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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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Pretty Faces Don’t Bleed, Right?

Part 1 ; Part 2

Gaz wasn’t supposed to be in that room. The back storeroom of the safehouse was half-collapsed, roof leaking onto cracked tile, boxes molded shut with time. But he’d gone digging anyway, looking for something—anything—to keep his hands busy and his head quiet. That’s when he found it.

The magazine. Glossy, crumpled at the edges, but unmistakable.

His own face on the cover.

Kyle Garrick, age eighteen. Skin like warm copper under studio lights, collarbone sharp, jaw clean, lips parted. Shirtless. Smiling.

That pose. That expression. Fuck.

He sat down hard on a crate and stared. Time collapsed into itself.

He remembered the shoot. Remembered being half-starved for the cut, trembling in the cold, the photographer telling him to “soften” his jaw, to think about something sweet. He remembered doing what he was told because he’d been told that was the price of being seen. Being wanted.

He thought joining the army would change that. Strip all that shit away—wipe the gloss off and give him something real. A chance to be more than a pretty picture. But all it had done was swap one set of dismissals for another.

At least as a model, people looked at him.

In uniform, they looked through him.

Gaz ran a hand down his face, the same one that had once gotten him hired, signed to a minor agency, paraded in and out of cramped studios and rooftop shoots and train station adverts. He was the guy people recognized in passing. “Hey, weren’t you in that fragrance ad?”

But once he enlisted, that face was just a liability. Too soft. Too clean. It got him nicknames behind his back, catcalls from fellow grunts, lectures from superiors telling him he didn’t “look serious enough.”

He stopped modeling. Stopped smiling in photos. Shaved his hair shorter. Lowered his voice.

He earned his rank. Worked his way into the 141 with bruised knuckles and sleepless nights, learned to hold his own under fire, learned to shut the fuck up and survive.

But no matter how many rounds he clocked or how many kills he chalked, they still looked at him like the pretty one. The harmless one.

Even Soap. Even Ghost.

Especially Ghost.

He snapped the magazine shut and jammed it back into the box, like burying a corpse.

What stung more than the memory was the suspicion curling in his gut: one of them had put it there.

It was too deliberate. Too cruel. Ghost didn’t even read, Soap barely sat still long enough to wipe his own ass, let alone flip through old junk. And yet… the magazine had been pristine. No dust. Like someone had pulled it out just for him to find.

He stood, blood hot and thick behind his eyes. His mouth tasted like ash.

Were they mocking him?

Was it some kind of joke? A shared laugh behind his back? “Look at Gaz, used to be a pin-up, now he’s playing at being a soldier.”

He stormed out of the room without a word.

Soap looked up when he passed. There was something strange in his expression. Not smug—soft. Like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Gaz didn’t give him the chance.

He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want attention. He wanted to be seen—the real him, the one who bled and fought and fucking earned his place here.

But all they ever saw was the cover boy.

And maybe that’s all he was ever good for.

He watched it happen from the shadows.

Gaz disappeared into the back room just after chow. Ghost didn’t follow. He didn’t need to. He already knew what was in there.

He’d left it on purpose.

A single copy, face up on the crate, not too buried, not too clean. Just visible enough.

It wasn’t spite. It wasn’t a joke. He didn’t want to humiliate him.

But he needed him to know—someone remembered.

Not the soldier. Not the sergeant. The boy. The burning beauty Gaz had tried to torch out of himself and bury beneath grit and discipline.

And Ghost had mourned it. Not because it was gone—because it had never been loved right.

Ghost took a slow drag from his cigarette, the cherry burning down to the filter. He didn’t blink as he heard the magazine snap shut behind the wall.

Anger came off Gaz like heat. It was expected. Ghost could taste the betrayal on him like iron in the air.

He hadn’t understood. Not yet.

Ghost never thought he would.

He couldn’t admit that he’d gone looking for those magazines years ago, fingers shaking with guilt and lust in equal measure as he pulled them from obscure classifieds and dusty market bins. He’d tracked down every one like an addict, devoured them like a starving man. Not to laugh. Not to mock.

But to see him.

See him the way the world once had. The way Ghost wasn’t allowed to.

Not from his place in the shadows. Not as a killer. Not with the kind of hands that could only touch through gloves and death.

He’d spent a decade telling himself that longing made him weak. That desire was a luxury for the living. That his body was a tool and nothing more—and so were his feelings.

He thought he’d buried that part of himself ages ago.

The part that wanted. The part that yearned.

He’d ripped it out with his own hands, back when names still hurt and innocence was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He’d watched it die in blood and fire. Left it behind in a shallow grave alongside a brother, a mother, a boy he used to be.

But it hadn’t stayed dead.

Not when he met Johnny—loud, reckless, alive. That fucking smile. That accent like thunder and smoke. A walking contradiction of brutal efficiency and tender chaos. Ghost had tried to hate him for it. Had told himself Johnny was a liability. Too soft. Too loud. Too dangerous to need.

But he needed him anyway.

And Kyle—fuck, Kyle—he was the opposite. Steady. Golden. A still flame Ghost kept trying to press his fingers to, even though it burned every time. Kyle didn’t even know the kind of power he held, and Ghost resented him for that. For being effortless. For being good.

For being beautiful and never noticing how often Ghost watched him.

It wasn’t just lust. Not anymore. Lust was fast. Sharp. Selfish.

This was different. This was ruinous.

He loved them.

God, he loved them.

So much it made him sick. So much it made him human.

And he hated that.

Because Ghost didn’t get to love. Simon Riley might have. But Simon Riley was long dead. What was left was a shell—a killer with a skull for a face and silence for a soul. Men like him weren’t meant for softness. They were meant to bleed and bury.

But—

But sometimes—

When he heard Soap laughing three doors down, when he caught the flicker of Kyle’s lashes in the morning light—

Sometimes, he thought…

Maybe that part of him never died at all.

Maybe it was just sleeping. Waiting.

Waiting for someone to see him. To reach down into the hole where his heart used to be and find something worth keeping.

Waiting for them.

He looked down at his gloved hand, flexing it as if there were blood in it. As if something still pulsed there.

Maybe love was the only thing about him that was still alive.

And maybe—just maybe—that terrified him more than anything else.

The safehouse walls were too thin. Too much space to think.

Soap sat on the edge of his bunk, boots still on, like he might get up and run at any moment.

He always ran.

Not just from feelings, but from expectation. The suffocating kind that stuck to your ribs like wet wool.

His da had been the kind of man who measured worth by silence and scars. His mum asked too little but wanted too much—wanted him to be okay, to be kind, to be everything his da wasn’t, and Johnny had spent years trying to fill that space with perfect behavior, neat lines, top scores, a fucking charming smile. Even his rebellion was calculated, perfectly styled Mohawk, perfectly manicured black nails.

But it was never enough. Not really.

Because there was always more to prove. More to carry. More to fix.

⸻

Flashback – Age 14

He came home with a black eye and a cracked tooth.

“Did you win?” his father asked—gruff, but not unkind. That was as close to concern as the man ever got.

Johnny nodded. Lied.

He hadn’t won. Hadn’t even come close. He’d jumped into a fight that wasn’t his, fists flying to protect a younger lad cornered behind the school. Three boys older than him, bigger. They beat him bloody while the kid slipped away.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a beating.

His da clapped him on the back like a coach after a hard game and said, “That’s my lad.”

Pride. Approval. That rare flicker of warmth in the man’s eyes was worth more than the truth. So Johnny smiled, lips split and teeth aching, and took it.

His mum didn’t say much. Just sat him at the sink and soaked a rag in warm water. She dabbed at the dried blood with hands gentler than he thought he deserved.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” she whispered, voice barely above the drip of the tap.

But Johnny already believed he did.

Because someone had to be.

That night he lay awake in bed, every bruise throbbing to the rhythm of his heartbeat. The pain was grounding. Reassuring, even. It meant he was still here. Still solid.

The next morning, he walked to school with his shoulders squared and jaw tight, even as the scabs pulled when he smiled. He didn’t cry. He didn’t flinch.

The whispers followed him down the halls—“idiot,” “show-off,” “white knight.” No one remembered the boy he defended. But they remembered Johnny.

He made sure of it.

⸻

Present

Ghost’s gaze had cut clean through him. Not just about the magazine. About the truth.

That Johnny McTavish didn’t know how to be held.

Because if someone reached for him, he’d flinch. If someone needed him, he’d fail. And if someone loved him…

He’d break them.

Better to leave first. Better to make it a joke. Better to bolt.

But now, there was Gaz. Kind, shy, beautiful Gaz, too competent to be underestimated and too stunning to be taken seriously. And Ghost, distant and watchful, the only one Johnny had ever met who could look straight through him and not look away.

They didn’t ask him to be perfect.

They just looked at him.

And for the first time in his life, Johnny didn’t want to run.

But he didn’t know how to stay either.

#ohhh my heart…….#it aches for them all……..#gaz #soap #ghost

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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unnervingly domestic

the first time simon invites you to watch one of his rugby matches.

cw: there is use of a tracking app (think Find My Friends or Life360) which I intend as being used consensually, but it's ambiguous enough that it might read as unconsensual tracking.

platonic!simon 'ghost' riley + reader

(this idea was inspired the wonderful ghoap (+konig, in a really interesting way) fic "Empty Hands and Empty Rooms" (link to ao3) and this lovely price/nik fic by on-a-lucky-tide (link to tumblr, i don't want to @ people at random) (me, personally, i know nothing about rugby)

[masterlist]

When Simon isn’t on deployment, two evenings of his week are dedicated to rugby practice. You look after Luna while he's out, and, nowadays, you also make sure he has something warm and filling to eat when he gets home. On match days–often a Saturday–he's up and gone before you wake up, the only evidence of him a portion of breakfast left at your spot on the kitchen table.

Going to watch him had never really crossed your mind–nothing against rugby, you just often preferred to sleep in a little longer than dawn on the weekend–not until Simon brings it up.

One Friday evening, you’re lying flat on the rug in the living room, staring at the ceiling. Simon’s history podcast is a low drone as it plays in the background.

“Match day tomorrow,” he says.

“‘sposed to be good weather for it.”

“Mmh,” Simon hums. “You comin’?”

You crane your neck up to look at him. It’s not the first time he’s semi-invited you somewhere, but it’s the first time you’ve heard any uncertainty in it–and you realise he’s worried. He's holding his hand out, and he's unsure if you'll take this invitation further into his life. You have a split-second to grab it before he takes it back.

You let your head hit the rug again, smile spread wide. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

A misty drizzle is setting in as you and Luna make it onto the common–cold and damp enough to make you glad that you’d grabbed coats for the both of you before you left. The dark of morning is still hanging on, but thanks to the beam of a floodlight, you spot John and Kyle huddled together at the edge of the pitch. You’re not quite sure whether or not to join them until, thankfully, Kyle spots you and calls over.

“Hey, good to see you,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug before crouching down to greet your companion. “And my Looney Tune! Missed you, little Lulu.”

John rolls his eyes affectionately, pulling you into a quick one armed hug before he’s offering you tea from the thermos he’s holding in the other hand. “‘s got that milk you like,” he promises. You take it thankfully, and savour it as much for the warmth it gives your fingers as the warmth it gives your stomach.

The three of you chat for a while, John and Kyle even introduce some of the other onlookers to you. Before you know it, the players start filtering onto the pitch—but someone's missing.

“Could Johnny not make it?” you ask.

“Oh, just you wait,” Kyle says, chuckling to himself.

Simon is easy enough to spot when he wanders onto the pitch, though for once it’s his shock of blonde hair rather than his stature that sets him apart. He’s wearing the red uniform that constantly deposits mud into your washing machine, and from the state of the pitch, it's destined to do it again.

It takes a moment for the dots to connect when the other team come jogging on, but when it does, you can't help but laugh. Johnny and his beaming smile are proudly clad in a contrasting—or complimentary—green. He waves excitedly when he sees you.

“They’re on opposing teams?!”

John chuckles. “Ever since they took it up.”

“Wh–but–so who do you guys cheer for?”

“It’s my turn to be Simon’s cheerleader,” Kyle says, and he gives a loud whoop when the action begins on the field. “I’ve got a good feeling, too, his team’re normally better in the rain.”

John shakes his head. “Johnny’s gonna win this time. He’s been benched from fieldwork for a while–he’s just begging to let out all ‘o that energy.”

“That’s why Si’s gonna win,” Kyle argues, “Johnny’s head isn’t in it, strategy-wise—”

The pair bicker good-naturedly beside you for a while, every now and then punctuated by a whoop or a flinch. You’re just trying to make sense of the scuffle you’re watching.

It’s easy enough to see what their strengths are, at least. Johnny runs like a wild thing, nimble as he is strong, shrugging off most attempts at blocking like a duck shaking off water. Simon seems to be the only one who can break his stride, unafraid to take the full force of him in blocks and tackles. But Johnny’s like an eel today, squirming out of his hold time after time, back on his feet before you can blink.

In the end, Johnny's team wins. (Kyle grumbles. John smiles smugly.) Johnny’s celebration takes the form of a running leap into Simon’s arms—you whoop and whistle along with the rest of the onlookers. Johnny peppers Simon’s face with kisses, and Simon dutifully holds him up by the thighs until he decides it's time to run a celebration lap around the field.

Their teams look on fondly, before shaking hands and slapping each other on the back.

When they’re freshly changed—and, you hope, showered—Simon and Johnny head straight over to your little group.

“Glad you made it,” Simon says.

“Wasn’t much on the telly,” you tease, laughing when he gives you a light punch on the shoulder.

Johnny pulls you into a bear hug so tight you nearly drop Luna’s leash. “‘d you enjoy it, wee yin?”

“It was great! I’ve not a fucking clue what you were doing, but it looked fun. Luna wanted to join in a couple of times.”

“Poor Lulu,” Johnny whines, kneeling down to fuss her. “We were taunting ye with a great big game o’ catch that ye couldnae join, weren’t we? Pure evil o’ us, really…”

Simon nudges you. “You comin’ to the pub? First rounds on me, fer my sins.”

“Don’t think I will today, sorry. This was about my limit for the day.”

“Don’ apologise,” Simon says instinctively. “You’ll come when yer ready, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him. “You want me to take Luna home with me?”

Johnny makes a pitiful noise from the ground. When you and Simon look at him, he’s putting on his best puppy-dog eyes, ruffling Luna’s collar as he does.

“Suppose that answers my question.”

In front of Simon sits a cider, weeping condensation onto a beermat, and his phone, open to the app he uses to track you. He’s been watching your dot move steadily closer to home since you’d parted ways.

He doesn’t take a sip until your dot is safely at home.

#platonic ghost x reader #platonic simon riley x reader #platonic 141 x reader #unnervingly domestic #right yapping time. supporting simon at his therapy mandated rugby matches!!!! in my head his therapist p much ordered him to join a sport #uhh when is this based. sort of mid friendship blooming i guess?#yeah i would say it's very much a part of simons healing. i just realised theres a lot of this universe that is just in my head #like it wont ever make it into a fic probably its just. headcanons? anyway!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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unnervingly domestic

you decide that simon needs a break--both of you do. left to his own devices he'll never book a holiday, but that doesn't mean you can't do it in his stead.

platonic!simon 'ghost' riley + reader

[masterlist]

“We’re going on holiday.”

“Don’t have a passport,” Simon immediately counters. He doesn’t even bother to look up from his crossword.

You grin, wide and triumphant. “Don’t need one–no passport control to get into Wales. Yet.”

“Can’t take Luna.”

“Sure we can,” you say, sliding some print-offs towards him. “Self-catering cottage, dog-friendly, middle of nowhere–closest neighbour is four miles away–surrounded by woodland, and, did I mention it can house up to 6?”

He finally tears his eyes away from his crossword to look up at you. You look like a proud cat, having dropped the papers at his feet like a mouse–he can practically see your tail swishing. He picks them up, shuffles through them while you watch, twitchy with excitement. Eventually, he nods.

“Alright. We’ll pay our share, but we'll have to–”

“We’ll use my card,” you interrupt, pre-empting his worry. “Book in my name, use fake ones for you guys if the owner asks–”

He nods again, slowly.

“I’ll talk to John. He’s always bugging me about taking time off–‘t’ll be funny to call his bluff this time.”

You try to restrain your triumphant 'yes!', but Luna still startles on the sofa.

“Thanks. For,” he gestures broadly at the scene in front of you, “this.”

You take in what he means: John meditatively tending the firepit, Kyle and Johnny dripping with lake water and bickering about who gets to shower first, Luna stretched languidly on a little blanket, dozing close to the warmth of the fire. The forest stretches out behind it all, lush and quiet for miles, bathed in the warm violet light of the sunset. The cottage you’re in is the only break in the natural beauty of it all, but it’s old and weathered in a way that makes it feel a part of the landscape. Standing here, you feel a part of it, too.

It’s a perfect place for these men to lay down their burden for a while, and you smile to yourself with satisfaction. When you turn to look at Simon, he’s smiling too, his eyes something soft and loving. The look of a man happily surrounded by family.

“You’re welcome, Si. Always. Might even try and make it happen again next year, eh?”

He pulls you in for a side hug, his hand warm and strong against your neck. And it’s funny–you know he’s in the military, that he literally gets paid for his violence–but you never fear his touch. Even when he’s pulling you by the side of your neck, you know his arm is going to slide down to your shoulder.

You know you’re safe.

#platonic ghost x reader #platonic simon riley x reader #unnervingly domestic #this one is very small... the next one... much longer for some reason #this one is liable to get edited... something is Bothering Me....#i was asking myself why im writing these recently and i think the answer is: it comforts me a little and i hope it comforts others too #ANYWAY. enough of my yapping in the tags

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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Ghost x Fem!Reader x Gaz

The Original Thought

Warnings: SMUT. MDNI. Consensual non-consent (CNC). A tiny bit of angst? Barely proofread. Fem!Reader. GhostGaz implied at the end teehee

“Wha’s go’ yer knickers in a twist, LT?” Johnny cocks an eyebrow, kicking his superior’s leg teasingly.

“Watch ya mouth, sergeant,” the lieutenant rolls his eyes, slumping further into his chair.

The 141 has had somewhat of a lazy work day. They all did a half-assed job at PT this morning, took off an entire hour off of gym time, and convinced Price that it’s an off day, and if they were all to go to the range, someone would get shot. The captain, of course, would never turn down a chance to skip duty in favor of smoking a nice cigar with his lads while they each have a tea (or coffee for a certain Scottish snob) in the rec room.

“C’mon, Simon. Keep squeezin’ tha’ mug so ‘ard, it’ll break,” Price smirks through a puff of pungent smoke. “Summat goin’ on w’the missus?”

His silence is telling.

“Spill it, Ghost. Go’ a few more minutes ‘fore we’re off,” Kyle makes a grand gesture of resting his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands.

“Oi, qui’ swingin’ ya legs, Gaz, can see the hearts in ya eyes,” the masked man grunts. “We’re jus’ goin’ through a bi’ of a… dry spell.”

The other three men all nod with a collective ohhh, like he’s just given them the answer to the last part of a crossword puzzle. Ghost rolls his eyes yet again, crossing his arms over his broad chest in a frustrated motion.

“Lass is ‘oldin’ back the goods, aye?” Johnny pouts mockingly. “If ye need tae ge’ yer cock wet-”

“Ya better think ‘fore ya finish tha’ sentence, MacTavish,” Price warns, pointing a stern finger at the Scot, whose pout instantly turns genuine.

“S’no’ her,” Ghost mutters. “S’my faul’. She’s been wantin’ t’try summat new, an’ I jus’ can’t do it f’er.”

“Why no’?” Questions Gaz, brow furrowed in curiosity.

“She wan’s t’be surprised w’it, rough and ‘ard, like a- like she’s bein’-”

“We go’ it, LT, ye dinnae ‘ave tae explain,” Johnny interjects, patting his mate on the shoulder.

Ghost nods, sucking in a deep breath.

“Was real proud tha’ she felt comfortable enough t’tell me, an’ I think it’s great tha’ she ‘as fantasies, bu’ I can’t stomach it. She’s no’ exactly mad, she knows why it makes me uncomfortable, and she won’t admit it bu’ I can tell she’s disappointed. Makes me feel like a shit ‘usband,” he admits sheepishly.

“Y’know tha’s not true,” Price tells him firmly. “Jus’ make sure she understands tha’ ya still love ‘er, and I’m sure it’ll go back to normal soon enough, lad.”

Five o’clock hits, and everyone stands immediately, eager to go home. Ghost barely makes it back to his truck before Gaz catches up to him, eyes narrowed with determination.

“Ghost!” He stops the huge man before he can get in his truck and drive away.

“Wha’?”

Gaz bites his bottom lip nervously, turning his ball cap backwards so he can see his superior better.

“A-abou’ ya wife. If she wan’s, I-I can-”

“No,” Ghost interrupts gruffly. “Absolutely no’. Ge’ outta my sight.”

“Sir, I didn’ even say anythin’ yet!”

“You’re no’ fuckin’ my wife, Kyle. M’no’ bloody incompetent,” the masked man climbs into his truck and starts the engine, turning to say something else only to find his sergeant gone.

Ghost whips his head around at the sound of the passenger-side door opening, sighing deeply as the younger man enters. Gaz buckles up and stares at him intently.

“Piss off outta my truck, Garrick.”

“C’mon, Simon! Ya bird needs it rough, an’ I’ve go’ some pen’ up frustration to release,” he pouts. “Maybe, once she gets it outta ‘er system, she’ll come runnin’ back t’ya an’ everythin’ goes back t’normal.”

The lieutenant looks at him long and hard before letting out a growl of frustration. Kyle straightens up, clutching onto the bottom of his seat for dear life as the older man backs out of his parking spot without so much as glancing at the backup camera.

“Been waitin’ f’this, ‘aven’t ya?”

“N-no sir!”

“Bullshit. Ya’ve wanted ‘er since I introduced ‘er t’the team,” Simon grumbles. “Ya gonna eat dinner w’us, charm ‘er real nice, and after ya leave I’ll bring the idea up t’er. If she looks even slightly uncomfortable during the meal, ya out. No exceptions.”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle tries not to show his excitement, but he can already feel all the blood in his brain trying to rush directly to his dick.

“Knobhead.”

“Thanks again for the meal, Mrs. Riley,” Kyle smiles with all of those pretty teeth, and it flusters you.

“O-oh, it’s no problem, Sergeant Garrick. I’m happy you enjoyed it,” you return his grin, smoothing out the wrinkles in your apron to give your hands something to do.

“Please, call me Kyle.”

“Go’ an early mornin’ tomorrow, Gaz,” Simon hints, stomping over to the front door and opening it quickly. “Good t’see ya, mate.”

“Simon, you drove him here.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he sighs defeatedly, grabbing his keys.

With a giggle, you give your husband a kiss on the lips and Kyle a hug. You busy yourself with cleaning up the kitchen while your husband drives his teammate back to base so he can take his own car home.

Simon doesn’t get back for another half an hour, and by then you’re already cozied up in bed with a book. He’s quiet, but not in his normal enigmatic way—his silence is contemplative. You frown and watch as he changes out of his clothes into a pair of pajamas. Usually he sleeps with nothing on, but ever since you brought up your little fantasy, he’s been… withdrawn. Protective over himself the same way he was when you met him. It sucks.

You don’t say anything when he climbs into bed, but you are pleasantly surprised when he scoots up close to you and wraps a burly arm around your shoulders. You lay your head back against him, shutting your eyes contentedly, afraid that the moment will be cut short if you make any wrong moves. Simon leans in to press his lips against your hair.

“Y’like Kyle?” He asks.

“Yeah, he’s sweet, baby. Didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him when we met at the banquet a few months ago,” you grin, saving your place in your novel and setting it aside.

Your husband hums, then sniffs once.

“Y’wanna fuck ‘im?”

“What?!” You ask incredulously, jolting out of his grasp in shock.

“D’ya wanna fuck Kyle?” He clarifies blankly.

“S-Simon, no, that didn’t even- when- what are you-”

“He wants t’fuck you,” Simon meets your eyes, but instead of seeing trepidation like you expected, there’s curiosity written along his features.

Now confusion pokes at you. He’s not angry, or asking this in a fit of jealous, accusational rage.

“Do… do you want me to fuck him?” You ask slowly, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“S’not up t’me, love. Told the team ‘bout our li’l… issue-”

“You told them-?!” You interrupt shrilly.

“-and Kyle’s fancied ya since the first time I brough’ ya ‘round,” Simon continues. “Says he’s willin’ t’do a, uh… a scene w’ya.”

Realization dawns on you, and it makes your heart sink. He wants a divorce, doesn’t he? Oh, fucking hell, you should have just kept your kinks to yourself. Now your own husband can’t even stand to be with you. He’s offering you up to his mates like some kind of prize horse.

“Si, I-I don’t… do- do you not want me anymore?” You gasp softly, chest heaving with looming panic. “God, please don’t leave me, Simon, I c-can’t live without you-”

“Fuck’s sake, lovie,” Simon cuts you off with a short huff, dragging you into his lap. “Fuckin’ course I still wan’ ya. I jus’ thought tha’ maybe if… if ya get ya fix from somewhere else, it won’t be as disappointing when I get like this.”

Oh. Is that what this is about? Is that why he hasn’t touched you for so fucking long?

“I’m not disappointed in you, Si. I know it’s difficult for you. The idea was out of my head the second you told me you weren’t interested,” you cup his face gently. “I don’t need nor want anybody else. I only want you.”

Simon makes love to you for the first time in weeks.

You thought that after everything went back to normal with Simon, the suggestion of getting with Kyle had left his head now that he knows you were never upset with him.

You were mistaken.

“He won’t shu’ up ‘bout it, y’know,” he grunts one night while the two of you snuggle up on the couch.

“Huh?”

“Kyle. Whinin’ my bloody ear off ‘bout no’ gettin’ t’fuck ya,” he snorts. “Wanker’s jus’ as bad as Johnny.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He hums in satisfaction, squeezing your waist gently. You bask in the comfortable silence for a good while.

“I think y’should do it.”

“Simon, don’t start,” you groan, but he shakes his head.

“No, listen t’me, sweet’eart. I know ya like ‘im. Could see it when he came o’er for dinner- ah, shh, I know you.” He presses a finger to your lips when you start to deny his accusations with a whine. “M’no’ mad ‘bout it. I know tha’ ya mine.”

“Yours,” you confirm, straddling him and pressing your forehead against his.

“Tha’s righ’. Jus’ sayin’, if ya still wanna try one o’those li’l fantasies o’yours… I support it. I trust ‘im. I trust you.”

“It’s… but what about you?” You frown, humming softly as his thumb traces over the column of your throat.

“I won’t be ‘ere, ‘least no’ physically, bu’ I’ll be watchin’ it all ‘appen.”

You’re obviously a bit confused by his statement and still hesitant, so Simon lightly squeezes your neck and pulls you in closer. His hot breath ghosts across your face, lips not quite close enough to touch but enough to make you crave his kiss. His free arm wraps around your waist and his hand grabs onto your hip, beckoning you forward and backward, effectively grinding your body against his.

“Still worried ‘bout me, sweet girl?” He whispers, chuckling at the miniscule nod you give him in response.

“Don’t want you to be left out,” you breathe.

“Mm, I won’t be. I’ll be back on the base, watchin’ tha’ pretty face through the cameras and rubbin’ my cock bloody raw.”

You gasp as he bucks his hips, his hard cock nudging against your clit perfectly through the dampening fabric between the two of you.

Simon Riley fucks you so good that night that you forget all about the conversation that took place right before.

The dryness of your throat wakes you up at two o’clock in the fucking morning. You never sleep well when your husband is away, and right now, Simon is somewhere you can only assume is far from your quaint little town, probably sleeping on the concrete floor of some cold, lifeless building in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t give you any details—all you’re certain of is that he’s been gone for two weeks now and you miss him like crazy.

With a raspy curse, you stand from the bed and shove the covers off of yourself, stepping into your slippers and shuffling down the stairs and into the kitchen. You don’t even bother to turn on a lamp or the overhead light, depending solely on the glow of the refrigerator door when you open it to grab the water pitcher. You grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it to the brim, chugging it down until you’re nearly panting, your lungs begging you to take a breath.

Something heavy hits the kitchen tile behind you, startling you. You whip your head around in the direction of the clutter but it’s too dark for your eyes to focus on anything. Still, they dart around cautiously despite the eerie silence that settles in your house.

You sigh—it’s early. Your brain is probably playing some cruel joke on you because you’re exhausted and your body knows that Simon isn’t here to protect you. You chug the rest of your water and replace the pitcher back into the fridge, trying to ignore the pounding of your heart now that there’s absolutely no light illuminating your surroundings. With a shaky exhale, you slowly pad your way to the stairs.

It’s not as easy to play off the sound of glass shattering as nothing but paranoia. Goosebumps rise along the expanse of your body as you book it up the stairs. Heavy footsteps trail behind you, right on your tail. You barely reach the bedroom before tears start running down your face. You lunge for your phone where it rests on the nightstand but before you can make contact, a gloved palm slides over your mouth and yanks you back into a hard, warm body. You let out a strangled sob.

“P-please, I’ll do anything, just please d-don’t hurt me,” you weep, words muffled against the stranger’s hand.

A deep, mocking chuckle rumbles through the chest pressed against your back. The person’s free hand travels up to your throat but instead of a warm touch, the cold sting of metal bites against your skin.

“Scream an’ I’ll slit this pretty throat.”

A scared whimper escapes you as you nod vigorously. The hand that was previously covering your mouth runs down your body, shamelessly groping at your soft tits through your flimsy nightgown. The intruder presses his lips to your ear, and you feel rough fabric scratch your skin. He’s wearing a mask, but this is not Simon. You’ve never despised your husband’s job so much more than you do at this very moment.

“Such a nice rack,” the man coos, pinching one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger and tugging. “Always wondered wha’ these tits would feel like in my ‘ands.”

“W-who are you?” You blubber.

“Shh, shh, shh… don’t worry ‘bout tha’, dove,” he tuts, lowering one strap of your nightie so that your shoulder is exposed.

Dove. You know that nickname. You know this man. It’s okay to let go, allow your body to fear because your brain knows it’s perfectly safe. Now, you can play the part and enjoy it.

“N-no, please don’t, my h-husband will be home soon,” you shudder when you feel the material of the mask rub against the delicate skin of your neck.

“Well, he’s no’ ‘ere now, is he?”

The intruder drags the sharp end of the knife down your chest, teasing your collarbones before hooking it in the hem of your nightgown. You gasp as the silk rips and ruins itself beneath the blade, falling to the floor uselessly. You stand before him naked as the day you were born, shivering from the cold and the knowledge that you’re now completely at his mercy.

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” he growls, removing his belt and binding your wrists together behind your back.

The man shoves you down so that your ass hits the edge of the bed. Beside you, he stabs the knife through your mattress, nearly nicking the skin of your thigh. You yelp, blinking up at him as he grabs your chin roughly. The fucker is wearing one of your husband’s infamous balaclavas, albeit without the attached skull.

“Gonna fuck these big tits o’yas,” he sniffs, rubbing his thumb across your pouty bottom lip. “An’ ya no’ gonna say a word ‘bout it, are ya?”

You shake your head.

“Tha’s a good girl,” he praises darkly, unbuckling his pants and allowing his hard cock to spring free. “Ge’ my dick nice an’ wet. I feel any teeth, ya gonna lose ya tongue.”

You lean forward to take him in your mouth, and he lets you suck the tip for a moment before pulling out and smacking your cheek with it. Your yelp only spurs him on. One gloved hand tangles into your hair as he shoves himself back into your mouth without mercy. He’s long, reaching the back of your throat with a single thrust.

“Mmph… if ya mouth is this fuckin’ warm, can’t imagine wha’ tha’ pussy’s gonna feel like,” he ponders, snickering at the gag you can’t hold back as his tip bruises your poor throat. “Righ’, tha’s enough o’tha’, babe.”

You gasp for air when he pulls his dick from your mouth, both chests rapidly rising and falling with effort. He pushes your tits together and narrows his eyes at you, giving each nipple a sharp pinch when you don’t read his fucking mind.

“Spit on ‘em,” he demands. “Now. I ‘aven’t go’ all night.”

You tilt your head down and spit a glob of saliva onto your breasts, watching as the fluid lubricates your supple skin. The man nods in approval, guiding his dripping cock into the valley of your chest. He shudders when his tip pushes through the top, fat and red and disturbingly gorgeous. You can’t help but stare, watching the way the flesh of your tits spills through his fingers’ vice grip.

“Wha’ is it, dove? Never seen a dick this fuckin’ big?”

“M-my husband-” you start, huffing with frustration when the bastard interrupts you with a guffaw.

“Righ’. The one who left ya pretty arse all alone, w’no one ta keep ya safe? Tha’ husband?” He taunts.

“He can’t help it,” you defend, clenching your fists behind your back.

“Course no’, dovie. Bloody ‘ell, these tits’re so soft,” he grunts, picking up the pace.

The head of his cock hits your lips every time he thrusts upwards. When you try to tilt your head back so you don’t have to feel it, he stops his actions and grabs your hair roughly.

“Stick ya tongue out,” he hisses, smacking your cheek hard enough to sting. “C’mon, be a good li’l slut f’me. Unless ya wan’ me ta take my knife t’ya guts?”

“N-no, please,” you wince, tears starting to form in your eyes.

“Tongue. Out.”

You comply with no more hesitance, whimpering softly as the man pushes your breasts together again and builds his pace back up. Instead of your lips, his tip runs over your tongue with every pump of his hips. Salty precum mixes with your saliva and drips down your chin as the lewd sound of his cock slipping through your tits fills the air of your bedroom.

“Fuck, fuck, m’gonna come,” he warns, his fingers digging into your slick skin with a bruising grip. “Ya gonna swallow every fuckin’ drop.”

He moans exaggeratedly as hot ribbons of his spend fall along the expanse of your tongue, coating the muscle with the sticky substance. Along with the expected tang, there’s a hint of sweetness in his cum, and it makes you smack your lips with a twisted form of delight. Apparently, he’s been planning this for a while.

“Spread ya legs,” he orders.

“No! My h-husband will be home soon, and he’ll- he’ll kill you!” You protest, crossing your legs for emphasis.

“Give it a res’, fo’ fuck’s sake,” the man rolls his eyes, forcefully grabbing your knees and wrenching them open. “Ya big, bad leftenant husband isn’t ‘ere t’save ya, an’ he won’t be. Least, no’ before m’done abusing this pretty fuckin’ pussy. Now qui’ ya bloody whinin’ and pull off my glove w’ya teeth.”

With a disdainful glare, you bare your teeth to the hand he thrusts towards you. He gives you a warning glower like he can see the plotting you’re doing in your head, but you ignore it and bite the tips of his fingers instead of doing what he told you to. The bite earns you a growl and a sharp smack to your cheek.

“Li’l fuckin’ bitch,” he grabs you by the hair until you’re on your feet, getting right up in your face. “Now ya don’t ge’ my fingers. Tha’ cunt’s gonna ‘ave t’stretch ‘round this fat fuckin’ cock instead.”

“N-no, I’m sorry, please-” you gasp.

“Yeah, ya will be. Pull another li’l stunt like tha’ and I’ll yank ya teeth ou’ one by one,” he turns you around and shoves you face-down onto the bed. “Keep tha’ arse up an’ tha’ mouth shut.”

As best as you can with no help from your arms, you get on your knees, face buried in the sheets. The man chuckles, still-gloved hands rubbing at your asscheeks. He gives them a squeeze and spreads them harshly, letting out a low whistle.

“Look at tha’, dove,” he drawls. “Don’t reckon you would’ve even needed my fingers, ya pussy is so fuckin’ wet.”

You shudder when he runs the tip of his semi-erect cock through your dewy folds, yelping as he smacks it against your clit. Once he’s fully hard again and decides his cock is slick enough, he pushes in with one sharp thrust. You scream in pain, tears streaming down your clammy cheeks, as the man slowly rocks his hips to let you adjust.

“Wha’s the matter? Can’t ya take it?” He mocks. “Didn’t think ya’d be this tigh’ after takin’ ya husband so many times.”

“P-please, please stop!” You beg, inching forward to try and get away from the persistent grinding of his hips.

“Ah-ah, don’t ya do tha’, girlie,” he grabs his belt where your wrists are bound and pulls back until you’re unable to do anything but take what he gives. “Wanted this pussy f’so. Fuckin’. Long. M’takin’ wha’ I’m owed.”

The man thrusts harshly, now, the almost gentle treatment he gave you just seconds ago long forgotten. Your poor cunt is still raw from being stretched so suddenly, but in addition to the ache there’s a spark of pleasure blooming. It makes you feel sick, disgusted by your own body. It makes your pussy clench.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he groans, and you can feel the way he tosses his head back. “Y’like this, don’t ya? Gettin’ fucked by someone who’s no’ afraid t’break ya?”

“N-no!” You protest, tears streaming down your face.

“Mm, ya say tha’, but ya pussy jus’ keeps gettin’ wetter,” he tuts. “Bet if I were t’reach down and play w’ya clit, it’d take no time at all f’ya to cream all over my cock.”

“No, p-please,” you whimper in an attempt to hold back your moans. “I won’t-”

“Let’s test tha’ theory,” he lets go of your wrists, chuckling as he watches your front helplessly hit the bed.

He wraps one arm around your plush stomach and trails his hand down to where he connects with you, two gloved fingers circling at your sensitive little bud. Your squeal is muffled but he hears it clear as day, like you let it free right into his ear. His free hand wraps around your throat, squeezing tightly as he pulls your back into his solid chest. His hips never cease their fluid motions, and at this angle, you can feel the way his tip kisses the plug of your womb.

“Poor, neglected girl,” he huffs. “Cunt’s so damn tigh’, feels like ya gonna rip my bloody prick off.”

The roughness of his gloves against the slippery heat of your clit is a blissful sensation, and that combined with his dick consistently hitting that delicate spot inside you and the slight restriction of air as he squeezes your throat gets you teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

“Ya gonna cum, babe? Yeah? Gonna give me wha’s mine?”

“It’s not- not y-yours!” You rasp pathetically through clenched teeth.

The man quickens his assault on your clit, moving his hand from your throat to your face. He squishes your cheeks until your lips pucker out, then shakes your head forcibly.

“Ya orgasms belong t’me, tonigh’, dove, like it or no’. Matter o’fact, I think I’d like t’show ya dear husband ‘ow pretty ya look cummin’ on another man’s dick,” he taunts.

Your body is turned to the side as he holds your face still, forcing you to look at the little red light shining in the corner of your bedroom. You knew Simon had put those up a long time ago for safety, but you never could have guessed they would be used to capture this.

He hooks his fingers into your mouth and stretches your lips until your gums ache and your teeth are exposed.

“Smile f’the camera,” he mutters into your ear and although you can’t see the smirk on his face, you can damn well hear it in his tone.

“Go to- fuck! Go to hell!” You weep, your body trembling violently with the force of your orgasm.

“Yeah, fuck yeah! Ya see tha’, Ghost? See ‘ow good ya li’l slut is f’me?” He growls, giving your ass a sharp smack. “Think I can make ‘er squirt?”

“No!” You shake your head, but it does nothing to deter the man.

Despite not having recovered from your climax, he continues to toy with your sore, overworked clit. Every nerve in your body is alight with electricity, furious lightning that has no intention of showing you any reprieve as long as the man inside of you continues his ministrations. Not once has he stopped moving his resilient hips or let up on bludgeoning your sweet spot.

“Open ya fuckin’ eyes, I wan’ ya t’see wha’ a mess I’m gonna make o’ya.”

He pants breathlessly and tangles his fingers into your hair, forcing your head back and pressing his masked lips to your forehead.

“Gonna pu’ on a show f’ya husband like a good girl?” He questions in a whisper, using his hand as leverage to nod your head for you. “Mm, so obedient.”

It takes just a few more circular motions from his fingers on your nub for you to see stars, this orgasm far more intense than the previous. The man laughs gleefully as your squirt soaks the sheets, fucking into you harder to watch the stream intensify.

“Holy hell,” he beams, slapping at the wet mess of your slit over and over again until you’re drained. “Ruined the damn bed, didn’t ya? Sexy fuckin’ bitch.”

Your limbs feel like jelly. You’re essentially useless, and he loves it. He pummels into you with a vigour you were unaware he could top, then pulls out all of a sudden, squeezing the base of his cock to edge himself.

“Sit up,” he demands, yanking your hair back so that your clammy, tear-stained face is level with the hand now furiously fisting at his dick.

Without warning, ribbons of his warm spend spews across your face, causing you to flinch. The man just grips your hair tighter and smacks his tip across your cheeks to smear his cum all over your skin.

“Wha’ a gorgeous fuckin’ disaster ya are,” he coos, running his gloved thumb over your bottom lip. “C’mon, dove, show ‘im tha’ ruined face.”

Your eyelids droop with exhaustion as he angles your head toward the camera once more to show off his handiwork.

“Now, thank Simon f’allowin’ us t’play.”

“Th-thank you, Simon,” you murmur, earning yourself a fond ruffle of your hair.

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and snaps a quick picture of you before he drops the act completely, tugging off the balaclava. You’re met with Kyle’s handsome face adorning a look of concern. He gently wipes away the sticky remnants of himself off of your face and tosses aside his gloves to cup your cheeks with his bare hands.

“Ya okay?” He asks softly. “Was I too rough w’ya?”

You shake your head as a dopey smile stretches across your mouth. Kyle lays you back against the pillows and leaves the room for a moment, coming back with a wet rag to clean the both of you up with. You open your arms towards him and he huffs with amusement, shrugging off his clothes and climbing into bed with you. He presses a kiss against your forehead as you sigh dreamily.

You’re halfway asleep when your phone rings. It’s Simon, so you put it on speaker.

“Garrick, quit kissin’ my wife,” his gruff voice rings out playfully from the other end of the line. “Did ya ‘ave fun, sweet girl? Did tha’ wanker hur’ ya?”

“Only in good ways,” you slur.

“Glad ta ‘ear it, baby. M’on my way back ‘ome, now,” he explains.

“Ah, I guess I should see myself out, then,” Kyle hums, sitting up slowly.

“No. Ya best still be in my bed when I ge’ there, Kyle. Gotta reward ya f’makin’ my girl’s fantasy come true, yeah?”

#heart eyes……#ghost #gaz

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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Omega!Ghost who did not put down your file the moment Laswell said you would be joining Taskforce 141. Who took one look at your face, your rank, your skillset and felt his clit throb. Who, when he caught a whiff of your scent, had a panic attack in the bathroom because he couldn't stop slicking. Omega!Ghost who stalks behind you silently, staring. Sometimes, he's in the corner of the room. Sometimes, hes right behind you. Multiple times a day, you will turn around and he will be there, just looking at you. Locked in. Pupils dilated. He can't help it. He likes looking at you. (Gaz had to take you aside and tell you that no, Ghost isn't hunting you. He really isn't. I know...I know it feels like it but I promise-)

Omega!Ghost who says nothing to you for weeks after you meet. Not a damn thing. Not even when you both are with the other members of the taskforce. And because he doesn't say anything for a while, when he does - a little awkward compliment that reminds you of Shang from Mulan - you nearly shit yourself. Omega!Ghost who casually threatens anyone he hears may have a thing for you. Other Omegas. Betas. Alphas. Anyone can catch his hands. "You'll never find the body isn't a great threat. A better one would be "They'll be finding your body parts for months...and you'll be alive for at least one of them." (Price had to stop him because recruits were dropping like flies) Omega!Ghost who had a DNR tattoo and offical medical DNR papers to match but no longer does because of you. He believed no one would ever miss him. You proved him wrong, therefore he will now fight Death itself in your name if it comes to it. Omega!Ghost who has no idea how to court or show someone he's interested. Who also knows he's a giant tank of a man who can probably rip a person in half with his bare hands. Who decides that 'Alpha's like a strong mate right? S what Google says.' Who starts lifting random heavy objects when you are around for no reason.

Omega!Ghost who found out you took lunch in your car on Fridays when not on a mission and decided to join you once and then promptly exited the vehicle when you asked him why he decided to deadlift the fridge that morning. He was not prepared for that and he made a split second decision to leave immediately. (Soap is still laughing about it)

Omega!Ghost who is relieved when you start making moves. Who sinks into you so quickly, falling into his barely used Omega instincts to chirp and purr and submit. Who beams behind his mask when you order him food and drinks, when you leave him a scent-fused hoodie, when you train with him and push him to go harder...you aren't together but you will be and it makes him so happy.

Omega!Ghost who only agrees to go through a heat to purge his body if you are around to guard him. He isn't going to ask you to join him - because he isn't sure if either of you are ready for that - but he wants you to guard him. He trusts you to guard him. Keep him safe.

Omega!Ghost who, when asked if he was going to guard you during your rut, wondered why it was even a question. He was going to do that regardless. No one is getting to you. He'll rip people apart with his teeth if they think they have the balls to approach your rutting room.

Omega!Ghost who gets an incredibly thorough examination done just to see if he has any damage that would prevent him from having pups. He never thought about pups before but now that he's met an Alpha that he wouldn't mind having pups with, he needs to know. He frames the report that tells him that he's perfectly fertile.

Omega!Ghost whose purr is the loudest thing about him. Its very much giving motorcycle revving. He always hated it but it seemed to be the only thing that kept you stable when you were being evacuated, unconscious, and bleeding out from three separate bullet wounds so he doesn't think its so bad anymore.

Omega!Ghost who gets gooey when you scent the inside of his masks when he has to go on his own missions. Its grounding, having your scent nearby. Keeps him focused. Keeps him determined to not fuck anything up. Keeps him coming home.

Omega!Ghost who makes a horrifically embarrassing noise the moment you knot him for the first time and feeling grateful that you are too preoccupied with burying your fangs in his neck to claim him to notice. He does, however, notice the noise you make when he bites you back and teases you for it for the rest of your lives.

#omega ghost save me.... save me omega ghost.......#ghost

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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Gaz being tasked with watching his niece for a month while his sister is in hospital. He's honestly the best Uncle, but sometimes his niece just wants her mom to hold. Hence how you, his neighbor across the flat, suddenly finds yourself with a toddler snuggled in your arms after she fell and scraped her knee.

Gaz promising he'll pay you to babysit his niece when he's called away to base suddenly. He comes home to find his niece happily coloring on the floor with a bowl of homemade mac n' cheese beside her as she tells you how her Uncle is a superhero who fights bad guys. And you have the sweetest smile on your face as you help her pick out colors for the cape she's drawn him in.

Gaz suddenly finds himself in a co-parenting situation with you. You take his niece in the morning while he has to go to PT and briefings, and he takes over in the evenings when you have to start your shift at the store. There's a two hour window where you're both together.

Gaz who slips into comfortable conversation each time as you help him make dinner. It's domestic, warm, and it makes Gaz's heart squeeze each time. It feels like he has his own little family. You, him, and his niece. All settled at the table. All helping clean up after. All settled on the couch until you have to leave.

Gaz finds a hole in his chest when his sister comes to pick her little girl up. Because now how is he supposed to get you to come over to help with dinner and the dishes? Sure, he could ask but you were just neighbors. He didn't even know if you felt something for him more than friendliness and care for his niece.

Gaz comes home one evening and glances at your door. The longing in his chest nearly suffocating as he rummages through his bag for his keys. He doesn't have the usual texts from you, and he'd pretty sure the evenings he'd cherished were now gone.

Gaz whose heart nearly leaps out of his chest when he hears a knock on his door. He all but trips over himself to answer and trying to compose himself so he doesn't look so desperate.

Gaz opened the door to find Deliveroo person handing him a bag of take out. A little note was taped to the side, and it's from you. 'Had to pull a double shift, thought you might be too tired to cook. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Gaz who feels his heart flutter as he realizes maybe there is something more to your little evening meals. And he's already making plans for tomorrow night.

#gaz…………..#gaz

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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Part Eight of Simon Riley x Single Mother, they're really doing this thing <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven

By the time Emma’s first birthday rolls around, Simon has a ring in a box that lives in his nightstand back at his apartment. He keeps it there, safe and sound, instead of slipping it on your finger like he really wants to.

It’s not because he’s still thinking about it — he knows exactly where that ring belongs. It’s because, all told, it hasn’t been all that long since you got together. And while he wants nothing more than to lock this down, to breathe a little easier with the help of a sturdy gold band looped around his ring finger, he doesn’t want to scare you off. Wants to give it time to make sure that you’re in the same place he is.

So he waits. And every day he wants it a little more.

What pushes him to act, to move past his fear of rejection, is a close call during a mission gone wrong.

It's strange, he thinks, because he'd definitely been in worse predicaments. He didn't even get hurt, just felt the whizzing of bullets flying past him, a little too close for comfort, and he can't get it out of his head. If he'd been a little less aware, even if the wind had been off, he could have died, and while that never bothered him before, it's unsettling now.

The thought of you on your own again, of Charlie and Emma wanting for anything, forgetting him ... it aches. It keeps him up at night, even when he's laying in your bed, your warm, solid weight resting against him.

He tries to sleep, but it's no use. It's his third day back after coming home, and he's exhausted, but he can't rest like this. He finds his fingers running lightly your arm, up and down and back again, and before long you're stirring, turning slowly to face him.

"Simon?" you ask, your eyes still closed. "Everything ok?"

On one hand, everything is ok -- more than ok. Everything is beautiful. He can hear a faint stream of white noise coming through the baby monitor by the bed, telling him that Emma and Charlie are fast asleep in their room. You're in his arms, too, and it's perfection.

But tonight, just like last night and the night before, it feels too fleeting.

He clenches his jaw, struggling to find the words, and at his silence you open your eyes, sleepy concern etched on your face. He lifts a finger to smooth out the crease in your forehead, then trails it down your temple and towards your jaw.

You're so delicate. Strong too, he knows that, but now ...

"Marry me."

It's not a question, but a plea. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he puts his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you close.

"I ... really?" you ask. "You're really asking me to marry you?"

"Begging, love," he admits quietly. "Please."

He got the ring months ago at this point, and in all that time, he'd never landed on just how he wanted to propose. He never imagined this specific scenario. You deserve better -- than this, than him -- but he's desperate.

"... You sure?"

"Got a ring back at mine," he tells you. "Got it ages ago, never been more sure of anything."

It's hard to put into words how much this means to him, so he keeps his gaze steady, hoping you can, in that special way you always do, see it in his eyes.

And you do.

In a flash, you're pressing yourself against him, kissing him deeply. He pulls you closer, indulging you, but still, he needs words.

"If this is a 'yes,' I need to hear it," he says.

"Yes, Simon, of course ... yes."

That night, he sleeps better than he had in recent memory, and in the quiet of the morning, he slips away, just long enough to retrieve the ring from his place before you and the kids start stirring. When he's back, he slips into bed beside you, gently takes your hand and slides the ring on your finger.

It's a weight off his shoulders. He can't imagine how good it will feel watching you sign the marriage certificate.

This time, you don't quite wake up, you just snuggle up against him. But before long, he starts hearing soft sounds playing through the baby monitor: Charlie muttering what he knows are good morning rambles to his little sister. There's some rustling, and soon he hears two sets of little footsteps coming through the hall, then your bedroom door opens and Charlie and Emma are there, hand in hand, ready to start the day.

"Come on then," you mutter, still nestled against Simon.

The two children scramble up into the bed quickly. Emma tucks herself against your side, still sleepy herself, but Charlie is characteristically alert and energetic, and he throws himself across you and Simon, burrowing himself in the middle.

It's the morning routine now. The four of you stay in bed, slowly (or in Charlie's case, with minimal patience) waking up together. After a few moments, you finally notice the ring newly placed on your finger, and you smile, holding your hand up to get a good look at it.

"What's that?" Charlie asks.

"A present from Simon," you answer.

"But it's not your birthday or Christmas or anything."

"Doesn't have to be a holiday to get a present," Simon points out, and Charlie swiftly turns to look at him.

"Do I get a present too?"

You laugh, warm and happy, and tell him, "In a way."

Simon wants to do it all, and he wants to do it right. Marry you, then work on adopting Charlie and Emma. Sort out everything for all three of you, make it so that you're safe and taken care of, while he's here and, if anything ever happens to him, when he's gone.

But for now, this sleepy Sunday morning will definitely do.

#love this series.....#ghost

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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i only just realised i didn’t have my ask box open on this blog… the perils of sideblogging

#yeti yaps #its open now…… i think.#this is embarrassing bc ive been on this site for a truly horrific number of years.

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asleepyyeti · 2 months ago

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Yo!

It's me again! The one who asked for the yandere Abigail, now I was thinking about asking for a yandere Emily.... though I feel like the idea won't make sense like the Reader, is more into loose clothing she doesn't like fitted clothes because she feels restricted by it plus she doesn't like how her parents usually would force her to wear those clothes it was because she is a chubby girl.....

୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・┈ ・Emily Ask ・┈ ・┈ ─ ୨୧

A/N; Hi again, thank you for your ask. I took some time with it, but I hope you enjoy it :) (Emily x Plus-sized/chubby reader)

CW; Stalking, obsessive behaviour, fucked up bachelorettes, scary art, dark thoughts on Emily's part, swearing, blood but only on last image. /Sfw but Emily has horny thoughts so be aware/

"Oh, did your parents send you new clothing again?" Emily asked immediately as you entered her room. She internally scoffed at how uncomfortable you looked, seeing just how off the measurements were. Your parents never asked you what type of clothing to send, and it irritated Emily more than Leah stalking your farm at night.

Emily put on a perfect smile still, her form standing up excitedly to open her arms for a hug. As you fell into her arms, Emily couldn't help but nudge her nose against your temple, taking in the subtle scent that was inexplicably you. Her arms circled your form, moulding against you like she wanted to melt against you.

She felt her heartache as you pulled back, your smile timid at her intense gaze. Emily only grinned wider, her hands moving up to palm at the fabric of the clothing that looked awfully artificial. So awfully unnatural and unloved by manufacturer. So awfully not hers.

Emily's smile never faltered yet her purple eyes darkened at the thought of you wearing something that wasn't made by her. You were supposed to wear her art, her passion. Why even bother with those fuck--

"They look bad aren't they?" you asked meekly, sadness in your voice snapping her out of her stupor.

"You look beautiful in everything," murmured Emily almost automatically, her eyes softening as she touched the sleeve of your shirt gently. "Those are-- just not your thing," she continued, her head tilted as she already took measurements with her eyes.

After a bit of silent measuring, Emily suddenly leaned close to your face, her smile wide.

"Want me to make you these exact replicas? But more...you," asked tentatively Emily, her wide eyes almost pleading. Her fingers twitched as she imagined ripping those pesky clothes off and revealing your bare body. Something kept her from tearing into you though, her mind soothed only by your assured nod.

"Can you make them looser?" you asked hesitantly, making Emily's heartache with the need to make you happy.

"Of course, just walk behind the curtain so I can take some measurements," said Emily, her voice tense with desperation. She quickly ducked to rummage through her table shelves, taking out a tape measure and unwrapping it as she looked intensely at the curtain. Her nails dug into the tape, her smile dying out as she tried to gather any semblance of the body hidden behind the curtain.

She licked her lips and stepped closer to the curtain, her hand raised to almost pull it back.

Patience, Emily. Mind your manners.

Emily had to take a breath deep enough to sate the hunger that was beyond food or water. "I'm coming in, don't be alarmed!" she said through her teeth, her smile returning as she pulled the curtain back enough to step into a small changing space.

Nothing could have prepared her for a sight so beautiful. Emily felt her mind short circuit, parrots and rainbows flying before her gaze as she took in you standing only in your underwear. Her fingers tightened impossibly at the sight, her smile now genuinely insane.

At your awkward cough, Emily finally broke out of her stupor, blinking once. She chuckled nervously, her pale cheeks slowly heating up as she willed the raging dark thoughts away.

"Sorry, I was just visualising your inner aura!" she found the answer quickly, her throat bobbing as she stared straight at your chest. "It's really powerful, warm and fuzzy just like you," she said, her shoulders tense as she finally raised her hands to start measuring.

Emily's hands moved slowly as she first circled your shoulders with the tape. For a few seconds, her eyes were concentrated, her love for the craft overriding crowded thoughts of pinning you to the wall. Her usually wide eyes hooded slightly as she moved the tape lower, to circle your waist. She didn't pull it too tight to your skin, her touch gentle and considerate as she leaned down slightly.

Her gaze raised up to yours when she moved even lower, her tape circling your leg. Emily sat on her knees, her head close to your hip, something dark reflected in her usually energetic eyes. Her mind screamed at her to stop but before she could even register what she did, she leaned in and kissed your stomach. Her eyes looked up at you as if you were a goddess among men, her fingers closer than needed on your thigh.

"Please, only wear my clothing," she pleaded, her voice hoarse as she nuzzled against your stomach. Her purple eyes unusually desperate.

As you breathed out your agreement she grinned wider, standing up. Her hands clasped together as she giggled.

"Done! I will make you the best clothing, suited right to your aura!" she exclaimed, only the slight shakiness of her arms giving away her nervousness.

She then stepped back, trying to keep a distance to stop herself from doing something she might regret. Something that might scare her precious farmer. God, what wouldn't she do for you.

Next few hours she tailored like a crazy woman, her fingers aching by the next morning when you came to visit again. No matter how much sweat and blood she poured into the clothing she made for you, seeing your smile in the end made it all worth it. She made sure to sew her initial into the collar of each shirt or dress, and inside of a pants or skirt's pocket.

She made sure to make the measurements slightly bigger, the clothing loose and free. Seeing your happiness at the freeing clothing made something burn in her heart, the feeling slowly travelling down to her lower stomach.

She made sure they were to your liking.

And well...the possessive satisfaction from knowing you only wore her clothing was just a small reward. Besides, she could always look at your form when she needed to 'measure' something again.

#oooh dark wlw save me #save me dark wlw #love this <3 #sdv

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