orirocks

[orirocks]

soap absolutely has a kink for nerdy girls and definitely gets hard when you play video games.

If you’re gaming, he’ll plop his ass down a respectable 3.5 feet away, just outside of touching distance. Don’t ask him why he never sits next to you, he’ll just shrug and say he doesn’t want to get in the way. (It’s because he’ll try to grind on you.)

No, instead Jonny sits a respectable distance, head in his hands, boner raging, and simply watches you with heart eyes. Never in a million years did he think he’d get someone like you.

The second you log off, he’s pouncing. Whimpering in your ear about how well you played and how good you looked doing it.

And if you decide to get on voice chat and trash talk? Yeah, Johnny’s cumming in his pants.

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that one ask of overhaul curing your “hysteria” has caused me irreversible psychic damage i think about it everyday

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vibrator died now I gotta use my taser

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Idk Simon Riley being a massive of a man. Like tree trunks for legs and arms and could easily break a watermelon open without effort. However, that man whimpers when you ride him and begs like the good boy that he is. Send.

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SLIP

Simon Riley didn’t do love.

Didn’t do second rounds.

Didn’t do names, didn’t do phone numbers, didn’t do breakfast.

He did bodies. Skin. Release.

Flesh warmed under his hands for a few hours, muffled gasps into motel pillows, fingers that clawed and gripped but never lingered once the sun rose. Then he’d leave. He always left.

It was easier that way. Safer. Cleaner.

Soap had stopped teasing him about it months ago. Once upon a time, Johnny made jokes—bad ones—about Ghost being some sort of secret romantic. About how maybe, one day, he’d actually keep someone around.

Simon had laughed at him. A cold, unimpressed exhale.

“Don’t be daft, Johnny. Ain’t that type.”

No one believed him.

Because nobody got close enough to know the truth.

⸻

It started stupid.

He’d been in the city on an intel drop. Civilian area, off-duty. A hoodie pulled up, jeans, his mask still in place under the fabric—habit. Always.

They bumped into him. Quite literally. Holding a takeaway cup with both hands, muttering something under their breath about traffic and late trains and broken headphones.

Simon had looked at them like he always looked at strangers. Blank. Cold. Silent.

You looked up, blinked. Paused.

Then smiled. “You okay?”

He’d said nothing. Just stared.

Because they didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t even hesitate.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, moving past.

You didn’t chase him. Didn’t try to engage. Just nodded like that was enough and kept walking. That should’ve been it.

But Simon looked back.

⸻

The first time was a fuck-up.

Or maybe the best mistake he ever made.

He hadn’t meant to follow you. He really hadn’t. But he spotted you later that night at some quiet bar tucked away behind an alley. Same drink in hand. Same quiet expression. Still alone.

You met his eyes again like they’d been waiting.

“Drink with me?”

He should’ve said no.

Instead, he sat.

⸻

You never asked what he did for work.

Never pried, never prodded.

You kissed like you meant it, slow and careful, like you weren’t just trying to get off. And when you tugged at his mask—gently, questioningly—he let you.

That was new.

Simon’s one-night stands never got to see his face. Not even in the dark. But this time?

This time, he didn’t stop you.

You looked at him like he wasn’t a ghost at all.

⸻

After, when their chests were slick and their hands were tangled and the sweat was still cooling on their skin, you turned to him and said, “You don’t have to stay.”

And Simon stayed anyway.

He stayed the whole fucking night.

⸻

The next time was supposed to be the last. Just one more. A goodbye.

But then they were on his mind. Constantly. Annoyingly.

He found himself watching the street corner where they’d met.

He remembered your drink. Your smile. The sound you made when you came.

He went back.

You let him in without a word.

⸻

Weeks passed. Then months.

He didn’t call it dating. They weren’t together. He didn’t do relationships.

But they knew what to keep quiet. Never posted photos. Never pried. Never asked for more than he could give.

He trusted them. Somehow.

And Ghost didn’t trust anyone.

⸻

“Still single, then?” Soap asked, elbowing him one afternoon during weapons checks.

Simon grunted. “I hate people.”

“Figures.” Johnny smirked. “You’re too grumpy to keep anyone alive around you, much less interested.”

Ghost said nothing. Didn’t even glance up.

Johnny laughed like he hadn’t just hit dead-on.

⸻

You were his secret.

His one softness. The quiet at the end of the noise.

You let him rest. Let him have silence without pressure. Let him talk, sometimes—about his brother, his past, his fear of waking up one day and forgetting how to care.

You just listened. Or held him. Or took his hand in yours and whispered, “You’re safe here.”

⸻

It was a morning mission.

Stupid, early, and the fog hadn’t lifted yet.

Ghost was running on maybe three hours of sleep after a week-long op. No time to reset. He was already dressed when you stirred in bed and reached out to him. your fingers skimmed his wrist.

“Don’t forget your mask,” you murmured sleepily.

“I never do.”

But he kissed you anyway. A rare thing. Gentle, brief.

“You’re coming back?”

Simon didn’t pause. “Yeah.”

⸻

The briefing room was freezing. Soap was already talking shit the second he walked in.

“Lt! Jesus, you look like death’s left nut.”

“Cheers,” Simon muttered, tossing his rucksack down and rolling his shoulder. The balaclava felt tight, uncomfortable today.

“You alright?” Johnny asked.

“M’fine.”

He wasn’t. Not really. There was a burn on his neck, a mouth-shaped bruise just under the line of his collar—where his partner had sunk teeth in a little too hard during last night’s goodbye.

They’d laughed after. “You’ll cover it up, yeah?”

“Always,” Simon promised.

But he was rushed this morning. Foggy. He didn’t double-check the seam of his mask.

And as he leaned forward, arms braced on the table, the hem rode up. Just a little. Just enough.

Johnny’s words cut off mid-sentence.

Simon didn’t notice.

⸻

Soap had seen Ghost with plenty of people. The man was a machine. No repeats. No names. No rules except for one—don’t touch him unless he says so. Don’t mark him. Don’t fucking try.

And none of them had. Not once. Johnny had seen him leave motel rooms with his shirt still tucked perfect and his skin clean.

But this—

This wasn’t clean.

There were two love bites blooming just under Ghost’s jaw. Half-faded bruises, kissed purple, small and careful but deep enough to show teeth.

One was old. One was fresh.

Johnny blinked. Didn’t say anything.

Yet.

⸻

After the meeting, he followed Ghost out into the corridor.

“Lt.”

Simon glanced back. “What?”

“You got somethin’ on your neck.” Johnny tapped his own jaw. “Right here.”

Simon frowned. “No, I don’t.”

Johnny lifted a brow. “Wanna bet?”

Simon brushed his glove over his collarbone—and froze. The edge of the balaclava had curled up, just slightly. He felt the bruise, raw and sore, and his entire body stiffened like he’d been shot.

He pulled the fabric down fast.

“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath.

Soap just crossed his arms. “Well?”

“Well what?”

Johnny’s smile was smug. Too smug. “So. Who is it?”

“No one.”

“Don’t lie to me, mate.”

“I’m not.”

Ghost’s voice was flat. Controlled. But too fast. Too sharp.

Johnny tilted his head. “They yours?”

“What?”

“The marks. You let ‘em do that?”

Simon didn’t answer.

Soap stepped closer. “Because I’ve seen you throw someone across a bed for even lookin’ at your neck. So either you lost a bet—”

“I didnt.”

“—or there’s someone you don’t mind gettin’ close.”

Simon said nothing.

Soap whistled low. “Steamin’ Jesus.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

“Johnny—”

“You got a partner.” Johnny looked like it was Christmas morning. “You have a partner.”

Simon sighed. “Keep your voice down.”

“You kept this from me?! I’m your best mate!”

“That’s why I kept it quiet,” Simon muttered. “Didn’t want you actin’ like this.”

Soap grinned like the devil. “Actin’ like what? Happy for you?”

“Annoyin’.”

Johnny thumped a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Lt. I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am. You’re human after all.”

gta Simon rolled his eyes. “One word to anyone—”

“I won’t.”

“You better not.”

“Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I was close enough.”

Johnny beamed. “Do they know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re…” He gestured vaguely. “You. Lieutenant Ghost. Mad bastard. Bloody legend.”

Simon paused. “Yeah. They know.”

“And they still stuck around?”

“They’re still there.”

Johnny gave a small nod. “Then they’re fuckin’ brave.”

Simon’s voice softened. “Yeah. They are.”

⸻

The next time Simon saw his partner, he didn’t mention the balaclava.

Didn’t say a word about Johnny seeing the bruises. Just pulled you close, kissed the side of your face, and breathed you in like air.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He pulled off his mask. “Mhm.”

You smiled. “Did you cover the mark this time?”

simon smirked, eyes dark. “Don’t make new ones, then.”

You kissed his neck, slow and purposeful. “Where’s the fun in that?”

⸻

And for once in his life, Simon Riley didn’t run.

Didn’t leave before dawn.

Didn’t push away the hands that held him.

He stayed.

Because finally—finally—he had something to stay for.

[orirocks]

South: Minha Linda~ 🥰 Fem!Y/N:..who the fuck is Linda!? South:…😐

Minha Linda = My pretty in Portuguese.

[orirocks]

1 bicep to chew on please

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you must always think about a mentor figure exploiting the power imbalance with their mentee. and you must sexualise it as well. otherwise a gazillion hungry angels are going to hell

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Write it shitty, write it scared, write it without a clue but don't you be so spineless and have an AI write fanfic for you.

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These three

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arguing against ai is always like. im not sure how to explain to you. that you need to think for yourself with your own thoughts. . maybe this would be easier to understand if idk, you were practiced in thinking for yourself

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I wish people would stop saying “It’s July. Well done for wasting half a year.” Did you make someone smile in the past six months? Did you stroke a cat or throw a stick for a dog? Did you learn a new fact or teach someone a new joke? Did you laugh, cry, scream or sing in the past six months? Because if so, congratulations for not wasting your time at all.

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ever since I started following you weird bruises have been appearing all across my body even when I haven't bumped into anything. Why

I am tenderizing you for fun because I'm bored.

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me

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anyway think of your f/o with their face between your legs and like... not doing anything really. just admiring, touching gently, adoring how you quiver and respond to the lightest of grazes, how beautiful it is just to look at your pussy...