nyxhiems

[nyxhiems]

I watched 'Kpop Demon Hunters' this weekend and immediately thought how the Sergeants would absolutely love this movie. Like Soap just put it on the rec room to annoy Ghost and Price, but to his surprise both his and Gaz's ass was sat for the entire ninety minutes. They spend the week after randomly breaking into 'Soda Pop' and 'Takedown' (They've sang the lines 'I've seen your real face and it's ugly as sin' to Ghost only to eat the training mat harder than usual).

They make the recruits learn the choreography to 'Soda Pop' until everyone on the base is either humming or shimmying their shoulders. They even catch Price doing it at the back of the briefing room before he grumbles out a "It's annoyingly catchy".

They try to get Ghost to join in on the tiktok compilation video of soldiers dancing only for him stare blankly until they slowly backed out the room. Though some of the recruits swear they heard 'Golden' blaring from his headphones in the gym.

The last straw for Price is when Soap, Gaz and Ghost show up to the bar in matching black leather jackets and Soap tries to convince everyone they're now demon hunters and should be referred to as the '141 Huntrix'. A red-faced Price drags them out of the bar by their collars, assigns them latrine duty for the month before turning to Ghost and telling him how disappointed he is, that he should be better than the Sergeants. Ghost is just baffled because he's just wearing his regular jacket.

That night Price decides to go home instead of the base. If he has to wake up earlier to get back home so be it, atleast he won't have to hear that stupid song anymore. Yeah, get some alone time with the missus, tuck the kiddos in, sleep on a proper bed, maybe get some hot dinner, yeah win-win all around.

He finds you in the kitchen cleaning up after the chaos that is dinner with three young girls. "John!" you gasp once you spot him and rush over to him, throwing your arms around his neck. After John is done smothering you in kisses he asks where the girls are. "Hmm, they're in the den, they wanted to watch a movie before bed." you shrug. "Go say hi while I fix you a plate."

John presses another kiss to your temple and swats your ass before heading out of the kitchen. As he walks closer to the den the sound of the telly get louder, John frowns, whatever the girls are watching it must be at a deafening level. John quietly slides the door open to see all three of his girls lined up in front of the tv dancing along with the colourful characters. He leaned into the door frame and watched their erratic uncoordinated movements and felt his heart swell. Isn't this what it's all for, all the scarifies he made to come home to this -

"My little soda pop".

Fuck.

[nyxhiems]

Dear Arkansas Daughter - Lady Lamb

Soap living up to his callsign and being a slippery bastard to pin down—friendly yet distant, always performing, masking, etc—and Ghost, lovesick, trying really hard to get a hold of him.

[nyxhiems]

Ghost and Soap were both dead asleep in their barrack until the faintest gasp woke them up. Neither of them were deep sleepers but something about that noise was almost familiar and it jolted them awake. Another gasp followed by a drawn out “fuuuck” had the two sitting up straight in their beds, each turning towards the other, making sure it wasn’t just a dream. A higher pitched gasp could be heard through the wall. The wall separating their room from yours. Their cocks starting to stir to life at the realization that you were in there moaning. Unspoken and through eye contact they agreed to silently listen and maybe do what they needed to but not to make a big deal out of it. Until much louder than the other noises came a “fuck Lieutenant”. Now they are both on their feet and Ghost has a shit eating grin on his face bc you’re in that room touching yourself to the thought of him. No that can’t be right “lass probably meant to say Sargent.” Soap simply would not believe it.

And now they are both barreling through their door just to swing yours open. The two needed answers. Ghost needed to be proved right and Soap needed to prove him wrong. Had they fantasized about you? Yes. often? Yes. About you touching yourself to the thought of them? Yes. now dreams were about to become reality. They could hear the lewd wet sounds of you fingering yourself through the door. Until they swung your door open and they were not met with you naked and alone in the room but instead your body was covered by a man (a lieutenant from a dif area of the base). One arm keeping himself up while the other was down your panties and knuckle deep in your pussy. The two were frozen at the door as his head turned to look at them, removing his dripping wet fingers from your pussy and sliding them into his mouth with an exaggerated pop. (Ghost wanted to cut those fingers off of him and soap couldn’t decide if he wanted to help ghost or suck your juices off of the man’s fingers himself)

“Sargent MacTavish. Lieutenant Riley. Nice to see you” with a cocky smirk and silky voice, now the only man in the room who was actually invited was leaving. Finally revealing you only in your bra and visibly soaked panties. If looks could kill the two men left still standing in your doorway would’ve evaporated into dust as you redressed yourself.

“What the fuck do you two want?”

With an embarrassingly high pitched “nothing” the two went running from your room.

[nyxhiems]

I just had the most John Price-coded interaction ever

Im a cart girl at a golf course and I just pulled up to a group smoking cigars, and as we’re chatting (I’m trying to get tips, okay?) one guy(mid 40’s muscular) saw me looking at his cigar and asked if I smoked, I said no and he asked if I wanted to try, I agreed so he held it for me as I took a puff and chucked as I coughed, then told me I was “too sweet for smoke anyways” and bought a round of drinks.

His friends just kinda looked at him shocked

Anyway John price x cart girl!reader when?

Soon, maybe.

[nyxhiems]

Yall please consider hybrid!141 x secret!hybrid!user...

Wolf!Soap who is so eager to befriend the new human! He's worked with plenty of humans before, but since hes joined the 141 hes been exclusively with hybrids. Sure, you smell a bit different than he remembers humans to smell, but you did mention having avian hybrids in your old team, so its probably just their scent lingering :]

Eagle!Gaz who swears you can understand him. Not just his words, but the unique subtleties of his squawks and chirps. He has no proof, but the way your eyes lock onto him when he trills, as though you are listening intently, makes him think you understand more than just the vague sense that most humans know. But you had avian teammates in the past...maybe you just learned more intricacies than the normal human?

Tiger!Ghost who watches you. He sees the way your muscles coil during a spar, the way your eyes darting across a battle field. Its different, its not human. Then again, not many people survived battle and came out totally human. It changes you. Simon knows, so he doesn't question you no matter how differently your body moves compared to a human.

Komodo dragon!Price who after a duo mission with you that went to shit, bodily drags you into a secure location. You're bleeding alot, and he needs to stabilize you. His tail lashes anxiously as he tears off your shirt to assess the stab wound on your back, only to freeze. There, in puffy keloids and gnarled flesh are two parallel scars running from shoulder blade down to the small of your back. Where your wings would have been.

[nyxhiems]

Let me introduce retired!Simon whose life has become cluelessly empty. Morning to dusk he is fixing cabinets, painting fences, oiling cables of his motorbike.

He's seriously so purposeless until, well ofcourse until you move in to the house opposite his, and the first thing you do is crash your trailer into his fence.

“I am literally so sorry ! So, so sorry —” You profusely apologise. Hands on your hip and gaze warmer than the sun.

Simon stands there transfixed, he should say something, he should be angry, he should literally brood, that stuff was painted twice just yesterday. But all he does is watch you get into your car again with a determined streak to turn the trailer.

One, two and — SMASH.

Once again over the fence until it could no longer be distinguished as a fence. Flowerbed mashed all together. Again, you get out of the door, engine dying all over with key gripped in your trembling hands, biting down your lips and head shaking profusely; like you could really use a knuckle knock over your head.

“Da keys,” He grumbles out. His whole heart exploding with the way you looked at him with hope in your eyes.

He has never been more in love.

Masterlist

[nyxhiems]

Knocked Up | 1

— pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader 

— warnings/info: 18+ only | Accidental Pregnancy AU; (unprotected) sex/smut; premature ejaculation; hurt/comfort; angst; humor; jealousy; teammates to lovers; cussing; pregnancy; (most probably) military and medical inaccuracies

Pining for your friend leads to a boozy night and a terribly life-changing consequence.

You’re not surprised about the large crowd at the nightclub. It’s Saturday night, people want to have fun and unwind, maybe catch the eye of someone attractive or simply have a few drinks while enjoying the atmosphere—civvies and soldiers alike. 

And you count yourself in the latter category after returning from on op today, unlike your dear friend and fellow Sergeant, who’s currently flirting with some curly-haired beauty like there is no tomorrow; tilting his stupid head down with that cheeky smile of his so she can talk right into his ear, and thus causing you to grip your drink a little tighter while your heart squeezes painfully in your chest, reminding you once more that you should’ve just stayed at the barracks. 

When the urge to throw your glass at them becomes too overwhelming, you force yourself to take another long sip to feel the familiar burn of liquor instead of that mean tightness of jealousy that seems to be choking your throat more often lately, and you turn back to the bar table with a sharp huff through your nostrils, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him. 

To your left, Jade senses your agitation and untucks herself from Kyle’s neck for what seems like the first time since he stepped foot onto the tarmac on base, only to narrow her green eyes at you. A clear meaning behind her sharp look: Girl, stop. Either forget about him or make a fucking move but stop moping. 

You clench your jaw, swallowing hard and hating that she’s right, so you give her a small nod while your shoulders slouch in defeat.  

She reaches a hand over with a tight-lipped smile, perfectly manicured fingers curling around your biceps to give you a reassuring squeeze, before she turns her attention back to Kyle, who’s simply watching the crowd with a firm arm slung around his fiancée’s curvy waist, occasionally dipping his head down to kiss her forehead, each one lingering longer than the other and making her melt into his embrace. 

It makes your own sorry single-ass long and pine even harder for even a smidge of what Kyle and Jade have, and sometimes you do find yourself envying them both for having found this real kind of love amid nowadays lack of realness and way too fast-paced, selfish dating culture, though the pride that it was you who brought them together usually veneers that sinful feeling. 

Eventually, Jade manages to tug Kyle towards the dancefloor, beaming with a smile while you end up alone at the table—seething internally as soon as you catch another glance of Johnny and his target for the night, who is now grinding on him in her little black dress to the tunes of Lollipop by Lil Wayne. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” you growl under your breath, clutching the edge of the table while your cheeks burn with anger and hurt after turning around so fast, you nearly gave yourself whiplash.  

Suddenly, a shot glass is slammed down right in front of you, clear liquor sloshing over the thin rim and spilling over scarred, pale knuckles. Your lashes flutter momentarily, looking on in confusion as your gaze flickers up slowly until you make eye-contact with an all too familiar, borderline angry set of dark tawny irises. 

You’d forgotten he was even here. 

Simon leans in until you can hear his gravelly voice right next to your ear, slightly muffled by his trademark balaclava. “Drink up, Sergeant,” he tells you. “That’s a bloody order.” 

When he pulls back and straightens up to his full height while keeping his eyes trained on you, you end up feeling even more pathetic, like you’re thrown back into your rookie days when you’d joined the task force and the Lieutenant shadowed you like some incredibly lethal mother hen—somehow always there to either make you fix your mistake before it can happen or reprimand you for how it shouldn’t have happened to someone with your skills in the first place. 

Then Simon brings his other hand up, holding a second shot glass, and you almost crack a smile at how comically tiny it looks in his mammoth hand. 

When he holds it out to you, nodding his chin towards the shot on the table, you straighten up yourself, rolling your shoulders before picking it up. 

“Can’t really be caught disobeying an order at the club now, can I?” you joke half-heartedly, to which Simon shakes his head, lips pressed into a tight line as he rucks his mask up over his nose. “Alright, then.” You sigh, clinking your shot glass against his with a muttered “Cheers, Lt.,”. 

God, you hate tequila, not because of its taste per se, but the flashbacks of terrible hangovers that came with it in the past, and it shows on your face as you swallow the mouthful of liquor with a tight grimace. 

Meanwhile, his only reaction is a slight tick of muscle in his bruised jaw and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Licking your lips, your eyes follow the curve of his cheeks, covered in dark blonde stubble, before your eyes linger on the purplish bruises that continue to deepen along his jawline from when he’d taken a punch to the face that had been meant for you. 

Now, in the dimmed lights of the nightclub, your eyes trail down the exposed part of his neck before your gaze lingers on the thin yet jagged scar around his throat, and you wonder for the umpteenth time if the Ghost survived having his throat slit. 

You freeze when he leans in again, caught like a mouse staring as your fingers flex around the shot glass, until his voice rumbles in your ear once more. “Another.” 

It’s not a question, but you nod anyway and get an involuntary whiff of him at this proximity—warm liquor on his breath, a smell of that military issued body wash lingers on his skin, is he the one only who seems to be using it on base, mixed with his own musk sticking to his black hoodie and a faint scent of some woodsy cologne, while the mere fact that someone like him owns something mundane like cologne is already enough to surprise you. 

And for a painful moment, you wonder if Johnny has put on a spritz of the cologne that you’ve gifted him for his last birthday, if the girl he’s with is even appreciating his scent as much as you would right now, if she gets to bury her face in his neck tonight, if— 

“I’ll get us drinks. You stay ‘ere.” It feels like he’s in your ear canal at this point, chapped lips brushing over your ear lobe in a way that has a sudden rush of warmth pool inside your lower gut, though you pin it on the fact that you’re currently ovulating, have your feelings and emotions been all over the place already since yesterday. “O-Okay.” 

You’re almost disappointed when he pulls back, and you blink rapidly, trying to gather your bearings as you watch his broad-shouldered, intimidating mass disappear towards the bar counter while the crowd parts around him like Moses did the Red Sea.  

While he’s gone, you try your best not to turn around and search for Johnny, even though the nape of your neck tingles with the knowledge that his tongue must be tickling the back of her throat by now.  

Strong hands wandering and exploring her generous curves over the soft fabric of her dress, muttering filth in that Scottish brogue of his into her ear while she giggles and attacks his neck with bruising kisses, leaving evidence of her lipstick on his golden skin—a sharp pang goes through your chest, makes you gasp and your eyes squeeze shut as you clutch your thudding heart, knees wobbling as you tremble, frozen on the spot while heartbreak and jealousy threaten to tear you open from the inside out. 

Then, a sudden warm weight presses against the small of your back, making you jolt while your eyes fly open in shock before you meet Simon’s eyes once more; molten dark chocolate spread thick over a sweet treat.  

He placed another drink in front of you, a Whiskey Sour, one of your favorites, and his large hand stays in place splayed out on your back while he puts his own drink next to your and pushes his balaclava up again before he leans in with even less hesitation this time, asking: “You okay?” 

You watch the drops of condensation drip down the fancy tumbler and onto the sticky table while a rush of goosebumps pebble on your skin when his breath ghosts over your sweaty neck. Swallowing thickly, you give a tight nod, and your spine stiffens when his thumb starts drawing circles on your back above your top.  

“Ya don’t seem okay, lass,” he gruffs right into your ear. “Wanna talk about it? Is it ‘cause of the last mission?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you debate telling him that, no, it’s not because of anything work related, but a deeply personal struggle with romantic feelings towards a certain teammate, with your inhibition already lowered like this, but then your brain reminds you who he is—namely your superior, first and foremost—so you pick up the glass he’d brought you instead, forcing a smile. 

“Nah, ‘m fine,” you lie, hoping he picks up on the subtle look in your eyes that practically pleads with him not to ask again, and Simon hesitates for a tense moment, nostrils flaring with a small huff before he nods as well. “Olright, then.” 

The clink of glasses is drowned out by the noise of people partying around you as well as the bass of music blasting from the various speakers before you take a generous gulp of your cocktail, welcoming the tartness and light burn before it warms your body in the right places while the droplet of whiskey spilling from the corner of Simon’s mouth is enough to distract you from another matter. 

Almost subconsciously, you reach up to swipe your thumb across his chin to wipe it up before he can react, and you can feel his fingers flex against your lower back, almost as if he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer—if you didn’t know any better. 

The strange tension is only broken when Jade and Kyle return, lips swollen and slightly out of breath as they giggle and smile at each other before Kyle sets a tray of shot glasses filled with some colorful liquor down on the table, flashing a toothy grin. 

“Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!” Jade announces loudly, banging her fists on the table playfully. 

“Ah, I don’t know, I think I’m go–” but your objection gets stuck in your throat when Johnny appears at the table with the curly beauty nearly hanging off his muscular arm, smiling shyly as he introduces her to his friends. 

You can’t even hear her name through the tinnitus that starts ringing in your ears as your heart drops so hard to the floor, it feels like every single person at the club is suddenly happily stomping on it simultaneously without a care in the world while you’re left grappling to regain your footing. 

His bright blue eyes meet yours across the table, and you hate how his face drops along with his smile like you’re the reason his mood turns sour. 

Feeling the familiar sting in your eyes, you avert your gaze and snatch one of the shot glasses off the full tray, nearly knocked them over, before they can well up with tears, and you down the liquor in one swift gulp, tasting your own bitterness above all else. 

Time passes in a blur as you continue to drink away your sorrows, keeping your eyes strictly averted from Johnny and whatever-her-name-is, using Simon’s bulky figure to obscure your view and sticking close to him while he matches your sudden thirst for alcohol—taking a drink and downing a shot in what can only be described as solidarity whenever you do. 

And when your limbs start feeling wobbly and your mind spins a bit too fast to your liking while you lean to your side to giggle shamelessly into black fabric that smells too much like military issued laundry detergent and clutching some massive biceps for support that visibly flexes underneath your touch, you know deep in the back of your mind that you might have had one too many. 

You’re blissfully and dangerously unaware of your surroundings—and you love it. 

Your cheeks hurt from smiling so widely for what feels like the first time in forever, your body feels different as it buzzes and thrums with your inhibitions lowered, and your mind is too foggy to even remember why you were so sad and hurt in the first place.  

It’s only when something warm and heavy is draped over your shoulders before the rush of a cool night breeze hits your flushed face, and you’re ushered into the back of a cab that you become slightly aware of what is going on. 

“Jade?” you slur, patting down the space next to you until your palm doesn’t connect with a soft leather seat but a firm, jeans-clad thigh. “The doc is with Gaz. It’s jus’ me,” a deep voice rumbles and a callous hand grabs the back of your hand to keep it from roaming before a large figure looms over you to buckle up your seatbelt while you watch with blurry eyes and a crooked smile. “Lieutenant?” 

“Aye, ‘s me, sweet’art.” 

You try and fail to sit up a little straighter while Simon gives the base’ address to the driver as he buckles up himself, and you let your head loll to the side, still smiling dumbly. 

“Did–Did I ever tell you that I–that I hate your stupid mask?” You hicks in between slurred words as you reach over haphazardly to point at his masked face. “Covers up the–the handsome face of yours ‘nd I hate–ugh hate that a lot. So... ‘s much, actually.” 

Next to you, Simon snorts in amusement or disgust, you can’t tell or care. “Tha’ right?” And you nod eagerly until your head spins harder, and you bury your face in your hands with a groan. 

A warm hand settles on the back of your neck, gently massaging your nape. “Ya feel sick, sweet’art?” Letting out a slow breath through your nose, you shake your head, slower this time. “Nu-uh,” you answer with a small sigh. “Ugh, keep going, please. Feels s’good.” 

And Simon continues to massage the nape of your neck, digging his thick fingers into the taut muscles of your neck and the curve of your shoulders until the cab comes to a stop, and you whine in protest when he retrieves his hand to pull out his wallet and pay for the ride. 

“C’mon, pet. We’re home.” 

You’re not sure how it happens, it’s probably been your cause, but you don’t question it when the feeling of his lips pressed to yours and his strong, warm hands pawing at your body, feels so bloody good right now. 

Simon has you pressed against the wall of an alley between the barracks, his mass pressing you against the painted concrete while your jelly legs are wrapped around his hips, shielding you from the cold. You can feel his bulge growing rapidly against your clothed core, the seam of his jeans rubbing against yours and creating some delicious friction against your already throbbing clit. 

Reaching up, you cup his bruised jaw until his lips part with a low, pained groan, and you can slip your hot tongue into his mouth. His groan dissolves into a moan of pleasure that leaves your drunken mind in a frenzy, and you take the lead of the kiss, carding your fingers though his short, already disheveled hair, while he follows you somewhat clumsily. 

“Fuck, you taste good, Lt.,” you mutter against his lips while he’s practically panting into your mouth. “Fuckin’ needed this–” 

“Simon.” He hisses roughly, cutting you off as he adjusts his grip on the back of your thighs, squeezing and groping the plump flesh through your jeans. “Call me Simon.” 

“Simon,” you repeat sultrily with a nip to his bottom lip, and his hips press harder into you with a quiet growl. “Yes, sweet’art... Fuck, yes.” 

Neither his nor your hands leave each other’s bodies for more than a few milliseconds as you eventually stumble into the quiet barracks and into his private quarters, and while he ushers you into his sparsely decorated bedroom, Simon disappears for a moment while you fumble with your clothes as you start undressing in a haste. 

And when he returns, he freezes in the doorway to his bedroom, holding a large glass of water in his hand, dark eyes zeroing in on you as you writhe and loll about atop his mattress, naked and lasciviously, giggling coyly like what you’re doing isn’t utterly sexy as well as taboo. 

“Fuck... me,” he mutters under his breath, white-knuckling the glass in his grip while his cock twitches obscenely, still restrained in his jeans.  

The glass nearly tips over when he slams it down on his nearby wardrobe haphazardly before approaching the bed with slow, heavy footsteps, eyes drinking in the sight of your naked flesh, barely illuminated by the moonlight spilling into the room through some crack in his black curtains, in a way that would have left you squirming if you weren’t this drunk. 

Your breath hitches when he stands next to the edge of the mattress and finally pulls his hoodie off, revealing another black shirt that quickly follows and is discarded onto the bedroom floor with a dull thud. 

He’s blinking slowly as he gazes down at you, now mindlessly playing with your own peaked nipples as you watch him with half-lidded eyes for another moment before you prop yourself up on your elbows, flashing a cheeky smile and cocking an eyebrow.  

“Do you need help with that?” you ask casually, nodding your chin at his jeans while his hands are balled into tight fists at his side. “Come on, let me help you.” 

“Fuck, it’s–it’s–” You don’t think you’ve ever heard him stuttering before, but he’s practically trembling as you shift on the mattress to kneel at the edge, slowly unbuckling his leather belt with slightly less deft fingers. “It’s okay,” you giggle. “I don’t mind helping you out.” 

When you lean in to lick a wet stripe along his dark happy trail while pulling his jeans and briefs down, he lets out a moan so rough and loud that you pull back with parted lips as you stare up at him in awe. 

“That feel good, baby? Yeah?” Simon nods slowly while his buff chest heaves with deep and deliberate breaths, and his molten gaze goes straight to your dripping pussy as if he’s already touching and rubbing it like he did your neck back in the cab. “Fuck, I can make it feel even better.” 

You don’t question that it takes a bit more coaxing than it did in your past sexual encounters until you feel the solid weight of him on top of you, fully naked and nestled between your parted thighs. He’s hard, leaking a steady dribble of precum onto your lower abdomen while his fat cock is pressed between your bodies. 

“You okay, Si?” you mumble between a bunch of sweet little kisses that you pepper along his sharp jawline and up the corner of his lips. “You sure you–you don’t want my mouth first?” 

He exhales sharply through his nose, and his throat clicks audibly as he swallows. 

“Affirm. ‘m sure.” His head lolls forward with another uttered curse, and you notice how his eyes flutter shut before he gently rests his forehead against yours. “You sure ‘bout this, aye?” 

You let out a small chuckle as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, brushing your hands across scarred skin and scratching your short nails across his back muscles, feeling them ripple and shudder underneath your touch. His head drops down to the crook of your neck with a muffled groan while he slowly melts on top of you. 

“Ye’r killin’ me, sweet’art.”  

Turning your face to the side, you start sucking a lovebite into his neck while his pulse throbs beneath your wet little tongue. “Want me to beg, Lt.?” you purr into his ear, your voice mellow like silk before you nip at his earlobe. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve begged someone. His hips start grinding experimentally, dragging his throbbing cock across your lower tummy, while his hot puffs of breath warm the crook of your neck. “Please... please, fuck me, Simon.” 

Simon groans and it vibrates deep in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell, you–you don’t have to beg me. I jus’–” He’s practically trembling with restraint and panting so hard against your neck, you can practically taste the alcohol on his breath. 

“I want you.” You nip his neck again, adding to the small bruise already forming on his pale skin. “I need this, baby... please.” 

Yes, you need the burning desire inside of you sated and you need a certain mohawk-having Scottish bastard to be wiped from your mind for bloody good. 

A pause. 

Then he shifts between your legs, adjusting his stance and keeping himself propped up on one elbow next to your while he reaches down, grasping the base of his cock. 

“I need yer help,” he murmurs bluntly, finally looking into your eyes with a look so intense and pupils so blown, it makes your breath catch in your chest. Your head spins, but not from the alcohol anymore. “Tell me if it hurts.” 

You bite your bottom lip and nod obediently while canting up your hips for him. So bloody serious, even now—but you somehow manage to keep those thoughts to yourself as he starts rubbing the fat tip of his cock through your slick folds, eliciting a needy mewl from you as it catches on your swollen clit.  

When his cock does finally breach and inch inside, you moan in unison, filling the silence of the room with the concoction of your desperately wanton sounds. 

You’re watching him in a daze through half-lidded eyes while the girth of his shaft splits you open agonizingly slow. His ruggedly handsome face is scrunched up in a way you haven’t seen before, like he’s terribly focused or perhaps in pain, and when he lets out another low groan, your velvety walls clench around him involuntarily, sucking him in deeper like your greedy womb needs him there. 

“Need to stop doin’ tha’, love,” he grunts through visibly clenched teeth. “Gonna ah–‘m not gonna last like tha’.” 

You choke on a whimper when he bottoms out with a sudden thrust of his wide hips; your legs fall open wider, and you’re sure he’s in your guts at this angle, his mushroomy tip snugly nestled and pressing against both your cervix and G-spot.  

“Oh, f-fuck, Si–” Your hiccupped words dissolve in a moan when he cuts you off with a messy kiss; lips meshing uncoordinatedly as his hips stutter and roll before he starts fucking into you with slow, shallow thrusts. 

It’s not enough and the exact opposite from what you’ve expected him to do, but his cock is filling you up so deliciously that you don’t mind, and you keen into his mouth as you grind your hips, encouraging him to fuck you deeper, faster, anything to soothe that ache deep inside you. 

“Harder,” you mewl, moaning into his mouth. “Faster... please–” 

“Ngh–fuck!” He’s panting sharply, hands fisting the bed sheets next to your head while your breaths mingle and he pulls back a little, black eyes locking with yours and flickering as he drinks up the sight of you—splayed out underneath him so willingly while your nimble fingers keep roaming over his back and playing with the short strands of his dark blond hair. 

Your lips part with a shuddering breath, shiny with your combined spit and his eyes follow the movement of your tongue as you lick your bottom lip.  

Simon lets out another soft groan before he leans in to capture your lips in another kiss. This one deeper and more passionate, his tongue sliding and lapping against yours while he tastes you thoroughly. 

Then he pulls his hips back and his cock out halfway before thrusting inside once, harder and faster—just like you begged him, and you keen against his lips, eyes rolling back and toes curling as his thick shaft massages your inner walls just right. 

“Fuck, yes, baby. Just like that.” You encourage him, wrapping your legs around his hips to brace yourself for the pounding of your lifetime while his head drops against your shoulders with a rough groan. 

And Simon gives you two and a half more perfect thrusts before his whole body trembles with utter relief as his cock throbs and erupts, shooting his thick load deep inside you and painting your inner walls with his cum while he keeps his face buried inside the crook of your neck, muffling his guttural moans and rough whimpers. 

It takes a moment of staring at his blank ceiling in shock and awe, fingers twitching and drumming an absentminded beat on his back until your intoxicated brain can process what happened.  

Your voice is hoarse and quiet when you finally speak up: “Did... Did you just–”  

He grunts against your tingling skin. “Mhm, ‘m sorry.” You can feel it dripping out of your cunt, warm and sticky, while his cock stays hard inside you. “Fuck,” he rolls his hips tentatively, hissing through his teeth. “I can go again.”  

He almost sounds desperate and utterly wrecked at the same time, still shuddering with the aftershocks of his intense climax while your cunt flutters with joy, knowing that she made him do this, made a man finish this fast for the first time. 

“Christ,” your breath hitches as he slowly bottoms out once more while you sneak one hand between your bodies, rubbing leisure figure eights on your neglected little clit, “you better.” 

[nyxhiems]

Another roommate Ghost!simon;

You and Simon co-parent a beautiful German Shepard by the name of daisy…. Or should I say Daisy is Simons dog but once you moved in she loved and doted on you like she was your own.

You spoil her rotten always gaining a huff from Simon followed by a gruff “she’d trade you for a bit of steak , ain’t nothing special love” which you learnt just to roll your eyes at.

One thing you didn’t expect was the day you were working away at your laptop when daisy came trotting into the living room holding a slobbered card in her mouth.

“What you got girl?” You say as you gently take the card out her mouth as she pants with a big smile on her face.

Between the streaks of slobber you read the card out loud… “Happy Mother’s Day to the best adopted mom love daisy …. Woof woof” you let out a hearty laugh as you give her a love thanking her as you kiss her on the head.

“She made me get you one” simons voice bellowed from the doorway.

“Oh yeah …. Just like she made you write in it for her and write woof woof”

you laugh as you smile soflty at him your heart full as daisy gives you the much needed kisses. As he just shakes his head.

“I’d do anything from you love...” Simon whispered to himself as his gaze softens as he watches over his two girls.

[nyxhiems]

One rule your boyfriend has for you posting dress pics to social media

He gets to be in the background of the mirror

The last time your co-workers hit on you because of the first photo, you tried to explain that you have a boyfriend and he will kick anyone's ass if they hit on you. They laughed and said they can take his little ass anytime.

So now, here you are

Dress clad on, flowers in hue that compliments your skin tone and smile

His strong arm secured around your waist, your phone in the other hand taking the picture

It looked like a beast holding a delicate flower in his palm

The mirror pic was all they needed to see that your boyfriend, wasn't some lil boy

But a big ass man with a stone eyed look, and arm muscles bigger than your head

Needless to say, they still had the balls to comment on the post, but not in person anymore

[nyxhiems]

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Gaz who has a lights off policy with you.

You never intended it to be that way. It started when the power went out one night in the middle of your TV marathon. Pitch black, sitting there in your respective spots on the couch, you both waited for a few seconds, just in case it was a quick flicker.

And then you got up for a candle, stumbled against his stupid knee, and ended up in his lap.

And then... other things happened.

The power didn’t come back on for an hour, but it was plenty of time to learn a lot of new things about your longtime roommate. The way his lips feel against yours, the texture of his chest hair, the way it felt to have his tongue in your mouth while you straddled him, cumming in quiet little gasps of relief.

By the time the lights all sprang to life again, your clothes were back on, his clothes were back on, and it was strangely like it had never happened. He wouldn't say anything, would barely look at you, so you did the obvious thing and hid in your room for the rest of the night.

And in the morning, it was business as usual. He said hi, you both ate your breakfast, and that was it. Off to work, back home for takeaway, mumbled good nights and separate beds.

It was a one time thing, and that’s okay. That’s simple. You can accept it.

Except, it’s not a one time thing. It starts happening, over and over. He starts it, the bastard. A few weeks after the first time, he waits for you to turn off all the living area lights for bed, and then traps you against the doorframe for soft little smooches that turn into something else in the dark, in his bed.

Always in the dark.

Sometimes it’s you who seeks him out, because he always leaves his door unlocked, and it’s no big deal to walk ten steps over to his room and crawl into bed with him when you’re horny.

Sometimes it’s several times a week, other times nearly a month goes by without hooking up. He seems to be good with it absolutely whenever, but you have your own system to let him know when you want it. If your little Lilo and Stitch night light is on, you want to be left alone. If it’s off, your body is fair game for someone sneaking into your covers for toothpaste tasting kisses and exploring hands.

Always in the dark, though, even after months of it. Never a speck of light allowed.

You try not to think about that, but the doubt tugs at you anyway. What if he hates your body? What if he thinks you're ugly?

But he doesn’t act like you’re ugly. He acts like he can’t get enough of you, happily kissing across your face, palming and feeling you in every which way until you’re convinced he’s memorized the shape of your body in his hands.

Sometimes he nuts so fast, he has to spend the next little bit avoiding his own cum leaking out while he coaxes your orgasm out of you with practiced sucks and licks.

Sometimes he fucks you for what seems like hours, shuddering and panting with the effort it takes not to finish. Holds you tight like that, nuzzles into your neck and makes the most delicious, low sounds of pleasure. Like he's never been happier, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

In the dark. Making out with you. Helping you cum. Your bed, his bed, they both start smelling like both of you, and he doesn't seem to be seeing anyone else. You're surely not.

It's just him. In the dark.

Until one night, he makes a mistake.

He finds you in your bed that night. Strips your panties off, kisses across your thighs just as you're giving him a sleepy hello. Tells you to relax, because you're more tired than he is, and he's in the mood to eat.

Kyle gets you all the way to the edge, teasing and withholding until your legs are quivering and you're wide awake, focused entirely on the need to cum. But he wants you to cum while you're fucking, so he crawls up your body and sinks into you. Anchors himself with a hand on the bed--

On your hair.

"OW!" you squeal, instinctively shoving at this arm to try to stop the pain.

"Shit, sor--"

He must overcompensate in his hurry to fix it, must be so upset about hurting you that he gets sloppy. He somehow knocks your lamp off the bedside table, and suddenly you're blinking in shock at the light flooding your room.

Kyle's right there above you, also stunned. Right there, naked. Inside you. Staring down at your wide eyes so close to his face, not moving because neither of you seem to know what to do when you can see each other.

"Alright?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I... I don't mind seeing you."

"No, I meant your hair."

"Oh!" you reach up and feel the sore spot, verifying that there's no missing clump or something. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kyle's eyes trace over your features, sliding down to your breasts and blinking slowly at them.

"It's okay if you want to turn the light off," you offer, self conscious.

"Can't be bothered at the moment," he returns, settling down on his elbows, nudging his hips a little deeper into you.

You curse, screwing your eyes shut because you don't know what to do, everything is so confusing and you're still so turned on.

And then lips find yours. Lips that took their time with your clit just a few moments ago, lips you've memorized against yours. Your eyes spring open again, just to see his already closed, fluffy lashes nearly touching his cheek as he kisses you with the lights on.

He's beautiful, and you don't mind. You let him fuck you like that, let him watch you cum, watch his own hands molding your body, fingers pushing inside you and bringing you another orgasm, naked and exposed to the light. Exposed to him.

You lay there for a while after he's finished, uncaring about the lamp still lying on the floor, probably cracked in half or something. It's still on. You both keep glancing at each other, eyes coasting over familiar lines of faces and arms.

It's a one time thing, surely. An unfortunate accident that forced you into normal sex. He'll be off to his bed soon, and you'll be trying to stop thinking about this, trying to stop your brain from circling--

"You wanna be my girlfriend?"

[nyxhiems]

“There’s that tidy neibour.”

warnings// mdni, adult content, dubcon, ghoap x gender neutral reader, simon and johnny are two not so upstanding citizens who take an interest in reader (mafia au i guess), descriptions of violence, reader is tired of it all and has anxiety, introverted reader with agoraphobia and abandonment issues, heavy self-deprecating and self-hating talk, kidnapping, disjointed time-jumps (my style of writing for longer fics), classifying this as a dark fic for safety, bits of pricegaz

One mention, and Simon knows. Johnny’s still cleaning blood off of his shank when he flicks his stare up to a hunched form scurrying quickly into their apartment. He knows. Hook, line, and sinker. Johnny knows. And, soon, he doesn’t need to guess you’ll know.

“Yea?”

You’ll know them whether you know it or not.

“Aye.”

oOo

The apartment is cheap. That’s why you’re here. Inflation, job insecurity, lack of money, blah, blah, blah, complete with your broken down car sitting unused in the lot. Life sure is grand. Loneliness, it seems, can only be supplemented by lackluster takeout and shitty shows. You’re alone.

The usual. What’s new. No one cares. You chew on stale bread as you hear gunshots and the squeal of tires, police sirens, pain. Unnerving, but you have unnerved yourself long ago, so you use your shittyass laptop to scroll tumblr while the world outside drowns in nightly havoc.

Internet’s out again. Bummer.

And you know who else is out again, as you make a mad dash to deposit your recycling? Him.

Them. Both. Neighbors. You think. You see them a lot at unit 141. They run into you, or rather, you run into them at full speed. Apologies. You’re afraid of the world, afraid of bills and streetlights, afraid of the air, afraid of living and dying in this utter shithole city with no one, afraid of the bags under your eyes. But you say nothing in utter dread as they right you. You think they say something. Ask if you’re all right. But you’re distracted by the sight of them, of their bulk, of the way they can seamlessly come and go in the night, of the sharp flash of canines, of the other’s intimidating silence.

“Ya all right, Miss?”

Nothing’s coming out of of your mouth. So you clench your fist around your recycling, turn around, and make a mad dash back into the safety of your flat. Door’s slammed. Rude, but you don’t mean to be.

Recycling at a later time. Jumbled thoughts, the smell of blood and smoke, of the city and the harbor. Jumbled. Recycling.

oOo

They fixed your car. Your hands shake as the old beast roars to life and shakes the sticky note with one of their scrawls. You know it’s the one with the mohawk. A grin that could be a knife. The note says sorry for scaring you and that they live in unit 141. You know that. They didn’t know you…right? But they fixed your car–

How did they get in your car?

Your hands shake. Damn all that. What matters is that you don’t need to walk in the harsh English winter to work, anymore. They topped your petrol, too. Even repaired your cracked console and…

Were those new tires? The engine’s not stalling, either. There’s a bottle of water in the cupholder and a basket filled with snacks. Such. Utter. Kindness. No one has ever done something this nice to you before, or cared. And you repaid them by running away?

Rude. Rude, rude, rude. This can’t be. So you make some homemade cookies and other treats with groceries you can afford. Hurts your wallet, but they did major work that cost more than everything you had combined, so you determine yourself to eat ramen noodles the rest of the month.

You get to work within minutes. Heater worked. You're not fighting the biting chill of your fingers when you step inside.

oOo

"Shy one, that."

Johnny's not the biggest fan of cleaning jobs, but the payment is too good to pass up, along with it being one of the preferred ones by Simon. It's one thing to toss the odd body into the harbor; it's another thing for the client to want the bodies to completely be melted by acid, and it was such a pain to procure the medium and wait for the liquid to do its job. So Johnny spent time playing games of whether his finger can escape the knife.

Or if he can escape the constant thoughts of you, huddled over shyly as you nervously deposited homemade pastries and ran off back to your abode as if a demon was chasing you. He spent the last two days sick over binge-eating your cooking. Simon called him an idiot, but he wasn't the only idiot with lines bracketing his mouth from sugar overdose. He's thinking. Simon's thinking. They're thinking about you, and maybe you'd finally let them fix the shitty fucking water pipes that fail you half the time.

They can hear you yelp from the water turning cold. He's sick. Junior's peeking out at your cries, and no cold's putting that sucker back to sleep. Sick. Maybe he can pretend Simon's sick, so that you'd care...

"Quiet one."

Just like his partner. Simon's gravelly response is all that cuts in as they trash the last of the gore into deep. Finally. Time to get out of here. To the quiet. You're quiet. To you. Time to get out to your soft snores through the paper thin walls in which he stares blankly into the dark. And if it was anyone else, they wouldn't notice the extra inch Simon presses against the surface, with one palm turning cool.

oOo

They're nice. Not in the clean way. Not in the take home to mom, or tidy records and friendly greetings to a bobby. Not in any way related to the type of person you are in society. Not the norm.

But they're nice. Genuinely. Because they never cut in when you talk, even when you stutter or suffer with long pauses in which you need extra time to think. They wait. Who the hell else ever waited for you in life? Not your parents, your teachers, people who you thought were your friends. They match your tempo. Patient. You know their names now (were Soap and Ghost considered real names?), and how they like their coffee, how they do odd freelance work, and there's a certain camaraderie you feel in all of you taking life one step at a time. They're getting by, just like you. You hope life isn't too stressful for them, because you care.

Soap waves at you while Ghost nods. There's friendliness, but there's an air about them that speaks to them blending into the rougher streets of London that you don't dare venture out to at night. They've got working feet in that sense while you have two that are left only. But they make talk in the hallway now; leave room for you to escape if you want to, and you know the way they angle their bodies, the way they talk to you, are all intentional. You wish you can say thank you. Thank you for fixing my car, my pipes, for taking my trash out at night and walking me to my car and doorway. Thank you for the groceries, your friendship, the manner in which you both give me time, to match my stride. Thank you for looking me in the eye, for speaking normally to me, even if I can't. Thank you.

They invite you to their place. You shake once and they stop the verbal, but the hidden invitation is always there. You wish you could get out of the grips of this disease. You hate it. The words: They don't come out. Your palms itch and your eyes blur. The exit. There needs to always be an exit. Time to go back. But you want to be a better friend, to be normal. To do normal friend things like have lunch together and sit on a couch in each other's places, making eye contact.

You want to take up Ghost's offer of mounting a telly he gave you, completely new, on your wall. Soap got you a fish friend with a tank. He offers to set it up. All you can offer is your awkward body language and attempts at baking. Friends. You hope you're their friend.

But the thought that they're just your friend? Funny that the thought sits like lead in your stomach. Friends. Just that. All that. Yes, friends.

That's it. Stop. Because that's not what friends do: Assume, want, take until the other dries up like the dead plant in your bedroom, devoid of sunlight. You guys are just friends. Nothing more.

oOo

They keep the shithole because of you. Prior, Johnny indulged his weight in cigars, and binged on women in their pent in Mayfair, in Kyle's name, of course, since Kyle decided to go back into the light of society as an accountant. It's not the norm now to go back to crashing on a settee while their butler steadied coffee and tea in the drawing room. Simon would wear cufflinks. Fucking cufflinks, because that's what his father wore and his grandfather, and his great grandfather—

"Your decanter, Sir."

And now he's staring into the reflection of his glass full of rum. Simon abstains. Everything feels suffocating. The silk draperies, the ornate moldings, the mahogany. The chime of the towering clock signaling noon. All acquired through blood, and lots of it, at his hand or Simon's. Both. It's all odd. Foreign, at this point. Simon looks past the window, and he knows.

Where's the rusted stairwell full of roaches? The bleak drag of the denuded skyline. Shots ringing out to sirens, and how he'd smoke crushed cigarettes to the raucous dregs of society. But the starkest epiphany: Where are you? Where are you. You're not here. You're not here, sitting on one of his daybeds, curled up with a worn book. You're not here to nibble on overpriced scones and feel decent carpet for the first time. To try fruit that isn't rotten. To feel safe at night when you sleep.

What's here? If not for Simon, what the fuck's here? The collar of his shirt feels tight. This isn't right, this place. What's right is standing in the dilapidated hallway that you occasionally peek at. Saying hello. He handed you a chocolate bar last Monday, and you no longer trembled. You gave him and Simon something called tanghulu. Sweet. Sickly sweet, and your shy smile makes the back of his molars ache. You're sweeter. The sweetest, and this time, Simon's got the first cavity.

There's a lucid dullness to the sheen of gold frame and granite. Of how much the halls echo here, the quiet. They came to check on affairs, to see if the glitz of London still appealed while working a deal to get the head bobbies off of their backs but...

Nothing. It's all nothing.

oOo

You miss them. Tommy the beta swishes his tail back and forth, as if he expected the two men to materialize out of nowhere. You both miss the both of them. Are they okay?

oOo

They're still not here. There's a sinking feeling in your chest. You grow agitated. Work becomes unbearable. It's cold.

oOo

Nobody's here to eat your pastries.

oOo

Panic. You try not to panic, but they're still not here, and if you could, you'd crawl into Tommy's tank to feel less alone. When did this happen? You were fine before. You didn't like people; they didn't like you. Alone. It was fine. Now it's not fine.

It's all too stifling. You miss all your calls, all work, of course. Fired you. You see the text, but you don't care. You hated that job, anyway. You wait for them everyday, just like how you expect a big fat eviction paper on your door at any time.

Loser. You're a fucking loser. They probably thought it wasn't a big deal, but here you were, fretting over them as if you meant more than a crumb to them.

Loser. Can't even open the windows fully. Cry yourself to sleep hugging your knees alone.

L. O. S. E. R.

oOo

You're crazy. You actually go out to look for them. But you have to, because at the end of the day, friends don't just sit there and twiddle their thumbs. What if something happened to them?

You drive your car around. Through the blur of panic attacks, you step out onto the sidewalks. Looking for clues—

Are you an idiot? How would any of this help? You dare ask a few people through bad stammers, but they ignore you. The ones that do respond, their eyes widen at the names and they scurry off within a flash.

The butchers. This bitch's asking about the butchers—

After it all, you still end up back at your place with nothing. What else did you expect? You're overdramatic, but you can't help it. You don't want to go outside anymore. It doesn't matter. You have enough fish food for Tommy to last for months.

You lock all the windows and the door. Sealed. Crawl back into bed and hope there's enough ramen.

oOo

"Suffering fuck, you'd think the tory would've learnt already."

He's over it. Simon's over it. They had to play peek-a-boo with the Yard, and that two-timing rat ended up getting gutted by the Russian anyway. He doesn't share his kills, and neither does Simon, but the two-month-long goose chase expired their sense of patience long ago. So there's no surprise when Nikto guts the former commissioner like a fish and makes off with his badge. They cleaned up the rest. No bonus, but it was finally over. Kyle got what he wanted. Now, all he had to do was go purr in front of Price.

Two might as well winch already.

Simon shifts the bag onto his bike. He sees his own bag in the back of his Ducati. There's an indescribable pull as he looks at the parcels. Grown man akin to a sweating boy. Laughable. The bags are filled with different things they hope you'd like: Marzipans, baking ingredients, chocolates, yummy things. Cookware and soft dolls. Tanghulu from a prestigious shop ran by Chinese immigrants. Aquarium toys for Tommy. They'd hoarded a good deal of gifts while dealing with the bullshit.

Hopefully, you'd like them? He crushes the last bit of his tab under his boot and gets on. Simon does the same. The other man had long since finished his entire pack. The faster through the smoke, the faster he'd get back to you.

And he'd also get back to you. Faster. Weave and dodge the bobbies faster. Faster to you and your trifles. To your living room that the both of them got to see after months of waiting. To that insufferable fish and your frayed sweaters and your tentative smile. To fix everything and anything. Back to it all.

Back to the backstreets of London. Home.

oOo

The euphoria of a homecoming turns sour.

Dread.

Your car's been untouched for a while. Dust and grime coat the handles. Your mail's overflowing out of the box. Silence. No sounds of ancient water pipes and sounds through the wall. Where the hell were you?

oOo

The gifts sit there. They sit. Simon sits. But Johnny can't sit. He smokes endlessly, eyes glued to the hallway.

Pacing.

"Sit."

No.

oOo

Now Simon's unable to sit and the man can't smoke. Should they? Could they? Time passes waiting. He's about to hire some boys to make a neighborhood inquiry when he realizes the other man isn't in the room—

A deafening thud of a familiar boot outside makes him shove his ass out the door.

Simon's lost it. He broke your fucking door down. Invaded your domain. Completely unlike him, and completely unlike himself to feel anger surge at Simon for trespassing, because it's an invasion. An invasion of your privacy. He's not had to put a fist to his partner in years, but he's not beyond doing so when it comes to you.

Only you. Remember that. Only you.

But only if you're here to remember it in the first place.

"The fuck you hink ya doin'—"

The first thing that hits him is the smell. The suffocating lack of fresh air and darkness. What the hell. It's dark. Completely dark, and he nearly runs into the broad back of the other man from stupor. Simon's blocking the door. He waits. Then he can't wait, and he muscles his way past to step further inside.

Except his own boot makes contact with something on the ground. The lightswitch. Where's the lightswitch? He can't bother. He flips his lighter for better visibility and nearly drops it.

"NO."

It's a gravelly exhale, an exclamation. It's jarring. Simon drops immediately to the carpet and gently folds you into his arms.

NONONONO—

oOo

"They're fine" is what Kyle tells him, emerging with his private doctor in tow from Simon's bedroom. Fancyass bloke. He doesn't even attempt to blend in to their surroundings; the flash of his expensive suit with those loafers Price gifted him for his birthday look shocking against the din of the place. Now that the commissioner's gone, Kyle runs things now; or was it Gaz? Who knows. All that matters is that you're breathing, Kyle's looking at his pocketwatch, and the doc's out the door.

Simon's not breathing, however. He's still. He refuses to leave your side. Stares blankly. He can't leave, not when you have one hand curling around his index finger. Johnny doesn't want to leave, either.

It's Kyle bidding him goodbye that snaps him out of it. He thinks he says bye back. Other man's giving him a pitying look, but he can't give two shits. So he feeds Tommy again after a six-hour feat cleaning his tank, and the beta pops water pellets at him in response. Mr. Fancy Accountant's Rolls Royce zooms out of the lot.

oOo

You wake up, confused, hungry, thirsty, and then embarrassed. But you're clean. In a clean room. With clean clothes. With soft lights and clean air. But still, embarrassed.

Because you meet your eyes to Ghost's. The two of you look at each other in silence. Rough facial hair covers his face. Blue under the eyes. Your stomach growls. His stomach growls. And then another stomach growls.

Soap. Soap's here. He's here, breathing the same air as you and Ghost.

You're embarrassed.

oOo

You don't mean to. You hate yourself for it, always sabotaging any semblance of good. Anytime someone gets close, if, at all, you snap and chase them away, even if you want to draw them close. Forever. Hold them in your little cage until they scream to be let out.

And when they leave, they leave you. Forever.

It's pathetic. They didn't deserve your paranoia, your fear, how you bite and snap, cower like an injured animal at the corner of the bed. You didn't thank them for feeding you, bathing your filth away, meticulously changing your clothes and bringing you little gifts on a pillow. Tommy's most likely fine and thriving. Unlike you. Instead, you implode. Here you go again for the millionth time in your life, blaming others, pushing them away.

It's not healthy. You're not healthy. You're a coward, a liar.

You missed them love them hate them miss them they're not friends you'd crawl over broken glass to give them a homemade cookie you're scared coward why did they go why are they here freaking out over something that shouldn't be this big of a deal DON'TFUCKINGLEAVEME—

"I LOOKED FOR YOU GUYS! I LOOKED! AND—"

And what?

"Y-YOU GUYS WEREN'T THERE!" Just like how you're not all there. A crashing dreamscape with no exit on sight. They still. They're too still, and you wish they react. Anything.

Tell you to stop, that you're a liar. That you're pathetic and need to shut up, that this is the end. You did it. You drew the line in the sand.

Everyone leaves in the end because they can't tolerate your insufferable ass. Great job on making it that way.

"ILOOKEDILOOKED."

The box of truffles Ghost brought you as today's gift tumbled onto the floor. You feel sick.

oOo

Simon takes it the hardest without a word. Johnny's been by the other man's side since they had knobby knees in the service. He knows Simon. Smoking out past the filter. He drinks. Unlike him.

Simon takes it the hardest.

"Should've told them."

They should've, could've, but wouldn't have. Too dangerous. The Yard could trace their cell, and he wouldn't have put it past the previous commissioner to do some underhanded trick such as taking you hostage if they saw a link. They're sure the bobbies had some..."previous business acquaintances" who wanted both of them gone, including Price and Kyle. Thus, the waiting game.

All resolved in the end, but not without damage.

"Kyle says they're asleep now."

Good. The meds worked. Surprised the bloke helped them today, considering how Johnny's barraging the other's mobile with demands for medical attention and doubts about your safety. He's pretty sure he heard some...interesting sounds from Price in the background, but he's not one to pry, especially since Kyle's asked no questions about any of his business. Definitely bound to owe a big favor later to Mr. I-Have-Receipts-Don't-Cross-Me.

It's worth it, though. He won't argue. Simon won't, either. It's an unspoken agreement between them that they won't ever let you out of their sight. That this happened because they didn't know how to handle glass and delicate things.

Yes. That's why. It made sense. Everything fuckin' made sense. It happened because they were too lax, too naive themselves and putting all the work of taking care of you on your own shoulders. What you needed was to be taken care of, fully; what you saw, what you smelled, how you spoke, where your feet shuffled. You wouldn't need to be nervous, anymore, to worry. They'll take care of everything and everything. Yes.

That way, this would never happen again. It wasn't a prison if they made it a home, after all.

Yes.

oOo

"Mo ghràdh, we're home!"

Simon never thinks you can look at any prettier than you are, but you do every time he sees you. Hugging your knees, on the settee, a book in hand, eyes wide as you look at their approach. No blood on his clothes this time. No evidence of gore. Nothing. There's a bouquet of flowers in his hand as he stepped up to your lovely form and reached a hand out.

You don’t flinch as hard this time. Good. This is good. Off to the side, he can see the crust left behind on your sandwich. Broken bits of chocolate. Your skin is soft and warm as he rubs your cheek, and your hair smells of mint and vanilla. Like home.

Here, far way from the slums. Home. A beautiful, towering pent in the exclusive streets of Mayfair. Filled with luxuries beyond the common imagination. All the books you wanted, entertainment, food, servants and a butler ready on call at all times to fulfill any whimsical need. Anything and everything. All you had to do was be you, be here, be a part of their loves, and they’ll spill any amount of blood required to keep you wrapped up in gold.

You were scared, at first. Poor thing. Panicking and squealing for help, like a cornered kitten when you realized the state of things. Begged for them to let you go, clawing at the door because you just didn’t understand everything yet. But they had to do it, you see. It’s for your own good. You didn’t need to scrape pennies for food or shelter or be in danger, anymore. They were going to keep you safe.

“Ya didnae dash the new ear baubles. Good,” Johnny said, sliding behind you to place a gentle kiss on your temple. His hands crept up to rest on your waist, not before playing with the diamond hoops in your ears. The newest tracking devices, just as a cautionary measure. Simon wasn’t slow to see how you stiffened, how the other man also did so himself, a wry smile not quite reaching his eyes.

He was soon placated with a fast peck on the scruff on his jaw. Simon, too. He gave a fond scratch under your chin before giving you your flowers. Yes. This was good. Progress. Every day, you slowly came more and more around to the arrangement.

They’d spent years pointlessly shedding blood for meaningless cash, anyway. What was one year, another set of more years, even, to wait for the actual purpose in their lives to come around? He knows you’re also running game; perhaps trying to find their weaknesses, clues in a labyrinth made of dirty dough. But what you failed to realize was that you were their weakness, and the logic of making your golden cage more gold than cage may maybe win you over. It made sense.

“Should we go out for ice cream because you’ve been so good?”

They’ll turn the whole of London into your cage if that’s what kept you.

[nyxhiems]

HEAR ME OUT

Let's Get Physical series

pt.2

I need hooker!Soap but with a shy college student who needs help with her physics assignment. She can't go to her professor (he's a dick), and she doesn't really have friends and doesn't wanna seem like an idiot for needing help.

She somehow hears about Soap and hears how he used to be a sniper and demolition expert. That means he knows math and physics, right? There's a confidentiality rule, right? She buys one hour, and when he walks in, he thinks it's just the usual. But she's got her too heavy backpack with some books and worksheets. Okay, so she has a schoolgirl fantasy, easy enough. Except she starts rambling about how she needs help, and her assignment is due soon, and she's stuck. Okay, so she's deep in the fantasy, alright.

She explains she doesn't want sex. She just actually needs help. She knows he knows this shit, and she has no one else to go to. He's slightly baffled, considering most people just get straight into jumping his bones. But no. It's just a shy little thing that needs an A on her physics assignment.

Well, she already paid for the hour, and she's so pretty all flustered like that, who is he to turn her away? Show him the page, hen.

[nyxhiems]

Lost another fanfic ☺☺☺ this one about collage student (?) reader pay hooker! jhonny to teach thrm physics(?)

[nyxhiems]

Currently I have this thought of Johnny being the perfect fuck boy (what do you mean by the perfect fuck boy) who has got all this charm and very charismatic aura around him that does attracts men and women alike (my boy bi), and then there is you the nerd who is trying to get dicked down because everyone makes fun of you as the innocent virgin friend.

Johnny has a mate, Simon who is also a fuck boy, but more on the scary side— totally your type, big, buff, scary dog privileges. Oof— but he doesn't do virgins, inexperienced sweethearts; so when you come up to Simon with your request he's flicking you off ain't got time for innocent birds sweet'art and dismissed you.

So you go to his best mate, Johnny ofc to get fucked. And Johnny complies because you're such a sweetheart stuttering and so shy asking and almost on the verge of tears because Simon rejected you. And Johnny does fuck you good, so good but the whole time you're crying on his cock over Simon's rejection.

Johnny has never been turned on and annoyed, he just fucks you harder because Lass I'm the one making ye feel so good, why thinking about that wanker? Hmm?

(in my head simon joins the fuck, it's a threesome)

[nyxhiems]

starting an au only Malaysians or ASEAN would understand

[nyxhiems]

[nyxhiems]

Firefighter!Simon who meets you when your apartment goes up in flames, breaking down the crumbling excuse of a door to make sure that everyone had been evacuated from the building. Gaz was having a laugh about how someone ‘could sleep through that shit’ as Simon had to wake up this poor girl who just wanted to sleep after her stressful day. Firefighter!Simon who answers all your questions with a gruff tone, navigating through the burning building. On one hand, he’s glad you aren’t screaming and crying about the building but on the other hand he wasn’t used to people asking him questions. You ask him things like his favorite color, his favorite food, how many times he had punched people in the face, and about his opinion on everything under the sun. He was on his seventh ‘you need to stop talkin’, ma’am, yer wastin’ air’ when you started coughing.

When you got to the ambulance, Firefighter!Simon didn’t say no when you asked him to go with you to the hospital. Johnny raised an eyebrow at Simon as he maneauvered his hulking body onto the seat next to you. For some unknown reason, Firefighter!Simon didn’t want you- nosy and kind and pretty you- to be hacking up a lung by yourself in the presence of someone like Johnny. And when your breathing started slowing and you weren’t looking around with bright eyes, Simon let you slide your hand into his gloved one.

Firefighter!Simon who, miraculously, has the night off. He decides to stay in the hospital until you wake: thinking it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure your friends or family were made aware of the devastating fire. But when you finally blink awake and Simon asks all his questions, he’s stumped when you hit him with a ‘I don’t have any family’. Simon can’t stop himself from blurting out ‘You c’n stay with me. If you want.’

It takes a full day for you to be cleared before Firefighter!Simon picks you up from the hospital to take you to his (more than) humble abode. He finds that you quickly find happiness in the kitchen, but are more than disappointed to see he has barely anything to cook or bake with. “A damn shame” you say. With the remaining daylight hours, Simon finds himself driving you to a little supermarket in the corner of the city he hadn’t had the time to be explore. You insist on buying everything, telling Simon (a man who you really knew nothing about) it was the least you could do since he saved you from homelessness. And dying.

The rest of your first day in your temporary home with Firefighter!Simon is spent cooking. You whip up a marvelous pasta dish with hearty meatballs that almost make drool seep from Simon’s lips. He sits at the island watching you move around his space like you’d been there millions of times, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his gut similar to fondness. Since picking you up some new clothes, Simon had learned a little bit more about you than Simon thought healthy. It was unfortunate enough for him to have been unable to get laid in over three months, but it was even more unfortunate that he had such a pretty bird in his apartment making him food and insisting on being near him when he sure as hell couldn’t make a move on her.

Firefighter!Simon who gets comfortable in his routine with you. On the days he’s not at work at assfuck 0200, he’s up making a simple breakfast for you and him before rhe day starts. You’ll eat and concerse a little awkwardly but that wont stop you from asking all about how he slept and if his buddies wanted more of those monster cookies you’d made to thank them for saving you and your fellow tenants. Simon had to relay many praises of your work in the kitchen, only ommiting the details and sly jokes about how ‘Simon’s girl’ was already taking care of the family. You’d go to work by bus or train- depending on how you felt- and then come home and make dinner or reheat leftovers. If Simon was at work, you’d laze on the couch in the main room and watch television and read. If Simon wasn’t at work, you’d bring the softest blanket from the room Simon had placed you in and watch a movie. More often than not, you would scoot closer and closer to Simon before falling asleep against him. When you woke up, you were in your bed- undoubtedly carried by Simon. Oh well. Its what friends do.

Firefighter!Simon who sees you as a friend. It’s basing your third week in his home and he feel comfortable around you. You’re good at reading his silence- the set of his shoulders and the future of his brow say enough- and he can’t be more thankful of that. For someone so new to his life, you seem to know exactly when to let a comfortable silence fall between you and when to start chattering about them things that come to your mind. But when you are the silent, short-tempered, and fatigued one, Simon is more than scared to get in your way. “Needa talk?” He offers, sliding you a cup of steaming coffee when you level a glare at the mug that had irritated you at such an inconveniently early hour. You heave a sigh and your head crumbles down into your arms. “I’m a mess, Si,” you tell him. Though your voice is muffled, Simon hears the shakiness in your throat trying to escape. He rounds the corner of island and places a large palm on your back in his attempt to comfort you. You are wrapping your arms around his neck and buring your face into the frail fabric of Simon’s shirt before he even knows what’s happening. And- as avoidant as Simon is to physical touch that doesn’t occur during work hours or when you fall asleep on him or when you slid your hand in his gloved hand during The Ambulance Ride- Simon didn’t mind your arms and warmth around him. When you started shaking in his arms was when Simon had to clench his jaw. It pained him that it pained you- and he didn’t even know what was ailing you! Simon tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that he was giving you the best comfort he could offer.

A day later you wake up to a crime scene in your underwear in the middle of the night so you decide to take a midnight trip to the convenience store a literal block away without letting Firefighter!Simon know. I mean, hey, he needs sleep and you were not going to wake him up to let him know you would be gone for a total of five minutes! But when you were on your way back to his house, you noticed someone following you. As you turned right for the third consecutive block, you finally fumbled for your phone.

Hearing you say ‘hey baby’ at 0146 had Firefighter!Simon’s head spinning. He was a little dazed because of the abrupt awakening but your casual greeting was wnough to jolt him awake. “Y/n? Whadda ya- what-?” He couldn’t finish his question before you interrupt him. “Hey do you think you could pick me up? I think I got a little lost.” Simon shoots out of bed, hitting the speaker button as he goes to slip a shirt on. “Where are you? Do I need a knife? Are you okay, dove?” He slips his shoes on and is out of the door faster than he is when he gets a work call. “Yeah, I’d bring the knife, babe,” you answer on the other line, more than loud enough for the man who is following you to hear. “I’m about four blocks away, by the Casey’s. You have my location.” Simon peels out of his driveway and immediately clicks on your profile to find the map with your smiling face. “Talk to me, y/n. I’m almost there.” Your breath is shaking on the other end and Simon doesn’t want you to be scared. “I think I could go for some Italian, Simon,” you say truthfully. “A minute away” Simon tells you, tires squealing as he turns down the streets you were hightailing down. Simon steps out of the truck after shifting it to park and the guy scatters. You’re running into Simon’s open arms before he could take a third step toward you. “I’m sorry,” you murmur “I kinda… started my period and didn’t want to wake you but then-“ Simon just shushes you, running a large hand down your back. “Let’s go home, love.” Simon scooped you up easily, tucking the obnoxiously loud crinkling plastic bag into your lap as he easily carried you to the passenger seat. Home. Yeah, Simon and his place had become your home.