamming Soap back towards your original spot. He stumbled, laughing, clearly oblivious to the serious internal panic you were experiencing.

"Woah there, easy does it, lass!" Soap chuckled, regaining his balance. "Just havin' a friendly chat with the Lieutenant!"

You ignored him, your eyes darting back to Ghost. He was still in the same position, but you could almost feel the phantom weight of his gaze on you as you dragged Soap away. Was that a flicker of something in his eyes? A hint of a smile behind the skull mask? Or was it just the dim pub lighting playing tricks on your increasingly alcohol-addled mind?

You hauled Soap back to the bar, practically dragging him by his collar. He stumbled good-naturedly, a boozy grin still plastered on his face. You, on the other hand, were acutely aware of Ghost's unwavering stare from across the room.

"Honestly, Johnny, you're going to get us both on latrine duty for a month," you muttered, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

Soap, however, was undeterred. He leaned against the bar, turning to face you with a theatrical flourish, as if you were suddenly his captive audience. "So" he began, his voice dropping to a gravelly, overly dramatic purr. "Tell me, if you were, hypothetically, to find yourself in a situation where a certain, very handsome, very Scottish sergeant were to, say, accidentally fall into your bed..." He punctuated this with an exaggerated wink.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "And what, pray tell, would be the accidental part, Soap?"

He leaned closer, his voice practically a stage whisper, clearly aiming to be heard across the room. "The accidental part would be how quickly I'd make you forget all about rules and regulations, pet. Because if you wanted to throw me into that bed like this," he demonstrated with a very suggestive hip thrust that nearly sent him toppling off his feet, "I am down, honey."

You stared at him, then burst out laughing, a genuine, slightly hysterical peal of mirth. It was so utterly ridiculous, so quintessentially Soap, that you couldn't help it. h.

Soap, oblivious, was still puffing out his chest, clearly pleased with his performance. "What do you say, then, eh? Fancy a little… slamming?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

You pushed him gently away, still trying to suppress a giggle. "You're lucky I have enough self-preservation not to take you up on that, Johnny. Someone might have the wrong idea." Your gaze flickered back to Ghost, who now seemed to be staring directly at you, his head tilted just so, as if he were listening intently. The air suddenly felt thick with unspoken things.

"Oh really now?" Soap's voice, thick with amusement and several pints, cut through your thoughts. He reached out, his thumb gently tilting your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes twinkled with a playful challenge. "So, you're saying if there were no 'wrong idea' to be had...?" His very drunk self flirted with you, just to push the boundaries of his lieutenant.

You felt a flush creep up your neck, caught between Soap's persistent teasing and the undeniable, silent weight of Ghost's gaze. The idea of "no wrong idea" hung in the air, making your stomach do a flip. You were about to stammer out some sarcastic retort, your flustered mind scrambling for a witty comeback, when it happened.

From across the room, Ghost, who had been a statue of silent observation, moved. It was subtle, but undeniable. He shifted in his seat, his masked face turning more directly towards you and Soap. The very air around him seemed to thicken, a palpable sense of warning radiating off him. You saw Soap's eyes flicker past you to Ghost, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He leaned in conspiratorially, winking at you. "Thank me later."

Then, with a final, mischievous pat on your arm, he stood up, straightened his shirt, and sauntered off towards the bar, resuming his valiant (and likely futile) attempts to charm the bartender.

You let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your gaze instinctively flicking back to Ghost. He was still watching you, but the intensity in his posture seemed to have softened, replaced by... what? Curiosity? Relief? You couldn't tell, and the ambiguity only heightened the strange knot in your stomach, a foreign warmth creeping up your insides.

Deciding you needed a moment to collect yourself and escape the lingering tension, you mumbled something about needing the loo. Pushing off the stool, you headed towards the back of the pub, your legs feeling a little wobbly from the drinks and the unexpected adrenaline.

As you rounded a corner, just past a cluster of laughing squaddies, your foot caught on something – maybe a loose floorboard, perhaps your clumsiness. You swayed precariously, arms flailing, certain you were about to meet the grimy pub floor face-first.

Suddenly, a strong, firm hand clamped around your upper arm, steadying you. A second hand found your elbow, balancing you with surprising gentleness. You gasped, looking up, and found yourself staring directly into the shadowed eye-holes of Ghost's skull mask. He was close, closer than he'd ever been outside of a mission, and the sudden proximity sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with nearly falling. His grip was steady, reassuring, and strangely warm through your sleeve. You smiled nervously, not knowing what to do when your lieutenant was so close, holding you like a fragile piece of artwork. “ Thank you. Pardon my inability to stand.”

“It´s fine.” He stated, devoid of any suspicious emotions. “I needed some help with heavy lifting.” You winked at him, brave because of the alcohol. “You, heavy? I don´t think so.” He answered. You smiled at Ghost, scanning his dark brown eyes, which seemed even more prominent because of his covered face. You seemed helpless in his arms, and the heat inside your body became almost unbearable. He took you back to the base, and the cold wind of the early morning hours hit your sensitive skin like a whiplash. You stared at the floor, before you could even begin to shiver, Ghost´s voice cut it off. “ Take this.” He mumbled, and your eyes scanned his hand, holding a dark grey hoodie in his hands. “I accept that, Lieutenant.”

His eyes bored into your sweet soul. “Take it, kid.” His voice a little softer than usual, maybe Soap has been correct, what if Simon was a softie for you? Suddenly, he helped you put on his hoodie as his scent hit you like a bullet. Instantly, your nose was greeted by a mixture of musk, whiskey, vanilla, and fire. This wasn´t some fancy fragrance; it was the scent of Simon. The heat and warmth inside your body were visible on your plump cheeks. The smile stayed on your lips, a desperate attempt at masking confidence. It must have been a nice picture for an outsider, you in a short black dress, now in a grey hoody which fell over your knees, next to you a mountain of a man in black jeans with a black belt, a black tanktop, the skull mask as well as a baseball cap. He looked like a grim reaper with a smile underneath his mask. Ghost loved how she stumbled, trying to keep up. He called them a cab, opened her door, and as she stumbled, he supported her until they stood in front of his door.

Before Ghost could shut you out of his world, becoming silent and observing, your small arms wrapped around his neck, hugging him. “Thanks, Ghost. You know, you're incredibly sexy when you care for me.” A drunk confession slipped out of your lips as you undressed in front of his door, only to give him his hoodie back, of course. Now you stood there in the short dress, which hugged your body so well, Ghost wanted to pray just to thank the Gods for sculpting you. “You can keep it if you want.” Ghost grunted, not knowing what to say to the beautiful woman in front of him. You, who was a little more confident than he could have anticipated, came a step closer and kissed him on his cheek. Smiling. Any other soldier would be in serious trouble after getting so close to Ghost, but you are different. Naive, bold, and intoxicating. Ghost never wanted anything more than to touch you right now, but given his past, he would never hit on a drunk girl first.

“Look, kid, I can bring you to your dorm. You should rest.” Your eyes met his, and a pang of sadness was clearly visible. “You think I am ugly?” you blurted out, the copious amount of alcohol made you honest, vulnerable. The embarrassment followed instantly. The soft skin on your face was turning warm, your head turning towards the direction of your room, avoiding Ghost´s gaze. “Ugly? Don´t fool yourself.” He replied, still flat, unsure whether he should give in to his devilish desires or leave you alone. You're drunk, vulnerable, and honest.

Drunk people always tell the truth.

As he scanned you, your soft body, he heard a noise, probably a patrol soldier. Before you could have registered what was going on, there was a click, a pull, and a heavy steel door closing in front of your face. Ghost pulled you closer towards his chest, the soft fabric of his black shirt covered his hard abs. Your body felt like a sauna; the heat was practically crawling out of your skin.

He turned you around, forced you to face him directly, his huge hand gently tilted your chin up, as his brown eyes stared directly into yours, trying to spot a lie, find the hook, the flaw between the connection you shared. But you just stood there, and he could see nothing, no flaw, no hook, no lie. Simon wasn´t mistaken; you had a soft spot for your lieutenant, always had. Could he be angry at you for that? Ghost is silent, protective, firm, mysterious, tall, handsome, even with his mask. How could you not fall for him? Since Soap put the image into your head, the desire to sit on his lap and let him make you his only grew stronger.

“Ghost, you're so close. I think you should kiss me, don´t worry, I am not gonna tell Price.” It flew off your drunk lips. Ghost chukled, your boldness and simultaneous embarrassment were adorable. Your boldness was overshadowed by the blush on your face, which made Ghost weak.

As Ghost pulled down the fabric of his mask, you almost fainted. Before you could have taken a proper look, his lips met yours. They were soft, gentle, careful, almost shy.

You didn´t know what to expect from the first kiss with Ghost. If you were honest with yourself, you would have admitted that you never thought you would get so far. Certainly, you did not expect that Ghost would smile into the kiss. “Isn´t that what you want, love?” He questioned, and you nodded.

Your heartbeat increased as his lips met yours again. “ Don´t be shy. I want this.” He mumbled. Surprise was written over your face, he smirked. As you continued exploring each other's lips, he pulled you into his room. His hands lead you with ease, whilst exploring your curves. First, his free hand slowly stroked over the side of your body, as your hands locked behind his neck, his hands rested on your hips. He seemed reserved at first, hesitant to let himself go.

You were the one who fell on his soft mattress, smelling his fresh sheets. The smell of vanilla stroked your senses. “I am glad you like it.” Ghost led you lightly. You sat up, looked into his face, which was mesmerizing. A sharp jawline, a scar on the left side of his bottom lip, a clean face, and his eyes were just as dark and mysterious as his voice. The logical part in your brain was long gone, your heart stumbled when as he looked down.

Ghost pulled off his shirt, not only showing off his biceps as well as tattoos, showing you his sculpted abdominal abs, his scar tissue. You could see his wounds and scars, which showed you that even Ghost was just a human being after all. You swallowed, and your gaze landed on his black jeans. A devious Idea crossed your mind, your hands found the waistband of his pants, and gently pulled him towards you, the bed, and your lips. He bowed down to your level, kissed you, less hesitant, more dominant. Ghost began to give in. There was no going back now.

“You're a little devil, aren´t you?” He rumbled; his voice alone was enough to hypnotize you. Ghost, who is usually silent, was talking you trough now. Giving you safety, leading you. His hands found your dress, he opened it up, and took it off. Ghost´s firm hands roamed your half-naked body, mesmerizing every part. His lips found yours again; he couldn´t get enough of you. First, he could not keep his eyes off you, now his hands are all over you. Roaming over the soft flesh of yours, kneading your hips, breast, thighs.

Your hand tried to unbuckle his jeans, getting rid of the fabric separating the two of you. Ghost broke off your gentle, yet increasingly heated session. “Unbuckle it.” He commanded.

Your focus was on your task, but your hands shivered as you unbuckled his jeans and pulled them down. In the beginning, the alcohol made you more confident, but now, you were shy, overwhelmed by the tension between you. Was it more than sexual tension? You thought.

Without a warning, his prominent bulge was in your field of vision. “So what do you wanna do, little one?” Ghost questioned, his voice usually devoid of emotions, dripped with desire. You decided that this was your chance, as you pulled his boxers down, taking a look, then a lick at his huge length, looking up, challenging him. He moaned quietly, so you kept on playing with his length, licking it with more love than Ghost had felt in a long time. His moans became louder, still controlled, but louder. His hand found its way towards your hair to lead you. His hips began to move, roughly inside your throat. It was a stark contrast to his prior tenderness; you loved both. “Fuck I,” He moaned, stopped his movement, picked you up and layed you onto his bed. Ghost was operating with surprising tenderness, yet efficiency.

“Love, call me Simon.” He granted you his name as his mouth began sucking on your breast, his free hand playing with the other. No one had told you his name before; you were new to the team, missed out on previous missions, and bonding experiences. But Simon would make up for that. You wanted to respond with emotional depth, but just as you wanted to be empathetic towards Simon, his free hand moved deeper, pulling an unrestrained moan out of you. His laugh was barely audible, still the most beautiful thing you've ever heard. “Simon, what are you doing to me?” You half-questioned half half-moaned.

“I will make you happy, just relax.” He purred. His mouth kissed you downwards. Simon took his time with you, body worshipping you so much, you almost crumbled beneath his first movements. Simon made you weak. He was in control; he would never hurt you. He just wanted to see you like this: vulnerable, bare, happy. Much to your liking, his mouth was his best weapon, combined with his skilled hands working on your breast, he took your breath faster than you would admit. This feeling inside you was foreign, new. He made you shiver at first, afterwards you walked over the cliff and became stiff, it was a long, pleasurable fall. You could not move for a while, your mind clouded with pleasure, eyes closed, a mindless smile across your lips. Your soul left your body for a while, and pure bliss took over.

Simons' lips, now wet, met yours; he loved kissing you in that state. While your soul was absent and you could barely register what was happening and how, with every passing second, Simon's feelings for you grew stronger. He continuously explored you, he wanted to worship you, take his time, and dominate you slowly. He could have been extremely dominant, predatory, but Simon decided to take his time and slowly show you how special you are. He gave you his name, so you could moan it inside his ear. When you almost cried out his name, it was the second time he found out how his name should sound. From your mouth, his name was alluring and beautiful, just like you were.

“Fuck me. “Simon mumbled at the sight of your state. You looked up, Simon could see the clouds of bliss in your mind, he could see that your sexuality took over your logic. “Simon, I will help you with that. Please lie down.” Simon lay down next to you, began cuddling you, his tattooed arms wrapped around you. “No.” You stated softly. Sat up, onto his lips, as he kissed you. You were the one who smiled into the kiss. Simons' arms rest on your hips, securing the position that made him see stars.

The night grew into a symphony of moans, wet sounds, and secret confessions. Simon and you entered a state of clouded minds, absent bliss, and pure relaxation. Simons' lap became your new favourite place to sit, his bulge bullying deep into your mid. Just as he continuously began to hit the magic spot inside your spongy flesh, it escaped your mouth. “Please, Simon, you're such a good boy.” His huge hand went towards your neck and gently pulled you towards him, kissing you more eagerly than he ever had.

[anangelwhodidntfall]

johnny's best friend

Cw: implied but nondescriptive sex scene, mild misunderstanding. Authors Note: I spent a very unreasonable amount of time on this. F!reader X John price

John didn’t mean for it to happen, at least not like this.

Every deployment there is at least one story where Soap mentions her, his lifelong best friend from back home, The quick witted, smart mouthed woman he keeps so close. Everyone by this point had gotten used to this character in every tale from his high school days or childhood memories. She always sounded so funny, clever, clearly able to keep MacTavish on his toes. But it was just that, stories until it wasn’t. 

_______________

John was sitting alone drinking his tea, trying to get a few moments of quiet in the morning before the usual chaos of the day unfolded. Johnny sat next to him, typically chatty like a bird, he was calmer in the early hours of the morning.

“Mornin’ Sergeant” John grunted, not cold, not friendly, just John. The team was good enough mates at this point to understand the difference between John’s usual gruffness and genuine irritation.

“Aye, morning sir.” Soap says leaning his back against the chair, letting his shoulders relax before the day truly began. A beat of silence before he spoke again.

“Lass is comin up this weekend to see mine and Simon’s new house” he informed, John was a smart man, that was an invitation. In truth John had little interest in meeting the sergeant’s little friends, he didn’t think he could handle yet another 20 something year old kid making internet references he didn’t understand.

“Yeah?” John asks, trying to sound at least somewhat interested before he turns down the coming invitation flatly in favor of sitting in his armchair and watching the Telly over the weekend.

“Yeah, we’re going to cook, drink, Kyle’s comin'.” Soap added, Johnny had this special way of making everyone do exactly what he wanted at any given moment with just the right words. His best mates and alcohol? Well you can’t really turn that down even if you kind of want to.

John let out a defeated sigh

“What time?” 

________________

The days that followed were no different than any other day on base, John thought about his job, important and vital. He thought about his hobbies fishing and whisky collecting. And he thought about his desire to get out of going to the Riley/MacTavish house this weekend, he could just not go but then he’d have to endure Soap’s guilt tripping and Simon’s cold glares for bumming out his boyfriend, god they were easier to deal with separately than together. 

Nevertheless, John showed up Friday evening. He walked into the white house, case of beer in hand. His entrance was followed by a string of “hey captain” from Gaz, a “price!” From Soap who’s no doubt already been drinking and a grunt from Ghost. 

“Yeah, yeah.” John waved off the group while heading to the kitchen to set down the case of alcohol when he saw her. He looked up as she entered from the hallway, dear god. 

“Cap, this is the lil shit herself.” Soap announced, she smiled, pretty smile. Fuck.

“Nice to meet you.” The captain smiled at the woman, young, beautiful. The kind of pretty that knocks the wind out of you and leaves you wondering if maybe one kid wouldn’t hurt.

“Yeah, you too.” She smiled again, sat next to Johnny and he was left wondering how the actual hell soap somehow managed to convince that beautiful creature to not only be but to stay friends with him for so many years. 

Truly it wasn’t but half an hour before John had his answer to that burning question. 

“Lass, get daddy another beer.” 

“Ewww Johnathan! Go fuck yerself!” 

Giggling erupted from both of them, she’s him but if he were gorgeous and interesting. John sat with Gaz on the couch, drinking, while Simon cooked in the kitchen and Johnny annoyed the woman he seemed to share a brain link with. 

“Too bad she doesn’t work with us, people don’t tell you to shut up enough.” As soon as the words left his mouth he could see her amused stare. John didn't consider himself a man of wants; he lived alone, unmarried, without family, all by choice. But that didn't mean he never indulged on occasion. And Mary, mother of god if she looks at him like that again his thoughts are going to go sideways fast.

“You know I like you.” The little thing wags her finger towards him, teasing mostly to playfully irritate Johnny.

Throughout the night John watched her, the way she walked, the way she spoke, the way she smiled and laughed. John has a lot of self control, he’s spent years denying himself things he wants because he’s simply just too busy, gone too often, too old. But after the drinks had been flowing, he found himself crossing the living room and sitting next to her on one of the couches.

“Johnny talks about you a lot,” he said trying to make conversation, he does not get nervous easily working the job he does and living the life He’s led,  he has pretty much gotten rid of nerves altogether but the bird is fucking pretty.

“Yeah, talks about you too.” She hums, she’s not sober, none of them were, but out of the group the two of them had probably drank the least.

“How long you stayin for?” Making pleasant small talk has never been his strong suit, but all things considered. He figured he was doing Okay.

“A week or so.” Her sweet voice rang out. As they talked, the conversation got less formal, less awkward, John learned what she did for work, heard snippets from her and Johnny's childhood he'd already heard twice over from Soap. And listened as she spoke about music and art. But it was her recent breakup that really caught his attention.

“Hmm sounds like he didn’t deserve you.” John commented, a passing thought that just slipped past his lips. She looked at him, she smiled.

“Are you flirting with me, John?” he was, he wasn’t sure how Johnny would feel about that if he was well…sober but she didn’t seem like she was complaining.

“I am.”  He spoke calmly, truthfully. He looked at her through his alcohol fueled haze.

“Oh good I was worried I was imagining it” she giggled, he wondered just how mad he thought soap would be if he took the woman who was practically his sister upstairs.

As the conversation continued, he found himself actually unable to shake that thought, found himself considering it. He had ultimately decided that that was not the best idea, to fuck your sergeants, best friend in the guest bedroom of his new house. That was until she announced she was going to turn in, he was going to tell her a polite good night, he really was but then she looked at him the way she did, the pressed lips and eyes gesturing to the staircase, that “aren’t you going to come?” Kind of look. 

The next thing he knew he had her pressed up against the wall, his lips exploring wherever he could get them, doing his best to fiddle with the lock on the door given how poor his hand eye coordination was at the moment. 

He remembers the way her skin felt, the way she smelled, the noises she made. John was not a man who allowed himself much, but she was not a woman that you just get off to, not one who deserved to simply be pleased, she was the kind of woman that you worship like your life depends on it so he did. Soon the worry of what his brother in arms would feel about the situation faded. The only thought occupying his brain was the woman mewling and writhing beneath him.

_____________

When he woke in the morning John looked at the woman slowly blinking awake. To describe the night they shared as anything but fantastic would be a gross understatement, the kind of sex you have that turns into a relationship.

“Hi” 

“Hi” 

Soft, quiet, the calm before the storm that was Johnathan Ryan MacTavish. The walk of shame if you could call it that was simply just two people walking to the kitchen after spending a drunken night at a friend's. 

Of course, the unfortunate part was they couldn’t get away with that, not with Johnny present.

“Price, I didn’t realize you spent the night…I was so…” he looked from the girl to John, back to that pretty thing. Soap has always been a bit of a drama queen.

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKIN KIDDING ME!”  

John didn’t necessarily feel guilty per se, he’s a grown man, she’s a grown woman and none of them have ever exactly been known for their strong moral compasses. 

“Oh relax, Johnny!” 

The little bird barked at him, it would’ve been very amusing had it not been for the younger man’s face turning a particularly concerning shade of red.

“Relax! That’s muh fucking boss, Bonnie!” Once you get soap started he doesn’t stop. Ghost looked apologetic immediately, such a calm man to be dating such an immature reactionary kid.

Neither she nor John could get a word in before he began again. It felt like when he was a boy and his father used to yell for any small thing, a grown man of 38 years old being yelled at by his own subordinate.

“He’s at least a decade older than you! Are you insane!” This went on for a while, Johnny asking a question, no one answering simply because he would just start three seconds later with another one. 

“Johnny.” He tried, using his captain voice (or dad voice if we’re telling the truth) but Soap wasn’t stopping. If it were any other person, any other situation, John would not just sit there and take that, but it’s soap.

“Oh Haud yer weesht!” 

You know Johnny is upset when he starts yelling in Scottish slang no one but him even understands. 

“Okay, okay…let’s calm.”

Simon held his hands in the air, a silent look to his boyfriend, a cue that it was time to stop talking. Johnny to his credit did stop talking. 

“John, why don’t you go home.” it wasn’t a demand but rather a silent plea to let Simon deal with his partner, he knew that John would only take that for so long and the last thing they needed when everyone was hungover and running on high emotions was for a fist fight to happen.

“Yeah, yeah alright” 

_________________

The texting began that afternoon, John while not old is not a spring chicken and texting anything but “ok” and a thumbs up emoji embarrassingly takes a small bit of effort from him.

“Hey sorry I got you in trouble with the boss.” An attempt at a joke, though he understood to a point why Johnny was upset.

She is not a woman afraid to be straight up or genuine, this much has been obvious for even the small amount of time he’s known her but even still the immediate and multiple replies still made him feel like a high school age boy with the attention of a pretty girl.

“He’s fine.” 

“Don't worry about it, you did nothing wrong.” 

“I had fun :)” 

She’s technically correct, he did nothing wrong, he didn’t ask how the tension was on her end, felt it best to let her tell him if It was something to write home about. 

“Yeah me too, love.” 

The week drudged on, the weekend came and went and yet rather than spending it like usual, smoking while watching the Telly he instead found himself texting the little birdie. The work week however was not as peaceful, not quite as fun either. 

Johnny was obviously not over it in simply a matter of days, in order to function like a team they have to function like they are a goddamn team. This gets incredibly difficult when your sergeant hardly says more than two words to you the entire week that aren’t “yes, sir” and “no sir.” 

John honestly doesn’t understand how Ghost willingly puts up with him at home. 

“MacTavish.” John spoke Thursday afternoon, prepared to give an order to a man who is, yes, a friend, but also whom he is in charge of, the silence he could handle the attitude? Not so much.

“Yes sir?” Johnny’s words were phrased as a question, but the unmistakable irritation written on his expression was not only pissing John off but making working conditions feel unnecessarily hostile.

The orders were given, the interaction over. By the end of the day. The team all having had plenty to do that day were rightfully tired, John texting his bird, Johnny giving him a glare from across the room. Annoying but not unbearable, it makes sense really why “no fraternizing” rules exist though none of them have ever really listened to orders but it does in fact make sense.

______________

Friday morning John barely walked into the door of his office before Simon was there, mediation no doubt.

“What is it?” A tired sigh left the older man looking over to the masked giant shutting the door to his office.

“Talked to Johnny.” John knew it probably wasn’t work related when Simon shut the door but a guy can hope for some level of professionalism.

“Mmhm” he sat at his desk flipping through the paperwork that all but consumed his life at any given moment.

“I just think you need to talk to him.” He doesn’t say much more, he’s not the talker of the group by any stretch of the word.

John sighs as Ghost leaves. Bloody ridiculous.

Then for the first time that morning, he checked his phone. Birdie.

“Have a good day.” He wasn’t in love with the girl, he’d barely known her a week but dammit having a woman check on him for no other reason than a desire to speak to him. That does things to a guy.

Tea, he needed some caffeine, maybe a cigar. John Made his way through the base with his typical quickness. And of fucking course there was soap. As soon as he walked into the doorway.

“Cap” 

“Soap”

The quiet stare off, each waiting for the other to speak. 

“My office, ten minutes” wasn't up for debate, nor a question of whether he wanted to or not. Johnny would be in his office in ten minutes. And with that, he made his tea.

________________

As Johnny sat in his office the quiet tension between them filled the room. 

“Well?” John asked, a very real demand to let it out, Johnny had been allowed to effectively pout for the last week, John knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t make a scene at work.

“She’s basically my sister.” He muttered 

“I’m aware.” 

“You didn’t ask.”

“She’s grown, I don’t have to ask anyone but most definitely not you.”

They stare for a moment, the issue was neither one of them was entirely wrong. They both knew it but put two bulls in a room together and China is certainly going to be broken.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen…at least not like this.” 

“You were out of line messing with someone so close to me like she doesn’t matter.” Now that comment from soap wasn’t going to stand, John may have had his fair share of little bar flings, soap being used to this fact but they are like brothers, a team. John would never intentionally hurt a woman Johnny loves so much.

“I’m not messing with her, I’d like to take her out but I don’t want to keep getting lip from you about it.” 

Silence, Johnny' s face went from one of quiet rage to one of silent understanding.

“You don’t do that.”

“Not usually, No.” 

________________

Soap’s blessing, as reluctant as it was, gave the two space to explore what they chose without fear of a Scottish crash out. At first John and his little lady saw each other sparingly, she went home after a few weeks and it was simply late night phone calls and “I miss you” texts. But the woman being who she was with the determination she had, moved to England, to “be closer to Johnny.” A blatant lie to cover up the fact that she moved a very considerable distance for a man. 

Johnny was still fussy about the two at first but he grew used to it, going over to the hen's house and there was John, answering the door, calling his best friend to complain about work and there his boss was; coughing like someone’s father in her bathroom.

He may have not loved it but John treated her well, clearly made her happy. The bird likes to recount the tale of the day they got engaged as if it were a horror movie told from Johnny's perspective “and without warning Johnny was blindsided by the evil old man stealing away his bestie! The horror!” The reason for the joke was the pure look of panic on Johnny's face when John asked her to marry him. 

The seasons changed, the years passed, and the second deployment passed with her heavily pregnant. 

Johnny while he tried pulling the “I can’t believe you left your wife to fend for herself.” 

Was immediately met with 

“Your best friend's husband is deployed and you’re not even there to help her through it, a terrible friend really.” 

The hostility turned to jokes, new stories about John’s wife started popping into conversations, the same crazy little thing she had always been.

_____________

The group sat peacefully in the Price family living room, watching footy and each taking turns holding the new baby, Gaz making considerable effort to hold the little girl more than everyone else, food had been ate, the Telly had been yelled at, now the quiet conversation of five of the best friends filled the room. Well, it was peaceful until Johnny.

“Do you guys remember when you defiled my brand new guest bedroom?” 

“Shut up, Johnny.”

CoD Masterlist

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem. Reader

You know this isn't really normal.

It would have been one thing if this was just a good old crush. Typical stuff, as far as crushing on someone usually goes for you--someone forever distant, forever unattainable--the perfect candidate to pin all your hopes and dreams on for a time, until you inevitably become lucid and tear down the billboard-sized image of the man in your heart. Rinse and repeat. The distance keeps you safe and comfortable.

And a part of you dares to admit the quiet part out loud--you enjoy the yearning. The sting, the bittersweet soup of emotions and what-ifs.

But now, that all-important distance is the very thing you are breaching without even deliberating on it, a compulsion akin to a moth being drawn to a flame. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a big deal if it had been any other man. Yet, it is.

Because you're crushing on Lieutenant Simon fucking Riley.

It isn't hard to miss the guy, with how he is, of course. The forever skullface-masked behemoth of a man has a habit of drawing one's eye to him the moment he enters a room, without having to utter a word. Half the time he merely grunts anyhow, but your ears pay their due attention any time he deigns to quip something in his no nonsense Mancunian accent.

And your poor little battered heart sings in delight, every single time.

Of course, as a lower ranked service member, your schedules don't really match with someone of his tier, so you make sure to linger around the gym and common areas, and certain entry points to catch sight of him, whenever you can. Observing. Noting habits and preferences. Carefully penning them down in the personal journal you like to hide under your pillow. He's a creature who's as enigmatic as it gets, and the mask makes it that much harder to get a read on him. It's only when you're 20 pages deep into your journal, recording your stream of consciousness in the dead of night, that you get the inkling that maybe, just maybe, this might be a little too much.

Stalkers were supposed to be creepy, maladjusted, sinister little characters, preying on their victims until things reached a boiling point. And while you had a low opinion of yourself in many regards, you didn't quite consider yourself to be that level of depraved. Yet isn't this what it was, really? Stalking, despite keeping a sizeable distance between yourselves (because Lord knows being observant is an essential requirement in this line of work, and you are more than aware someone of Simon's calliber would be even more so. The last thing you want is to be caught by one of his mates, or God forbid, Simon Riley himself, in this shameful act).

This rare moment of precious lucidity casts a fog on your spirits, a thick concoction of shame and desire and guilt.

You know what? Yeah.

Maybe this is a bit much. Maybe you shouldn't be leaving little gifts for the guy (fairly practical supplies, really, things like good quality tea brands you couldn't find on base), despite making sure you wouldn't be caught on surveillance. There were things at stake here, important things like your goddamn career and reputation. You might be addicted to pining and habitually putting your heart through the wringer for no discernible reason, but you knew your limits. You had to.

And no, you certainly didn't want his attention on you--you wouldn't know what to do with it, the very thought makes your palms sweat and legs jittery.

The gifts were all unsigned and without notes, at least. And generic enough that he could assume one of his mates left them out of the kindness and generosity of their golden hearts. Something like that.

Reduce the frequency with which you hover around him--another no brainer. And of course, one last, critical step, getting rid of that stupid little journal, regardless of how sad it made you feel.

It has all these cute little tidbits about him, things you like to read over when insomnia grips you in its capricious hold. Some dry joke he muttered to his Scottish sergeant, the way he drinks his tea, a little too detailed description of his lips and jawline the times he lifts his mask to eat at the mess hall. Even a few amateur sketches. And of course, generous amounts of waxing lyrical about his forearms and thighs while he's working out at the gym. Bloody embarrassing.

So the next time you find a chance to finally breathe, you reach for your pillow, flipping the sad little sack over to reveal the incriminating piece of evidence, armed with a pair of cheap scissors. Only for your heart to drop to your stomach at terminal velocity when you find nothing beneath. Your right hand helplessly clutches the scissors while your left pats the bed as if doing so would conjure up the well-loved journal out of thin air. Did you misplace it somewhere yourself? Or were your mates being little shits, snooping around like rats for a practical joke, and accidentally discovered the little paperback? If so, fuck them--you won't be living this down. If not get outright in a little hot water were a senior with a stick up their ass gets word of it. The worst outcome of course would be if Simon Riley himself was to somehow learn of this too, the cherry on top of a shit cake.

You force yourself to take a few calming breaths--if nothing, your stint in the military at least taught you this much. It's okay--you'll just have to check every spot you frequent and cross them off your list. At this hour, the juniors will at least be out of your way with their curfew. Silver lining and all that.

_

Except, by the time you make a whole damn lap of the base and come full circle, you're tired to your bones and miserable beyond words. Because no amount of keeping calm and carrying on is helping you when you can't see skin nor hide of your purple prosed diary.

Leaning your forehead against the door of your room, you sigh in defeat, the rattling of your heart loud in your ears in the silence of the hallway. Everyone else seems to be asleep at least, missing out on being an audience to your soap opera.

"Fucking hell..."

Just as another quiet string of expletives leaves your mouth, in what's like the blink of an eye, you feel the presence of a looming figure, causing you to whip around in defense, fists locked, ready to fight.

Except when you have to crane your neck to meet the person's gaze, you already know who it is before you, standing so close, his hulking mass invading your space with the casualness of an aloof cat. Your hands drop uselessly the moment you are pinned beneath his gaze, pressing yourself up against the door in a bid to create some breathing space.

"Lookin' for somethin', love?" Simon Riley gruffly asks with a tilt of his head, placing his hand against the wall next to your head. His very first words to you. Your head almost goes blank.

"Uh," you avert your eyes, voice hitching, "N-No? I'm not sure what you're talking about, LT-sir."

"Is that right, soldier," he more so states, leaning in ever closer, cutting off your viewpoint of anything besides himself. "Been watchin' ya."

You balk at the matter of fact statement.

"Watching... me?" you grimace.

Riley merely grunts, before adding, "Got myself a cute little stalker, ain't I?"

All you can do is impersonate a dying fish as you stare up at him in abject horror, overworking heart beating out of your chest.

"Not seen you down the gym in a bit. Or in the mess," he stops for a moment, as if remembering something, "Or the shootin' range."

"Again, I have no idea what you're implying here, sir," you quickly lick your dry lips and decide to stare at his broad chest with great interest instead, propriety be damned.

"Let's not play dumb, love. You're a smart girl," Simon huffs, almost as if holding back one of those dry laughs, "You like me?"

This time you can't restrain the soft gasp you let out as you jerk up at his frank question.

"What...?" you faintly ask, stomach churning.

"Do you like me?" He enunciates his words this time, as if that was the core of the issue. The corners of his eyes crinkle with what looks to be amusement. His brown eyes almost look welcoming. Like home. Like a warm hearth in the dead of winter.

Of course you like him.

You like him so damn much you don't know what you should do with these feelings. And you do want to be frank, just like he's encouraging you to be. But you're equally terrified of verbally confirming what you've been up to, straight to the man himself. You can't help but want that layer of plausible deniability.

"You," Simon leans down further as if that's somehow possible, with how he's hovering over you, mere centimeters away, "like your egg banjos wi' a daft amount o' raw onion. Listen to the same three songs when you're workin' out," he tilts his head, thoughtful. "Like sneakin' off to that cat shelter when you're off-duty. Even helped 'em name one of the kitties after me."

By this point, you'd qualify as a mute. You feel lightheaded even.

"Want me to carry on, love? Or shall we just sort a proper date instead?" he sniffs, looking a touch bemused. "You got a few things wrong about me in that little journal o' yours. I'll be settin' those straight, don't you worry."

[anangelwhodidntfall]

imagine your ex-boyfriend being so annoying, spamming your phone, and randomly showing up at your apartment, begging you to give him yet another chance.

at first, you felt pity for the guy.

even thought of letting him in a couple of times.

you didn't, but the guilt that gnawed at your throat nearly became too much to bare.

your hand drifted eerily close to the handle as you heard his pleas through your door.

the only thing that made you come back to reality was the pounding of a broom stick on the floor beneath, shouting for the man to shut the fuck up.

that was some days ago, but now, instead of feeling pity or guilt, you’re starting to feel just plain creeped out.

scared he might act on impulse and break into your apartment in the depths of the night.

you're sleeping has taken a plummet, even with a knife by your bed, nothing seems to coax you into relaxation.

that is, until you have the brilliant idea to go next door to your tall, scary, military neighbor, who goes by simon.

you don't know his last name; hell you barely knew his first.

the only reason you knew it was because you heard some girl he brought home moan it through your thin connecting walls.

you felt guilty as you pulled out your small vibrator, goading your sweet release as you heard him groan and curse with every harsh thrust.

even the guilt that swirled in your stomach couldn’t take away the guttural effects he was having on your body, even from so far away.

you ducked your head, avoiding his gaze from then on, until one day, while having trouble unlocking your apartment door, he trudged to your door after examining you for a moment, gently scooting you away and fixing it right before your eyes.

you claimed he was a magician.

he chuckled, deep and gruff, before his name fell off his tongue in greeting, making your thighs clench together.

you hurriedly introduced yourself, before rushing into your apartment, shutting the door behind you, and sinking onto the ground with a deep sigh and hot skin.

pathetic, really.

but, he didn't mind.

he thought you were cute—odd but cute—and you brought him cookies the next day as a thank you, so how could he think ill of you?

so if anyone could help you, it was simon.

“hey, neighbor,” you greet him when he opens the door. he is wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants.

he nods towards you. “hello.”

you smile brightly at him, somewhat forgetting your dilemma.

he tilts his head to the side, quipping a brow. “any particular reason you’re here?” he asks, voice rough as always.

you rock on your heels, fidgeting with your fingers. “i need your help.”

he leans against the doorframe. “go on.”

“i’m sure you’ve heard that guy that comes around,” you start, watching his squinted eyes.

“who hasn’t? that bastard is always here,” he says gruffly.

“he’s my ex,” you admit, cringing.

simon stiffens, eyes opening wider slightly.

“he’s, uh… become an issue. he won’t leave me alone, and i’m scared he’s going to break into my apartment while i’m sleeping,” you say, shaking your head, the tension in your voice evident.

“he’s not going to do that,” he shrugs.

your eyes widen at his dismissal, feeling slightly hurt. “how do you know?”

he turns to grab a backpack off a hook beside him. “because i’ll be there. won’t let him through the door,” he casually mutters as he steps out of his apartment, closing it behind him.

you feel a flutter in your stomach at his taking on the role of your protector so quickly—no enticement necessary.

“i really appreciate it, simon.” your voice is full of gratitude.

“don’t mention it, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, heading towards your door. “key?” he asks, reaching for your painted key hanging around your neck.

you hurriedly lean forward, mind completely fogging at the endearment.

his lip quips as he tugs the key up and over your head to unlock the door.

once he unlocks the door, he pushes the door wide open, stepping aside for you to go in first.

“and they say chivalry is dead,” you can’t help but joke as you slip in, a teasing glint in your eye.

he matches your humorous smile with one of his own. “do they? hadn’t heard that,” he murmurs, closing the door as he steps in.

you spin your head away from his gaze, opting to stare at a lonesome flower pot with a dumb grin on your face.

the next two hours are spent lazing until you find yourself on the cushion right next to simon on the couch as he occasionally glanced at the door, while you picked and prodded at reality show stars on the television screen.

But you and simon both stiffen when you hear the familiar hard knock on the front door, followed by a strained male voice pleading.

you look at simon who's already stalking over to the door; you uncross your legs and walk behind him.

with annoyance, simon pulls open the door, and you see your ex’s face whiten and his body sag at the sight. “can we help you?” simon gruffs, cocking a brow at his pathetic demeanor.

your ex stammers, stumbling over his words as he looks between you and simon. “who the fuck are you?” your ex demands, though not daring to try and overpower simon because simon easily has fifty pounds and eight inches over him.

simon crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging bigger as he does so. “you should lose this address,” he urges, voice so gruff and commanding it sends shivers down your spine. “i don’t take too kindly to guys stalking my girlfriend,” he says with an ease that makes you lick your drying lips.

“girlfriend?” your ex chokes out, unable to comprehend what he is hearing.

“that’s what i said, isn’t it?” simon almost sounds disinterested.

your ex’s eyes wander to you. “you're dating this guy?” he almost sounds hurt.

you shift under his gaze, feeling awkward.

“don't talk to her. talk to me,” simon interjected, feeling your unease.

“you can’t—you aren’t dating,” your ex begins, narrowing his eyes. “you’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?” there is venom behind his words that pisses simon off.

simon’s lips flatline, and just as you go to speak, simon turns his head, hand coming to cup your jaw to kiss you deeply, possessively.

your ex releases a short breath as the sight.

simon’s tongue moves across to skim your teeth, making you whine into his mouth, as his fingers tangle in your hair for deeper contact.

you release a shallow whimper of protest as simon pulls back, enjoying the sight of your ex so shell-shocked.

simon tilts his head forward, looking into his eyes intently. “this is my girl, and if i find out you’ve been botherin’ her, i’ll make you a dead man. you hear me?” his voice is so lethal it makes you squirm, but in a completely different way than your ex.

your ex’s eyes look like saucers as he nods his head fervently.

“good choice. now leave,” simon instructs.

without another word, your ex spins on his heels, looking like a hurt lamb as he leaves the complex.

simon lets out a dry laugh as he shuts the door behind him.

“thank you,” you murmur.

he gives you a brief smile, gesturing for you to sit back on the couch. you both go back to lazing around, now watching some cooking show you put on.

later that night, he insisted on setting up shop in your living room for the night… or just the next two!

it’s really not a big deal.

he just wouldn’t be able to continue on if something happened to his cute neighbor!

that’s all.

you’re so sweet and still shaken up by the interaction that you let him stay the night.

…and the next one.

…and the one after that.

you’re starting to think he never really counted on staying just one night.

you don’t say anything, but after the second week passes and simon is still around, you find yourself reeling as you start to see his socks and shirts tucked nicely in your drawers.

his coffee mug now kisses yours in the cabinet, and some magnets of the countries he’s visited cling to the fridge.

there isn’t a crevice in your apartment that simon hasn’t explored, or left a piece of himself in.

you should have known better than to invite simon into the same place he had fantasized about for the past six months.

the very place where he listened to your sweet moans, so loud, so tempting.

every. single. night.

he kicked his friends out of his place every time he heard your vibrator start up, so that they couldn’t listen to your breathy whines and so he could sneak away to his room, where your thin walls meet, to tug away at his cock imagining it was you stroking him until he came all over his hand and sheets.

such a sweet girl, you are.

letting a dog into your home to roam free, unaware of the way he watched you with a slobbering tongue and a primal hunger.

oh, sweetheart, you never stood a chance.

[anangelwhodidntfall]

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Megan Thee Stallion on Love Island USA S7.

[anangelwhodidntfall]

So we just bombed Iran without Congress approval.

Cool, cool, cool…. 🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Thank you for the screams, Tony Todd. 😔 And the scares. 😏

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Ghost never talks about his home life. He never tells anyone anything. Not even Soap knows what goes on in Ghost's house. He knows that Ghost comes to bars. That he comes to work. But between the work and boys' night, nobody knows anything about him.

That is until Ghost has a little too much to drink one night and can't drive himself home. Soap had been the DD that night, so he asks Ghost for his address. Ghost reluctantly gives it to him after a few minutes of badgering and begging. The drive to Ghost's little townhouse near the base is peaceful.

The first thing Soap notices is that the lights are on. The second thing he notices is the flower bed by the pathway to the door. As Soap helps Ghost out of the passenger seat, he finds himself staring at the flowers. "When did you become a gardener, mate?" Soap asks.

"Huh- wot?" Ghost slurs.

"The flowers, Simon," he clarifies.

"Oh, the old lady planted them," replies Ghost, stumbling over a decorative brick. The brick shatters and crushes the flowers nearby. Soap tucks himself under Ghost's arm, supporting his weight as much as possible.

"The old lady, eh? Like a... neighbor or somethin'?" Soap prods.

He shakes his head. "No, no, my girl."

"What." Soap's jaw drops. He's standing at Ghost's door, hand on the knocker, but he finds himself unable to move. "You have a bird?"

"She ain't a bird," Ghost grumbles, swaying where he stands.

Soap finally manages to get himself to knock on the door, still holding Ghost up like a crutch. Sure enough, a pretty little thing answers the door in a nightgown.

You see Simon with his mask half-on and a stranger with a mohawk supporting him. You assume the mohawk man is one of the mates he goes to the bar with on Fridays. Simon must've had a bit too much tonight because usually he drives himself home when he's sobered up.

"Um, hello," you say tentatively.

"Hi, angel," Simon slurs at you.

"Hush, you're too drunk to call me an angel," you scold. "How much did he have to drink?"

"My name's Johnny, by the way," the man says, surprisingly Scottish. "I'm not sure. Four or five pints? A couple shots? The footie game was tonight and we got a wee bit excited."

"Oh, he's gonna be so hungover and cranky tomorrow," you mutter. "Come inside, Johnny. Help me get him to the couch."

"Not the bed?" Simon whines.

"You're in trouble, mister," you reply curtly.

Johnny spins around in the living room of your house like he's visiting a museum. He clearly didn't expect a house so cottage-y from a man like Simon. Paintings of flowers hang on the walls. A throw blanket and two pillows are on each couch. A TV is mounted to the wall over a short bookcase.

"This is right beautiful, mate," Johnny chuckles.

"She decorated it!" Simon replies proudly. "It's somethin' special, innit?"

"Shut it. Still in trouble for crushing my flowers and coming home pissfaced," you snap. "Johnny, welcome to our home. Simon will still be here in the morning if you want to check on him."

"I didn't know Ghost had a girlfriend," he whispers.

"Girlfriend?! I'm his fiancée! He didn't tell you about me?" you scoff. "Simon, you are in so much trouble!"

"Fiancée," Johnny breathes. "I didn't think it possible."

[anangelwhodidntfall]

MEGAN THEE STALLION via TikTok

[anangelwhodidntfall]

simon doesn’t use his phone much. and he definitely doesn’t use it to take photos of himself. but you’ve begged him for photos. he’ll text you what he’s up to, and you always respond “let me see!” he finally caves and does what you say, though he won’t lie, it embarrasses him a little bit. and then one day, after he’s done showering, he sends you a quick mirror pic, his chest bare and damp, sweatpants low on his waist, with the text “just finished showering.” you hadn’t even asked this time, he just figured when he told you, you’d plead for a photo, so he was just saving time. and when you respond with how badly that made you need him, he comes to the conclusion that maybe sending you photos isn’t so bad.

[anangelwhodidntfall]

jealous!lieutenant riley makes brain go brrr

warnings : suggestive content, filthy mouthed simon & a molecule of praise

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jealous!lieutenant riley who nearly cracks a molar when laswell teams you and kyle up for an upcoming mission.

jealous!lieutenant riley whose fingers twitch towards his gun when she mentions you’ll have to act as a married couple.

jealous!lieutenant riley who, for the entire week leading up to the gala, barks at rookies nine hours a day and spends his evenings at the shooting range—allegedly imagining someone very real as the target.

jealous!lieutenant riley whose mouth goes bone dry when he sees you wrapped in an expensive floor-length chiffon dress that accentuates every gentle dip and feminine curve and—fuck but he’s half-hard already.

jealous!lieutenant riley whose eyes stay glued to you the entire evening, his thoughts straying much further than his simple assignment of guarding your six.

jealous!lieutenant riley who, the second the base’s gravel crunches under the slowing tires of the car, is wrapping a burly arm around the slope of your waist while actively glaring at the diamond on your finger.

jealous!lieutenant riley who backs you up against his quarters’ door, his amber eyes burning like molten lava as they rove the length of your legs in a slow trail upwards.

jealous!lieutenant riley who finally claims your mouth, glides his hot tongue against yours, nips your neck and kisses your shoulders—all while he slides the subtly glittering gown off, exposing more and more of your soft skin to his hungry gaze.

jealous!lieutenant riley who lays you out on his bed—your nimble hands fisting his sheets, your silky hair in a halo on his pillow, and your pretty legs hiked onto his shoulders as he lowers himself between the plush of your thighs.

jealous!lieutenant riley who only drifts back up once he’s had his fill, chin glistening from your slick and pupils almost swallowing all the bronze of his irises.

jealous!lieutenant riley who lines himself up with your puffy entrance, bracing his tattooed forearms on each side of your head as his fingers slip into your silky hair.

jealous!lieutenant riley who kisses your dampened forehead, before letting his stubbly cheek rasp against your blushing one, his hot breath bleeding into a drawl at your ear.

“'m goin’ to fuck that ring right off of you, dove. now spread y’legs and be a good girl f’me.”