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lilynotdilly · 21 days ago

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It's back! Yay!!

Retirement Party

Chapter Nine - Keep Time On Me

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Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, Scrabble, smoking (cannabis), oral sex, sex, John has feelings, manipulation (ongoing)

~4.2k - MDNI - Barely a darkfic at this point, but just be mindful

“John, AWOL is not a word. You can’t use it.”

“It is so a word. You’re just mad that I’m going to get the triple word score.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not! It’s an acronym.”

John looks over the board, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. You can see he gears turning in his head as he tries to come up with something else. You sip your tea, leaning back against the loveseat. The game of scrabble is set up on the coffee table, shifted closer to the couch so John can lean over the table from his seat there.

“You can put awl there. You won’t get the triple but you’ll only have the o left over.”

He sighs. “Yes, but without the triple you’re going to win.” He puts the letters on the board anyway, and adds up his score. He slides the notepad away across the table, setting the pencil down on top. “Again.”

“Hm, don’t tell me you’re a sore loser, John Price. I’ll give you a consolation prize.” You shift up onto your knees and start sliding the letter tiles back into the bag.

“Oh?” he asked, eyes sparking with interest. “What did you have in mind?”

“Put those eyes away. That’s not what I meant.”

He takes over collecting the pieces, biting back a grin. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You hum. “Of course not.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I was going to suggest that I roll a joint and we sit on the porch and watch the rain,” you say. “And then maybe kiss for a while. But we could play another game of scrabble if you’re so determined to win.”

“No, I like your idea better. Much better.” He sweeps the rest of the scrabble bits into the box unceremoniously.

It’s been another week, and things have only gotten more comfortable between the two of you. Settling in has been easier than you expected— He’s sweet and attentive, and now that the two of you have broken that first layer of intimacy, he steals kisses whenever he can, little ones in passing while you’re working on painting, longer ones when you settle in next to him on the couch. He hasn’t pressed for more, but it’s clear he wants it.

You do too.

Something’s still holding you back. You’re not even sure what, at this point. Fear, maybe, that you’re so poorly matched, despite his interest. He’s gorgeous, broad and strong, in such good shape that it’s intimidating to think about getting naked in front of him. You’re not shy, exactly, and you know that you’re pretty, but it’s been a while since you had more than a disappointing one night stand.

It's comfortable too, to remain in this space where things are still undefined. Once you cross that line, there will be no question that this is a relationship. And once it's a relationship, you don't know how to act. You haven't had a serious partner since you were twenty-- it's almost impossible to make time for one as a full time nanny, and before that you'd had a brief affair with the teacher you'd been shadowing, who had gotten engaged to the willowy blonde art teacher so quickly after breaking things off with you that you knew you'd been the other woman the whole time. Someone good enough to fuck, but not good enough to take home.

You know that John isn't going to toss you aside. Your worry is entirely opposite, that he'll never let you go, no matter what.

You curl up against his side with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and let him light the joint. Sweet, pungent smoke curls in the cool air, and you feel heavy and slow by the third time you trade it back to him. You tuck your hands under the blanket and wiggle a bit closer.

"How d'you feel?" he asks.

"Good," you reply. "It’s a bit chilly, but it’s nice.”

The two of you listen to the rain for a long moment. October is cold this far north, it won’t be long until the first snow, although you know that it rarely sticks. It will mostly be rain all winter, gray, damp weather.

Do you really intend to stay all winter?

John holds the joint to your lips so you can smoke without poking your hands out of the warm cocoon you’ve wrapped around yourself. He probably wouldn’t complain if you never left. There’s a glow in his eyes whenever you walk into a room, warmth and fondness that you can’t truly account for.

There was an empty space here, and you fit right into it. The only problem is that it wasn’t made for you. John is glad you’re here, but he might be just as glad for anyone to be here, filling up the empty corners and slotting into his side.

If he were someone else, you wouldn’t be as content. It rankles, that you would have chosen him, if circumstance had been different, and you were chosen for him, given to him like a sweater without a receipt. He seems happy enough, but he might have preferred someone else if he’d been given the chance to choose.

He was lonely, and here you are, and that’s good enough for him, isn’t it?

You wish you’d heard back from some of the jobs. It would be easier to figure out if his feelings are genuine if you weren’t living together, if you had some space. If he had to go out of his way to see you, if he had to call you, if he had to plan dates and you got to know each other in an organic way.

“You look lost in thought,” he says. “What’s on your mind, Doll?”

“I just wonder. Would you have picked me, if things were different?” You look up at him. “And be honest. I’d rather know.”

John drops the joint in the ashtray on his other side. “I might not have approached you,” he says solemnly. “You’re young, and beautiful, and you could do a lot better than me. And the state I was in…” His thumb taps against your arm unconsciously. “Thought I was beyond help. Wouldn’t’ve wanted to drag you down with me.”

You nod, and let your head rest against him again. It’s not exactly a yes, but it’s not a no either.

“If we’d been introduced proper, though?” he continues. “If you’d smiled at me and said somethin’ clever in that pretty voice of yours? I would’ve been selfish. I’m not that good at denyin’ myself the things I want.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head and stays there, breathing you in.

“Good,” you say. “I would have picked you too.”

The amused exhale of breath against your crown sends little prickles down your neck and arms. “You’re just sayin’ that.”

You tip your head up again. “No, I’m afraid I’ve always had a thing for older men with silly beards and broad shoulders.” You giggle and press a quick kiss to his jaw and stand before he can grab you and pull you into his lap.

“My beard’s not silly,” he says, smoothing a hand over it.

“It suits you,” you tell him. You can’t stop the wide smile from spreading across your face, and you don’t even try. “Now, are you going to come inside and kiss me, or would you rather—”

John doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He’s on his feet in a flash, and scoops you up, laughing when you let out a little shriek. He carries you inside and dumps you onto the couch, folding himself down on top before you can sit up. Both of you are laughing too much to kiss properly at first, but it’s just as good to press your lips together between giggles, looking at each other with shining eyes.

You wrap your arms around his neck as you finally settle into a rhythm. He holds most of his weight off you, but you can still feel the press of his body against yours. He has one knee slotted between your legs, and it’s hard to resist the urge to grind against him. After a week of nothing but kissing, you want him so badly that you’re sure you’d soak through your panties and his jeans if you gave your clit even a little pressure. You’d probably come from humping his leg alone.

He’s hard— Has been from the moment he settled against you, if he wasn’t already. You’re pleasantly high, super aware of your body. Every part of you wants more. You want his hands everywhere, want him to grip your hips and sink into you, want his lips and tongue and teeth to move down your body.

When he kisses your neck, you bury your hands in his hair to hold him close. You miss the kissing, as much as you enjoy the feeling of his lips elsewhere. What you really want is to wrap your lips around his cock, and make him pant and moan for you. You’re still high, body still buzzing and sensitive, but you’re still not ready to let him take you to bed. As much as you ache for him, there’s a part of you that needs to stay in control still, that last shred of doubt that keeps you from letting go.

You want to be in control for a moment. When you tell him what you want, it takes him a moment to surface from your throat, his expression uncertain, like he’s not quite sure that he’s heard you correctly. You slide up the couch into a sitting position, and he pushes himself more upright too.

“I’m not sure I want our first time to be just for me,” John says, settling back into a proper seat, giving you both a bit of space to catch your breath. “I’d rather it be for you. Or mutual. I’m not in any rush.”

You slide off the couch and settle on the floor in front of him, running your hands over his thighs. “What if I want to?” you ask. “What if it’s easier to give than receive?”

The conflict in his eyes is almost funny. He wants to say yes so badly, but he wants to be a gentleman too. “You drive me crazy, Doll. Why don’t we just wait until you’re ready?”

“That could be tomorrow or it could be weeks. I’m ready for this now.” You give him your best pleading doe eyes, blinking innocently. “Please, John? I want to suck your cock. I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

He groans, and he finally reaches for his belt buckle. “Fuck. You’ve been so good. You’ve been perfect. C’mere.” His big hands make quick work of the belt and zipper, and then he pulls himself free, wrapping one hand around his cock, the other reaching forward to stroke the side of your face. He’s big, thick, curved in a way that makes your pussy clench with anticipation. He’s already hard, but he gives himself a rough stroke anyway, pulling the foreskin back from the pink tip.

Your hands look so small when you take over. You can barely wrap your fingers all the way around, but certainly doesn’t seem to mind. He looks shy, almost, cheeks flushed red, his eyes focused on you. Every time you reduce this grizzled old soldier to a school boy, your heart squeezes with fondness.

You lean forward and give the tip a little lick, tasting salt and bitter pre-cum, testing the way he twitches under the attention. He swears when you close your lips around him and swirl your tongue around. You keep your eyes on his, sinking lower, one hand stroking the part of his cock that you can’t fit into your mouth without choking. You’re not in the mood to test your gag reflex, and he seems more than content to let you go at whatever pace you like.

He takes your free hand and threads his fingers through yours. “You’re too good for me, Doll,” he purrs. “I don’t— fuck— I don’t deserve you. But when you let me return the favour—” His words sputter out as you roll your tongue against the underside of the tip, humming in agreement.

It’s easy to figure out how to get him off. His fingers twitch and his breath catches whenever you do something he likes. Firm, consistent pressure from your hand, plenty of tongue, kisses against the tip and down the side, letting spit aid the movement of your hand. He gets a little more vocal as he gets closer, tells you that you’re a good girl, that you’re doing so well, groans deep in his chest when he does come, the sound cutting off his attempt to warn you. He spills his release over your tongue, dropping his head back onto the couch for a moment as you swallow what he gives you.

He picks his head back up when you let his cock pop free from your lips. You giggle at the dazed expression on his face, and let him help you back onto the couch. He cups your face and kisses you fervently, unphased by the taste of himself on your tongue.

You keep breaking away from the kiss to laugh, the energy in your body needing some outlet, some escape, or you’ll do something you know you’re not ready for. It’s strange, to want something and fear it in equal measure.

He rests his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose touching yours. “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says softly. His eyes are filled with hope.

You can’t help but feel it too.

The hand on your shoulder pulls you out of your focus.

You startle, knocking your headphones back from your ears with the back of your hand, smearing paint on your cheekbone. John stands above you, holding a glass of water like a peace offering.

“I knocked, but I don’t think you could hear me over your music,” he explains. “Haven’t heard a peep from you since this morning, and I was starting to worry.”

Understandable, after what happened last night. He’s probably spent the whole day worrying about what it means for you to withdraw, while you’ve been meditating on it your own way. “What time is it now?” you ask, reaching for the glass and then pulling your hands back. Your hands are covered in paint. “Oh, shoot. I should’ve grabbed a rag. Give me a tic, I’ll wash my hands.” You try to uncurl your legs, and fall sideways into John’s legs. “Hm. Okay.”

“Legs asleep?” John sets the glass of water on his desk and crouches down to help you rearrange your unresponsive legs out in front of you, carefully moving the easel back a few feet to give you room. He must recognize himself on the canvas, a study of his shoulders and neck from behind, the view you’re often afforded after he comes back from a run or forgets to put a shirt on after a shower. But he doesn’t comment, just reaches for the glass of water again. “Poor thing.”

“My own fault. I thought I set an alarm, but I probably just typed the time into the calculator app.” It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, and it likely won’t be the last. Pins and needles prickle up and down your legs.

“You need to drink this,” John says, holding the water up to your lips. His other hand curls around the back of your head to grip your messy ponytail, tilting your head back so he can carefully pour water into your mouth. He makes you drink the whole glass, one sip at a time, his eyes turned dark, blue nearly eclipsed by black. Your eyes fix on his, something soft wrapping around your brain as you watch the way his gaze tracks from your mouth down to your throat and back up. When the glass is empty, he sets it aside, but doesn’t let go of your hair. He tips your head back again, tracing his thumb across your lower lip, collecting a few errant drops of water.

Your lips part, and he slides his thumb inside your mouth, his breath catching as he presses down on your tongue.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls. Your clit throbs at his words. You curl your tongue around the digit, tasting the salt of his skin. The hand tangled in your hair tightens just a little. “You ready to let me take care of you?” His thumb pops free.

It takes a moment for you to collect yourself enough to speak. There’s a brief tussle between your caution and your desire, and caution loses. “Please.”

“Come here.” He pulls you to your feet, careless of the paint on your hands that leaves streaks on his forearms and then his shirt when your unsteady legs pitch you forward into him.

“I should wash my hands—” You don’t get to finish the sentence, he’s too busy pulling you in for a kiss, too concerned with getting close to you. If you had thought his kiss hungry before, it feels like he’s ravenous now, gentleness thrown to the side to make room for unbridled want. “John—”

“I don’t care,” he grumbles, barely pulling away to speak. “C’mon, Doll. Let’s get upstairs before I try to fuck you on the floor.”

John stops in the hall to kiss you again, big body boxing you in against the wall, one hand braced and the other cupped around the back of you head. Thick fingers comb through your hair, pulling the hair tie free. "Beautiful," he says when he finally pulls back. "I'm so lucky."

You giggle. He has a way of making you feel like the only woman in the universe, and your chest aches with the weight of the unknown emotion that follows. It's not bad, it's just big, too big to see it properly for what it is. "So am I."

His blue eyes spark. Every little compliment you give him adds fuel to that fire, and it's been burning hotter and hotter the past few days. His hand slips down to your shoulder, and then slides further, palm cupping your breast as he drops down for another kiss. “I’m not good enough for you,” he admits, but it doesn’t stop him from tugging you into his room and pushing you into a seat on the edge of the bed.

You catch his face between your palms as he sinks to his knees in front of you. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter to me who you were, you know. I see you as you are now, and I like what I see.”

There’s a flicker of guilt on his face, barely noticeable before he drops his blue eyes and loops his arms around you, pressing his face to your soft stomach.

“Do you want to stop?” you ask, petting your fingers through his thick brown and silver hair.

That makes him pull his head back up. “No. No, I just don’t want to move too quickly.”

As if everything that’s happened between the two of you hasn’t been simultaneously too fast and too slow, short weeks stretched into an eternity. “I’ll tell you if I need to slow down. I promise.”

John’s hands slide up under your skirt, finding the edge of your panties and dragging them down your legs. You peel your shirt off and toss it aside, and John’s eyes catch on newly revealed skin, his breathing turns shallow. “Doll… You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.” He pushes your thighs apart to make room for himself, kissing you again, leaning back to look at you, over and over until you stop letting him go, eager for more. His big hands pet down your chest, unfastening your bra with one hand and pulling it away, the other pressed against your ribs. “This is pretty too,” he murmurs, squeezing your flank lightly. “Nice surprise. Didn’t expect you to have a tattoo.”

You hum, sliding your bra down your arms. You forget about it often, the big floral piece that looks like one of your mother’s paintings. It’s just a part of your body now, like the scattered little moles across your face or the tiny scar on your knee from falling off your bike when you were young. “I have a few surprises yet, I’m sure.”

With your bra gone, his attention fixes back on your chest, and he kisses his way from one nipple to the other, nipping at you a few times to make you squeak. He doesn’t linger there, though, his mouth already moving further down, leaving a hot trail of kisses over your stomach, pushing your skirt up around your hips so he could press his face between your legs. His tongue pushes between your folds to find your clit, and he grunts like a bear that’s just cracked into a beehive, drinking you down like you’re the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You can’t remember the last time someone ate you out like this, almost as if it’s more for his pleasure than your own, although heat is already curling in your gut, making your whole body light up. You’re warm everywhere he’s touched you, his big hands clutching as he hooks your thighs up over his shoulder so he can get a better angle. It feels as though you’ll find his touch branded onto your skin when this is over. You certainly expect little bruises like inky fingerprints dotting your thighs come morning, and rubbed-raw red patches between your legs from his beard.

It’s not intentional— This is just the way things are. When something solid collides with something soft, damage is done. And John has rough edges too, once molten rock that’s hardened in strange shapes. Molded by his time in the military, and he’s hardly even begun sanding down the sharp bits. You see that he’s trying. Maybe it’s enough, to try.

Somewhere inside him, there is softness too. You see it shining out of his eyes some days, boyish yearning, a less jaded young man peering out. Someone that knows how to be joyful, how to laugh. You bring it out of him, and that makes you feel something curious. It lingers at the back of your throat, something that chokes you, but not fear or sadness. Something that’s better, yes, but terrible as well.

You’re shaking in his grasp, his tongue forcing you to a high so quickly that it’s jarring. He grips you tight, and in turn your thighs clamp tightly around his head, hips reflexively trying to meet his too-clever tongue. You bury your hands in his hair too, anchoring yourself in those soft brown and silver locks, crying out as he sends you spiraling into the air, contact with his gravity the only thing that keeps you tethered to the earth at all.

You cry out his name as he gently sucks at your clit, coaxing you through your climax and drawing it out. His eyes meet yours, sparkling, when you yank at his hair and try to wiggle away up the bed. You’re over-stimulated and laughing by the time he relents, shedding his clothes and climbing over you, a little clumsy in his eagerness, a dog wagged by his tail rather than the proper way around.

You catch his face in your hands and kiss him, not the least bit worried about his soaked beard or the taste of your own cunt on his tongue. It’s too hungry and messy to be romantic, but theres plenty of romance to be found beyond this bed. John isn’t a romantic person exactly, but he’s devout.

He pulls himself up over you, his cock slotting into place and sliding home as he settles on top of you, his low groan in your ear just as electric as the drag of his cock against your inner walls. The sudden push into your cunt is blissful, his thick cock filling you entirely and then some, stretching you out around him. He’s ruthless, the way he claims space inside you, the way he steals your breath.

Just like an Englishman.

“You’re so soft,” he purrs, lips brushing your ear as he begins to drive into you over and over, only giving you a moment to adjust to his size. “Fuck, Doll. Perfect girl. Made for me.”

You plant your feet and angle your own hips to meet him better, the head of his cock nudging your g-spot with every stroke. You pet down his hairy chest, appreciating the powerful muscle that flexes under the soft layer of fat that’s gotten thicker since you’ve been here, just a little.

There’s something satisfying, knowing that you’ve left a mark on him too. You leave more, angry red scratches down his back when you come again, bruising bite marks on his neck and shoulders when he presses closer to you to chase his own orgasm down, thrusts growing rough and erratic until he stills, his cock pulsing, hot cum spilling inside you.

He kisses you again, and that feeling returns, the one that grips your throat and presses down on your ribs more heavily than he does. You don’t want to know what it is.

But you do.

Image Credits: Banner - Banner Background - Dividers by @/cafekitsune

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lilynotdilly · 27 days ago

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Running Partners [Oneshot]

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: You liked jogging, you didn’t enjoy a lot of working out, but jogging felt good. It got your blood pumping, and you always felt more ready and energised for your day. Such a nurse thing to say, you know, but it was true, and besides that… You got to see him everyday.

Words: 10k

Warnings: stalking (not by ghost), mentions of injury, implied uuhhhh murder?

You pass him every day.

Your job started early, the new shifts you’d signed on for at the hospital were regular (thank god), with the only catch being you started at six every morning. It wasn’t so bad. When your lease was up, you’d been able to find a flat barely fifteen minutes from the hospital, which left you with more than enough time to get up early, around four-thirty, and go for a run.

You liked jogging, you didn’t enjoy a lot of working out, but jogging felt good. It got your blood pumping, and you always felt more ready and energised for your day. Such a nurse thing to say, you know, but it was true, and besides that…

You got to see him everyday. Broad, tall as hell, and built like a brick shithouse. You’d never seen his face, he always wore a plain black face mask, a choice you still found slightly questionable, but then again, you were a nurse. You vaguely understood. Still, wearing one while running seemed hardcore, even for one in your profession. It didn’t bother you much. He had beautiful eyes, big and brown and strangely emotive, even though he never seemed to really actually emote that much. The most you ever really got from him was recognition.

It started on your first morning after moving in. You passed him on Gilberton Road, the size of him almost taking up the entire footpath, but he’d moved aside for you as you approached. That early in the morning there hadn’t been anybody else about, and you’d eventually come to know there hardly ever was, but you were English dammit, and the only polite thing to do was to say hello.

The first day you thought he might’ve had headphones in. He always wore a dark hoodie, pulled up, and he eyed you as you passed, your soft ‘Morning’ possibly lost on his plugged ears, but the second morning, and the second greeting, his eyes had shifted to you and he’d simply nodded.

It became routine.

Without even speaking, you came to understand he must have been some type of military. Most days his sweats were plain, dark, but some days his sweatshirts bore an insignia, a few of them unknown to you, but the plainer symbol, the one you recognised as the mark of the British Army, sold the idea to you. Besides, a man built like that, out for a run every morning, his routine mixing with yours like clockwork? He was definitely military. Had to be.

So that’s why when you noticed a car following you early on in your jog this morning, you’d done a few laps of the blocks around your street, and then you’d made straight for him.

You glance back subtly once again, your heart thundering louder and louder in your ears. The dark blue car was still following you. You don’t exactly know when you’d picked up the shadow, but you’d taken a different route upon noticing its presence, a pit opening up in your belly, and a sickly feeling filling your chest. It was definitely following you.

Usually you’d only lightly jog, going at your own pace, but this morning you all out ran. Partly because of the car following you, and partly because you’d already taken a slightly different route, and as you check your watch for the hundredth time since your idea unfolded, you hope to god you haven’t missed him already.

You’re in luck. Though, in the moment you don’t stop to think about how odd it is that your masked stranger has stopped halfway up Gilberton, seemingly standing stock still and waiting for something. You don’t stop to think about how he seems to straighten when he sees you coming, or how his eyes flicker over your much faster pace with a frown.

Your heart continues to hammer, and you tell yourself this is it, this is fine, this is when the car goes away. You slow down as you approach him, and eventually come to a stop.

“Please act like you’re meeting me,” you say breathing hard, your hands shaking as you uncap your water. If your eyes are watering slightly, you don’t notice, but he does. His frown deepens. “Is there a blue car behind me?” you ask, stepping slightly closer, even as you chuck another paranoid look over your shoulder. The stranger's eyes move past you almost immediately, locking onto something else, tracking the movement with his gaze.

“They been following you?” he asks back, his voice deep, almost gravelly, and it suits him. When you don’t respond, his eyes flicker back to you.

“Yes,” you reply hurriedly. “I don’t know anybody with a car like that it’s really–”

“–S’alright, love, follow me,” he says, eyes having trailed back to the car, but he jerks his head along the path you usually take, and waits for you to start moving before he joins you. Your heart still hammers in your chest, your ears, but you practically feel it begin to even out again as you chance a look over at your new companion, and find him focused on the parked cars linging the street, keeping his eyes on their mirrors for the reflections behind you.

“Take a left,” he instructs, eyes remaining vigilant, but nodding in the direction of the forked pathway that leads off into the small park Gilberton Road lines. You follow his directions, relieved when you make it far enough into the grassy plane that the trees block the road, and you can no longer see the blue car, and by extension, it can no longer see you.

You come to a stop, leaning down with your hands on your knees and breathing heavily, shakily, trying to get a hold of yourself.

When you finally look up at your stranger, he’s watching what can be seen of the road, dark eyes scanning the sliver of street, until he appears to be satisfied with what he finds and he turns his head to look down at you.

“S’at why you’re late?” he asks, making you blink up at him in sheer confusion.

“What?”

He turns his whole body to face you now, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“The fucker following you, is that why you were late?” he asks again, forcing you to stand up straight once more, your chest heaving in exhuastion as you feel the adrenaline rush begin to come down some.

“Yes– I– were you waiting for me?” you stutter out, your hands now shaking even harder as you attempt to take another drink from your bottle.

His eyes follow your movements, his brow creasing into an even deeper frown.

“Yes,” he says with no further explanation.

“Oh– I’m– I’m sorry,” you say, trying your best to avert your gaze away from him and place the twist cap back on your water. You drop it, feeling like an idiot, but before you can bend down to grab it, a larger hand enters your vision, snatching up the lid, another hand moving to the bottle in your hand, which he tugs gently out of your hold, and replaces the covering easily, calm as clover.

You look up at him, blinking back the wetness in your eyes, but when that fails, wiping madly at your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, doing your best to choke back the sniffles you can hear in your voice. Your stranger stares at you, an awkward sort of concern in his eyes.

“Nothing to apologise for,” he tells you. You get the feeling offering comfort isn’t usually in his wheelhouse, because he shuffles slightly closer to you, but makes no further movement. He stays holding your bottle as you subconsciously wrap your arms around yourself, doing your best to take deep breaths, still shaky, still sobbed.

“I don’t know if they were following me from– from home or–” your voice cuts out and this time when he steps closer, it's more definitive, more determined, even as his hand comes up and gingerly grips your shoulder, a firm, tight hold that grounds you.

“I’ll go back with you,” he says affirmatively, and all you can do is nod, even when he starts to move, his hand shifting to between your shoulder blades, gently directing you out of the park and back to the main road.

You look up hesitantly, but the snap of your neck left and right makes him answer your question before you can even think to ask it.

“They’re gone,” he tells you firmly, and vaguely you think you feel his thumb sweep in broad strokes across your back. “Which way?”

You direct him quietly as you walk, eventually getting enough of a hold of yourself that he drops his hand from you, though you note he still holds your water.

“I can… I can take that,” you offer, holding a hand out and getsuring to your water. He makes no move to return it, his eyes swivelling down to you almost in a sideeye.

“Hands are still shaking,” he tells you, making you close your fist and return it to your side. “S’normal,” he goes on, like he’s attempting to backtrack. “Adrenaline will probably stay with you for a couple hours–”

“–I know,” you don’t mean to cut him off. “I’m a triage nurse,” you tell him quickly, apologetically. He cocks his head slightly, but nods, turning his gaze forwards again.

“You walk to work?” he asks after a moment.

Your hospital was one of the only big landmarks in the area, you figure he assumes you work there.

“Yeah, managed to get myself stable shifts, couldn’t cut the arse-end hours of the morning anymore,” you’re rambling a little, unsure why you bother telling him all that, but you don’t stop yourself, and he seems content to listen.

“Must be nice,” he says. You have to admit, small talk sounds odd in his voice. He sounds more used to barking orders than chatter, but you appreciate his effort anyway.

“You do shift work?” you venture, nodding to the unfamiliar emblem on his zip-up, which he looks down at almost like he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes shift to you again, and you get the feeling beneath his mask, he might just be smiling wryly.

“Sometimes,” is all he says, not darkly, or finitely, like he doesn’t want to talk about it, so you further distract yourself, pushing deeper.

“What is that? I’ve seen you wearing Army stuff, but I don’t recognise that,” you ask lightly, waiting as he seems to decide whether or not to explain it to you.

“Not supposed to,” he tells you at last, stretching his neck slightly before going on. “S’SAS.”

“SAS?” your voice is coloured with a surprise you couldn’t cover even if you tried. You don’t bother to hide the appraisal you give him either, something he appears all too aware of, averting his eyes from yours, but you see the twitch in the corners, like he’s trying his best not to look back at you.

“Guess it’s my lucky day,” you say at last with a huff of laughter. His eyes do return to you then, a full turn of his head this time, his eyebrow raised.

“S’not usually what people say when they see me,” his voice is amused. You laugh again and shrug your shoulders.

“Maybe, couldn’t think of anyone better to have as a running partner when someone’s following me, though,” you say, trailing off slightly as you remember how all this started. You’re brought out of your spiralling thoughts by the ice cold of your bottle poking you in your side, making you jump and yip slightly. Now he’s definitely smiling under his mask, his cheeks scrunching up his eyes slightly as you blink up at him in faux outrage.

“D’worry about it. Got your back, partner,” he says. You feel yourself grow flustered at the way he says the word ‘partner’, but snatch your bottle back now that he’s holding it out where you can grab it. His eyes follow your movement seemingly faster than you can actually make them, but he doesn’t pull the bottle back, lets you grab it, though doesn’t let go right away, holding on to it for a few seconds longer before finally releasing it.

You ‘humfph’.

“This one’s me,” you gesture as you come to a stop outside your flat–a small-ish, but big enough for you– two story terrace home, one of eight or nine lining your street. Your stranger looks up at it, his eyes roaming over the facade before he nods resolutely.

“Want me to wait with you, walk you to work?” he asks after a moment, like he had to think it over before offering.

“I don’t wanna make you late,” you wave a hand, annoyed to find it still shaky. You drop it quickly, but he’s already seen it.

“Won’t make me late,” he says simply.

You hesitate, before digging into your pocket and grabbing your keys, pursing your lips as you struggle to rifle through them, the jingling from your shaking hands making your difficulty that much more emphasised. Your stranger holds out his hand then, and sighing, you hand them to him.

You watch him climb the four steps up to your door, carefully slotting the key in the lock and twisting, before stepping back and holding your keys out to you, though he does hold them up in such a way it’s clear to you he’s inspecting your keyrings. You shuffle forward, waiting for him to look back at you before taking them from him, opening your door and turning back to him.

“Uhm… do you want to come in? I have tea?” you ask a little nervously. You watch your stranger appear to think.

“Flavoured stuff?” he replies with a sniff that gives you the distinct impression that he does not like ‘the flavoured stuff’. You chortle.

“I have Yorkshire,” you offer, fairly certain you had a box of the stuff somewhere. You drank coffee, but your ex had drank tea, and you’re pretty sure you hadn’t gotten rid of it.

“Alright then,” he says, waiting for you to enter before he follows. “M’Simon.”

–

It becomes the new routine.

At four-thirty on the dot, Simon knocks on your door. You run together. You get the impression he gets his real running done before he picks you up, but you appreciate him keeping pace with you on your jog anyway.

You like Simon. He’s quiet, but doesn’t seem to mind if you make small talk, usually only replying with a few words, or a hum, but you get the feeling he listens to you very intently, cataloguing the things you say or your opinions. He remembers when you talk about work, asking you questions occasionally when you fall quiet. It’s… nice, you think. He’s reliable, oddly communicative for a man of so few words, and you appreciate his sudden but welcomed presence into your life. It’s not hard to have a crush on the man, even disregarding physical attraction, he was smart, sensible, and he often made you laugh, really laugh, usually when he wasn’t even trying to.

But this morning he leads you down a slightly different route. Simon usually led the way in your jogs, you don't mind so much, you’d been jogging the same route since you moved in, so the change of scenery was nice, but today you stray further from the usual haunts. You don’t even think to ask, but as he slows, he comes to a stop outside a small cafe, the inside of which seems bustling with military folks in their fatigues, and you look up at him questioningly.

“Only place ‘round here open this early,” he tells you, as if that explains what you’re doing here, but your stomach grumbles a little bit, and you follow him inside. It’s just a cafe, but you feel oddly out of place among the sea of uniforms, and you feel Simon’s hand lightly ghost over your back as he ushers you forward toward the counter. You can’t help but notice a few of the soldiers stand up a little straighter in what you’re assuming is his presence, not yours, and several men even throw up salutes, but they’re waved away with an almost annoyed sounding ‘at ease’ from the man behind you.

You shuffle toward the counter and wait patiently as the barista, a rough looking older gentleman comes around to you, his features grim, but friendly, and he nods at Simon as he moves to stand beside you.

“Lieutenant Riley,” he greets with a nod, his eyes dancing down to you, and you swear you see the flicker of an eyebrow raise, but you couldn’t be sure. “Usual?” he asks. Simon shakes his head once.

“Not this mornin’. Just her,” he gestures at you, which makes you blink dumbly up at him for a moment.

“I see. What’ll it be, luv?”

You rattle your order off, a simple latte, and Simon swats your card away and hands the older man a couple of notes, instructing him to keep the change. You move off to the side, to wait in the queue, and you take the moment, while standing fairly on your own to look up at him curiously. He doesn’t return your gaze, too busy looking around the coffee shop, but he does lower his chin slightly.

“What?” he asks, gruffly.

“Why didn’t you get anything?” you poke his arm, finally prompting him to glance down at you.

“Didn’t want anythin’,” he says. You frown up at him.

“Liar,” you roll your eyes, watching as he lowers his face even further and fixes you with a stare.

“Fine. I don’t wan’ any of these knobs seeing my face,” he tells you.

You study him for a moment, his excuse momentarily sounding ridiculous, but somehow, you believe him. You hadn’t ever really thought about how he rarely, if ever, removed his face mask. He always wore it in public, he even wore it in your home, and you’d only really caught a glimpse of the lower half of his face on the occasions you invited him in for tea before he walked you to work. Even then, you mostly left him downstairs while you showered and readied for the day. You’re not sure you could really describe him if you were ever asked, and you’d be better off recognising him by his build and height than any facial features, aside from his eyes.

You think you would recognise his eyes anywhere.

Your frown deepens in curiosity, and you study the parts of his face you can see while he watches you.

“Is that… a thing for you? With your job?” you half-whisper. He’d already told you he was SAS, and from the light reading you’d done, their whole deal was pretty secretive, you could only really find details about historical stuff. Simon seems to hesitate before he nods. You blink up at him and purse your lips before making a soft ‘hmm’ sound and turning back to the counter.

Behind you, you hear a low chuckle, a rough sound you’d receive on the few occasions he deigned to laugh.

“Usually get more pushback than tha’,” he mutters softly, and still facing away, you shrug.

“You could wear a tutu for your job for all I care,” you tell him. It was a little strange, but from all you know about him, all you’d learnt in the past couple of weeks, you suspect the man had been through a lot, probably still went through a lot, so you’d respect his wishes for extreme privacy if he wanted it.

Your order gets called, and the barista, who Simon thanks using the name Ed, gives you a wink on the way out.

“What was that about?” you ask with a smile, turning back to wait for him as follows you out of the cafe.

“Thinks you’re my girlfriend,” he replies almost immediately. You pause coffee halfway to your lips.

“Wait? I’m not?” you ask, looking up at him with so much faux-confusion you almost believe yourself for a second. Simon nearly stumbles, but he covers it by spinning on his heel and staring down at you, his eyes wide with something akin to panic at first, before they lower into glare. It’s almost intimidating for a second, but the look of disgruntled agitation on what you can see of his face makes you break out into laughter.

“I’m fucking with you,” you manage to get out between giggles. If possible, his glare gets darker. You start walking again, elbowing him in the side as you pass him. “You’d have to show me your face if you want me to be your girlfriend.”

From behind you, you hear a huff, and footsteps following after you.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” Simon grumbles as he falls into step again. “The cheek on you.”

You peek up at him at that, mostly to see if he’s still glaring, only to find that he now eyes you with what you can only describe as fondness.

You soften some.

“I really was only joking, Simon,” you say quietly after taking a few sips of your coffee. You round a corner, and he looks down at you. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“The mask?” he asks. You glance up at him too, and nod.

“Yeah, I get it– I mean, I don’t, not really, but… I guess I don’t know exactly what you do, but it’s probably dangerous, right?”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“And– and you probably don’t want any of that following you home,” you continue on, frowning to yourself even as you look away.

Simon stays quiet for a few moments.

“My other mask might bother you,” he says then, instead of really responding to what you’ve said. You wonder about it for a second, wonder if that really was the reason he covers his face, wonder if maybe, it had happened before, if that was why he was so careful. But then you register what he’s said and you crane your head to squint up at him.

“Your other mask?” you ask, confusion and curiosity mixing in your voice. Simon chortles.

“It’s a skull,” he tells you, bringing his hand up to his face. You think he’s smiling behind his mask again. “Covers everything, protects it too.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to imagine what that would look like, if you’d even want to see it. You suppose if he was wearing it, that meant he was working, and you’re pretty sure if he’s working, that meant bad news. You don’t say any of that, however, undertsanding somewhere in the back of your mind that he didn’t often talk about any aspect of his job, and even this little detail was probably not something he shared with you lightly.

“I–” the moment you start speaking, you’re cut off, a dark black SUV tearing around the street corner up ahead, and screeching to a halt on the road beside you. Simon’s body language immediately changes into something you’ve never seen before, his arm swinging out and shoving you behind him as he watches the driver’s door swing open.

Almost instantly some of the rigidity in his muscles seem to relax as a young, handsome man with dark, tawny skin steps out, beelining around the side of the vehicle toward the two of you.

“Ghost, you’re needed back on base, we’re headed out,” the man tells him, his accent more Londoner than Simon’s, and you can’t help yourself, you peek around him to get a better look. The newcomer is dressed in what you might describe as ‘tactical casual’, with dark wash jeans, some kind of jacket, and a weapons vest over top. Before Simon has a chance to say anything, the man’s eyes drift toward you, and he blinks, all urgency seemingly forgotten as he takes you in.

“Who’s this?” he asks, voice lighter now, a little cheekier, and you watch as his gaze swivels back to Simon, who stands down completely, though you note, doesn’t step aside to reveal you to the man. He all but ignores him in fact, wheeling around on you, blocking out the other man’s view, though with the tiniest flicker of amusement, you see him shuffle slightly to the side so he can still get a look at you.

“I’ve got to go,” Simon tells you roughly, his voice somehow deeper than usual, gruffer even.

“O–okay,” you respond, not knowing how else you should. He must see your eyes dance worried and intrigued between him and the sight behind him, because he ducks into your vision slightly.

“Might be gone for a while,” he goes on after a moment. “M’gonna text you a number, anything happens, that blue car shows back up again, you call that number immediately, understood?”

You nod, realising you’re no longer speaking with your friend Simon, who even in his rough-around-the-edges manner, was softer than this. No, you realise you’re speaking to Lieutenant Riley, who was giving you an order.

“I’ll call, I promise,” you reassure him. He nods once, then turns, stepping past the other man, and all but wrenching the car door open. You blink in an almost stunned silence as he disappears into the SUV, leaving you for a moment with his friend– colleague?

“Uh, Hi,” he says.

“Hi…?” you return the greeting. The passenger's side window scrolls down, and Simon is glaring out of it.

“Garrick!”

The man, this Garrick, turns quickly around, like he’s been caught, and then looks back at you, swallowing quickly.

“Ma’am,” he says, nodding once. Must be a military thing, you think. Simon nodded a lot too. You watch him as he then spins on his heel, returning to the driver’s side.

And then they’re gone.

You stand in shock for a moment on the sidewalk, blinking after the black car, only pulled from your reverie by a single message from Simon, with no further words, just a number.

You save it, and walk home.

–

“Ghost,” Laswell comes marching through the hangar on a mission, using that tone that makes him stop in his tracks. They’d just finished their latest op, Ghost had been back on base for no longer than fifteen minutes, but he squares his shoulders and turns back to her, ready for whatever she was about to throw at him now. It had been a full month of this, not that he minded so much, always did feel more at home in the field than back London, but he might’ve been hoping for a little bit more down time as they planned their next move, especially with Gaz out of commission and on his way back for surgery on that broken arm.

“Laswell,” he greets her in kind, but she doesn’t stop, keeps moving right for him, only coming to a stand still when she’s sparsely two feet away. “What’ve you got for me?” He asks.

“I got a call while you were on your way back,” she tells him, and immediately his blood runs a little colder. “It was a woman, said her name was–”

“–What happened?” He cuts her off. He knows what your name is, that's not the part he needs to know right now. Laswell eyes him.

“She said the blue car was parked on her street,” Kate tells him and he has to assume you’d explained the car’s driver following you previously, because she says it with a sort of gravity that never meant good things. “I had her call the police, but apparently it took off before they could get the plates… I had somebody sent out to keep an eye on the place…”

Ghost lets out a string of expletives, looking away from her for a moment as he gathers his thoughts.

“CCTV?” he asks, almost snaps back, but Laswell takes it in stride.

“I looked it up, but the thing must be stolen. Plates belong to a gentleman who died three years ago, registration hasn’t been renewed, and the car wasn’t sold, at least not that I could find a record of,” she pauses a moment, eyeing him intently again. “Simon,” she says then, drawing his attention back down to her. “I advised her not to go to work, or leave the house, but I don’t think she was planning to anyway. She’s scared.”

Ghost almost growls at her.

“Of course she’s fuckin’ scared,” he bites back, but quickly regrets it. He shifts on his feet, antsy and annoyed. Kate’s face softens and she steps in just a little closer.

“Call her,” she says, making him freeze for a moment, hands flexing at his sides. “I know it's a blackout, but we’re grounded until we know our next moves. I can give you a few minutes, but only that,” she cuts him off before he can even argue.

He follows her to her office silently, his emotions a mixture of seething and anxious, but all of that fades away when the line picks up.

“H-hello?” your voice sounds small and he has to forcibly stop himself from grinding his teeth.

“Hello luv,” he hears himself say. He’s not bothered about Laswell sitting on the other side of the desk, listening in, he knows that’s her job. He knows she’s heard much worse than this.

“Simon?”

He shifts in his seat upon hearing the crack in your voice, angry that this has happened to you. Again.

“Thank you for giving me Kate’s number…” you say, sounding like you’re breathing back fresh tears. “She… she really helped me.”

Simon tuts.

“I’ve only got a short time, are you alright?” he asks, trying his best to soften his tone, not let his blooming anxiety feed into yours.

“Yeah, I–I’m fine, just shaken up… I saw them before I left, so I don’t think they know which house is mine…” you tell him, sounding slightly more confident at that assertion. Simon nods to himself.

“Can you do me a favour, sweetheart?” if the pet names register or deter you, you certainly don’t show it as you hum your affirmative down the phone. “Need you to stay at home for a while– Not too long, but just until I know you’re safe, alright?”

Laswell looks over at him then, but he ignores her, continuing on.

“Got a mate that’s gonna be on some leave for a while, gonna send him over to you, can you wait until he’s back f’me?” he asks.

“S-sure. I– I think that would be good.”

He’s glad you don’t argue, though worries about what state you must be in to want that kind of help. Laswell motions to him from the corner of his eye, and he knows what she’s telling him before he even has a chance to look up.

“I’ve got to go, you call again if something happens between now and my mate being able to get to you, alright?”

You confirm with him again, and without so much as a goodbye, Laswell cuts off the connection.

“Any longer than that, I’d have to log it,” she tells him apologetically. Ghost waves his hand, placing the phone back into her possession. He doesn’t stand right away, just sits and thinks for a moment, before he looks up at her properly, meeting her gaze.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. Laswell smiles, small, but genuine.

“Of course,” she says, before spinning back around in her seat and bringing up something on her computer. “I’ll alert Gaz as soon as he’s awake and able… this isn’t… this isn’t related to work, is it?”

Ghost stares at her for a moment.

“No, happened to meet when she was bein’ followed the first time,” he explains, but doesn’t feel the need to give her the full story. It wasn’t important, all she needed to know was this was some regular ol’ stalker, nothing related to their various ops.

Laswell nods, and turns back to her screen.

“I’ll keep in email contact with her and Gaz.”

Ghost feels selfish for the relief he feels at those words. Feels selfish that he's passing off his worry to her, so he can focus. But he needed to, in order to remain at his best in the field. He couldn’t be worried about what was happening at home, and there was a reason he’d given you Laswell’s contact in the first place. Wordlessly, he stands, and leaves her office.

–

You’re wiping down your kitchen counter for the fifth, maybe sixth time today. You could only fill your day with so many chores, so much telly, and so much laundry before you started repeating yourself. So when your doorbell chimes, you almost jump at the chance for something new, even if you know you should be more cautious about opening your door right now.

You’d promised Simon.

Still, you make sure you look through your blinds and your peephole before you answer, but both pre-checks give you the same answer, and honestly, it’s not the one you had been expecting.

“Hello?” you ask, opening the door a crack, glancing out at the familiar man, the same one who had come for Simon all those weeks ago. He smiles at you, and immediately shows you both his hands.

“Hello again,” he says, his voice warm and filled with what you think is genuine friendliness.

“Are you– you’re Simon’s friend?” you ask, opening the door a little further, but not yet all the way. The man nods, and drops his hands.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m Gaz, Ghost sent me, said you might be wanting for a lil’ company.”

You blink at him, your frown dipping further, your eyes scanning his face uncertaintly.

“Who’s ‘Ghost’?” you ask, and for a split second, his smile drops some.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding to himself, as though realising something. “Lieutenant Riley is. Simon,” he tells you, before shrugging. “Goes by Ghost in the field.”

“Oh,” you say, slightly dumbfounded by the information. You stand there for a second longer, processing before you realise this man has come to help you, and you’ve left him on your doorstep.

“I’m so sorry, I’m just a little shaky, come on in.”

You and Gaz get on like a house on fire. He’s overly polite at first, a little formal, but soon enough he eases out, and you find you quite like having him around.

“So, what’d you do to your arm?” you ask a few days later, after insisting he let you look at his injury.

“Not sure I can tell you that, luv,” Gaz responds without missing a beat. Apparently the break wasn’t so bad, a fracture that required a cast, but he seemed to be healing alright.

“I know what you do, Kyle,” you say in a faux-annoyed voice. “I mean, not like, exactly what you do, but you can tell me if you fell out of a window or something,” you continue with a roll of your eyes. Gaz chuckles, and looks up at you as you round the couch and place a cup of tea down in front of him.

His gaze is momentarily sympathetic, before he gets a wicked look in his eye.

“I’ll tell you,” he begins, shifting better to face you where you sit on the other end of the sofa. “If you tell me what’s going on with you and Ghost– Simon.”

You refrain from frowning. It had become rather obvious to you, more obvious than just the impressions you’d gotten in your own experience, that your friendship with Simon wasn't exactly anywhere near the norm for him, which in turn made it all the more interesting to his teammate.

“Sure,” you say, trying not to feel like you’re tricking him.

“Took a crowbar to the arm,” he says with a sigh. “Knocked my gun out of my hands, blindsided me… probably would have been fine if I hadn’t finished out the mission, but…”

You nod in understanding.

“The extra stress on it,” you say, and receive a nod. He looks at you expectantly, and you let out a breath.

“We’re friends,” you tell him, immediately earning a playful scoff.

“LT doesn’t have friends,” he shoots back quickly, though not meanly, you don’t get the sense he’s trying to insult him.

“Look, I– I know what you’re saying, it's not like… it isn’t as if there’s nothing there, I’m not stupid. I don’t think he’d go out of his way for me like this otherwise… but we are just friends.”

Gaz looks at you thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he thinks.

“I believe you,” he says then, as if he’s decided something. “Mostly because that man has never taken a personal phone call in his life, let alone when we’re in a comms. Blackout…”

“Wait, but I thought soldiers could contact their families… and friends?” you tack on the last part quickly. Gaz shakes his head.

“The type of shit we do… it’s better if we don’t,” he tells you solemnly.

“Is… is that why he hides his face?” you ask. Gaz’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’ve never seen his face?”

You pause, wondering if this is information you should share. You’d gotten to know Gaz fairly well the past few days, but you still weren’t certain of the dynamic between him and Simon, let alone where you stood within that.

“Sort of… It’s not like he was looking me straight on,” you trail off. “Sometimes after our runs, he has tea while I clean up for work, he takes the mask off then, but it’s always back on by the time I’ve come back downstairs,” you almost feel guilty admitting it, given what you’d learnt since then about how Simon preferred to keep his face hidden. “I don’t know if he meant for me to see.”

Gaz snorts and shakes his head.

“Trust me, if he took that mask off anywhere near you, he meant for you to see… I’ve only seen his face properly once,” he tells you. You blink.

“But you work with him!” you argue. Gaz chuckles and takes a sip of his tea.

“So the fact he regularly takes it off around you at all…” he doesn’t finish, just flashes you a grin and bounces his eyebrows.

You huff out a chortle and shake your head at him.

“You boys don’t get a lot of gossip, do you?” you ask, earning a boisterous, hearty laugh.

“Nah, not really. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in years on that front,” he tells you truthfully. You shake your head again.

“When I go back to work tomorrow, I’ll fill you in on all the workplace dramas,” you tell him, reaching out and patting his uninjured arm. Once again, he flashes that bright, boyish grin at you.

“You know what? That’s a deal, luv.”

–

You’ve been back at work two weeks now. You loved your job but you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy the time off with Gaz. Still you got to see him everyday, he’d walk/jog with you in the mornings and then walk you to work, and in the evenings he’d drop by and walk you back. You usually made him dinner, or you’d just talk. You’d gotten him onto ‘Come Dine With Me’, and you’d had a blast replaying the older episodes.

It had been a break at least from the regular ‘missing Simon’ or ‘worrying about Simon’ hours you’d been having. You know you shouldn’t. From everything Gaz had told you or let slip, Simon–or Ghost as he called him most often– was not somebody you should worry about. He was the somebody others should be worrying about.

It goes a long way to comfort you.

It’s not as though you can really imagine Simon at work, with guns and explosives and knives or whatever else, but it isn’t as though you can look at that beefcake of a man and not picture him doing some real damage, it's the whole reason you’d ran straight for him that first day.

He had a dangerous air to him, even the way Gaz speaks about him at times. It was like he was built specifically for something, but you suppose that was what years of training and hard work and a certain mindset would do to you.

You clock out in the main office, and hike your bag further up your shoulder. You’re tired, it had been a long day, but luckily not a very intense one. Sometimes that was worse, though. At least if you were called in constantly for triage, you had something else to focus on, but today your thoughts had constantly drifted back to him.

You chuck a text out to Gaz, who replies immediately, insisting he had a surprise for you. You sigh a little. You know he must sense your growing worry, he’d been suggesting doing more and more things recently in the hopes of getting your mind sof things, you think. You’d gone mini golfing last friday, which had been fun. Gaz was a good mate, and you think you’d really like to hang out with him again, even after all this was over.

You step out the front doors of the hospital, fiddling with your phone in your hand, but looking up sharply when you spot some movement to your left. You see Gaz first, standing against a guard railing, chatting away, and as your eyes drift to the person next to him, you feel your heart speed up and your face break out into a wide, unabashed smile.

“Simon!” you all but shout, moving your way quickly toward them. You want to throw yourself at him, want to toss your arms around him and squeeze tightly, but to be honest you don’t really know what state he’s in. Simon and Gaz stand up a little straighter, a massive grin on the latter’s face. A surprise indeed.

Simon looks weary, looks tired, and you spot what looks like a stitch in his upper brow. It doesn’t deter you though, you meet him halfway and shuffle your bag awkwardly taking him in.

“Y’look good,” he says simply, and you realise how much you’d missed his voice. You can’t help yourself, you move closer, and pull him in, or, really, pull yourself in, wrapping your arms around what you can of his bulk, and smushing your cheek into his chest.

You’re a little surprised by how quickly he hugs you back, it’s not like this was normal for the two of you, but faster than you thought he might, or at all really, his arms are around you too, tight and firm and you can’t help it when your eyes grow a little wetter.

“I missed you,” you say softly, only loud enough that he would pick it up, and he hums against you.

“You been alright, sweetheart?” he asks. You don’t know when he started with the petnames, you don’t think he used them before he went away, but maybe you just hadn’t noticed before. You pull back.

“I’m good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. Simon’s brow furrows, and he twitches a little before he lifts his own hands, gloved in the cold weather, and uses his thumbs to dry your cheeks.

“No cryin’ love, come on now,” he faux-scolds, ducking down a little even as you nod. “Makin’ me feel bad.”

You smile up at him and he seems to pause for a moment, before his own eyes seem to crinkle slightly.

“You want dinner?” you ask quickly then, not content to have him walk you home and disappear again. “I got out a pork roast this morning,” you go on, looking past him to Gaz, who had conveniently been checking his phone until he hears that.

“Aw, come on LT, first night back and you’re getting a home cooked meal? Can’t say no to that,” Gaz teases. If Simon is bothered by it, he doesn’t say, simply reaches out and takes your backpack from you, and jerks his head in the direction of home.

You’re finishing up with the vegetables, the roast just out of the oven and waiting when he enters. You’d left the boys in the other room, to talk about anything they needed to talk about, and also give Simon a bit of a break, considering from what you’d picked up on, he’d literally come as soon as he’d gotten back earlier this evening.

You shoot a glance over your shoulder as Simon moves about your small kitchen, tossing the two beer bottles in the trash, but he’s looking over at you. He has his mask off, tucked under his chin, but you were still trying not to stare too much. Gaz had wiggled his eyebrows at you already, as if to prove a point you’re pretty sure you already know, but if you had any doubts, they’re sated the moment Simon seems to cautiously step up to you from behind.

Slowly you feel his arms move around your middle, and you do your best not stop what you’re doing in awe. You feel his forehead connect with your shoulder and when nothing seems to immediately push him away, he lets out a long, deep breath.

“M’sorry I wasn’t here,” he says almost too quietly. You smile a little, still taken aback by this second showing of affection in one evening, and stop your food preparation briefly to pat this arm circling your stomach.

“You couldn’t help it,” you tell him. “And Laswell checked back in on me, too.”

He raises his head a little at that.

“She did?” he asks, sounding a little surprised. You nod.

“Mhmn.”

He doesn’t respond to that, simply rests his head back on your shoulder and takes another deep breath.

“Missed you too,” he says then, like an admittance, but you only chortle, placing down your tools now, and gingerly reaching back to cup his cheek. He seems to jump a little at the touch, before he leans into it, and you think if a man could purr, he might just start.

“I know,” you say softly.

“You know?” he asks back, his voice laced with amusement.

“You don’t send an SAS mate round to look after your friend you don’t miss,” you poke at his arm with your other hand, and feel the huff of laughter he lets out against your neck.

“Friend,” he says, and there's something else in his tone, but you can’t pick out what it is.

“We’re not friends?” you ask then, forcing yourself not to twist around in his arms, but you do turn your head, a little breathless when you find him, his full bare face, looking back at you, thoughtful.

“No,” he says slowly, but you don’t panic too much, don’t feel your stomach drop. He still has his arms around you. “I showed you my face, that’s what you said, innit?” he asks back, almost huffily. You pause for a moment, brows furrowing slightly as you try to recall what he’s speaking about. “Said I’d have to show you my face if I wanted…” he trails off.

Your face breaks out into a grin as you remember, and you can't help but laugh, your hand shaking where it cups his cheek and you giggle to yourself.

“Well, new clause to that,” you say between pearls of laughter, brought on even more so when his face falls into a little frown that you raise your hand to smooth out from between his brows, his eyes watching you closely. “You also have to tell me if that’s what you want!”

“That’s what I want,” he says quickly, like he might miss his opportunity if he doesn’t get in fast. You chortle again, and can’t resist the urge to tease him, the full effect of his facial expressions now almost a game to you, to see how he looks when it’s not just his eyes you can see.

“You know we could still just be friends,” you say slyly, tracking as his lips turn downward and his glare returns, muscles in his face fighting against the thumb you’d used to relax them previously.

“No,” he says again, firmly, a growl this time, and you laugh. “The gall of you woman, making me worried to fuck, then tryna just be friends,” he huffs out, standing tall, making your hand drop from his face entirely. His hands move to your hips then, shuffling you around to face him and he stares down at you for a beat.

You’re surprised when he drops his face to yours, his lips pressing quickly against your own, pulling back only briefly before he seems to decide that’s not quite enough and he does it again.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” he tells you roughly, lips brushing your own when he speaks.

“My running partner?” you ask breathlessly. He glares darkly at you, and this time he kisses you firmly, slowly, like he’s getting a taste for you. You can’t help but lean up into it, pressing up on your toes.

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and then one of his hands is leaving your hip, wrapping around the back of your neck where he angles your head slightly to the side. His mouth parts, and you take the opportunity to deepen your kiss, seemingly surprising him somewhat, though you feel his lips curl up into a smile, even as his hand tightens on the back of your neck.

He kisses you like it might make you shut up about this whole ‘platonic’ thing, and when he pulls back at last, hand still holding your head in place, he looks down at you for a moment like he’s searching for something.

“Okay,” you say shakily.

“Okay,” he replies, voice much deeper than it was before. You feel his fingers flex against your neck.

“Okay,” Gaz says, suddenly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“Garrick I will break your other arm,” Simon growls, releasing his hold on you and whipping around. You let out a bark of laughter, your hands coming up to rest on Simon’s shoulders, pushing up on your tiptoes to try and whisper in his ear, but you can’t quite reach.

“If you do that, he’ll have to stay home and hang out with me for longer,” you tell him. Simon turns his head to look back at you, practically pouting. “Set the table please, dinner’s almost ready.”

Gaz stands up straighter, and salutes you with his good arm.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

–

“I’ll drive,” Simon tells the rest of 141, already at the car door, leaving the others to simply complain about it. They’re going for drinks, a ritual that took place one week post mission, every mission, and one Simon did not usually lead the charge on.

Price silently takes the passenger’s seat, ignoring Johnny and Gaz as they fight over who called shotgun first, both of them climbing in the backseat huffily when they notice. Simon almost smiles under his mask, shooting Price an eyeroll the older man waves off with a short chuckle.

“Everyone got your seatbelts on?” Price asks buckling himself in.

“Had it on b’fore I got in the car, wha’with Lt. drivin’ an’ all,” Soap says with a snicker that comes to a short sharp stop when Simon briefly presses down the accelerator, then the brakes, jolting his (un)willing passengers testily.

“Simon,” Price faux-scolds, but when he looks over at the Captain, he’s grinning.

“Alright you trollops, ready?”

The drive out is surprisingly peaceful, despite Simon’s rising anxiety. If anybody notices his nervous tapping finger on the steering wheel at every red light, they don’t say anything. It’s not until he thinks they’ve picked up on the fact he’s driven past the turn off for the pub that the chatter in the backseat calms somewhat, a few more lingering silences between the banter until he comes to a stop outside your place. Simon puts the car in park, and he’s never felt a quiet so pervasive before.

It stays quiet until after he’s left the car, taking the umbrella from the foot well with him. The door slams, and he’s never been glader not to hear the conversation that immediately ensues.

“Where the hells’ he goin’?” Soap snaps like a rubber band, never taking his eyes off of Ghost as he stalks around the car and up onto the sidewalk. “Who’s flat is this?!”

Price watches for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest.

“A woman’s,” he says, doing his best impression of being indifferent, but he can’t quite hide the curiosity and surprise in his voice.

“A bird? Simon doesn’t know any birds!” Soap says, before pausing. “Except the ones we work with,” he adds. The Scot looks between Price and Gaz, before he double takes back at Kyle, and narrows his eyes. “Yer aw’ful shifty,” he says, immediately clocking when Gaz puts up his ‘playing it cool’ front.

“Nah mate, I’m as surprised as you are,” Gaz tells him, almost sounding convincing.

“Wha’ makes you think it’s a woman’s house, Cap?” Johnny asks instead of pressing the Sergeant, though he keeps a side eye on him even as he looks back out at where Ghost has knocked on the door and stands waiting.

“Took the brolly,” Price says with a sigh. “He’s not using it, though. Yet,” he nods toward the scene playing out before them, and Soap’s questions come to an end when the front door opens and you appear, smiling up at Ghost.

His jaw all but drops to the car floor when Ghost appears to actually lean down toward you, you raise a hand, hooking a finger over the top of his black cloth mask and pulling it down. And then you kiss him!

“Fuck off!” Soap exclaims. He looks frantically between Price and Gaz. “Get off!”

No one responds as Ghost puts up the umbrella and holds it over your head as you step out, locking your door, before allowing him to escort you back to the car. Soap almost jumps when the car door opens, and Simon ducks his head into the car.

“Move,” he says shortly. Soap just stares, eyes flickering between you and his Lt. in nothing but agape shock.

You elbow Simon, he catches it without looking.

“Hi, s’nice to meet you,” you say. Soap watches Simon roll his eyes. His mask has been replaced, but Johnny doesn’t need to see his face uncovered to know he’s scowling at him. You peek further into the car, and your already smiling face lights up even more.

“Gaz!” You say happily. Soap whips his head back around to Kyle, expression somewhere between betrayal and shock.

“You knew about this?!”

“Move, Johnny,” Simon growls again, though there's a note of exasperation in his voice more so than anger.

Soap quickly slides over to the middle seat, fumbling for the seatbelt, watching as you look up at Simon with a little frown.

“I should sit in the middle, I’m smaller,” you tell him. Simon’s eyes meet yours and he shakes his head.

“Safer on the sides,” he almost grunts.

“Gee, thanks, Lt.,” Johnny grumbles as you take Simon’s offered hand and climb into the back. He waits for you to buckle yourself in before he closes the door.

“Hi,” you say again in the brief moment you’re alone with 141. Price turns around in his seat, and holds a hand out to you that you shake.

“John Price,” he tells you. “Sorry ‘bout this one,” he nods to Soap, who is still somewhere between bewildered and calming down.

“Sorry,” Johnny tells you quickly, shaking your offered hand, looking at you kindly. “Jus’... didn’t realise Lt. had… you,” he seems to cringe at that. “I’m Soap, or Johnny.”

You smile brightly and shake your head.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him, taking back your hand. “He warned me you’d be like this.”

Soap blinks.

“He talks about me?”

You ignore him with a smile, leaning around to wave at Gaz.

“How’s your arm doin’, Kyle?” you ask warmly. Gaz scrunches his nose and pouts.

“Be better if I had a nurse like you takin’ care of me,” he tells you cheekily, just as the driver’s door opens again and Simon climbs back in.

“Careful, Garrick,” he says warningly, but there’s no real bite behind his words, amusement more than anything else.

The car starts to move once more, and it isn’t lost on anyone but you that the ride is suddenly much more smooth.

“So, you two know each other?” Soap asks the least obvious question first, nodding between you and Gaz. You smile.

“Gaz kept me company while he was on medical leave,” you tell him.

“Oh,” is all he responds at first, clearly wondering ‘why’.

“Some fucker keeps stalkin’ ‘er in his car,” Simon fills in, surprising you slightly. You’d have figured he’d not tell them anything more than absolutely necessary about your relationship, or you by extension.

It hits you then, that despite his seeming annoyance and gruffness with them, these were probably the people he trusted most in the world. It warms you a little.

“Wha’? And you haven’t killed the bastard yet?” Soap asks, immedieatly chilling the atmosphere in the car by a few degrees. Simon eyes him sharply in the rearview, and you feel the held breath by the others like a taute bungee cord.

You knew in the back of your mind Simon was a dangerous man, that when he went away for work, it wasn’t to sit around on a base simply performing requisite duties. But hearing the confirmation of that fact still somehow gives you pause. But only for a minute.

“Sorry– I didn’t mean–”

“–I wish he would,” you cut Soap’s apology, with a short, nervous little laugh. The mood shifts back then, and from the front seat you hear Price chuckle heartily.

Simon’s eyes swivel to you in the mirror, dancing away back to the road a moment later, and he seems to shift in his seat some.

“Is tha’ permission, then?” he asks with a faux-lightness that informs you you should pick your next words very carefully. You shrug.

“Can you get away with it?” you ask, still keeping your voice jovial. Plausible deniability, you suppose. Next to you, Soap lets out a bark of laughter.

“Aye, you bet yer arse he can,” he tells you, gently nudging you with his elbow. “An’ if he doesn’t get the cunt, I will.”

“Watch your fuckin’ language!” Simon barks, glaring at him in the mirrors. Your laugh is somewhere between a scoff and a gasp. You lean forward to the front seats and smack Simon’s arm.

“You called the guy the exact same thing last night!” You say. “And Johnny was being nice!”

Simon’s head briefly snaps back to you, seemingly betrayed that you outed him, before turning back around and grunting. Soap flashes you a megawatt grin.

–

It’s the Saturday after your drinks with Simon’s team, and you’re cleaning up after lunch when you hear your front door open, then close heavily. Despite all circumstances, you aren’t overly worried, you recognise the sound of his heavy footfalls, and the clank of his keys as he drops them in the bowl by the front door.

“Simon?” you ask anyway, moving around the doorway of the kitchen, surprised to find him right there, and even more surprised when he cups your face in both his hands and kisses full and deep half a second later.

When he lets you up for air, you almost gasp with how fervently he coups you up against the kitchen counter, backing you into it quickly.

“S’dealt with,” he says simply, kissing you again. You frown some, confused, and you pull back ever so slightly.

“W–What?” you ask, still a little breathless. Simon looks down at you. His mask is crumpled up, hanging from one ear, and you recognise the slightly wild look in his eye. It was the same as when he’d come back from his last mission. You hadn’t noticed it then, not used to seeing him a little riled up, a little adrenalised, but you reconise it now.

“Stalker. S’dealt with,” he says, his hands on your face holding you just a little tighter, like through touch alone he can convey what he means. For a moment a slightly sick feeling fills your stomach, and you pull away.

“Simon, stop,” you say quickly, placing a hand onh his chest when he all but reels back from you. Your gesture calms his almost panic now, and you curl your fingers into the front of his shirt so he knows not to go far. You scrunch your eyes closed, and take a few deep breaths.

“I–” your voice fails you at first, and you feel his hands move to rest on your shoulder and your waist supportively. You swallow. “I don’t want to know,” you tell him at last, eyes still shut and shaking your head.

When you open them at last, he’s looking down at you guiltily, though you sense no remorse for what he may or may not have done. You shake your head and use the hand in his shirt to pull him nearer once more, tucking yourself against his chest, and wrapping your arms around his back. You close your eyes again and take in another deep, shuddering breath.

“I don’t want to know,” you say again, feeling his arms wrap almost hesitantly around you. One of his hands cups the back of your head, safely, securely, and he strokes it once, twice, before he simply holds it. You feel him swallow.

“M’sorry–”

“–Don’t be,” you cut him off quickly, tightening your arms around him, latching onto his shirt at the back, over where the muscles in his shoulders jut out. “Don’t be sorry, thank you.”

Your voice gains a slightly weepy edge, and he adjusts you, moves so it’s him with his back to the counter, and you all but fall against him, his fingers on the back of your head gripping ever so slightly tighter, but it's comforting. And then you start crying, full, heavy with relief, and you keep crying until all the stress has worked itself out of you.

–

It takes you a while, but you start jogging again. Simon joins you of course, and you find yourself inordinately pleased on the mornings he brings Gaz or Soap (or both) along with him.you start frequenting Ed’s coffee shop until he knows you by name, make it a well trodden spot during the weeks or months when Simon is away.

Life returns to normal.

In some ways at least.

Simon moves in with you when his lease is up, half his time spent with you at your home anyway, it feels natural for him to be there the other half now too. Gaz’s own end of lease, and some jerking around on the part of his new place’s owner see him staying in your spare bedroom for a few weeks before he finally sorts out his own flat, not that it would end up mattering, with both men getting called away two weeks later. They’re gone for three months, in which time you help Collect the keys of his new apartment, and help him move some of his stuff in, a favour he’s all too thankful for when he returns.

You meet Kate, you go for drinks with the boys, and a few years later, you find yourself with a ring on your finger and a tiny little baby girl that loves her daddy and her uncles so much she ceases crying the moment one of them picks her up.

You don't, however, ever see the blue car again.

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lilynotdilly · 1 month ago

Text

Really enjoyed this series do far...

I started writing a new Call of Duty series. It's AU, where Ghost is a real demon, he joined 141 and seems to like Soap🤭 Here is the first part.

Action, bombs, firts meeting. 3722 words.

“This is an unusual mission.” Said the unnamed colonel conducting the briefing. ”So your partner, Sergeant, will be... unusual.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, glancing at Price. The captain sat to one side and remained impassive while the colonel spoke. 141 had been called out in the middle of the night, flown somewhere in a troop transport plane, and found themselves at a small base hidden high in the mountains. It was a strange place, commanded by strange people, but neither Price nor Laswell showed any concern: they probably knew more than the rest of the unit, Soap, Gaz, and Roach. During the briefing, the colonel described the combat tasks for everyone except Sergeant MacTavish, and finally it was his turn.

“Why does the sergeant have to have someone from outside as his partner?” Price asked, showing emotion for the first time; he stood up and frowned at the colonel. ”I understand why you called us. The threat of a terrorist attack during the Expo is a serious matter, and we are very knowledgeable about such things. But we will be much more effective if we work together rather than with outside specialists.”

The colonel glanced briefly at Laswell and, clearly reluctantly, began to explain.

You can keep reading here or on the Ao3

“Captain, your task, together with Sergeants Sanderson and Garrick and the soldiers under your command, will be to work undercover, identify enemy forces, and counter targeted attacks against specific individuals.” He said. “We don't know exactly where and how they will take place, but we do know that if these attacks are not successful, the terrorists will detonate a bomb to destroy everyone. And this is not just a bomb, but a tactical nuclear warhead that they either bought or stole from the russians. It's already there, hidden somewhere in old tunnels under the city, and there will be a lot of security. Sergeant MacTavish will take care of disarming it, and our specialist will be able to deliver it to the right place unharmed.”

Soap barely refrained from whistling in surprise. He had only dealt with something like this once before, and then the warhead had to be stolen from a terrorist base where it was being stored, not counteracted by a real threat of detonation. Of course, MacTavish had no doubts about himself, but he already had a lot of questions. For example, if the deadly weapon was going to be guarded by many people—and it had to be—then why is he being accompanied by only one “specialist” instead of a combat team?

“John.” Laswell spoke up before Price could ask what appeared to be the same question that had occurred to MacTavish. ”I know this all sounds strange, but these people know what they're doing. With this specialist, Soap will return unharmed. I can vouch for that.”

The captain clearly didn't like what was happening. But Laswell had proven 141's trust more than once, so he nodded silently and walked over to Soap, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, son.” He said.

“Aye, sir.” The sergeant nodded.

Everyone left the briefing room together and then went their separate ways. Laswell led Price, Gaz, and Roach to the airfield, where the soldiers under 141's command were already waiting, along with the helicopters they would be flying in. The colonel gestured to Soap to follow him and led him in the other direction, to an elevator that went down somewhere, clearly diving deep into the mountain on which the base stood. They emerged into a short corridor lit by dim light, which ended with a single massive door.

“He's already in the loop.” Said the colonel. ”You have a few minutes to get acquainted, and then a separate helicopter will be waiting for you. Good luck.”

With a brief nod, the colonel turned and disappeared into the elevator, leaving Soap alone.

In the first few seconds, MacTavish was overcome by an unpleasant feeling of anxiety. A magnetic card was needed to call the elevator, and he realized that he would not be able to get out of there on his own if this was some kind of trap. However, there was still another door in front of him, and, casting aside his doubts, he resolutely approached it. Soap was about to knock, but before he could raise his hand, the door slowly opened by itself, and he had no choice but to go in.

It was almost dark inside, so the sergeant couldn't see anything. The only source of light was a dim floor lamp standing next to a large leather armchair that looked completely out of place in a military base. Sitting in this chair with his legs crossed was a man in some kind of tactical gear, but very strange. He had a hood on his head that completely hid his face, and when he looked at Soap, he saw that he was also wearing some kind of mask in the shape of a skull.

“Hello, Sergeant.” He said in a very low, almost inhuman voice, then stood up.

Soap lost his voice. At 5.9 feet tall, he often looked up at other soldiers, but this man was huge, probably almost a foot and a half taller. Compared to him, the burly MacTavish looked almost tiny, and this made him feel uncomfortable.

“Sergeant John MacTavish.“ He introduced himself, took a few steps forward, and held out his hand.

“You can call me Ghost.” His partner replied, squeezing Soap's hand in his.

He was wearing gloves with a bone print, but even through the thick fabric, MacTavish felt as if his hand had been burned by ice.

“Just Ghost?” He raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain his usual cocky attitude.

“Hmm...” Came from under the mask. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Ghost.”

“Well, fine.” Soap smiled as warmly as he could, trying to make out the eyes of this truly unusual man, which were still hidden by the shadow of his hood. ”Can I ask a question?”

Ghost nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. In fact, Soap had a lot of questions, such as why the lieutenant was sitting here instead of upstairs with the other soldiers; why his equipment was so strange; who had allowed him to wear a non-standard mask and gloves; and why the hell something that looked very much like the blade of a small scythe was sticking out from behind his shoulder. But instead, something completely different came out of Soap's mouth.

“What did they feed you to make you grow so big?” He blurted it out before he had time to think.

Ghost tilted his head to one side, and then MacTavish heard his deep laugh, which sounded nothing like anything that could come out of a normal human throat.

“I like you, Johnny.” Said the lieutenant, picking up the assault rifle standing next to the chair. ”I think we'll work well together. Let's go.”

The main combat group had already taken off, and only one helicopter remained on the airfield. Soap tried to keep up with his partner, noticing how, upon seeing him, the soldiers quickly scattered in different directions, trying not to approach or even look at the lieutenant.

“Looks like they don't like you very much.“ He said as they boarded.

“Negative.” Ghost replied. “They're just afraid.”

“Is that why they keep you in the dungeon?” Soap persisted.

“Yes.” The lieutenant nodded.

During the flight, MacTavish tried to strike up a conversation with his partner, but he clearly didn't like small talk, either answering in monosyllables or not responding to questions at all. Soap watched him, and it seemed to him that during the entire flight, Ghost didn't move a muscle, as if he weren't a living being.

A car was waiting for them at the drop-off point. Soap expected the lieutenant to get behind the wheel, but he took the passenger seat and gave directions until they reached their destination. It was a kind of abandoned warehouse with a hatch in the basement leading to a tunnel.

“Don't stick your head out.” Ghost said before they went down. ”Follow me. You need to be able to defuse the bomb when we get to it.”

At first, the tunnels looked abandoned. It stank, and they had to walk through a disgusting mixture of sewage and garbage. Soap walked with his thermal imager down and didn't immediately realize that Ghost didn't have anything like that. However, now was not the time to ask questions, because the situation around them had changed. The water disappeared from under their feet, the concrete walls turned to stone, and a couple of minutes later, two soldiers encountered the first enemies.

It all happened so fast that Soap didn't even have time to understand what was going on. Two terrorists appeared from around the corner and immediately fell down without making a sound. Ghost dealt with them with his bare hands: he broke one's neck and slammed the other's head against the wall with such force that his skull split with a disgusting crunch. Without slowing down, the lieutenant stepped over the bodies, and Soap thought that a combat team would indeed be superfluous here.

For a while, they managed to move quietly, without using their weapons. Ghost destroyed all the enemies they encountered with such ease that it seemed unreal. It turned out that he had many knives in his arsenal: he threw some at his opponents, managing to pick them up and reattach them to his tactical vest; with others — large and serrated — he skillfully slit their throats. It seemed that the lieutenant knew where to go because he never hesitated at any of the numerous forks in their way.

Ghost stopped abruptly, causing Soap to crash into his back, and it felt like he had hit a stone wall. There was another turn ahead, and the lieutenant looked back at his partner. Now, thanks to the thermal imager, MacTavish could see his eyes, and they didn't look like human eyes should.

“What happened?” Soap whispered quietly.

“There's a room up ahead.” Ghost replied just as quietly. ”There are six of them. Stay here and wait until I call you. And be ready to move fast, Johnny, because I won't be able to destroy quietly.”

MacTavish pouted but didn't argue. However, he didn't want to stay completely out of it either. His curiosity had grown so much that he risked peeking out to see how his partner would deal with the enemies.

Ghost burst into the group of enemy soldiers like a shadow. He quickly stabbed a couple of them, and then they opened fire on him. Soap tensed, snatched his rifle from his shoulder, but the lieutenant didn't slow down for a moment. He snapped the neck of the nearest enemy, grabbed the weapon from the second one, and smashed his skull with the butt, then pulled out his pistol and finished off the rest. Then he turned around, and Soap hurriedly jumped up to him.

“Are you broken?“ He asked because it was simply impossible that in such a confined space none of the enemies had hit such a large target.

“Negative.” Ghost replied, adding. “I told you not to stick your head out.”

“Sorry.” Soap said, looking closely at his partner.

“Let's go.” He waved his hand and again led the way into the next tunnel.

There were more enemies, which meant they were getting closer to their target. But no matter how many there were, Ghost dealt with them just as easily and quickly. Soap could have sworn he saw bullets hit him several times, but the lieutenant continued to move as if he were made of steel, not flesh and blood.

“Listen, Lt.” Soap said during a brief respite. “When this is over, you're going to have to explain how you do that.”

“We'll see.” He replied, and after his eyes narrowed for a moment, MacTavish thought he smiled.

Soap hadn't engaged in combat once during the entire journey, but when they reached their destination, it became clear that this would not be possible anymore. The bomb had been placed in a fairly large circular room under a high dome, and about two dozen terrorists had gathered around it. They could be heard negotiating on their radios, probably calling for reinforcements.

“They've started the timer.” Said Ghost, and Soap believed him, even though he couldn't see anything himself. “We have to act fast, so cover me, and as soon as you see you can get close, run. I'll try to keep them away from you.”

“Rog.” Nodded MacTavish and took his assault rifle off his shoulder.

Ghost jumped into the room, and they both opened fire. However, it quickly became difficult for Soap to shoot because his partner was surrounded by enemies. It seemed that they didn't know there were two saboteurs, so they focused all their efforts on the lieutenant, who managed to lead almost everyone as far away from the bomb as he could. MacTavish managed to notice how he pulled out his strange scythe and began to swing it around, then crouched down and ran toward the bomb. Only two terrorists remained near it, whom he dealt with in a couple of minutes, then took out his tools and began to do what he had been called to do on this mission.

There were fifteen minutes left on the timer. That was more than enough time if nothing distracted Soap, and so far Ghost was doing well. Glancing back at him one last time, the sergeant began to quickly unscrew the panel with the timer, reaching the inner workings of the detonator. It turned out to be tricky, with false contours, and Soap, clenching a small flashlight between his teeth, concentrated so hard that he could hardly hear the sounds of battle around him. He traced where the wires led, cut the necessary ones, reaching the main one and glancing at the timer. Meanwhile, reinforcements arrived for the terrorists, and they began to crowd Ghost, forcing him to retreat toward the bomb. Enemies were pouring in from all the corridors leading to this room, and Soap only realized this when two fell right next to him with the lieutenant's throwing knives in their throats.

Holding the necessary wire, MacTavish raised his head and realized that things were not looking good. Ghost was firing back with two Kalashnikovs he had taken from the enemies and threw them aside when he found himself next to Soap and ran out of ammo. MacTavish had not yet been shot only because no one wanted to risk hitting the bomb or detonator.

Now Soap regretted that they did not have a combat team with them and grabbed his rifle, but Ghost glanced at him and shook his head.

“Don't get distracted, Johnny.” He said, and his strange scythe reappeared in his hands. ”They're my concern.”

Soap didn't have time to ask what the hell the lieutenant was going to do. Ghost's strange weapon was suddenly enveloped in a reddish mist and began to grow in size. With his mouth agape, MacTavish watched as the scythe became enormous, with a long blade that glowed ominously, like Ghost's eyes from the shadows of his hood. The terrorists saw this and retreated a little, whispering to each other in confusion and fear. Soap clearly distinguished the words “iblis” and “shaitan,” and then the lieutenant, or whatever he was, advanced toward them, raising the scythe to strike.

With an incredible effort of will, MacTavish forced himself back to work. There were less than four minutes left on the timer, and he began cutting the wires again, not even noticing the sudden deathly silence in the room. Finally, with one last click of the wire cutters, Soap saw that the timer had stopped and gone out and wiped the sweat from his forehead, feeling his hand tremble.

As is often the case, the realization of what could have happened only dawned on him now. For a few seconds, MacTavish sat blankly, staring at the warhead he had defused, then jumped up abruptly, looking for the creature who, for some reason, had wanted to call himself Lieutenant Ghost. He stood with both hands holding his scythe above his head, and pale streams of smoke flowed toward him from the bodies, or rather, body parts scattered around him. Then he lowered his weapon, its contours blurring and shrinking in size, and slowly looked at Soap.

“This really needs some explaining, doesn't it, Johnny?” He said slowly and let out a short, chilling laugh.

MacTavish was afraid his voice would fail him, so he just nodded, unable to take his eyes off him.

It took a while before any explanations were forthcoming. The combat group on the surface finished their work, and then soldiers appeared in the tunnels to take the bomb and prepare it for transport. Only a few hours later, which passed in a fog for Soap, 141, Laswell, Ghost, and the colonel who had authorized the entire operation gathered in a secure room specially designated for them to debrief. Overall, everything went smoothly; there were losses, but they were insignificant, and most of the terrorists were either killed or detained. Price gave a brief preliminary report on the work of his combat group, but when it was Soap's turn, he froze, not knowing what to say.

“Judging by the look on your face, Sergeant, you understand why I called your partner unusual.“ The colonel spoke for him and sighed heavily.

“Tell them.” Laswell said. “They have high clearance and know how to keep a secret.”

“Well...” The colonel sighed again and looked at the motionless ‘lieutenant.’ ”Ghost, as he calls himself, is not human. Modern science has no definition for him, but we think he's some kind of demon. My unit found him twenty years ago, and we were able to... come to an agreement with him. He works for us, and in return, he receives what he needs to exist and maintain his... abilities.”

“I've seen those abilities with my own eyes.” Soap said, noticing the skepticism on his comrades' faces.

“All right.” Nodded Price, who might not have believed the colonel but believed MacTavish. ”What are these abilities? And what exactly does he get?”

“The life force of people, or, if you prefer, their souls.” Came the reply. ”They sustain him, make him invulnerable to any weapon, and much more. But you'd better see for yourselves.”

The colonel opened his laptop and played a video from the camera that had been mounted on MacTavish's helmet during the mission. It didn't capture everything, because Soap was looking more at the bomb than at Ghost, but the members of 141 saw his invulnerability, the transformation that had taken place with his weapon, and the strange streams of smoke that rose from the bodies and drifted toward him. Now MacTavish understood that this was how Ghost absorbed the souls it needed to survive.

Now everyone was shocked and stunned. Gaz and Roach looked at each other, then at the motionless figure of Ghost in the corner of the room. Price slowly took off his hat and rubbed the back of his head with a completely confused look.

“You were chosen for this mission for a reason, and I'm telling you all this for a reason too.” The colonel continued. “I don't know why, but he wants to work with you. He chose Sergeant MacTavish as his partner. So if you agree, you should know what you're getting yourself into.”

“If he's so powerful, why does he need us, or you?” Price asked.

“He doesn't have many of the skills needed for this job.” Replied the colonel. ”We were able to teach him how to use a weapon, but that's all he's achieved in learning our technology. He can't drive a car, use a computer or a radio, defuse bombs, or do anything else like this.”

Then the colonel said it was time for everyone to return to his base, and 141 would fly separately so they could discuss everything and make a decision. The mission participants were taken to the helicopters, and before boarding, Soap glanced at Ghost. He looked back at him too, then turned and followed the colonel.

At first, MacTavish answered a barrage of questions from his comrades. He described the details of his collaboration with Ghost, spoke with genuine admiration about his combat skills, and recalled all the strange things he had witnessed. Price listened attentively and saw that Soap trusted this creature, whatever he was, and that trust was earned not by words but by actions. It was obvious to the captain that if they agreed to accept the demon into 141, MacTavish would become his coordinator and partner. For some time, the four discussed the offer they had received, realizing that much would change in their lives if they accepted it. Finally, Price asked everyone to express their opinion, and the decision to accept was unanimous, which the captain reported to the colonel when they arrived at his base.

As Price had expected, the unit would have to stay here for some time to learn how to interact with Ghost and develop protocols for any situation. But all that would start tomorrow. Right now, the soldiers deserved a rest after a difficult and stressful mission. It was late, so most of its participants went to bed; only Soap stayed outside, smoking and staring thoughtfully at the snow-covered mountains and the incredibly starry sky. He was so deep in his mind that he shuddered with surprise when a warm blanket was placed on his shoulders. Looking up, he was hardly surprised to see Ghost standing next to him.

“Why us?” He asked quietly. “Why me?”

“I don't know.” Ghost shrugged. “I guess I just like you. You're not like the others.”

“So you really are a demon?” Soap continued to ask questions, not admitting to himself that he was pleased to hear this reason for being chosen by a ‘lieutenant’.

“Yes.” He nodded. ”But the colonel doesn't know everything about me. He doesn't know that I was once human. I don't remember my life or my death, only that it was premature and very painful. I made a deal to come back, but I don't remember why I needed to. And it doesn't matter anymore. A lot of time has passed.”

“Do you remember your name?” Soap asked, wrapping himself in a blanket.

Ghost was silent for a long time, staring at the sky, and then replied quietly:

“Yes. Once my name was Simon.”

And if you want to know how much the height difference between Soap and Ghost from this AU is, here it is🤭

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

Price and Nik make the mistake of having a quick smooch in the car before hitting the gym.

Price: Are ya ready t' go in yet?

Nik: Not yet...

Price: How long is it gonna take?

Nik: It will not go down...

Price: We need to stop doin' this.

Nik: Da.

Price: Every bloody time.

Nik: Mhm. Has yours...?

Price: Of course it fuckin' hasn't!

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

Soap fucked the Captain's Daughter

INT. CAPTAIN PRICE’S OFFICE – NIGHT

The mood is serious. Dimly lit. The tension is thick. Captain Price stands behind his desk, hands braced on the wood, jaw clenched. Gaz sits in a chair off to the side, wide-eyed, sensing danger. Soap is grinning like a schoolboy who just got away with skipping class. He’s recounting something—animated, smug, proud.

SOAP Mate, you should’ve seen her. Bloody firecracker. Had me gasping for air. Not to be crass, Cap, but let’s just say—she's might be stronger than me. She's a beast, I’ll tell you that.

GAZ (eyes widening) Johnny, shut up.

SOAP What? What?! I'm just sayin’—I’ve never been folded like that in my life. She said she was into military guys and I was like "say less."

GAZ (horrified) Soap—

PRICE (very, very quiet) Her name?

SOAP Uh… [Y/N]. [Y/N] Price.

PRICE (pause. calm. too calm) [Y/N]. Price?

SOAP Yeah, mate. Brunette. Killer smile. Cute little tattoo on her hip that says—wait… (he freezes, blinking) …Price?

GAZ(whispers) Oh my God.

PRICE (face turning red, voice rising) You slept with my daughter?!

SOAP (panicking) Wait—wait wait wait, hold on! Your daughter daughter?!

PRICE (yelling now) YOU BRAGGED TO ME ABOUT IT. IN DETAIL.

SOAP I didn’t know she was YOUR kid! I thought she was just a civvy! A hot civvy! She didn’t say anything!

PRICE She called me DAD, you absolute muppet!

GAZ (screaming from the chair) I told you to shut up, Johnny!!

SOAP (trying to recover) I—I can explain! It was mutual! It was passionate! It was respectful! I saluted her—twice!

PRICE (roaring) YOU'RE DEAD, MACTAVISH!

Price starts circling the desk like a bull who’s just been let out the gate. Soap starts backing toward the door, hands up.

SOAP Sir! Sir! Captain! Let’s talk about this like grown—AH!—

Price lunges. Soap bolts. Gaz leans back, takes a sip from the water bottle on Price’s desk, and sighs.

GAZ They are never gonna live this down in briefing tomorrow.

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

Travelin' Soldier pt.1

Two days past eighteen He was waitin' for the bus in his army greens Sat down in a booth in a café there Gave his order to a girl with a bow in her hair

The sky was bright with birds cheering overhead. His watch glared back at him that he had almost eight hours before he needed to be on a train. But he couldn’t spend another second in that house, so he left promptly after he finished packing a bag.

Simon Riley had wandered on foot all the way from Gatley to Manchester Piccadilly Station. He sat on a bench, flicking the ticket to London between his fingers when his stomach grumbled to him.

Fuck. Had he eaten breakfast that morning? Or was he in that much of a hurry to leave that house that he forgot to even take an apple — if the apple was even good? Who knows the last time his father actually bought food; much less fresh fruit. Simon scoured his mind to remember any cheap looking places to eat on his long walk to the train station but all he could remember was a pub a couple blocks away named Rosario’s.

With a sigh, he clenched his fist on the bag strap and began backtracking his steps. The intensity of his walk must have hit him as he trudged to the door and all but fell on it to get it open.

The pub was quiet, only a chipper voice musing to a customer at the bar about a new movie coming out. She gushed about how she’d seen the musical last year and was so excited to see it come to life on the big screen. Simon fell into a booth and let his head rest on the table. He was tired from that walk.

“Hi, there!”

American. Great.

“You look tired, I can get you a tea if you’d like. I learned how to make this little concoction that helps me wake up when I’m falling asleep midday, if you want to try it,” she said, her voice quieting as she leaned on the end of the table. Simon sucked in a breath as he looked at her.

A bow held her bright red hair into an obnoxious high ponytail but her face was soft and her brown eyes were begging him to let her help. She wore a floral blouse and dark slacks, as far as Simon could tell. She was everything he wasn’t.

“Or, I can leave you alone.”

She took a step back, but his hand shot out to grab it and reel her back in to the table.

“Yeah, yeah, that tea,” he spit out. The smile grew on her face as she nodded.

“That tea, coming right up.”

Her voice never rose over a few decibels as she spoke to the customer at the bar and made the tea. She snatched something off the counter as she came back to his table and sat across from him.

“It’s Irish Breakfast tea with some brown sugar and a slice of ginger. I know it sounds weird, but the ginger helps wake you up and the brown sugar makes you feel warm inside. And this,” she slid a dessert plate covered in chocolate syrup and a brownie towards him, “is for the look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re scared but trying not to show it. I had that look on my face before I moved here,” she shrugged but never stopped smiling. Simon eyed her as he picked up the fork from the plate and cut a piece off. “Call if you need anything or want anything else to eat.”

She pressed her hands to the table, giving him a moment to stop her, but stood and walked back behind the bar. Simon watched her, fumbling to put pieces of brownie in his mouth and to not spill the tea that was surprisingly good. It did make him feel warm but also alert. The girl glided back and forth behind the bar, cleaning glasses and making drinks with ease to hand to the few customers that came in.

“Um,” Simon stopped. He’d never even asked her name.

“What’s up?” But there she appeared, by his side and smiling at him like he didn’t just escape from the worst possible situation in the world. The smile almost broke through the dark cage around his heart and mind. How was it so bright in such a dim pub?

“A burger—can I have a burger?”

She nodded, “anything on it?”

“How…how do they make them in America,” he asked. The smile on her face grew and she nodded, almost shaking with excitement.

“I’ll bring it out soon. Promise it’ll be the best burger you’ve ever had.” She didn’t give him a chance to ask again before she sprinted towards the back kitchen, calling out for the cook. Barely a minute later, she burst through the doors, earning a heavy jump from Simon.

“Sorry,” she whispered as she set a plate in front of him, “I didn’t mean to scare you. But this is exactly how my brother makes them.”

“Will…you sit with me?”

She dropped into the booth across from him.

“You’re going to the military, aren’t you,” she asked, eyeing the bag beside him. Simon nodded through a bite. “We get a lot of boys going to London.”

“I’m leaving tonight,” he said. He bit back a groan at the greasy flavors from the burger. It was unhealthy, that much he could tell, but it was so good. The cheese was definitely not real cheese but it make him understand why she seemed to love the burger so much, if the almost unhinged smile on her face was to be believed.

“Tonight? Then let me buy you lunch. And dinner, if you’ll still be around for it.”

Simon shook his head as he swallowed another bite, “no, I can cover it.”

“I don’t think you can’t,” she laughed quietly, “but I want to. You look like you could use some company and I get off in an hour. I know just the place to go.” Simon narrowed his eyes at her. “I might have only moved here a year ago, but I know Manchester almost as well as you locals.”

He took another bite.

Chewed it.

Swallowed it.

“Okay.”

She let out a silent cheer and pumped her fist into the air, “you won’t regret it. Do you want me to bring you any more tea?”

Simon shook his head as he took another bite and said through it, “a pint, please.”

“Letting me pick the poison?” He nodded at her grin. She hopped up and snatched the empty tea cup as she went to pour a pint. A dark glass was set in front of Simon and she slid back into the booth.

“Guinness?”

“I don’t actually like beer, so it’s the only one I know with confidence that most British people like,” she said, “but if you actually want something else, I can get it.”

Simon took a sip of the beer and just went back to eating.

“You don’t have any allergies, right?” He shook his head. “Good, I’m making dinner and I don’t want to kill one of the queen’s men.”

“’M not a soldier yet,” he mumbled into his pint.

“No, but I bet you’ll be one of the best. What branch?”

“Army.”

She nodded, her body waving as she did, “army’s good. My grandma was in the Navy. She was a nurse in Vietnam. Used to write letters to my grandpa while she was over there.”

“Where was he,” Simon asked. What kind of guy let his girl go off to the worst war Simon had ever learned about while he stayed home? Simon bit back the question and finished off his burger, pushing the plate to the end of the table so he could focus on the beer in front of him.

“He was disabled in Vietnam. It was how they met. He made it two weeks into combat when his leg got blown off. Grandma stayed to care for more soldiers. Then when she got home, they got married,” she said, her eyes glinting at the love story. Simon watched as she drifted off into her own world, probably remembering sweet memories of her childhood.

“Yer ‘supposed to be workin’, ya know?” A portly man stood at the end of the booth, one hand on his hip and the other on the table.

“Oh shit, sorry Drew. Hey, meet me back here in an hour, okay?” She smiled down at Simon as she stood and, without thinking, ran a hand down his hair. Simon’s face burned and he took another drink as she also began to turn red. Drew laughed as she ran into the back of the pub.

“She’s put you on ‘er tab, so if you want anything else, let ‘er know,” he said to Simon with a smirk. Simon gasped out a reply, not that he knew what he’d said, and Drew followed her.

Simon dropped himself back into the same booth. The pub was louder than it had been in late morning, when he wandered in and met sunshine incarnate. The girl was at the bar, not behind it, laughing with an older man who was keeping a gentle distance from her. She glanced up at the clock behind the bar and set her glass down on the bar.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Tuner,” she said. She didn’t wait for him to reply before she slipped off the barstool and turned to Simon. He was sitting at the end of the booth, his bag unceremoniously dropped at his feet. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it thoroughly before he got back to the pub.

She had changed from her morning shift. Her flowery blouse was replaced with a hoodie bearing a tiny husky logo on the chest. The dark pants she’d had on were swapped for a pair of jean shorts that were rather uncharacteristic for April in Manchester. The only thing the same was her high ponytail and the black trainers, only Simon could now see the socks she wore. They were union jack patterned and he huffed out a laugh at them.

“Are you ready? You can leave your bag behind the bar if you want. I promise it’ll be there when we get back,” she said, pointing down to it, “speaking of, when is your train?”

“It’s at 1945,” he said. Her mouth opened and he could see her thinking, the gears turning.

“So, seven? Okay, we have plenty of time,” the smile reappeared and Simon let her pick up the bag and set it on the end of the counter. “Richie, keep this behind the bar, yeah? We’ll be back for it.”

The bartender nodded and tossed a set of keys at her, “forgot these.”

“Thanks. My dumbass would forget my head if it wasn’t attached,” she said through a laugh. Simon watched her fist them, but the keychain dangled through her fingers. An octagonal MG logo caught an overhead light as she shoved it into her hoodie pocket.

“C’mon,” she grabbed Simon’s hand and all but drug him out of the pub. He followed her down the street until she came to a slow at a British Racing Green MGB.

“You drive an MGB,” Simon asked as she pulled the driver’s side door open.

“You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to get this thing running. Richie and I spent three months straight working on this thing,” she said as she settled herself in the seat, “get in.”

Simon sat down as gentle as he could and twisted his hands together in his lap. It earned a laugh from the girl beside him and he whipped his head to look at her.

“You can touch the car. It’s old, but believe me, very few of the parts are. Now, I hope you’re hungry for a nice walk and semi-early dinner.” She turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. The lack of seatbelts had Simon grabbing onto the door in an attempt to keep himself safe in the topless convertible.

They drove in silence out of the city and towards farmland. Simon glanced down at his watch, but it only told him that he had plenty of time before he needed to be back at the train station.

“I won’t let you miss your train, promise,” she said, glancing at him with a smile.

She slowed as she made it to a gate and the car dipped into the dirt off the road. As the engine cut, pure silence fell over them. A bird chirped yards away, but it was peaceful. Leaves fluttering and cows mooing filled the air. Simon almost began twitching as the unfamiliar lack of sound. A click caught his attention as she climbed out of the car and rounded it to open the trunk.

“You know, I used to think boot was a funny word for a trunk, but I get it,” she mused as she pulled a basket from it.

Simon jumped out of the car and came to her side, reaching for the basket, “let me carry it.”

“If you insist,” she giggled as he took the handles from her, “it’s just a short walk, promise.”

“You make a lot of promises,” he said as he followed her to the gate. She pushed it open and held it for him to pass through. It snapped shut behind them and Simon fought back his urge to run from the noise.

“I keep them all,” she shrugged, “or I try my best to. I’d never promise to, like, not die. But I’d promise to die with a smile on my face.”

“It never falls,” Simon said. She let out a huff, but like he said, her smile never drooped. She took his hand, her hold loose in case he pulled away, but he tightened his grip on her as they walked. Deep in the middle of the field was a blanket and a few pillows. The grass around it was stamped down, almost like she was a common occupant of the field, and she dropped onto a pillow like she owned it. Simon sat next to her, setting the basket between them. A small smile was growing on his lips as he watched her dig through the basket.

“I never introduced myself,” he said, “I’m Simon Riley.”

She stopped her digging and looked up at him.

“Harley Hopkins,” she held a hand out and Simon took it, shaking it once before turning it over and kissing the back of her hand. Harley’s cheeks grew red as she took her hand back and pulled a bottle from the basket.

“Um, Drew said Stella is a popular beer, so I brought you one.” She held out the drink and Simon’s smile grew as he took it. “Now I have some American delicacies here.”

Harley pulled out a few containers absolutely filled with food. With a push of the basket, she laid them out between her and Simon.

“French fries, mac and cheese, hot dogs with chili, like, a lot of chili, and I have two desserts,” Harley looked up at Simon, who was holding back a laugh with his hand. She bit her lip and let out a single squeaking laugh. The sound of it had Simon letting go and he barked out a laugh. They both doubled over as they kept laughing at Harley’s delicacies.

Once Simon had reined in his laughter, he sat up and dug through the basket for a bottle opener. Harley instead held out her keys.

“I forgot one, but these’ll get it open,” she said as Simon took them. She opened each of the containers and tossed a French fry into her mouth.

“So, Simon, why are you joining the Army?”

He felt his body tense at the question and, for the first time since he’d met her, Harley’s smile fell.

“Oh, no, no you don’t have to tell me,” she said, holding her hands up at him. But Simon just shook his head and willed his shoulders to relax. Silence fell over them again and he could feel the tension leave him.

“My dad’s an abusive piece of shit and I want out,” he said after a minute of silence, “so I’m going to do good in the world.”

A semblance of a smile came to Harley, “you will do good, I just know it.”

“So, why did you move to Manchester,” Simon asked as he picked up a cluster of mac and cheese with a fork. Harley smiled and shifted in her seat.

“I’m a student at Manchester, I’m studying Scottish history,” she said. Half of the chili fell from the hot dog she picked up, but she took a bite anyway.

“So you moved to…Manchester. Instead of Glasgow?” Simon chuckled at her as she frowned at the falling chili. She scooped it up onto a fork and forced it to stay on the hot dog as she took another bite.

“Couldn’t afford tuition. Or to live there. I know it’s silly, but I take trips up to Scotland a lot. I even met this lovely woman up there…Mac…Tarn? Tavish? Something like that. She keeps trying to get me to move in with them and go to Glasgow but I like Manchester a lot,” Harley said through the bite, “oh god.” She slapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed. “I’m sorry, that was disgusting.”

“I grew up with a little brother, nothing is disgusting anymore,” Simon said with a wave. His hand was covered in chili as he picked up the other hot dog. Harley glared at his success of keeping chili on it as he took a bite.

“Does your boyfriend mind you taking me on a date?” Simon glanced up at her as he took a drink of his beer. Harley coughed, almost dropped her hot dog, and then let out a laugh.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. Richie is just my coworker. He’s got a fiancé,” she said, “you agreed to go on a date with someone you thought had a boyfriend?”

Simon shrugged and shoved a cluster of French fries into his mouth, “didn’t care.”

Harley let out another quiet laugh under her breath and shook her head. A crow called overhead and began circling them, causing Simon to stand.

“No, leave him alone,” Harley stood up and grabbed Simon’s arm before he could raise it, “it’s just Finley.”

“Finley?”

“He likes to come sit with me sometimes, just hold out a fry.” Harley put one in Simon’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it. Sure enough, the crow tucked its wings in and landed on Simon’s hand, grabbing at the fry. It squawked around the fry and flew off.

“You feed crows? You’re strange, Harley.”

“Well, Simon, some of us have strange quirks but that doesn’t make us any more strange than someone who’s willing to join the Army.” The smile on her face betrayed the bite in her tone as she threw herself back on the pillow, but splayed her legs out in front of her. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Simon said as he lowered himself to his own pillow, “didn’t mean it to be mean.”

“I was the weird kid in school, you guys have those here, right?”

Simon hummed at her but nodded, “yeah, Jeremy from grade 4. Weirdo. Used to collect frogs and set ‘em free inside.” Harley let out a ha and leaned back on her hands. “Also grabbed teachers’ asses.”

“Oh, so he was just a creep that did weird shit, classic.” Harley looked up at the sky and let out a long breath. Simon watched her as she closed the contain half full of chili and laid back onto the blanket. Simon followed suit, closing the remaining two containers and putting all three in the basket. Fluffing the pillow he’d been sitting on, he laid next to her, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Did you make all this?”

“Yeah, a lot of the soldier-to-be's that come in have little packaged dinners with them, but you just had a bag and that look on your face. I...guess I wanted to do something to make you feel better,” she said, “Ma always said something silly about the way to a man’s heart is his stomach.”

Simon chuckled, but kept his eyes closed. Somewhere in the distance, he could heard chickens clucking at each other. He imagined the birds fighting over grain and a rooster coming in to break up the fight only to get pecked at by a big mother hen.

“Are you scared?”

“’M terrified. People die every day in the military. What if I die? What if the people I’m with die?” Simon felt her shift closer and he laid his arm out, beckoning her into his side.

“Yeah, but I don’t think you will. At least, I hope you won’t,” Harley mused, “it’d be nice to see you again.”

“Can I write to you?”

Her head shot up to look directly into Simon’s blue eyes.

“Write to me?”

“Yeah, like...your grandparents. Write you letters while I’m in training,” he said, his voice quieting as he spoke. Harley’s faint smile grew into a beaming one and Simon couldn’t bite back his own smile.

“I’d love that.”

“I know it’s, well, a bit old school, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to while I’m there.”

“The abusive piece of shit,” Harley mumbled. Simon just nodded before continuing.

“The abusive piece of shit, yeah. My brother, Tommy...he’s gone off the deep end and mum’s basically catatonic. So, maybe I could have a good memory of home if I write you. Maybe call you sometimes.”

Harley turned onto her side, one arm tossed over Simon’s chest and the other twisting a loose thread from his sleeve between her fingers. A soft breeze shook the tall grass around them and Simon almost wanted to tear up his ticket. If only he hadn’t already signed the enlistment papers.

“I’d really like that, Simon.”

They fell back into a peaceful silence, just listening to the grass wave around them and the birds chirp from the tree line a few meters away.

“Shit, dessert!” Harley sat up and turned to the basket.

“You’re still hungry?” Simon laughed. Harley tossed him a half glare as she dug two plates from the basket.

“I’ll have you know, Mr. Riley, that I’ve never not been hungry for dessert. Now, I have one, really fucking good American dessert here,” she raised one plate, “and one really shitty British dessert,” she raised the other, “pick.”

“Well, what are they,” he asked, reaching for one of the plates. He’d already forgotten which was which, too focused on the grin on her face as she mocked whatever British dish she’d made. Harley pulled the plates away from him with a tut.

“Pick one and then I’ll tell you,” she said. Simon rolled his eyes but he couldn’t stop smiling at her.

“The American.”

“Perfect! Some deep fried Oreos,” she said, unwrapping the plate to reveal a row of breaded cookies. Simon mocked a gag at her, but picked one up. “Was a bitch to get Drew to let me use the fryer.”

“’S no wonder your entire country is fat,” he mumbled as he bit into it. Simon hated to admit that it was delectable and equally as unhealthy as the burger she’d given him earlier. Harley chuckled at him as his eyes closed and he shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth and groaned. The crinkling of foil caught his attention and one eye peeked open to see her dig a fork into the other plate.

“What’s that?”

“Nufin’,” she mumbled through a bite of it. Simon sat up more and leaned towards her, but Harley hid it behind her back.

“Is that a tart?”

“What did you just call me,” Harley let out a fake gasp and pressed the hand with a fork in it against her heart. Simon laughed, but leaned closer to her. “Any farther and I’ll squish it.”

“Then tell me what the British dessert is,” Simon said. He pressed a hand to the blanket beside her and could hear the breath hitch in Harley’s throat as his face got close to hers. “Harley?”

“Manchester tart,” she whispered. Simon’s lips curled into a smirk as he reached his free hand around her to grab the plate. He set it down out of the way and leaned closer.

“Make it yourself?” She nodded and he slipped the fork from her grasp. “Taste good?” Harley shook her head. “No?”

“Hate cherries. And coconut’s only good in a drink,” she said, “is there a reason you’re still so close to me?”

“You ensnared me in some kind of trap, Harley,” Simon said, “you’re kind and can’t seem to stop smiling no matter what. Like that little grin on your face right now.” She let out a hoarse giggle.

“I think I like you, Simon Riley.”

“I think I do too,” Simon pressed a kiss to her cheek before he sat back, digging the fork into the tart and eating the bite. Harley’s hand shook lightly as she picked up an Oreo and shoved the entire cookie into her mouth. She turned to watch the open field. One over, a family of deer stepped around and ate and a car drove by, spooking them back to the trees.

“You will come back, right?” Harley watched Simon from the corner of her eye. He’d eaten another Oreo, letting out a quiet groan at the taste. “To see me?”

“If they let me, I’ll come back to you,” he said.

“Promise?”

Simon didn’t reply, just held out the fork with tart on it. Harley took the bite and felt her smile falter just a little.

They ate the remaining desserts in silence, half uncomfortable and half savoring the company of each other. Simon had pulled her into his lap as he ate the rest of the tart himself, tapping a single bit of cherry juice on her cheek before licking it off. They shared the remaining Oreos, though Simon insisted she have more since he ate most of the tart. Harley lifted his wrist, glaring down at the watch to try to read it.

“It’s only six,” Simon said after a minute of her struggling.

“How long were you going to watch me struggle with that before you told me? We should head back into town,” she said, her voice cracking. He only nodded and tapped her legs to get her to stand.

“Do you come out here often?”

“Enough that the farmer told me this was my field. He lets me leave the blanket here,” she said as she cleaned up their dinner. Grabbing the full basket, Simon stood and rolled his shoulders out. Harley took his hand and began leading him back to the car.

She kept her head down as they walked, thinking about if he would actually write her while he was training. Was it even allowed? He could just email her or call her, but she wasn’t even sure if he would have access to a computer or phone while he was training. Harley was thinking so hard that she hadn’t even registered the gate was ahead and ran straight into it. Simon chuckled as she floundered to get it open and a blush rose on her cheeks. It never cooled as she opened the trunk and left Simon to secure the basket while she got into the driver’s seat.

The old MG rumbled to life as Simon got in beside her. But still, neither spoke as she drove back into Manchester proper and pulled to a stop in front of Rosario’s. Simon reached down to open the door, but Harley was already out and held a hand up for him to stop.

“I’ll drive you to the station,” she said as she disappeared into the pub to grab his bag. Simon didn’t get to hear as Richie asked her how the date went and if she was leaving them to go to London along with him. There was a squeak from Harley as she snatched Simon’s bag and ran back to the car.

“Harley, I can’t promise you something I can’t be sure of,” Simon said as she pulled back into traffic. Her eyes flicked over to him but she never turned her head. “But I will promise not to forget you ever.”

“I’ll forgive you when you do,” she whispered to herself. Simon heard her. The drive to the train station was short and Harley begrudgingly let Simon pay for her to park while they went inside together.

Hauling his bag onto his shoulder, Simon yanked Harley into his chest and buried his face in her hair. It startled him when he felt her shake in his arms, but he didn’t flinch at it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m so fucking emotional about you leaving,” she laughed, the sound bitter in Simon’s ears. He pulled back and pressed his hands to her cheeks.

“If I hadn’t signed those papers two days ago, I would have torn up this ticket already,” he said, “but I promise you that I’ll never forget you or the only good memory of home I’ll ever have, okay?”

She could only nod at him.

The speaker overhead called out for his train and Simon brought her lips to his. Despite everything, he was soft and it only caused the ache in Harley’s chest to deepen as she pressed onto her toes to kiss him back. A hand came around her waist and he stepped into her body. Her hand drew up his chest and to his neck, begging to be let into his skin so he couldn’t leave her. The kiss tasted like Manchester and the American South so evenly and Simon could add it to the short list of places he wanted to visit some day.

The speaker crackled again and Simon broke the kiss.

“Gimme your address,” he whispered as a tear streaked down Harley’s cheek. Wiping at it, she nodded and Simon glanced around for a piece of paper. Anything to write on. A train schedule caught his eye and he snatched it out of the holder along with a pen discarded nearby.

Harley wrote it, her hands shaking as she did, and slipped it into the pocket of his duffel bag.

“It’s not really my place, but please come back to me,” she said as she pressed her hands flat on his green shirt, “or at least tell me if you die.”

Simon let a quiet laugh slip out and he shook his head, “I’ll be sure to let you know if I die.”

It wasn’t a promise. They both knew better than to promise that. He was going to be a soldier after all.

The final call came and his hands pried hers off his shoulders. Stepping back, Simon felt her hand press something into his but he couldn’t ask her what it was before the train doors began to close and she stepped into the crowd. Unfurling his hand, the brassy MG keychain sat in his palm. He’d always hated the little convertible but there was no way he could anymore.

Harley rubbed her face as the train pulled away. In her pocket, her phone rang out and she answered.

”Take the week off, Har, go home and sleep,” Drew said.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” she mumbled back. Drew ended the call without another word and she inched out of the station and into the MG.

“You idiot,” she hissed at herself, “you went and fell in love with a soldier the first day you ever met him. You absolute,” her head slammed into the steering wheel, “fucking idiot.”

inspired by Travelin' Solider by the Chicks. also fully posted on AO3

dividers by @/cafekitsune

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

TF141 X Reader

Dead Set

{♤♡◇♧}

There were some concrete rules to the universe.

You're born. You exist. You die.

That's it.

But the ghost of the Scotsman who previously inhabited your apartment didn't seem keen to follow these rules.

You ignore him— you try to ignore him. But he watches you. Constantly.

Soft footsteps pad around your apartment as you fix up your meals. Keen eyes warm up the air around with a tension you refuse to acknowledge.

Low, rumbling chuckles send shivers down your spine as you scroll through social media on your phone.

A presence next to you as you sleep— indentations on your covers in the shape of a much larger man than had ever graced your bed.

Your laptop left open to random tabs, with strings of seemingly random letters. "Makar." "Jhn Pric". "Garck." Occasionally, the tabs opened to pages that have you instantly slamming it shut— cheeks burning, that same rumbling chuckle roiling around the nape of your neck.

You steadfastly ignore it. The dead may walk the earth but this particular one was inhibiting the most affordable apartment within your budget.

But you mess up— you turn your head at a small noise and meet cerulean eyes.

You freeze, breathless, caught under a gaze that sparkles like seaglass in the sunlight. A slow triumph unfurling in them, at finally cornering you after all these months.

The slightest twitch of a stubbled cheek, a scratch at a head wound that never seemed to close as the— the man edges closer.

"Alright, luv'?" His voice is smoky, curling with a wicked sort of amusement.

"Ye look like you've seen a ghost."

{♤♡◇♧}

[To be continued.]

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

my lover's got humor

SYNOPSIS: Johnny takes you home to Glasgow to meet his family. Behind the door of his childhood bedroom, you make him see Heaven.

PAIRING: John 'Soap' MacTavish x fem!Reader

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Johnny is catholic; established romantic relationship; blasphemy (?); smut; pegging; anilingus; body worship; fluff/aftercare; 6k wc

† BASED ON THIS †

Much thanks to @raspberryandechinacea and my 🦇 anon for putting ideas into my brain. 🤍 Also, Happy Easter (if you celebrate)!

“You’re unbelievable, MacTavish,” you call out over your shoulder, feigning annoyance though a permanent grin seems to be plastered on your lips nowadays.

“Aye, unbelievably handsome!” Johnny counters over the noise of the shower running before he goes back to singing some merry Scottish folksong at the top of his lungs while you exit the stuffy bathroom, wrapped up in a towel and drying your hair with a smaller one.

Even taking a hot shower didn’t stop that familiar soreness seeping into your muscles after that long hike Johnny has taken you on today, showing you (off) around his hometown and taking you to his favourite scenic viewpoints.

You didn’t expect to stay in the home where he grew up in for the remainder of your visit, but Johnny’s parents had insisted; not wanting either of you to spend any money on some expensive hotel or Airbnb when they have more than enough space to host you and their only son—especially considering you’re his girlfriend and the first woman he decided to introduce to the family.

It’s getting serious, even though it hasn’t even been half a year and yet—you could swear that John MacTavish is the one.

The realization of having found a true love—no matter how sappy the thought—leaves a giddy flutter in your stomach, one that spreads and blossoms into something warm and comforting in your chest, and suddenly, your steps seem a little lighter as you skip about in his old childhood bedroom to grab some clean clothes from your suitcase in the corner next to the desk—a desk he used to do his homework at after school, you muse.

Your eyes roam around the room as you slip into a fresh pair of panties and a comfortable sports bra, and they narrow when you catch sight of some pictures pinned to the corkboard above the desk; hidden behind pages ripped from sketchbooks and journals, fading concert tickets and an autograph signed by Biffy Clyro—a mosaic of Johnny’s fondest memories, it seems.

His tune changes to mimic an opera, rough baritone voice echoing off the bathroom walls, and you snort to yourself, shaking your head with a small smile as you approach the corkboard to inspect the pictures.

Some are Polaroid, some simply printed out on paper and heavily pixelated.

There’s one of him with a group of blokes, his Mohawk grown out, red plaited pants hanging low on narrow hips, black nail polish cracked on his ringed fingers—proof of his punk phase, and for a moment you wonder if your teenage self would’ve found him as attractive as your grown self finds him now, until your attention is caught by another picture.

Clearer and photographed properly—now a respectable soldier posing with two comrades around his age, they’re standing at attention, tall and proud, their chests puffed out underneath crisp dress uniforms. Birds without feathers, greenhorns who haven’t seen war yet.

Johnny’s eyes shine with raw determination to prove himself to his peers and superiors alike, to become the best of them all, though nowadays it feels like you’re rather catching the dangerous glint of a predator who knows exactly what he’s capable, which is as exciting as it is frightening sometimes.

As your fingers brush over the shiny picture, you notice another, much older one—Johnny as a teenage altar boy. Dark, shaggy hair curling over a pimpled forehead, wearing one of these typical white robes as he stands in a half-circle with three other boys in matching attire next to a lavish altar inside an ancient looking, pompous church.

You find more pictures of him and his family at church, receiving communion, at Easter mass, at one of his sisters’ weddings, his niece being baptized with him chosen as her chosen Godfather—

And you’re aware that Johnny was raised to be a proper boy and a good, religious man who fears nothing but God’s judgment—and perhaps his ma’s to some extent—but seeing the evidence of his deeply-rooted beliefs right here, pinned to the corkboard, gives you a whole new understanding of who John MacTavish truly is:

Namely, an incredibly loving and devoted man.

“Havin’ fun stalkin’ me?”

Your eyes widen with a surprised gasp; full body flinching when your boyfriend’s warm breath suddenly tickles along the side of your neck. His chuckles triumphantly after his umpteenth successful sneak attack.

“You’re so fucking mean,” you whine while his arms come up to wrap around your waist as he presses himself to your backside, all warm, damp and very much still naked from his shower.

“And you’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days and then what? Huh?!” you snap, though your voice is lacking any bite when he nuzzles his face into your nape with another chuckle and a low hum of delight.

His bulky arms squeeze you harder. “I’d simply die, too,” he retorts causally, as if it’s the most reasonable and logical answer he could give. “We die together one day, hen.”

“How romantic,” you laugh humourlessly and pinch his tattooed forearm, though the thought leaves a strange heaviness in your chest and a bittersweet taste in the back of your throat that you force yourself to swallow. “I should punish you one of these days for always scaring me like a twonk.”

He huffs in amusement, completely unbothered. “Mhm, maybe ye should.”

When Johnny starts peppering kisses along the curve of your neck and shoulder, brawny hands now roaming over your bare curves and up, up, up to palm and knead your breasts through the fabric of your sports bra, you get an idea.

Glancing down at your open suitcase resting by your feet, you kiss your teeth in thought.

“What if I’d like to fuck your pretty arse again?”

That makes him tut. His lips hover right behind your earlobe, and you can practically feel his breath hitch as his chest expands against your back. There is a pause before he finds his voice again.

“Ye… brought it?” he asks, peeking over your shoulder, thick brows raised in a mix of surprise and precariousness.

“Uh-huh,” you hum matter-of-factly, already bending down to rummage and pick up the black leather harness with the nude-coloured dildo attached from your suitcase. It isn’t particularly long nor girthy, but the sight of it makes Johnny swallow, his throat clicking so hard, you can hear it.

“I’d love to try it again… if you’re up for it.”

Turning your face to gauge his reaction, you notice the tension in Johnny’s neck; thick tendons flexing as he considers your words, azure eyes flickering in thought as if he’s mentally diffusing a bomb.

“With much more prep this time,” you add, feigning coyness as you turn in his embrace to face him fully, hand reaching out to tilt his chin, so he meets your eyes. Your thumb brushes over dark stubble and the prominent scar below his bottom lip before you lean in conspiratorially, cooing: “I’ll even eat your ass.”

And you can practically watch his pupils dilate at once—a black hole swallowing the sky, a kitten locking in on its prey, bright blue irises making way for onyx pupils while his buff chest expands with a deep inhale.

“Eat me ass, hen? Now? ‘fore supper?” he asks breathlessly, one callous hand snatching your wrist as if he’s afraid you’re simply taking the piss before making a run for it. Oh, but he’d chase you.

Nodding gingerly, you twist your wrist out of his grasp with a soft snicker, pleased with his reaction.

“Yup,” you push at his chest, urging him to back up towards his bed—not as large as yours at home, but you’ve made do with him under worse circumstances, like having a quickie in the public restroom on his base right after you’d picked him up at the airfield. Back then, it’d been the first time he had to leave you for his job, and the reunion was rather passionate.

“It was way too rushed last time, and I’d barely put the tip in before you came all over yourself,” you reminisce, smiling adoringly when his face reddens and his eyes flit to avoid yours as he walks backwards.

“Was drunk an’ ye were wankin’ my cock,” he retorts apologetically. “Couldnae ‘ave stopped it if ah’d tried.”

You snort. “You were yowling like a cat in heat, baby. Begging me for more,” you remark, scratching your fingers through his coarse chest hair. “I fucking loved it.”

“Ach, feck off.” He pouts and his calves hit the frame of the bed with finality. “I wasnae worse than you, when I give it to ye good.” His chest puffs against your hand, but his words don’t manage to sound half as confident as he usually does when he’s blushing so furiously.

He licks his lips like a wolf licks its chaps, peering down at you as if he’s the one in charge right now. “Fine,” he growls, voice lowering to a husk. “How do ye want me?”

You huff a laugh through your nose, eyes crinkling and twinkling as you smile triumphantly.

“Pants off and on your back, MacTavish. Arms above your head.”

While Johnny seems surprised, he obeys without any further complaints, and you take off your bra again, keeping your panties on before slipping the strap-on harness over your wiggling hips; grabbing the lube and delicate cotton robe to leave on the mattress within reach as you join him on the bed between his nicely spread legs.

Last time you’d pegged him, it was in doggy—impersonal and unromantic. A crackpot idea after a date night out together. This time, you’re determined to make it more special.

His flushing chest is rising and falling slowly, head resting on a pillow from where he gazes up at you with defiance and awe—petulant at the way his cock is already semi-hard as it rests on his upper thigh. The thick vein running along the underside of his shaft pulses as it pumps blood steadily, turning his flesh dark and ruddy under sensitive foreskin while a pearl of clear precum beads at the mushroomy tip.

Drinking him in for another moment, this rugged Adonis in front of you, you make a vague gesture with your hand, clicking your tongue in disapproval. “I said arms up, MacTavish.

Johnny glances at your hands and his cock twitches. “Tyin’ me up, too?” You nod, grabbing the white rope. “Wha’? Afraid I’ll flip ye over?” He chortles at his own joke, eyes glinting with mischief.

A raised eyebrow is enough to make him comply and you lean over to tie his hands to the old bedpost, supple tits dangling and nipples tightening right in front of his face. But then your eyes catch the black rosary, gently swaying as the frame moves, wrapped around the upper post and you cannot help it but be taken aback momentarily.

Cheeky as ever, Johnny starts peppering kisses on whatever sliver of skin he can reach; up your sternum, between the valley of your enticing breasts before mouthing at the pillowy mounds, tongue dragging and lapping like a disobedient pup.

Perhaps you should feel guilty or even shame at what you’re about to do under the presence of the holy cross, but you don’t.

Quite the opposite, in fact. You’re not that religious, if at all.

It feels thrilling, knowing that you’re going to fuck this incredibly capable and gorgeous man—that he lets you debauch and unravel him wholly. You can feel your own arousal start to seep between your folds, slick and warm, soaking into your flimsy panties—add his mouth still suckling on your tit, trying to catch your nipple, and your hips twitch shallowly for friction.

His muscles flex and bunch in this stretched position once his wrists are bound with a nice knot; stormy blue doe-eyes blinking up at you, darkened with lust, all trusting—almost fragile. There’s a moment you wonder if anyone else has ever done this to him, aware how much of a whore he’s been before meeting you—a true soldier—and you can feel your throat close with a wave of gnarly jealousy.

You sit back on your haunches, admiring your work briefly, before catching sight of the rosary again while the harness cuts and pinches into your skin.

“Have you ever fucked anyone in this bed?” Your voice comes out more coolly than you wanted, snappy even, and you quickly fix your sudden attitude when his brows furrow into something apologetic.

Johnny kisses his teeth before shaking his head. “Nah, why? Ye jealous, hen?” He has the audacity to look smug as he tries to ease the tension. Always the bloody jokester.

You ponder with your hands on his upper thighs, caressing up and down his hairy legs, then:

“Thou shalt not lie,” you remark nonchalantly, watching the way his fully erect cock begins to leak onto his lower abdomen; pearly precum smearing into the coarse, black happy trail.

“… ‘s what you learned as a pretty altar boy, innit?”

The smugness is wiped off his face at once and he snorts to downplay his bashfulness, though the deepening red on his cheeks tells on him. You don’t really care if he’s lying or not—he’s yours now and that’s all what matters anyway.

“Aye…ah guess so,” he mutters, hips squirming as you reach for the fluffy pillow under his head; folding it before stuffing it under his lower back, lifting his ass to your liking while he lets you.

There’s a pause, but you feel his curious eyes on you, cogs turning in his clever brain. You nudge his knees, and they fall open limply; his feet rustle the sheets as he bends his legs, opening himself up to you obscenely while his cock keeps weeping sticky precum like a broken faucet, yearning to be stimulated.

“Why’r ye askin’?”

You lower yourself flat onto the mattress, going eye-level with his sex and getting a whiff of arousal, clean skin, woodsy body wash and a faint hint of his natural musk. His chest heaves and his breath hitches when you lean in to smother the inside of his muscular left thigh with open-mouthed kisses, nipping at pale skin and laving your flat tongue over the sting.

You glance up at him from between his thighs, and it’s such an innocent sight, your cheek resting against warm skin, that it’s enough to make his balls throb with pleasure.

“Because I am jealous, Johnny.” Your voice is so soft, your words so genuine, it almost feels like you’re giving confession, and Johnny’s throat bobs, mouth drying as he licks his lips.

“Why?”

Because you love him something fierce—but choose not to say it, not yet anyway, and you turn your face, hiding your smile as you bury it into the giving flesh of his upper thigh before sinking your teeth into fat and muscle, latching on with possessive greed. Your cheeks hollow at the created vacuum; tongue flicking over coarse leg hairs, and Johnny hisses when you pull back with a harsh tug; teeth grazing over sore, glistening skin where a mean bruise has formed.

Laying your claim on him like a madwoman while the thought of him being with someone else makes you nauseous if you think about it long enough.

Your lips skim up his thigh and you relish in the way his skin twitches with anticipation and his breath grows ragged while your right hand kneads one plump ass cheek, nails clawing into flexing muscle.

Johnny groans when your nose brushes the apex of his thigh. “Ye’re a terrible tease, luv.”

A wicked grin splits your lips. “Oh, but I’m being so nice to you, Johnny,” you peek up at him as you finally grasp his length, veins throbbing inside your palm as you pump the silky flesh. “Can you recite the Hail Mary for me? I’m a bit rusty when it comes to… prayers ‘n all that.”

Bright, glossy eyes flutter open in disbelief, and he lifts his head to look at you, both shock and curiosity whirring behind his hazy gaze, and then his eyes roll back shark-like, when you pull his foreskin back before dragging your tongue along his shaft.

“Bloody… mother of God,” he groans, head tipping back, tendons flexing in his neck while he bares his throat in surrender like a dog showing its belly. His bound hands ball into fists, unable to grab anything for leverage and his hips jerk desperately, chasing your tongue for more ministrations.

Grabbing his aching cock at the base, you watch some watery beads of his essence run down his shaft, coating and dripping over your curled fingers, and it’s almost mesmerizing as you slowly stroke him from root to tip while you watch his precum smear and slick up his ruddy flesh.

Johnny curses through clenched teeth, back arching and hips canting into your touch.

“Well?” you ask, right eyebrow quirking in a taunt while your hand stills on his cock.

His head stays tipped back, eyes falling shut in resignation while his hands unclench against the bindings. “Fuck,” he drags out under his breath. “Hail Mary ye said?”

There’s a tense pause, and he shifts his hips, heels digging into the mattress as he brackets you in. The rosary keeps swaying above him.

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed a-art–” He falters when you spit on his tip and start stroking again. “Start over.”

His throat bobs, he clears his throat, and you continue to pump his length languidly, when he obeys:

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus–f-fuck–!”

Your fist stays curled around the thick base of his shaft, his soft foreskin pulled taut to expose his angry-red cockhead while your tongue stops lapping at it, lips ceasing their suckling, when he stutters once more, words dissolving into a guttural groan.

“Again.”

It only gets worse when you descend down his parted thighs after another torturous moment; peppering open-mouthed, wet kisses on his balls, then teasing his smooth taint with your tongue before finally reaching his puckered hole, already drenched by a mix of his arousal and your saliva dripping down his ass crack when you start licking him, a pleased hum bubbling up in your throat while you continue to stroke his throbbing prick.

He’s breathing so raggedy and heavy, one might think he just ran a marathon in full tactical gear; beads of sweat gathering above his thick brows before trickling down his grimacing face, right over the pulsing vein in his temple.

“Ngh–fuck, fuck–Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God–Mother of G–fuck, I–I cannae–! Please!”

His cock twitches in your unrelenting grasp, balls drawing up tight again as you continue to edge him towards his release only to stop whenever he messes up his prayer again.

“Ah cannae do it,” Johnny whines hoarsely before he utters your name like a plea.

He squirms against his bindings and whines when you stop jerking him off once more, tries his best to keep his legs spread wide open while you eat his ass with scandalous fervour; humming and moaning as you devour him, and bucks his hips when you pull your mouth away from his tight hole.

“Come on, baby,” you coo, peeking up at him with lust hazy doe-eyes as you smack your glistening, puffy lips obscenely. “You can finish that prayer for me, right? One fucking time and I’ll let you cum. Just be a good boy for me now.”

His buff chest heaves as he nods weakly, eyes squeezing shut while his head tips back against the mattress with a dull thud; his hands ball into pale, tight fists and you notice the reddened and bruising skin around his wrists in a stark contrast against the cotton rope.

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou–“ His breath hitches sharply when you start licking his asshole again, circling the tight rim with the tip of your warm tongue before pushing inside with a low moan, all while stroking his weeping cock simultaneously.

A shuddering exhale wrecks through his whole body, but Johnny grits his teeth and manages to continue breathlessly:

“–thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of–of death! OH FUCK!”

The slick sound of your hand pumping his cock grows louder as you quicken your pace; wrist twisting and jerking teasingly; stroking him from base to tip relentlessly now that he managed to finish his little prayer.

When you lift your head again, scrambling onto your knees and bracing your free hand on his knee to watch him succumb to the pleasure, he’s nearly chanting while his back arches off the mattress, gorgeous eyes screwed shut.

“Pleasepleaseplease, fuck, please–!”

It’s a beautiful sight when Johnny finally comes undone all because of your mercy on him. His handsome face is twisted in pleasure, brows furrowed, teeth sunken into his pouty bottom lip while a deep flush covers his cheeks, his neck, his whole chest beneath a layer of coarse hair.

His breath stutters harshly when he shoots his load all over himself; thick, white ropes of cum splattering over his taut stomach and flexing pecs, some barely missing your face as you hover, milking his twitching cock for all its worth as he tries to muffle his whorish moans by twisting his face and biting into his own biceps.

“Jesus Christ, honey–look at you,” you giggle, eyes sparkling with delight as you keep stimulating his softening prick. “You have no idea how fucking pretty you look, coming so hard for me.”

Johnny keeps his blushing face hidden into the crook of his biceps as he rasps out: “Aye… ye’re a right fuckin’ menace, love.”

His abs are still clenching with panting breaths, his cock giving feeble twitches in your palm, and he hisses through clenched teeth, when you finally let go, and he goes lax on the mattress.

However, before his seed can cool and dry up on his skin, your eyes glint with another idea, and you swiftly drag your right palm through the mess on his torso before spreading it over your strap generously.

“Nah, nah–” Johnny protests meekly, eyes bugging as he catches on to what you’re doing.

“Shhh, ’s gonna be fine,” you shush, rubbing your hands up and down his trembling thighs soothingly so he keeps them open for you. He tugs on the rope again. “I’ll make you feel even better, okay? You’re being such a good pup for me. I just need a little more. I did make you feel good now, didn’t I?”

“Take the fuckin’ rope off,” Johnny huffs, nostrils flaring as he glares at you with fretfulness, raw-bitten lips pulled into his trademark pout before he relents and gets back into position.

“Wanna touch ye when ye fuck me with yer wee plastic knob.”

You snort, smiling gleefully as you lean over to untie him from the bedpost.

“It’s silicone.”

He clucks his tongue. “Ach, bloody fake, tha’s wha’ i’is.”

Once the cotton rope falls away and his hands come free, he’s on you with unrestrained greed—callous palms running up and down your flanks, squeezing your hips and mapping out the curve of your ass before groping the plump muscle so hard that he’s giving you a wedgie, causing you to yip at the sting.

“Ye’re so fuckin’ soft, hen. C’mere,” he groans as he tries to pull you on top of him before you push a hand against his sternum, keeping yourself from succumbing to his advances that easily.

“Nah–ah–ah.” You cluck your tongue in chide, shaking your head. “I am the Captain now.”

Johnny snorts at the corny movie quote and then groans as his head drops back against the pillow with a soft huff, hands resting on his stomach, though you can tell he’s itching to just grab you. “Fuckin’ tease ye are.”

You’re still snickering as you reach for the lube and pop the lid open to squeeze a generous dollop onto your fingertips before reaching down to prod at his spit-slicked asshole.

He gasps when you spread the slabby, cool fluid between his cheeks, drawing leisure circles around his hole with your fingertips before prodding at the tight rim. “You gotta relax for me, baby. C’mon now–”

His thigh muscles tremble and jump under his dewy skin, and you react by soothing your free hand over his leg, up his thigh and hip, squeezing his waist as you push your middle finger into his ass.

“Fuck!” His back arches at the intrusion, hands snatching the bedsheets and fisting them tightly, and you’re quick to hush him with a sly smile. “It’s a lot, hm? But you’re being so, so good for me–so fucking sexy, Johnny.”

Johnny exhales a ragged breath, blinking slowly as he relaxes for you—thick thighs parting some more while you prep his hole, adding your ring finger with a lewd squelch that leaves him whining as you begin to fingerfuck him agonizingly slow.

Eventually, you’re pleased by how much you’ve prepped him—judging by the steady flow of precum running down his shaft and the way his hole flutters around your fingers whenever you brush and stimulate his prostate.

He keens when you retrieve your fingers, and you smile when you guide the tip of your fake cock to his hole. The rosary is still swaying above him gently,

“Breathe, baby,” you coo as you push your hips forward, penetrating him slowly.

And you pull out half an inch, only to push forward again—steadily and carefully working the strap into his tight hole while your boyfriend takes short, shuddering breaths. “Lookit you—taking me so well, huh. Feels good?”

He’s a right mess already; hiding behind his arm thrown over his face, though you can clearly see the flush of arousal spreading over his chest and up his neck again. With his blood simmering and sensitive nerves frayed, his fat cock twitches meekly against his belly as you fuck him slowly.

You pinch his hairy thigh, and he grunts, peeking to glare at you. “I asked you a question, Sergeant,” you repeat. “Feels good?”

His jaw clenches as he nods curtly, and you almost laugh at how pissy he looks. You grab his hips as best as you can and bottom out completely, hips pressing flush against the back of his thighs, enticing a rough yelp that dissolves into a pathetic half-moan, half-whine.

You smirk wickedly. “There we go.”

His chest heaves, hips squirming—away from your fake cock or trying to get you deeper, you can’t quite tell.

“More?” You squeeze and massage his taut flesh gently, rocking your hips experimentally as you observe his every miniscule reaction. The crimson flush has reached his stubbled cheeks by now and your teeth itch to sink into the bit of fat covering the cheekbone. “Then use your words, sweetheart.”

Then, Johnny sighs your name like a prayer that he hopes can salvage him, causing your heart to thud and your cunt to clench and drool into your panties, and it’s all permission you need.

His cock throbs and jumps as you begin to fuck him with slow, deep grinds of your hips while your hands keep caressing him reverently—worshipping his warrior’s body; skimming over faded scars and scattered beauty marks while his skin breaks out in gooseflesh.

And you’re only a few thrusts in, when his hips buck and his face twists into something akin to a pained snarl while he utters curses under his breath—though it doesn’t make you falter.

You know that face well—it makes your stomach flutter and your lips purse in amusement.

“Aw, you’re gonna cum again, baby? Already?”

Not needing nor waiting for an answer, you dig your fingers into his hips, nails leaving angry red crescent moons on his skin, as you shift on your knees for a better stance before you start rocking your hips more fervently, driving the strap faster and deeper into his sopping ass.

The bed starts creaking comically; the obscene smack of your skin against his plump ass fills the room, along with your panting breaths and his borderline whorish moans.

Sweat trickles down the nape of your neck as you keep gripping and holding him in place on the mattress while the leather harness cuts into your skin, rubbing against the apex of your thighs and irritating your sensitive flesh—yet the pleasure you feel at seeing Johnny enjoying himself and being oh so vulnerable with you, leaves your mouth dry with want and your heart full of love and affection.

“F-Fuck,” he grunts, gripping his shaft with a shaky hand and glossy baby blue eyes while the other curls around one post of the headboard. He tries to jerk himself, but you are swift to swat his hand away, earning a pathetic whimper.

“No.”

He whines at your refusal, his head drops back to bare his throat like a submissive mutt, and your thrusts falter momentarily as you reach for a pair of discarded boxers on the dishevelled mattress before bracing one hand next to his head, hips stilling while his cock throbs.

“K-Keep movin’,” he croaks, swallowing dryly as he gazes up at you, tears brimming at his lash line. “Please.”

Your heart stutters along with your breath. He’s so bloody gorgeous.

“Open up,” you command, lifting the fabric to his mouth—and his eyes nearly roll back as you shove the black fabric into his mouth, gagging him and muffling another loud, throaty moan. “Good boy.”

After giving him a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, you don��t hold back anymore.

Your body moves on autopilot as you fuck Johnny’s ass, relishing and thriving in the way his face twists in pleasure, all this manly bulk squirming and writhing under your care while he grasps at the headboard, short nails scratching at the splintered old white paint covering the wood.

And your own breath stutters with a ragged moan when his cry of ecstasy if muffled by the cloth in his mouth as his body goes rigid, eyes screwing shut, hairy chest heaving.

“Come on, baby–” you’re panting in between harsh snaps of your hips, “look at me.”

Johnny does as you ask—the brightest colour of the sky peeking out behind heavy eyelids, hazy and unfocused before they slowly roll back into his skull, pulse throbbing in his bared throat in tandem with his cock as his muscles tense once more—

Before his second orgasm wrecks through him with violent shudders. The sight takes your own breath away.

You’re still rocking your hips languidly as you grasp his spilling cock to pump him in the rhythm of your thrusts, causing him to groan lowly in his chest; keening and blabbering around his makeshift gag as he bucks into your stroking hand while his cum runs down your knuckles.

Eventually, you gentle your thrusts but stay buried inside his ass; hips flush to his thighs, warm and tacky skin on skin as he continues to tremble and quake under your ministrations.

“Beautiful,” you catch yourself uttering as you bring your messy hand up to your lips to drag your tongue over your cum-stained digits.

Johnny’s long lashes flutter open and he groans lowly at the view of you lapping up his release from your fingers before he pulls the spit-soaked from his mouth with a huff.

“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.”

Your shiny lips split into a pleased grin as you lean closer to put your fingers up to his lips, and he manages to look vexed for a few second before his mask crumbles, and he sucks your messy fingers into his mouth with a delighted hum while he keeps his hazy gaze on you.

When you finally do pull out, Johnny sighs deeply; long limbs spreading out on the mattress limply while you clean up the strap before taking it off and then taking care of the mess your boyfriend made on himself.

“Mhm, turnin’ me into a proper pillow princess, ye are.” He chuckles roughly as he curls one hand around your wrist to tuck you closer. “C’mon, lay with me, aye? Am feelin’ mighty sensible right now, luv, an’ it’s all yer bloody fault.”

There’s a raw kind of honest behind his words, despite the mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes, and you can’t help but feel somewhat overwhelmed, too.

He pulls you into his side, wraps you up in his arms, and you can still feel a slight tremble in his body as he holds you and buries his nose into your hair to take a deep breath.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I? You liked it?” You caress his chest and feel his steady heartbeat under your palm which helps soothing your own frayed nerves.

However, the pause drags on longer than you expected, and for a moment, you can feel a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest before Johnny grabs your chin to tilt your face up to meet his eyes.

His gaze is half-lidded, tired yet sated, and a crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he drinks you in. You want to open your mouth again to say something, anything to not let all of this turn awkward now, but he beats you to it: “Aye, ah loved it.”

Your chest deflates as you exhale through your nose while he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, crow’s feet appearing in the corner of his eyes as he smiles genuinely.

“I love ye,” he utters then, and it takes your breath away all over again, and you swallow thickly as tears immediately brim in your eyes, turning your vision blurry as you sniffle out his name like a plea, shifting in his embrace.

But he tightens his grip on you reflexively, keeping you close as he snickers softly.

“Aw, c’mon, hen,” he coos and smooches your forehead as you bury your face into his neck. “Say it back, yeah?” His arms tighten around you some more, clinging to you as your tears drip onto his shoulder. “Please,” he adds quietly, vulnerably.

You inhale a shuddering breath before you finally manage to croak out: “I love you.”

His heartrate accelerates; you can feel it in the way his pulse is fluttering in his neck, and before you know it, you’re pushed flat onto your back with a precise shove while he hovers above you with a toothy grin. “Knew it.”

You roll your eyes, still sniffling softly, a soft smile is gracing your lips. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m terrible?!” He snorts, highly amused. “Ye’re the reason ah won’t be able to sit at the bloody dinner table the next two days, m’love.” And he leans in to brush his nose against yours. “Say it again, aye? One more time f’me, hen.”

You purse your lips, tempted to let him work for it, though the smitten look on his face makes you cave. “I love you, John MacTavish.”

He sucks in a sharp breath at your declaration before he dives in to capture your lips in a bruising, all-consuming kiss while your arms snake around his neck, unable to do more but whimper as you part your lips to let him in.

“Love ye, too,” he mutters, swallowing each sweet noise of yours as he nudges your thighs apart with his bad knee. “M’gonna show ye how much.”

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

Fucking hot as balls dipped in lava! Please may it continue!!

Only Good Girls Get to Come (Cont.)

Part 1

Your chest heaved as you came down from the high Price put you through, skin flushed and damp with sweat, limbs loose and useless. But even as your body sagged back onto the sheets, he stayed right there. Kneeling between your legs, one broad hand splayed possessively on your thigh, the other slowly withdrawing from you, fingers slick and glistening.

He watched your face the whole time.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then his tone shifted, the wolfish glint returning to his voice. “You’ll behave now, yeah?”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Mmmaybe.”

John chuckled. Low. Dangerous.

He leaned in, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, the other catching your jaw to tilt your face up to his again. His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow and steady.

“Still mouthing off?” he asked softly.

You gave him a lazy, smug grin. “Takes more than that to shut me up, Captain.”

A dangerous pause.

“Cheeky little thing,” he said, his voice darker. His hand trailed down again, brushing through the folds of your swollen pussy, gathering your slick onto his fingers. He dragged them up, slow and deliberate, until he pressed them against your lips.

“Open.”

You did.

“Good girl.”

He let you taste yourself off his fingers, watching intently, and you swore you could feel his cock twitch against the fabric of those damned sweatpants still hanging low on his hips.

“Y’think you’ve earned this?” he asked, grabbing your hand and dragging it to his lap. Letting you feel the thick length straining under grey cotton.

You swallowed. Nodded.

He leaned down to your ear, voice like smoke and gravel.

“Then get on your knees and prove it.”

As Price moved off from the edge of the bed, you slid off, legs shaky but obedient, and sank to the floor in front of him. His eyes followed your every move, arms crossed over his chest like he was appraising you. Judging your willingness. Measuring your sincerity.

You palmed him through the fabric first, with slow strokes along the thick length beneath his sweats. He was hard. Of course he was. You bit your bottom lip as your desire threatened to consume you. The little groan he let slip when your fingers curled into the waistband was divine.

You tugged the sweatpants down just enough, freeing him from the fabric. His cock was thick, flushed, and heavy in your hand. You didn’t waste time. Your lips brushed the head with soft reverence. A delicate kiss. Then, you took him into your mouth, slow and as deep as your throat would allow.

Above you, Price hissed through his teeth. One large hand found the back of your head, firm but not forceful.

“Good girl,” he muttered, hips twitching forward. “Just like that.”

You worked him steadily with your wet and eager mouth, your spit dripping down his length as your mouth slid back and forth. You tried to impress him. Tried to be what he wanted. You even looked up through your lashes while sucking him down, playing the part of the obedient little thing.

And for a second…it worked.

Except, you couldn’t help yourself. The urge to toy with him was devouring you, like a wildfire consuming a forest. You pulled off him with a pop, giving him a smug look. Slick-mouthed, and pleased with yourself.

“Oops” You said with a pout, feigning innocence as your fingers wrapped around him again. “Slipped.”

His jaw ticked. That hand in your hair tightened. And before you could blink, he had you up on your feet. His other hand gripped your jaw firm enough that your mouth fell open under the delicious pressure.

“Slipped?” he repeated, voice dangerously quiet. “You call that slippin’, sweetheart?”

You tried to hold your smirk. Almost made it. But then he leaned down, nose brushing yours, gaze locked in on your lips.

“You keep slippin’ like that,” he murmured, “and I’ll forget all about fuckin’ you. I’ll just bend you over and leave you stuffed full of my fingers again. Let you sob for my cock while I make you say please with that filthy little mouth.”

You whimpered, involuntaryly. And he heard it.

“There she is,” he purred.

He let go of your face slowly, dragging his thumb over your lower lip one last time.

“Now,” he said, stepping back just enough to give you a choice. “Do you want to try again? Or do you want to spend the rest of the night beggin’ and never gettin’?”

Your eyes flicked to his cock. It was hard, heavy, and right there. Your body ached. Your thighs trembled.

You swallowed softly as you dropped your gaze, “…Please,” you said, quiet.

He tilted his head.

“Try again.”

You looked up at him, lips parted, chest heaving.

“Please, John. I want you to fuck me.”

He stepped forward, cupped the back of your neck, and kissed you with a deep possession, teeth dragging across your lip like he could barely restrain himself.

“Good girl,” he growled against your mouth. “Now get on the bed. Hands and knees. Let’s see how loud you can get.”

You scrambled back onto the bed, face down, arching your back instinctively. With your ass raised, you spread yourself wide. Your hands fisting into the sheets. The air felt electric against your bare skin, anticipation buzzing under every inch of you.

The rustle of fabric. His sweatpants finally hit the floor and the sound made your stomach flutter.

Then his hands were on you.

One gripped your hip, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down, guiding you exactly how he wanted you. Helpless and open for him.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice low with desire, rough with his own need. “Back arched, legs spread... guess you can behave after all.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but gasped instead when you felt the blunt head of his cock drag through your soaked and puffy cunt. He teased you with it, slow, unhurried, rubbing himself against your entrance but not pushing in.

“Please,” you breathed, already trembling.

“Please what, sweetheart?” he asked, still not giving you what you needed.

“Please fuck me.”

He leaned over you, chest against your back, mouth grazing your ear.

“Louder.”

“Please, John,” you cried. “I need your cock! Please, just fuck me!”

His grip tightened.

And then he slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust.

You choked on a scream. Your vision going blurry as his thick cock, stretched you wide, filling you so deep you felt him in your gut. He didn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and driving into you again. Again. Again.

“That's it,” he growled, hips slapping against your ass. “Not so mouthy now, are ya?”

You tried to speak. All that came out was a breathless whimper.

He grabbed both your wrists and pinned them behind your back with one hand, the other gripping your hip like a vice. His rhythm was relentless. He pounded into you, driving the air from your lungs with every stroke.

“Christ,” he bit out. “It’s like this cunt was fuckin’ made for me.”

You cried out, back arching further, the angle hitting something devastating inside you.

He fucked you through it. Unrelenting. Every thrust felt like a punishment and a reward wrapped in one.

“Good girls get to come,” he grunted, voice rough and close to breaking. “Think you earned it yet, sweetheart?”

You nodded furiously, tears in your eyes, sobbing his name like it was a prayer.

He smacked your ass once, sharp, then dragged his fingers between your legs to circle your clit, fast and brutal.

“Then come for me.”

With his command you came apart on a loud and earth shattering moan, your whole body clenching around him as he continued to fucked you through it. You barely registered the broken groan he let out when he followed, burying himself deep and spilling into you, his grip never faltering.

In the pause that followed, the air thick with unspoken words, the only sounds were the rhythmic, heavy breaths of the two of you. You collapsed onto the sheets, gasping, boneless, and ruined. Every muscle in your body trembled as he slowly pulled out of you. Your pussy fluttered around nothing, clenching on air as if it could drag him back in by force.

But he hadn’t gone far.

You felt his hand on the back of your thigh, then his fingers, dragging through the mess between your legs, slow and deliberate.

You flinched. He chuckled.

“A bit much for you, love?” he asked, voice still thick and dark with satisfaction.

You whimpered, trying to wiggle away. He caught your hips easily, pulling you back, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“I asked you a question.”

You shook your head weakly into the sheets as you stuttered out, “To-too much…”

He hummed. Mocking sympathy.

“Oh, is my cock too much for you now?” He leaned in again, lips brushing your ear. “Didn’t sound like it when you were beggin’ for it.”

You groaned as his fingers slid between your folds again, gathering slick and using it to rub slow, deliberate circles on your overstimulated clit.

You jerked, gasping. “John…please…”

“Thought you wanted to be good,” he murmured, ignoring your pleas as he kept going. “Good girls take what they’re given.”

You choked out a moan, thighs trembling again. You were going to come again, already, how was that possible?

He kissed your temple, still relentless with his fingers.

“C’mon now. One more for me.”

You tried to twist away, but his hand stayed firm, holding you in place while he worked your clit with devastating precision. His body pressed to yours from behind. He was steady, unmovable, and grounding.

“Shhh,” he whispered when you sobbed. “I know. I know it’s too much. You’re gonna give it to me anyway.”

You shook, overwhelmed, panting into the mattress as the heat built again, bright and unbearable. Every nerve in your body lit up as he drove you toward the edge with slow, confident touches.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Let it happen. You’re doin’ so well.”

You could barely form words, but your body obeyed. Your pussy tightened, ached, pulsed, and then you broke. Again.

You came with a strangled sound, half-cry, half-plea, your body convulsing under him as wave after wave crashed through you. It was too much, too raw, too good. He never stopped touching you, even as you whimpered, whispering his name like you could anchor yourself with it.

Only when your body gave out completely, hips twitching and breath hitching, did he finally ease his hand away.

You collapsed fully, shaking, eyes blurry and heart pounding. You were wrecked. Undone. Completely spent.

And then… he softened.

He pulled you into his arms, settled the both of you onto your sides, cradling you against his chest with strong, steady hands. One stroked your hair, the other rubbed circles along your back. Gentle now. Grounding.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your temple. “Took it so well. Proud of you.”

You didn’t have the strength to reply, but the way you melted into him said enough.

He kissed your forehead, his voice low and soothing.

“Let’s get you cleaned up in a bit. You rest. I’ve got you.”

You nodded faintly, letting your eyes drift closed.

Safe. Warm. Held.

And completely, utterly, his.

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lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

Sweet and very, very hot

love thy neighbor. / john price x reader

Buying a house to use when you’re never home is a stupid idea, but John Price has done it anyway. He doesn’t think much of it after 10 years, til you move in behind him, and then suddenly it’s not so bad.

warnings: MDNI, John “talk her through it” gentle dom Price, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex (fem receiving), reader is called girl, praise kink, light biting, implied pregnancy, you have a child at the end

w.c.: 5.6k

It’s not often that John finds himself so… distracted. With a job like his, that means certain death. Never let your head wander. Never let your eyes drift. Stay focused. Ready. Out in the field, your head swivels for a bird like his is and that's a bullet to your temple. Hopefully, the shot kills you right away and doesn’t leave you bleeding on the floor. Slow and painful way to go. Choking on your blood, teammates around you just watching, wishing they’d finish the job, and you wouldn’t have to fade away.

But there’s something about you that’s got him distracted.

Your garden backs up against his, property lines defined by an old wooden fence that's been there since the 60s. Not much to look at for his side. He keeps his grass cut short with minimal landscaping. Few large paver stones between the patio and the slab of concrete the hot tub sits. He’s rarely even home to see it.

The house had been a purchase he felt he had to make when he hit 30. Soap joked it was his midlife crisis since every crisis could be their midlife one. He guessed it gave him a weird sense of normalcy that never sat right. Like shoes that are ever so slightly too tight. They fit, could even fit better if you took the time to stretch them out, but he doesn’t. Told himself it’d be a better fit when he retired. If he got the chance.

Now he’s 40, a homeowner for a decade, and it’s barely used, and he’s barely there. Hell, the weekly cleaner and gardener had been there more since he bought it than he had. John’s only ever there when he’s got an extended break between missions, but well and truly, how often is that?

He hadn’t even noticed when the old couple who used to own the end of the terrace house passed away, and you moved in. Meredith and James. It had happened eight months ago, right at the end of autumn. Tells you how much of a good neighbor he is. John didn’t learn about it until April hit, and you came knocking on his door.

You had a black oversized jumper tucked into some dark wash high-waisted jeans with a big hole on the left knee. Hair held back with a claw clip, brows drawn ever so slightly together. Like you were nervous as you shifted side to side holding a plate of cookies.

It was one of those gross British spring days where the air starts to get muggy as the sun hits its peak. Past the part of spring where it’s grey and drizzly for weeks straight, the cold still clinging to your bones.

He’d barely been home for 13 hours. Came in and passed out, only woke up about 20 minutes ago, and turned on the TV in the lounge to listen to the news while he made a late lunch. Still in the groggy headspace of jetlag, but he swore you looked radiant.

“Hi! I wanted to introduce myself.” You had a soft voice. Gentle. Like you were afraid of spooking him. “Meredith told me that you’re often overseas, and… well, this is the first time I think I’ve seen you home.” You gave him your name and told him you owned the house behind his now.

John was pleasant for the whole interaction, chatting with you for about 15 minutes before you excused yourself. Smiled and said all the right things like his mum raised him to, still not really all there mentally. Didn’t even really click for him that you shared the fence with him until two days later, he saw you in the garden, taking a hammer to the fence with a mean look on your face.

Good opportunity for him to be neighborly.

“You alright?” He’s leaning out the first-floor window, arms resting on the windowsill.

John didn’t expect you to startle so much, dropping the hammer with a shriek before your head whipped up to him. “Fucking hell you scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, love,” he chuckles, “Something wrong with the fence?”

“Yeah,” there's sweat beading down your forehead that you swipe away. He has a wandering thought about licking it off you. “I think the wood’s rotted through. I leaned something against it yesterday and it about gave through.”

Great opportunity for him to get closer to you.

“I’ll come down and have a look.”

Turns out the wood was rotted through for more than half the fence. The whole thing was one bad wind day away from falling over. John had removed some of the worst parts that day with plans to remove the rest on Tuesday morning. That was until you both got hit with a stop-work order. One of the neighbors had called the council and complained. Something about protecting historic areas, and the boundary of the two properties not being legally defined. Not their place at all, but regardless, neither of you could do anything about it now.

They did at least let John finish taking the fence down for safety concerns, so the two of you spent that time getting to know each other better. You were 34, worked as a fashion buyer, but you really wanted to be a designer, liked holidays with your girlfriends where you could try new wines, and were perhaps the sweetest bird he’d ever met, hidden behind a layer of fierce sass.

Then the council told the two of you it’d be another eight to ten weeks for them to assess the new fence and then another three for them to do an impact report on whether it’d require the other fences to be changed. Typical British bureaucracy. The fence was being built in the same way it had looked prior to it being torn down.

But now it meant the two of you shared one big garden. One big, ambiguous green space only defined by how much landscaping you had done and the numerous planters full of growing veggies you had. Not a big deal for him. While he liked his space, a week or two of shared garden wouldn’t kill him.

Then the pandemic hit and no one was going to approve jack shit or build anything. It was like the council fully vanished, emails going unanswered.

John had been deployed shortly after the lockdowns were announced and told you to email him if anything important came up with the council. You laughed, told him you would, and followed it up by demanding he stay safe lest you have to deal with a new neighbor and no fence.

True to your word, you did email him. It was never any updates regarding the fence. Rather, it was you checking in on him and telling him about the local gossip. Turned into penpals. Between bouts of violent warfare, he got to know you, and hell, he’d say you’re bordering on friend territory now, which isn’t a title he gives out often. He tried to be polite and cordial, but the image of you sunbathing never left his mind.

When he came back 12 weeks later in the dead of night, he climbed into his bed in the primary suite on the third floor and passed out. Bags dropped by the front door, half blocking it from opening. Maybe he was finally getting too old for this.

He didn’t wake up until 1 pm, sunshine making the room uncomfortable and hot. He hadn’t programmed the aircon to come on yet. Sweat clung to his back, t-shirt fabric uncomfortably damp, and he pulled himself out of bed.

Trudging to the window, he throws it open in the hopes that the jet stream might bless him with some breeze before he hops into the shower. He might have opened it with more force than needed, hinges creaking, now squinting from how bright the sun was.

Then he saw you. Lounging on a beach chair.

Now, remembering the lack of fence between the two of you, he didn’t think much of it until he rubbed his eyes as his vision cleared.

You were lying in the chair, sunglasses on as you listened to Jazz House, a staple of yours, he noticed, stretched out supine and basking in the sun. The glint of an anklet was the first thing he noticed before trailing his eyes upwards to your baby blue bikini bottoms and no top. Tits soft and supple in the sun. They shone, covered in what he assumed was tanning oil, jiggling as you raised your arms to cover your eyes.

If he were a better man, he’d look away. Step back from the window and pretend he never saw anything. Unfortunately, he’s not a better man. John looks on a bit longer, memorizing every inch of your skin, before he walks to the bathroom.

The shower he takes is ice cold.

It’s a couple of days later, right before the sun starts to wane, the light turning golden, and the squad has shown up for a barbecue. You’ve spoken to him briefly, claiming you’d catch up more when you weren’t so busy.

Price’s place became the de facto grilling spot a few years back. It was probably the most use it had ever gotten. Helped, he had a big garden, a high-quality grill, and guest rooms for the lads to crash in if they drank too much.

Ghost and Soap had brought four packs of Carling. Pure shite in his opinion, but Soap was a fan and at the end of day free beer is free beer. John’s on his third can, enjoying the build of a buzz as he stands over the grill flipping kebabs, lamb, and beef with some veg, listening in on a story Ghost is telling him. There’s an old 80s rock playlist one of the lads found on Spotify that’s agreeable enough. Soap and Gaz are wrestling while Ghost intermittently laughs at their attempts to pin each other.

He almost forgets there’s no fence between your places till you come out bounding over in a short little white dress that scrapes the tops of your thighs, struggling to open a jar of olives. You looked like a goddamn angel.

“Hey John,” he places the tongs down as you come closer. “Could you help me open this jar? The girls and I are making martinis, and I can’t seem to—oh. Hello!”

You’ve crossed the imaginary threshold and are only a few feet away from him as you look up, still trying to open the jar.

“Take it this is your squad?” Your eyes flick between him and the group of very large men near him.

“Aye, love,” he motions with his head towards them. “Lads, say hello.”

Like the well-trained dogs they are, a round of “You Alright,” and “Evenin’” rings out.

You smile and give a small wave. “Sorry, I won’t interrupt for long.” You draw closer to him, holding out the jar with one hand and the other curling around his bicep. “Could you open this? We’re dangerously low on olives, and we’re making martinis.”

You smell like coconut cream, vanilla, and sunscreen as the tips of your French manicured nails catch on his skin.

John smiles, takes the jar, and opens it before sealing it again and passing it to you. You beam up at him, lips shiny with gloss. “There you go, love,” he tries not to look down the front of your dress, but from this angle, it's hard not to. Especially once he notices you’re not wearing a bra.

“Ugh, my hero!” Sighing dramatically, you give his arm another squeeze before holding the jar with both hands. “I’ll bring you a martini as payment. What are you making?”

You’ve leaned across him, pulling your hair to the side as you inspect the grill. From the corner of his eye, he sees Gaz give Soap a nudge.

“Kebabs.” You lean a bit too far forward and he puts a hand your your waist to steady you. “Have a few steaks to put on if the occasion calls for it.”

You gasp and smack his chest. Mock betrayal and hurt with a smile. It’s light and playful, and you don’t make any move to get away from his hand on your waist. “Where was my invite?”

John raises a brow. “You told me you were with the girls tonight.”

“Yes, but if I had known you were grilling I would have told them to sod off.”

One of the boys, surprisingly, Ghost, laughs. It’s a real laugh too, which is a bit mental coming from him.

“Don’t be cruel to your friends now.”

“They’d understand,” you’re quick with the reply. “We’re only having martinis and cheese.”

You do this thing he’s picked up on. Leaning a little too forward and looking up at him through your eyelashes, lips in a slight part. Intentional? Maybe. Innocent? Probably. Dangerous? 100%. It’s the kind of look that gives him pause. Stabs him in the heart and weasels its way into his bloodstream. Gets his thoughts going a bit too fast.

Makes him wonder what you’d look like with his cock in your mouth.

“Tell you what,” he offers, clearing his throat. “You go to Tesco and get some more, and your lot can join us.”

“Would you guys mind?” You direct the question to the squad, peaking over John’s shoulder.

Even if they did, with the hunger Price has in his eyes for you, they’d never have said no. There’s an intensity there they’ve only seen in the field, and they aren’t stupid. They can tell that he’s itching to fuck you. He had been glued to his inbox when they were deployed and evasive about answering them about who he was emailing. Easy to put two and two together.

20 minutes and one Tesco Express trip later, you and two of your friends, Joanne and Marcy, had pulled up your two garden chairs to join the men, bringing with you enough martinis for everyone. The three of you go the rounds teasing one another, breaking into fits of giggles, and you all get situated once the food is done cooking. He didn’t expect it, but your friends get on well with his squad.

Rather than bring one of John's dining room chairs out, you’ve taken to perching on his knee. One arm draped across his shoulders, toying with his shirt, and the other holding a skewer that you pick at in between talking. You’re acting like it's the most natural thing in the world, so he does the same, resting a hand on your knee.

Once the food is done and you girls have moved onto a wine, unmotivated to make more martinis, you get looser. The sun has fully set now, and everyone's been well fed. It's reaching the point where you know that once someone says they’re heading home, everyone will naturally see themselves out, but no one’s making the first move.

He’s painfully hard and every time you wiggle, giggly from the alcohol, your ass brushes against him and makes it worse. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to him or maybe it’s the pent-up sexual frustration, but when you move again, he can’t help but whisper in your ear, low and slow. “Careful there, love.”

“What do you mean?” Voice soft and teasing as you turn towards him.

He likes the sweet and innocent act you put on as you rock back against him. At first, he thought you weren’t aware of it, but now it’s clear you knew.

It’s a quick, sharp breath he draws. “You know exactly what I mean,” John’s lips brush your ear. The low rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your core.

“Hmm…” you rock backward again. “Maybe I need you to spell it out for me?”

There’s a coy smile on your lips that makes him want to fucking bend you over the table. But he’s barely a gentleman and wouldn’t do that in front of your friends. One hand grabs at your waist, stilling your movements. The tension between the two of you feels electric. You’re hyper-aware of every place his bare skin meets yours. It’s not quite a warning, not quite a promise. Just enough to make you realize he’s barely holding onto his composure.

Joanne laughs loudly, pulling your attention outwards.

Ever aware, Ghost notices what's transpiring between the two of you and stands. “Right then, time for me to head home.”

Price watches as Ghost ushers the lads up, and your friends follow. He leads them all to the back door, turning to Price and nodding before heading through himself. You catch the look he gives John as he goes. A subtle little note.

Behave.

The door shuts and the garden falls quiet.

Now alone, nerves start creeping through you. Doesn’t help that John doesn’t move. He sits there for a minute, hands on your waist, thumbs brushing at the fabric of your dress. You’re 99.99% sure that he wants the same thing you do, but god forbid a girl feels nervous. Feels like your heart is loud enough he could hear it as well as he felt it through your clothes.

He exhales, slow and controlled.

Then, his grip tightens on your waist.

“Nervous?” he noses at your shoulder, mustache tickling slightly. His voice is low and rough, like he recently smoked a cigar.

You nod, small and shy. “A bit.”

John hums, happy he has that effect on you. Almost like he’s purring. One of his hands slides up your front, brushing past your tits, before settling on your jaw and turning your face towards him. The look in his eyes is one you’ve never seen before. It goes beyond hunger, he’s starving.

“Don’t be.”

You crash into him. The kiss is heavy, all-consuming, and leaves you lightheaded. John’s hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers enmeshing themselves in your hair, tilting you as he sees fit. His other hand roams your body, grabbing your breast and squeezing it. You moan, letting him slip his tongue into your mouth, and you melt into him.

When you break apart, panting slightly and leaning back against him, you giggle as he presses open-mouthed kisses against your exposed neck and shoulder. “Been thinking about this for a while, pretty girl.”

He lets go of your hair to pick you up at the waist and reposition you better on his lap. “Thinking about ‘ow pretty you’d sing for me.” John settles his hands on your hips now. “‘Ow sweet you’d taste.”

Strong hands pull your hips back before pushing them forward. It goes to your head a bit, and you're stunned as he repeats the motion.

“Don’t be shy now. Had no problem doing this earlier, did you?”

“No,” you stuttered out, grinding your hips down as instructed.

“That’s a sweet girl,” he continues to guide your hips.

Each bump and grind pulls you further and further into a corner of debauchery you thought you left behind in your 20s. It sends waves of pleasure through your body. John’s hands grip you tighter, driving you into a steady rhythm with him. His erection strains against his shorts.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Just like that, love.”

Your breath is short gasps drawn in a haze as the friction builds, panties soaked and clinging to your folds. Price’s lips find your neck again, pressing more hot kisses to the strip of flesh. Feels like you’re burning up as his teeth graze your pulse point, and you whimper.

“John,” you plead. For what you aren’t sure.

He takes his hands off your hips to push the straps of your dress off your shoulders. It falls softly off them, exposing your tits, nipples hard. John tweaks one, rolling it between his fingers, and your head falls forward with a soft cry. You don’t stop moving your hips, lost in the feeling as he continues to palm your chest. He cups them, kneading them as you continue to rock your hips.

“Love… Sweet girl,” he bucks his hips up to meet yours, grinding himself against your aching core. “Tell me you want this and I’ll take you inside and give you what you’re begging for.”

“I want it,” you stutter out. “Please, John.”

His grip on your breasts tightens. “That’s it.” He stands, picking you up bridal style in one fluid motion, your body pressed firmly against his chest. The night air is cool as it hits your bare breasts. John is swift as he takes you inside, closing the door with his foot as he brings you into the lounge. He knows he doesn’t want to make the trek upstairs yet. He’s gotta fuck you on the couch before he takes you upstairs and fucks you in his bed or he might burst at the seams and fuck you like a wild animal.

Price deposits you on the chaise part of his sectional so he can lay you out as you pull your dress off, leaving you in your panties. You look goddamn delectable.

He pulls off his shirt and shorts, leaving himself in his boxer briefs as he moves towards you. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling your leg up and pushing you onto your back. John kisses your ankle and drops your leg, before he grabs the waistband of your panties and pulls them off you.

“Look at this,” he brings your panties up. The white’s gone transparent in the light. “Soaked through.”

Price gets down on his knees and pulls your pussy towards him. “Knew you’d have a pretty cunt. Just look at you. So wet and ready for me.”

He runs a finger through your core, chuckling with a full smile as his finger comes back glistening. Parting his lips, he brings it to his mouth and moans at the taste, watching as it makes you wiggle in anticipation. “Delicious. You going to be good for me and let me eat you out?”

You nod diligently. Submission looks good on you.

His hands grip your thigh, pushing them further apart as he settles between them. He leans forward, presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, and then drags his tongue against you in one long, smooth stripe. The groan he lets out comes from deep inside him, echoing in the hollow of his chest. And he buries himself in your pussy.

He focuses in on your slit, sensitive from the lead up and circles it with the tip of his tongue. John sucks it into his mouth, passing his tongue over it. Your hips buck, jagged, and stuttered as he does. It feels like he’s got you on display, and the rapt attention goes to your head. Each pass of his tongue pulls you closer and closer to the edge as he devours you.

A finger prods at your hole, sliding in with no resistance. He pumps it in and out, warming you up, before adding a second. The sound of his filthy slurps and your moans fill the room as he pumps in and out of you, angling his fingers to bump your G-spot. It's obscene. You’re so wet it sounds like the set of a porno.

John wants nothing more than to consume you. Wants to watch you come on his tongue and clench down on his fingers. He can feel your body tensing, muscles pulling tight as your climax draws nearer. Your hands fly to his head, pulling on his short hair, as you grind your pussy against his face, and Price moans.

“Sweet girl, cum for me.” He pulls away for a second to speak before going right back to working you to a fever pitch.

“John,” it comes out as a broken gasp. “I’m gonna cum.”

He hums in approval, and it sends you over the edge. Your clamp down around his fingers like a vice, and it washes over you. Price doesn’t let up, doesn't stop. He continues to pump his fingers at the same steady pace, extending your orgasm. Your nails dig into his scalp, spurring him on as he sucks on your clit harder.

John can feel your juices gushing out, getting caught in his facial hair, and soaking the couch. He wants to break you, make you fall apart completely, to build you back up with the knowledge that there’ll never be another man like him. So you keep wearing those tiny little dresses around him. You’re pushing at his head now, and he takes his mouth off you with a wet pop. When you lock eyes with him, you whimper.

“Fucking gorgeous love. Prettiest I’ve ever seen.” he purrs, pressing a kiss against your clit, making you twitch from sensitivity. “You want more?”

“I want you to fuck me,” it’s a breathy whisper as you come down from your high and he swears he’s never heard something so erotic before in his entire life.

John remembers that he hasn’t had a hook-up in years and that there are no condoms in the house. “I don’t want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable, but I don’t have any condoms.”

You’ve scrambled up from your back. Propping yourself up on your knees, chest resting on the back of the couch.

“I don’t care,” the way the eye contact you make with him from over your shoulder makes him feel should be criminal. “Fuck me.”

He stands up, left knee popping from an old injury, and he looms over you. Big, beefy frame taking up all the space behind you. John reaches down and pulls down his boxer briefs. It’s not lost on him how you lock in on his erection as it bobs up and makes a soft plap against his stomach. His cock is thick, probably the thickest you’ve ever had, with an angry red swollen head leaking pre-cum.

Price grips your hips, pulls them closer to him, and deepens the arch in your back as he settles between your spread thighs again. The thick length on him meet your slit. He gives an experimental thrust, grinding himself against you and coating himself in you.

“You’re a dangerous one, aren’t you?” John quips, reaching down and grabbing his cock to line up with your entrance. His head catches, pushing ever so slightly in, but not enough.

At this, you push your hips back, pushing more of his length inside you, and the stretch is delicious. He’s prepped you so well that there’s not even an ounce of discomfort— the sweet growing feeling of being full.

“Worst criminal you’ll ever meet,” you hum, pushing back further. “Show me the error of my ways?”

The teasing lilt gives John the encouragement he needs to let go and fully enjoy this and finally he thrust forward, sinking himself fully inside your drooling cunt. He pulls out to the tip and then buries himself to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice strained as your walls flutter around him. “Tight ‘n’ warm cunt made for me.”

Price sets a steady pace with long, full strokes. Skin meeting skin fills the room as you meet his thrusts. He leans down, breath hot against your shoulder as he kisses your shoulder, relishing in your soft pants before biting the skin. It makes you tighten around him as a sharp moan breaks through.

One hand slides around your hips to your front where he finds your clit and starts rubbing it in tight circles. His voice is low in your ear. “That’s it, love, can feel you getting tighter ‘round me.”

He punctuates each word with a deep thrust.

“Such a sweet girl, been so welcoming for me. Taking it like you were made for it.”

The praise makes you dizzy, your head falling forward on the couch. He’s quick to wrap his other arm around your chest and pulls you upright, flush against his chest. The new angle lets him push even deeper inside you while he continues to play with your clit, your orgasm quickly building.

“Christ, you’re like the gift that doesn’t stop.” Sparks of pleasure shoot through you as he bites the shell of your ear. “Feel how deep I am inside you? How your tight little pussy clings to me?”

Price kisses along your jawline, beard scraping your skin. “Can tell you’re close. Cum for me love. Want to feel you cum on my cock.”

Your skin feels prickly. Like you’re too hot and too cold at the same time.

“That’s it, dove. Let it happen,” he urges you on, letting your chest rest back on the couch and cementing his hold on your hips. “So sweet for me.”

And you let it happen. It’s slow and builds itself up, and he continues to thrust up into you til it reaches a fever pitch that makes your whole body shake and writhe. The loudest moan you've ever let out comes past your lips, your fingers digging into the couch cushions.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, thrusting faster. “Tell me where you want me.”

It’s hard to speak as he doesn’t let up.

“Inside.”

“What was that?” John teases you, bending down like he can’t hear you.

“Inside, I want it inside,” you cry out.

John’s happy to oblige, rutting into you like a wild animal. His thrusts are harder than before, your ass jiggling everytime his hips meet yours with wet paps. The force rocks your entire body, and all you can do is take it. With a final thrust, he sinks all the way inside you, cock pulsing. Ropes of hot cum fill your insides and it feels like the world goes blurry and you aren’t sure what happens next.

You’re groggy when he gets you to come to. A lazy, satisfied smile spreads across your face when you’re able to focus on him. He’s got a warm washcloth and is cleaning you up. He’s so soft and gentle as he goes, kissing your knee. The room is quiet, filled with an intimacy that feels far too real, like something between lovers, for the first time you’ve slept with him.

“You alright?” He asks, his tone is tender and soft. The look in his eyes is so tender, like you carry the moon and stars. It tugs at your heart and nestles itself in your chest next to it.

You nod, still a little dazed, still in the afterglow of a really good orgasm. “I’m good. Really good.”

That smile he has makes you clench. “Want to take me upstairs and fuck me on a real bed?”

John laughs a full belly laugh. “Bossy woman, you are.”

The complaint is one of nothing but jest. A barking dog with no bite. He’s already picked you up and crossed the threshold to the stairs and starts heading up then.

────────────────────※ ·❆· ※──────────────────

TWO YEARS LATER…

It’s another sunny Saturday, so everyone's once again at the Price household for a barbecue. Feels routine at this point. You’re in the kitchen finishing up a cheese board and drinks, he's out at the grill. The lads are doing what they always do, except now, Soap is doing it to impress Joanne. She sits on one of the now-plentiful outdoor chairs and pretends not to be impressed. Mundane and peaceful. Not something he thought he’d ever experience.

Marcy opens the back door and comes out with the cheese board. You’re trailing behind her with a fat nine-month-old on your hip. Rhys, named after John’s very Welsh grandfather, takes after his father and is perhaps the biggest baby anyone's ever seen. He’s also an incredibly happy baby.

The second John sees you’ve come outside, he's placed the tongs down to come kiss you. Every morning he’s not on base, he wakes up next to you, but he still can’t believe it’s real. Rhys starts babbling excitedly as he walks closer. Price bends down to press a kiss to his head before kissing you.

“Your son is heavy,” you shift, hiking Rhys up to get a better seat on your hip, and look at him. “You get that from your daddy.”

You boop him on the nose, and the baby erupts into a fit of giggles.

“You calling me fat, dove?”

“One of us was the biggest baby in the county history when we were born, and the other one is mummy, isn’t that right, Rhys?” You attack Rhys’ cheeks with kisses, giggles continuing from the little boy. He’s losing it now, little hands grabbing at your face as he squirms and wiggles.

John can’t argue with the facts. He was the biggest baby, still to this day, to have been born in his home county. So he smiles, kisses both of you again, and goes back to grilling.

The meal is how it often is. Loud and full of laughter. Plates passed around, drinks passed around, Rhys passed from person to person. The sun is warm on everyone's skin with the scent of sunscreen hanging in the air.

In the lull between bites, Gaz pipes up.“Are you two ever going to fix the fence?”

Everyone's head swivels to the back of the property, fence fully gone, where they can see clearly into the other lounge. It’s covered in baby toys and fashion mannequins. It’s the smaller of the two houses, so when you got married, it turned into your studio to work on your brand.

You giggle, sipping from your glass. “Ah, right.”

Rhys slaps the table, the glass making little hollow sounds.

John looks out fondly at your back door before facing you. Fuck the fence.

It can stay down.

thank you cas for beta reading :)

660 notes · View notes

lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

As top tier as Ghost making his own masks is, what if he had a significant other who's a costume designer?

You've been with Ghost since his skull balaclava days and eventually decide he needs an upgrade. Since this is your profession, you put a lot of effort into making your man look as unnerving as possible while still being functional.

You examine countless photos of human skulls to make sure his skull has all the right slopes and curves, also taking special care to carve out each individual tooth. You pick a lightweight, breathable fabric and make a second mask in a tan color for his “desert collection,” as you like to refer to it.

The paint job and stitching are purposefully given a kind of homemade look to really sell the illusion that this is a man who sits in the dark, silently crafting masks like a deranged psychopath. In reality, he was watching television on the couch with you in his lap as you lovingly stitched the mask together. It has a secret little smooch on the inside of the skull.

One day, you visit Ghost on base for the first time. He’s still in a meeting with Price, but fortunately for you, Soap and Kyle are more than happy to meet you at the gate and escort you around in the meantime. They bombard you with questions, but in their excitement, they fail to ask what you do for a living.

Ghost and Price have wrapped up their debrief and are waiting outside the captain’s office. The sergeants flank both sides of you as they walk you over. When you turn the corner and spot Ghost, your face is stricken with abject horror. The others wonder if you’ve never seen Ghost in his mask and are taken aback by his appearance. They’re only half right.

“Simon, you said it matched!”

“It does.”

“You’re wearing black, and the mask is dark grey. It’s not the same.”

“Close enough, love.”

“It’s...never mind. I’ll just make you another one in the right color.”

“Don’t need two black ones.”

“I just told you it’s dark grey, not black. They're completely different.”

So that’s how the source of Ghost’s masks is revealed and how the rest of the team got their very own personalized skull masks.

3K notes · View notes

lilynotdilly · 2 months ago

Text

Fuck me sideways! This is hot!

simon riley x john price x f!reader prev

tags: d/s (dom john, switch simon, sub reader); smut; binding and gag; hinted daddy kink; objectification kink; authority kink (& issues)

The yawning used to escape him, trickling into streams unchecked. That is then; it is an estuary now. It is something delicate. Vulnerable. Simon wonders when did his desires become visible and rippling. When did they form tendrils swimming past the noose he’s got on them?

Terrifying. Simon's desires are terrifying. He cannot map the exact moment that they began, just that they did, and now he finds himself crumbling at the slightest look. At the barest of touch.

Simon wants his captain.

He dreams of John. He dreams of how he will take the older man with hot lips and scalding prayers. He dreams of a pleasure so great, it leaves his captain shaking. Stuttering with quiet tears and swollen lips tugged up in a satisfied grin.

“C’mere, boy,” his captain—this version of him that plagues Simon’s dreams—says, all soft and sweet and coy in that way that will leave Simon’s throat aching like it is clogged with caramel and taffy, and he falls to his captain with a whimper.

He strips his cock with his rough hands when he wakes up, teeth biting into the flesh of his lips to muffle his moans. He thinks of the slope of his captain’s neck, the bend of it when he drops his head when he is exhausted. He thinks of his captain’s beard, how it felt on his skin in the burst of moments when the older man would turn to brush close to Simon in whispered conversations. He thinks of the soot on his captain’s boots; he thinks how he will not care—he will lick it clean if John asks.

Cum sprays in his hands, shooting across his stomach to land on his chest. Simon groans, his eyes shut close as he savours the moment. He waits for the shame to lick past the desire, for clarity to wash away the hunger, but his need grows.

It settles.

Ah, Simon thinks, peeling his eyes open. That’s how it’d be.

There is something different in Johnny’s gait, and Simon stalks close like an apex predator stalking the wounded prey. He expected shame or even denial from his friend, but what he sees instead blinds him with envy.

Johnny’s been claimed; he’s been moulded into Kyle and his darling girl’s doll. In a moment of weakness, he unleashes his jealousy and bares his teeth to the mutt.

When his captain finds him, he takes one look at Simon and laughs. It is loud and booming, the kind that rumples the corners of his chest, and he is struck; frozen in time like he is young once more, wilting under his—

Under his father’s gaze.

“Ye’ jealous boy,” John says, his grin too sharp to be a friendly tease, then he leaves.

Simon watches him go with his lips pursed.

Something changes within his captain, after that. He is always stalking close, always a breath away. His eyes are sharp and knowing, heavy as they trace over Simon’s body. For his part, Simon doesn’t try to shake him off, rather, he basks in the attention.

It is not warm or fluffy. It is burning, almost accusing, but Simon takes what he can get and this is his for however long his captain wants him.

It is Kyle, greedy man that he is, who breaks the facade.

“He’s testin’ you, LT,” the younger man says, bringing the flickering fire of his lighter to Simon’s stick. Simon doesn’t reply but he turns, head jutted to hear Kyle better. He meets Simon’s eyes head-on.

“He’s got a bird,” Kyle begins, the admission coming out so smoothly from him like it is some sort of retribution. Simon supposes it is—he did taunt his puppy, after all. “Cap’n’s about to leave ‘er for a mission, an’ I think that he wants to leave ‘er to you.”

Smoke leaves Simon’s lips in stuttered wisps. Kyle shoots him a crinkled smile. “He’s not doin’ that—” the weighted attention, the obsessive hovering, “f’r you, sir.”

Simon doesn’t give him a reply. He knows that it is nothing but an attempt at hiding.

When Kyle leaves, Simon begins his hunt.

Names, relationships, places last visited—Simon finds them with ease, bypassing encrypted and locked accounts as he sinks his teeth further into the tender acres of his captain’s secret. A bird, one that Kyle knows of before Simon could.

He doesn’t know what to name the taste lingering in the back of his tongue but it makes him angrier. Greedier.

He realizes he’s found her when he sees you.

And, oh. The ease, the way each code that he tried had worked—his captain wanted him to find you. Shivers rack his body, making him twitch and his mind grows heady because he takes this for what it is.

A reward.

Or, better yet, his invitation.

John introduces the two of you, waxing poetry about Simon, promising you that he will be kind. That he will be here to protect you. And you laugh through it all, bright and bubbly, thanking your boyfriend’s colleague for volunteering to help. Neither John nor Simon corrected your assumptions.

Boyfriend.

It is such a juvenile term but John had looked so proud, his chest puffing up and his lips wobbling as you bulldozed through your words, fluttering about how you didn’t need protection, bee-tee-dubs. Simon watches as John pulls you into his arms, whispering in such a soft voice that Simon feels—

Stilted.

This isn’t the John that he knew.

This isn’t the John that he wanted.

The jealousy that threatened to burst in his veins petered into a soft ripple, calming down at the sight before him. Because you can have this John, the one that is too soft and too gentle and too human, but Simon has the one he wants.

The one hardened by the war; the one who smells of cigars and soot and ozone; the one who barks out orders; the one whose gaze is hard, sharp, edged like every narrowed gaze is a slashing. Simon has the John that matters.

Simon wilts into himself then, distancing himself from the two of you. The domesticity, the cozy flat, the lined books and art-nouveau-style mirrors and bookshelves—yes, you can have this. Simon isn’t envious of this.

Before he leaves, John turns to Simon, his warm hand cupping Simon’s jaw. Warm eyes stare at him. “Well, then. Take care of y’rself too, ‘kay?”

He asks like he did not just strip the layers of reassurances that Simon cloaked himself in, leaving him bare and vulnerable before John’s callused touch. He is too startled to reply, and John finally makes himself scarce, leaving two yearning souls waiting for his return.

Simon didn’t intend to overstep beyond the morning check-ins and the nightly tuck-ins, but routine takes root and he finds himself unwinding in the little corner of your flat.

It isn’t too difficult—you are a warm host. You know not to ask much or to speak too loud, and Simon wonders how much of this is learned behaviour. Is this John in your form; is it his captain teaching you how to live with someone so torn and so broken that Simon is seeing so much of it in the way you look at him, the way you talk to him?

But it’s too much. Like muscle memory or something natural like breathing. It is like a reflex; your kindness just is. It gives him comfort, how your sweetness is innate.

It’s two in the morning when he understands why his captain keeps you.

He hears it by accident; murmured conversations slip through the crack of your door. Simon was just about to close it when John’s voice pierced through the static.

“Simon treatin’ you well, baby?”

A moan drips from your side, and Simon startles at the following squelch.

“He—hnn—he is, daddy,” you pant out, sniffling. The bed creaks, the sheets rustling. “I want the two o’you.”

“Shh,” John consoles, all faux worry. “Soon, baby. Be good f’r him, okay?”

Simon doesn’t bother hearing whatever you said next, choosing instead to march back in his room. He drops to the mattress, head falling to his hands. He breathes in, trying to will off the fever, but John’s voice rings in his head, then your quiet mewls, and Simon knows that it is futile now.

Hunger thrums, it builds.

His cock is in his hands in the next breath.

Simon looks into your eyes, trying to see how you could have hidden your desire for him; trying to map out how you managed to lock it up so that he wouldn’t notice. But your furrowed gaze and your confused smile shows him something that is fascinating—you are a fraud.

You’re not sweet. Well, you are, but not in that wide-eyed way that you and John showed Simon the first day thathe introduced you to him; not in that curling innocence that you shrouded yourself in. You are not John’s shielded bird nor his pampered dove.

No.

You have been playing John’s game; your cards are just as hidden, if not sharpened, and your dice are edged. You were cheating, creating all this miasma to reel Simon in. The river to his estuary.

Cunning girl.

“Si?”

But Kyle already sent him a curt message: Captain’s back. And Simon knows enough of the game to play it.

“C’mere,” he grunts and pulls you close. Your squeak is devoured by his lips, and something hums in his chest like he’s finally at the precipice of being full.

That is how John finds the two of you—you, bound and gagged and spread open in Simon’s room; your cunt is all bruised and leaking and stuffed with a toy; and Simon, smoking close to the window, his ass perched on the windowsill, watching. Waiting.

John laughs and it is so mean. The howling in Simon’s head screeches to a halt because finally. Finally, he has his captain back.

“Oh, sweet girl,” John croons as he steps close to you. Your teary eyes gaze up at him, begging, but Simon watches as all that John does is trace his knuckles along your splotchy cheek. “Y’haven’t been good, have y’?”

Your reply is nothing but a muffled complaint. John clicks his tongue. Simon straightens up, back going taut, his cock hardening in his briefs.

“Stop complaining,” John tuts, flicking at your nipples, making you howl. Gone is his softness, replaced, instead, with someone overpowering.

Oh. Simon thinks that he is falling in love again.

John makes Simon fuck you, and it is all parts delicious, and good, and painful.

Simon’s not allowed to cum—not in you, not on your thighs, or even in his own hands. John forbids it. And Simon knows better than to fool his captain; not only is he stalking close, with a lit cigar propped in his lips and his wandering hands pawing at your heaving chest or cupping Simon’s jaw, but he dictates everything.

He tells Simon when to pull out, gruff voice barking out orders once again, before reaching over to clamp his hand shut around the length of Simon’s cock like his captain cannot trust him to not cum. Simon feels the stirrings in his gut, pushing and cornering him, and he feels small when his captain uses him this way.

John’s thumb brushes over his slit and he hisses in his oversensitivity, making his hips twitch. John clamps his hand tighter in warning, a warning growl ripping from his captain’s chest, and Simon stutters out his sorry’s. He doesn’t mean a single one; he doesn’t even want John to loosen his hold because Simon loves it like this. Painful. Humiliating. Him, being reduced to a twitching mess.

“Look at him, baby,” John murmurs, his voice lilting to a spark of softness, the first of the night. Simon’s eyes fall on you at his captain’s words, and his chest seizes at the teary mess that you make.

You have been beautiful in your measured sweetness, but like this, sobbing and begging and at their—because John still allows Simon to ruin you—mercy, Simon knows that you have never looked more beautiful. Is this why John is addicted?

John’s other hand pushes your hair away from your sweaty face. “Isn’t he pretty?”

All you can do is gurgle something behind the gag in your mouth. You’re not even looking at Simon, drawn to the only person in the room who’s still in his clothes, another layer of John’s total control. You are studying John, arching towards his caresses like it didn’t matter how Simon truly looked, you were just giving out a reply for John’s pleasure.

Simon gets it, he does, because you are just like him, after all.

He finally cums in John’s hands. He cums to the scene you make, rutting your pussy so desperately on his captain’s face, smothering him with your slick and your folds. John takes it like a fucking champ, his tongue working overtime before sucking at your slit like he will die of thirst if he doesn’t swallow your juices.

It’s so debauched that all John had to do was pump his hands on Simon’s cock twice before he’s spraying his spunk all over his captain.

He’ll burn this image in his mind. Fuck. Where’s his phone when he needs it?

“Good?” John asks, gliding his fingertips along the expanse of Simon’s arm.

Simon grunts, trying his best to stay quiet with you sleeping between them. John huffs a pleased laugh and ducks down to press his lips on the top of your head.

You grumble, twisting, before cuddling up to Simon.

“She’s clingy,” he grumbles like he isn’t pulling you closer to him too.

John fondly rolls his eyes at him before turning to shut the lamp off.

J Mactavish: hypocrite

note: god this didn’t come out the way i wanted but if you stuck until the end, thank you so so much <33

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