#Persistent Lieutenant | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lay-z · 5 months ago

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cotton candy clouds | 3

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; jealousy; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

*ESH – Emotional Support Hybrid

☁ ccc; masterlist

It’s 0400 in the morning, when Simon jerks awake from his light slumber by the sudden timid knock at his bedroom door.

Hoping he’s imagined it, like many other times he’s hallucinated before, he rubs a hand over his tired features with a soft groan; eyes squinting at the silhouette of his bedroom door in the darkness, breathing shallow to pick up more potential noises while hoping nothing will follow–

But there is another knock at his door, more distinct this time, and Simon accepts it with a heavy sigh before dragging himself out of his bed reluctantly, not bothering to put on another shirt. From past experiences, he knows better than to crudely grumble that this better be an emergency, because in nine out of 10 times, it turns out to be one.

Flinging his bedroom door open, his fingers find the hallway’s light switch by muscle memory, illuminating it brightly and revealing you to his dismay, as if you could’ve simply disappeared in the past hours like he’d wished you would before falling asleep, and he finds you shifting on your bare feet with unnatural urgency.

“Wot?” he gruffs out, voice even more rough and gravelly from a familiar combination of sleepiness and irritation. He pretends not to notice that you’ve changed into his shirt he’d previously given you; forces himself not to let his eyes flicker over your exposed legs, not even briefly, while the loose fabric conceals your curves from his direct view, its hem barely reaching up to the middle of your thighs.

Still shifting from one foot to the other, you crane your neck to meet his hard stare with equal persistency; your own eyes puffy like you haven’t slept a single minute yet. “I have to pee,” you explain bluntly.

He almost tuts, tilting his head to the side in slight disbelief. “And?” For a moment, you look confused about him daring to question why that is his problem; big eyes blinking up at him while your fluffy ears twitch a little before you finally solve the mystery for him: “Well, I always had to let Ryan know.”

Ryan? As in… your previous handler? You must’ve been able to read it all on his naturally expressive face; his right eyebrow, split by a scar, cocking in question, his curiosity piqued now. “And why’s tha’?” he asks, despite not wanting to, and crosses his burly arms in front of his bare chest standoffishly.

Without a hint of hesitation, you answer with the most innocent look on your face: “He liked to watch.” And Simon immediately regrets asking in the first place. His arms unfold, chest deflating as his empty stomach sinks, and to his horror, you continue yapping without a lick of pudency. “Sometimes he made me pee on his–“

“Gah! O’lright–” he nearly barks, eyes squeezing shut briefly while his whole body cringes at the mental image you just planted in his mind. “Stop, tha’s enough, okay? I get it.” He grumbles, muttering another “Fuck,” under his breath. Too much information.

While Simon eventually ushers you towards the small guest bathroom by the front door, his mind keeps wandering back to the revelation you hit him with oh so casually, like it’s not something you should have always kept locked away between yourself and your bloody partner–or handler, in this case. As if you’ve ever enjoyed any of the stuff that bloody twat, Ryan, has ever done to you.

His arms are crossed self-soothingly as he leans against the opposite wall of the bathroom door for no other reason than getting caught up in his own messy thoughts while you go on to do your business, when your earlier expression pops up into his head, and with it a revelation he should’ve come to sooner.

The stagy nonchalance, the perfectly crafted, sweet smile that didn’t quite reach your tired eyes when you’d told him what one of your previous handlers made you do, the forced eye contact with him–

And suddenly, Simon can feel that burning rage simmer in his gut, making his blood boil and the vein in his neck throb while his pulse quickens rapidly, when he comes to realize how people must’ve been taking advantage of you all your life, simply because of what you are, and what comes naturally to you with your nature as a hybrid–a bloody dog hybrid at that.

Obedience. Submission. Loyalty. The urge to serve and please.

When the water tap stops running and the door opens shortly after, his thoughts get interrupted and his mood changes promptly when his eyes lock with yours once more; long lashes fluttering against the bright light as you tilt your head back to meet his scrutiny.

“For the record,” Simon starts as he pushes himself off the wall, “if you need to use the bathroom, you won’t ask anyone for permission again, understood?”

Fidgeting with the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, he notices the sudden tension in your shoulders before you give a hesitant nod. “Yes, sir.”

Simon huffs, nose wrinkling like he smelled something acidic. For someone so used to being met with respect and immediate obedience at a dekko, the word “sir” coming from your lips in his regard, makes him bristle. Who’s taught you to be so submissive? Are all *ESH’s like you? And which one of those fuckers made you refer to him as “sir” and only that like some perverted powerplay?

He doesn’t realize how meanly he’s glaring at you until you speak up again, your voice meek and unsure: “Can I sleep with you now?” His eyelids blink and the crease between his eyes smoothens out. The innuendo isn't lost on him, though he can't tell if it's intentional. If this is Price’s idea about shock therapy, he will have to tell his Captain to piss off even more firmly come tomorrow.

“In your bed... I mean.” You add with a hint of plea that leaves Simon horrified internally after the second of consideration he just gave to your request before simply grumbling a tired “No.” again.

And the door to his bedroom falls shut behind him anew, leaving you to your own devices once more.

It’s barely 0700, when Simon enters the Captain’s office with you and your things in tow. He doesn’t bother to knock; his nerves already fraying at the edges like cheap cotton yarn after having to refuse to take you out on a leash and ending up herding you through the base since you obviously have a knack for wandering off–and greeting every single bloody person you come across with a wagging tail.

Captain Price raises an amused eyebrow along with his coffee mug while Simon puts your suitcase and the untouched gift basket down in a corner before coming to stand stiffly in front of the large, cluttered mahogany desk.

His patience is running even thinner, when Price takes a slow, slurping sip of his coffee instead of assuring Simon that everything has been taken care of; that you’re no longer his problem now. “Well?” he asks brusquely, balling his gloved hands into fists.

“Good mornin’, sweetheart,” Price greets you, immediately catching your attention as you stand by the bookshelf in the corner. Simon rolls his eyes behind his mask when your white tail twitches happily at the attention, though he manages to contain his scoff.

“Hello! Good morning!” You chirp with a smile, taking a cautious step towards the other man while Simon catches the way your eyes flicker between him and his superior nervously, as if you’re unsure how to proceed with him present–and for a fleeting moment, it pleases him for some twisted reason.

“How was your night with Lieutenant Riley?”

Simon’s forehead creases underneath his balaclava at Price’s oddly phrased question and intervenes briskly before you can inhale enough air to answer: “Can we focus on the more important matters now, Cap’n? Did’ya come up with a solution yet?” Simon makes a vague gesture towards you while you stand nearby coyly, plucking pink lint from your cardigan out of your tail.

Price lets out an exasperated sigh before his broad shoulders shake with a rough chuckle that causes Simon’s frown to deepen. “Christ, it’s not even eight in the bloody morning on a Friday, Simon–”

“Sir, you promised to make the necessary arrangements, to find a solution–” Simon interrupts but stops himself, grinding his teeth hard enough to make his jaw hurt when Price shoots him a reprimanding glare.

The phone’s shrill ringing cuts through the sudden tension and Simon uses it to his advantage as Price reaches for the receiver; steel blue eyes watching the Lieutenant like a curious hawk while he answers the call.

Meanwhile, Simon’s dark tawny eyes fixate you as he takes one heavy step towards you. “Take a seat on that couch and stay here,” he tells you curtly, hoping his tone of voice is enough to get through your stubbornness. “Listen to what Price tells you, lass, because this is where we part, understood?”

And then he turns on his combat boots, heads for the door before you can so much as nod, and Simon ignores the soft, keening whine behind him as he leaves you behind.

And the day moves forward with its usual routine while Simon almost manages to forget about the whole ordeal with the hybrid as he deals with his rookies, upcoming drills and ignoring the paperwork he should’ve started taking care of last week, until he spots you across the parade grounds in the middle of chewing out one of his soldiers for fucking up an exercise for the third time in a row.

His dark eyes zero in on you, casually strolling next to Gaz, who seems to be showing you around base, and Simon bristles at the way you smile up at the young Sergeant; batting your eyelashes while you seem to be hanging on every word Gaz utters to you. He’s not sure if his mind is playing tricks on him again, but he’s sure there is something else–something way too dark and familiar–hiding behind your unnaturally sparkly eyes.

“S–Sir?” the rookie stutters nervously, pulling the Lieutenant out of his brief stupor.

“Wot?!” Simon snarls from behind his mask, accent thick and dark eyes blazing with even more pissed off fury as they snap back to the rookie while the latter continues to shrink under his Lieutenant's sharp glare.

And Simon ignores it when his soldiers start sharing new rumours and conspiracy theories among themselves about the cause of his particularly foul mood today.

By noon, Simon has dragged himself into the busy mess hall for another strong cup of tea, though he stops dead in his tracks as soon as his friend’s booming and thickly accented Scottish burr can be heard above the general noise of his surroundings.

It doesn’t take long to find the source, and Simon realizes that he must double his efforts to outrun your lingering presence.

Soap stands at a packed table, one boot-clad foot perched on a vacant chair while one arm is slung around your shoulders casually, tucking you against his side while he flaunts his other hand with animated gestures as he speaks.

Simon’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and the leather of his skeleton gloves creaks as he watches on, standing in the middle of the entryway to the mess hall, though everyone scatters and makes sure to swerve around him like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Soap is obviously showing you off to the other gawking soldiers as if you’re some prized possession–a mere thing, though Simon can’t tell what is worse–Soap acting like you belong with him now, or the fact that you’re obviously happy about it while your tail swishes behind you, all coy and jolly.

However, while Simon’s eyes keep lingering on you for another moment, he notices the way your cottony triangle-shaped ears twitch and swivel, basically doing recon, while your eyes flicker and sweep over the crowd like you wish to disappear, like you’re wishing for protection, like you’re searching for–

Simon’s jaw ticks under his mask as his teeth clench harshly, and with a shake of his head, he turns on his boots to walk out of the mess hall. Tea be damned.

When Simon enters Captain Price’s office at the end of the day, ready to sign out for the weekend, his stomach drops when he spots you sandwiched between Gaz and Soap on the small leather couch in the corner by the window, while both Sergeants continue to entertain you. To his surprise, you don’t even seem to notice his presence as your attention is held capture by the two men.

“Here to sign out, I assume,” Price remarks factually from behind his desk, not bothering to lift his eyes as he reads a document and takes a slow puff of his cigar. “Go on, then. Have a nice one, Lieutenant.” The Captain mutters through the thick plumes of smoke curling and dissolving into the air.

But Simon barely pays any mind to the underlying sarcasm in Price’s words as he watches with narrowed eyes how you start nuzzling along Soap’s jawline while the Scot strokes the whole length of your plush white tail almost lasciviously.

And suddenly, his swift feet carry him over there with a mind of their own, blood already boiling below the surface before Simon confronts the younger male: “The fuck ya think you’re doin’ there, Sergeant?” Sergeant, not Soap or Johnny, because Simon is vexed at the man for no other reason than feeling protective of someone who’s obviously being taken advantage of by his friend.

He’s more than aware of how much of an opportunist Johnny can be–especially when it comes to women. Catch the bloody git talking to some lass who’s vulnerable, recently broken up with, instead of getting with the one who’s obviously looking for some quick fun at the pub.

“Wha’?” Johnny blinks up at Simon with those freakishly big and bright blue eyes, feigning innocence. “Am doin’ nothin’, Lt. Jus’ showin’ the bonnie lass some much needed affection.”

Simon clenches his teeth at that, restraining himself from saying or doing something he might regret later, when his eyes flicker over to Gaz, who gets up at once to remove himself from the situation with an awkward cough. Meanwhile, you’re practically lounging in Johnny’s lap, tail wagging lazily as you gaze up at Simon; a picture of innocence.

There’s a moment of charged silence before Simon speaks up again; your name falling from his lips for the first time in a gruff command before he adds in a low growl: “Up.”

The way your spine seems to straighten immediately, ears twitching and eyes widening at his sharp order, makes him feel–something, and it’s nothing good. “I said get up,” he repeats to you, glaring at Johnny as if to dare him to keep you on his lap, though Johnny simply rolls his eyes and lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re comin’ with me, lass.”

Gaz, leaning against Price’s sturdy mahogany desk, long legs crossed at his ankles, shares a look with the Captain, who leans back in his office chair, one hand resting on his chest while he takes another slow drag from his cigar with a smug glint in his eyes– the one he always gets after a particularly successful mission.

Clutching your leash in his left hand, he ignores the way his mind is trying to warn him how the leather will soon burn through his glove like acid as much as he ignores the way you follow him so obediently, and Simon freezes when Captain Price addresses him again, producing a stack of papers from a black folder: “One more thing, Lieutenant–”

Bureaucracy. Lovely.

Simon groans internally as he reads the first few lines of the documents–your official handlership papers. “What if I refuse to sign ‘em?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet his Captain’s.

“Then I will!” Johnny calls out from his spot on the couch, earning a snicker from Gaz and a crooked smirk from Price while Simon shoots a glare in his friend’s direction.

Price shakes his head, still smiling, while he flicks through the pages, before finding one in particular. “You know the answer to that,” he says and pushes the paper over his desk towards Simon before holding out his good pen and giving you a little wink as you stand patiently behind your new handler.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Simon mutters under his breath, voice muffled by his mask as he snatches the pen out of his Captain’s grasp.

And he positions the tip of the pen at the signature line, hesitating as his heart thuds against his ribcage in a slow yet harsh beat. His eyes scan over the page again, his mind in a confused frenzy, until he spots your own signature at the bottom of the document–a delicate swirl of letters next to a date a few days prior.

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses @kerst666 @whos-fran @d1zzy-r1v3rs @userinaliel666 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @vmaxis @tessakate @dneicjefx @sushiumex @yourfavreggie @cmbghost @brokexintroverted

#cotton candy clouds #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #hybrid au #cod #cod hybrid au #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #reader insert #hybrid!reader #handler!ghost

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girl-lostconnection · 5 months ago

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Continuation to this post, that came down to me like a message from a god.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

You aren’t sure if the rapid ascend of extraction shuttle didn’t burst your eardrums.

“Lieutenant, look at me.”, the voice is closer and you can’t help but curl away, your whole body tensing, grip tightening.

Why are they speaking to you? Why- shouldn’t there be medic by now? Shouldn’t someone come out? What’s going on?

There is a stubborn nagging feeling in your chest — poking and prodding, fraying your nerves, sending twitch to your nervous hands.

Your wrists ache, tension coming through them to your fingers, every knuckle burning but the pain is dull.

You are just so cold. Why are you so cold?

It’s not supposed to be so cold on the ship, you just paid for an upgrade, just fixed the ventilation and heating, just —

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. You don’t know them, they probably came through on the SOS beacon you deployed, just a little too late. The mission is done.

You are out.

But you are wet and cold, lighter armour that let’s you run faster, that lets you get to the exfil as soon as possible is now clinging to your body — wet and sticky in a way that makes your skin crawl.

God, do you hate sweating that comes with running like a mad fucking chick through the terrain that’s never on your side.

“Lieutenant”, the voice of commander — their rank shining like a fucking supernova — is practically gentle. Almost soft.

Unusually so. It grates down on your nerves. Helldivers aren’t soft. You aren’t made to be soft, it gets trained out of you. You can’t be if you want to survive.

“Lieutenant”, but they are soft and you want to scream at them, rage and despair coiling in your belly, your wrists ache, your fingers burn. “You need to unclench your fingers”.

Your mind is so blank, so painfully empty but you just grip harder, your knees joining in, boxing in your valuable cargo against your body, your vision blurring for some reason.

“…Why?”, is a broken quiet whisper, your voice hoarse in a way that makes commander carefully cover your hands with theirs.

Prying your fingers open.

“They are gone, lieutenant”, their voice is just as quiet as yours when they get your right hand uncurled.

Off the vest of your teammate.

The notion hits you like a dumbbell, your eyes sliding to them, your whole body instinctively tries to curl harder around the diver you managed to shove into Pelikan-1 before it got off the ground.

It’s impossible.

You got them inside, you got them out, you two got back, what do they mean?

You saved them, you brought them back, medic will just need to patch them up, why isn’t medic there, why is no one here?

You don’t realise you are shaking until commander physically pulls you off the ground, their gauntlets cold against the torn fabric of your armour.

You don’t notice. You aren’t sure you remember how to breathe.

There is a small persistent sound, that reverberates through your chest, that rises to your head and your mind is so blank and you are shaking.

Sound just gets louder — raw and wet, broken wail no human should be able to make, no human should be made to make.

You realise that it’s yours only when commander forces your head in their shoulder, muffling it effectively.

“You did your due, lieutenant. Democracy’s dignity is protected”, they murmur the script you both know too well.

Words echo through your skull as another wail rocks your body with a force enough to make your knees buckle.

Whats good is your due right now? What’s use of this protection if you couldn’t save the young diver that answered your SOS beacon and bought you time?

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the voice above your head is thick with something you can’t place and hands around you just get tighter.

Uniform clings to your skin, your body still shaking, awful sticky feeling making your skin crawl.

You don’t realise why until you get back to your quarters, mirror making you lightheaded with panic, suddenly clicking that it’s not sweat.

It’s blood

Gaz looks over your ship with the same excitement young cadets usually have, his eyes shining when he turns to you.

“This sure is something. You keep your bird in prime condition, captain”

You hum, helmet in your head shining with metal detailing in fluorescent lights of your ship.

Prime is an understatement. You poured all resources and money you earned into this ship. You still do.

“I was just wondering…”, sergeant starts carefully with the wariness of someone who knows that it’s not up to him to wonder. Not when it comes to things so much higher his pay grade. But you nod, encouraging him to speak his mind and he continues. “You don’t have med bay around here. Seems like you could use one in your line of work.”

Gaz smiles, lips curling wider and god, he’s so young.

Young and brilliant, eyes so bright you can feel the phantom feel of the blood seeping through your uniform again.

“Had one. But command pulled the funding and pulled the stuff while we were deployed. Said that it’s not profitable use of resources”, your tone is carefully level, your helmet covering your whole head. Nothing to give you out. Nothing to report.

You are a picture of devour Helldiver.

But Kyle’s eyes still sharpen.

Like he can sense years-old rage and despair under your breast plate.

Like he can see the blood seeping though your uniform.

(It’s impossible, you washed it so much skin on your palms started to peel. You washed it so much you no longer smelled anything other than bleach when you wore it)

“Must’ve costed you a lot of good soldiers”, he muses carefully and something in your chest snaps painfully.

Something important. Something soft.

“Well, you know how it is, sergeant”, you say and there is rage in your chest and years-old blood in the threads of your armour (you will need to wash the bloody thing again until you can’t remember how sticky it was).

Kyle’s eyes are sharp and he’s brilliant and you never wanted to get someone off your fucking ship this quickly.

Your voice strings higher but you push through it, turning away, your words coming out more of a script than human speech.

“We do our due, sergeant. We protect democracy’s dignity”

You don’t add that the same can’t be said about your own.

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lustjunkiie · 4 months ago

Note

BRING JAGUAR!GHOST BACK PLEASE HE IS LIKE MY CRACK

little bit of jaguar!ghost x fem rabbit!reader to soothe your withdrawals <3 (short story!)

a bit smutty? hehe sorry…

Simon’s tail whipped sharply behind him as he sat, a methodical thump persistent against the fresh leather. His stare was penetrating, a hole burning through your abdomen — but you somehow didn’t notice.

Well, it wasn’t a secret why you didn’t notice. You were tipsy, on top of already being naturally ditzy, and just swaying to the thumping beat in the club.

The club being the new Hybrid Friendly! club in town. “Club de Primal” written in neon cursive lettering on the front of the building, fancy neon decorations and a ridiculously stocked bar. Any alcohol, you name it. And you probably did, by the way you were drunkenly swaying to the beat.

Captain ‘Bear’ Price sat in the booth, nursing a whiskey and eyeing any suspicious patrons, like the true father he is. Sergeant ‘Wolf’ MacTavish dancing it up on the floor, accidentally whacking innocent bystanders with his wiry tail. Sergeant ‘Crow’ Garrick dancing sensually with some cat hybrid (not historically a great mix, but alright), and Lieutenant ‘Jaguar’ Riley — eyeing you down. A sweet little rabbit thing with shining eyes and an unstoppable little tail.

Eventually, Simon was sick of it. He got up, against his better judgement, and stalked over to you. You were swaying on your feet, singing along to the EDM (somehow? how do you sing to that?). You looked up at Simon when you felt his chest pressed against your entire side, eyes wide. Like a little doe in headlights.

Your ears drooped behind your head, twitching at the new wall against your side.

“C’mon,” Simon grumbles out, holding out a hand for yours. You take a moment to observe him first; his yellow eyes, the soft jaguar pattern adorning his skin and those teeth. You think of kissing him and you nearly piss yourself, because how do you kiss someone with those teeth without losing your tongue?!

But, you grab his hand anyway and he leads you to an open spot on the dance floor. The song changes to something a bit slower and his hands find your front, sprawled over your stomach and the front of your thigh. He feels your happily thumping tail against his thigh and he swears he’s died and gone to Heaven.

“Sweet little thing,” he whispers in your ear, and your breath picks up. He sounds like he wants to eat you whole, and why is it kind of hot? One hand finds your jaw, and one finds the hem of your dress. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips, and you turn around.

All your senses are him. It’s no longer flashing lights, it’s his silhouette. No longer thumping music, but the thumping of his heartbeat. No longer the condensation of your cocktail, but his fitting t-shirt gripped into your palms. No longer a fruity rum, but his tongue pressing down on yours — the taste of whiskey and a past cigarette cutting through your tastebuds. No longer the smell of spilt alcohol and sweaty bodies, but a cologne with hits of bourbon and sandalwood. Fuck, he’s hot.

Somehow, he crowds you into a janitor’s closet by the bathrooms, dressed hiked up to your waist. He’s pawing at your thighs and devouring your mouth with his, his breaths rough and heavy.

He pulls away, and he nearly melts at the sight of you. Flushed face, drool peaking from the corner of your mouth and your blown pupils. You’re so sweet looking.

But he must calm down.

“Mm, come home with me,” he begs, trying to fix your dress and get you back on your feet. Your womanhood tells you to be cautious, to take a second and sober up. But the way he empties his pockets, his wallet and even shows you his keys lessen your anxieties. He’s truly just begging to sleep with you.

“Hm, why not?” You play it off, still gripping at his shirt. He chuckles roughly because he knows a sweet thing like you is only playing that game temporarily. You’ll come apart on his tongue, and gaze up at him with fucked-out eyes before you drift off into sleep.

He kisses your temple and leads you out of the club, helping you into his car and reveling in the fact that you even came home with him. He knows that eventually you’ll actually get to know him one day and then he might not have you forever, but he’ll take tonight by the collar if it’s all he’ll get.

#any tag involving cod to be honest #blueberrybabbles #call of duty fic #cod au #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon riley drabble #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley smut #cod hybrid #cod hybrid au #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley

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tongue-like-a-razor · 7 months ago

Text

Doctor Doctor, Gimme The News | Part II

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Doctor!Reader

Summary: You receive a particularly difficult patient by the name of Bradshaw and you try your best to resist his charms.

CW: tall Bradley, Mavdad, it's still goofy XD

WC: 1800+

Part 1 | Masterlist

You’re sitting at the bar with a drink in your hand, waiting for your friend to finish flirting with the bartender so you can pay your tab, when you hear a familiar voice from behind.

“Almost didn’t recognized you without the stethoscope.”

You glance over your shoulder wearily, instantly recognizing the tall aviator you met at the clinic earlier in the week. Bradshaw, was it? “Yeah, I get that a lot,” you say, giving him a polite smile before turning away.

Bradley doesn’t take the hint and plants himself on the barstool next to you. “So, are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just gonna have to keep calling you Doc? Might get a bit awkward in bed.”

You snort into your drink as you’re taking a sip. Bradley grins, clearly pleased that he’s made you laugh. His slightly narrowed eyes sweep over your face with a quiet confidence, and you find yourself rather enjoying his attention. “Well, for the sake of making things less awkward,” you respond with a small smile, and then tell him your name.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, and then leans forward slightly to add, “again.”

You bite into your lip to suppress your widening grin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you, actually,” he comments, turning away to flag down the otherwise occupied bartender.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, feigning surprise.

“Yeah,” Bradley responds, tapping on his beer bottle and nodding at the bartender. He turns back to you and shrugs. “Saves me from having to fake an illness to come see you.”

You eye him somewhat reproachfully. “That would be extremely inappropriate.”

Bradley laughs. “If you think that’s inappropriate, I’m not gonna tell you what I planned on doing once I got there.”

Your eyes widen at the insinuation. “Lieutenant!” you exclaim.

Bradley continues chuckling. “Don’t worry, you’d have liked it.” He winks and then nods at the bartender who’s brought him his beer.

You stare at him because his boldness is mindboggling. “You shouldn’t be drinking with a head injury,” you point out.

He looks at you with amusement. “What head injury?”

“The one that brought you to my office?”

“You know what brought me to your office?” he says, and then points a thumb over his shoulder at a crowded table near the back of the bar. “Captain Maverick Mitchell. My self-appointed father figure,” he says in a tone that’s half-grudging, half-affectionate. “And possibly fate,” he adds as an afterthought.

You blink at him skeptically when he glances back at you. “Wow,” you say. “Pulling out the big guns.”

Bradley laughs again. “I have quite the arsenal.”

“Oh, I bet,” you say with a chuckle. “Aviator, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bradley responds proudly. Then he nods at the glass you bring to your lips. “Looks like you need a refill.”

You shake your head. “I was about to head out actually.”

Bradley purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “But then I arrived and changed your mind, right?”

You laugh slightly. “Not quite, Lieutenant,” you respond, rising from your stool and waving at the bartender. “I’ve got an early morning.”

Bradley gets out of his seat and pulls out his wallet. “Allow me, please,” he says.

“That’s not necessary,” you reply uncomfortably. You don’t like feeling indebted to anyone.

Bradley gives you a more serious look. “It’s the least I could do for nagging you this evening.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads of its own accord. You find Bradley reasonably attractive, sure. But it’s the way he carries himself that’s really got you hooked. You can hardly pull your gaze away. “Don’t forget about the part where you were the most obnoxious patient.”

Bradley lets out a hearty laugh. “That deserves a whole pint, Doc.”

You give him a smile. “Maybe another time,” you say politely. Despite his persistence, you can’t jeopardize your position at the clinic by consorting with a patient.

But before you turn to leave, Captain Mitchell approaches the bar and, upon perceiving you, he exclaims, “Oh! It’s the doctor!” He gestures in your direction while looking at Bradley.

Bradley gives him a flat look. “No shit,” he says.

Maverick glances between the two of you and then nods in realization. “You’ve spotted her already.”

You press your lips together to conceal a smile as Bradley brings a hand to his face like he’s thoroughly embarrassed by his ‘self-appointed father figure’. “Hello again,” you say to the captain, extending your hand.

“Good to see you, Doctor,” Maverick replies with a knowing grin, shaking your hand. “Almost didn’t recognized you without the stethoscope.”

“Oh god,” Bradley groans. “That's embarrassing.”

Maverick looks over at him with a confused expression while you giggle. “I was actually planning on scheduling him in for a follow-up,” Maverick says. “Noticed some concerning behaviors.”

You raise your eyebrows while Bradley watches Maverick’s profile incredulously.

“New behaviors?” you ask, glancing back at Bradley.

“No, no.” Maverick waves a hand nonchalantly as he settles onto a barstool. “Not new.”

Bradley shakes his head. “Why are you such a shit disturber?”

Maverick laughs and claps him on the back. “You buy the lady a drink yet?”

You drop your head slightly to hide your growing smile.

“I was trying to,” Bradley declares. “Before your ass showed up.”

You look up apologetically at the two men who are now watching you expectantly. “I’m not…thirsty.”

Maverick winces while Bradley’s shoulders visibly fall. “It’s his fault, isn’t it?” Bradley says, gesturing at Maverick with his thumb again.

“How is it my fault?” Maverick exclaims.

“It’s not his fault,” you attest, glancing at the captain.

“You should talk some more about my concerning behaviors,” Bradley retorts.

Maverick snorts. “I was kidding!” he says. “She knows!” he gestures at you. “You know, right?”

You glance between the two men patiently, wondering if they realize just how much they have in common. “Neither of you is driving tonight, right?” you ask, feeling, for some strange reason, a sense of responsibility for them.

Maverick turns to face you with a jolt. “I’m sober,” he asserts.

Bradley’s eyebrows converge in a dubious expression before he looks back at you. “He’s not driving,” he confirms.

“And you?”

“This is only my second beer!” he exclaims.

You meet his gaze with a smile because you don’t want him to feel attacked. “Okay,” you respond gently. “Drive safe.”

You start to walk away when you hear Bradley say, “Can I walk you to your car, Doc?”

You turn to face him again, about halfway to the door. “You know my name now,” you say, and he grins at you.

“I do,” he agrees. “That was for old times’ sake.”

You sigh. “Sure, Lieutenant. You can walk me to my car.”

…

Out in the parking lot, Bradley muses, “I’m thinking of maybe dislocating my shoulder next week. That’s an easy fix, right?”

You look over at him sharply. “That’s not funny.”

Bradley grins. “Not even a little?”

You roll your eyes at him and continue walking.

“Come on, Doc!” he calls after you. “My sense of humor is a good thing, remember?”

You smile to yourself and slow your pace to let him catch up. “There are other ways of getting my attention besides injuring yourself,” you remark as he falls back in step with you.

“Such as?” he asks.

You approach your car and unlock the door. “I can’t give away all the answers, can I?”

Bradley presses his lips together and grins. “Does that mean I have a shot?”

You lower your gaze coyly. “I don’t know, Lieutenant.”

“That’s not a ‘no’,” he points out.

You smile, glancing back up at him. “No,” you agree. “I suppose it’s not.”

Bradley’s eyes sparkle mischievously as he holds your gaze. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

“No,” you reply almost immediately. Then, after a beat, you add, “Not yet.”

Bradley licks his lips, still grinning. “I’ll take it.”

You chuckle slightly, reaching for the door to your car.

“Can I stand here with you a little longer?” he asks, his voice a little more raspy when it isn’t bursting with confidence.

You pause, your hand still on the door, shocked at how desperately you want to oblige. How delightful it would be to just say yes on a whim. Without considering the repercussions or weighing the pros and cons. Without deliberation or apprehension. Impulsively. The word itself makes you flustered. “Okay,” you say, glancing up at him as he shifts a little closer.

Bradley smiles at you and leans his back to the car. He stands quietly for a few moments, just existing beside you, which you find both endearing and infuriating. You don’t have a lot of time on your hands and simply standing around is a colossal waste of it in your books. But something about the warm evening breeze paired with the smell of the ocean and Bradley’s crisp cologne makes the experience less harrowing, and maybe even possibly pleasant.

Still, you’re restless. “So, when you said you wanted to stand here, you actually meant stand here…” you comment.

Bradley glances down at you with an amused expression. “You got something else in mind, Doc?”

You half-snort, half-chuckle. “I just thought maybe you had something else to say. I didn’t realize we’d be standing in silence.”

Bradley grins at you. “It’s called being present.”

You study him with a slight grimace, genuinely trying to keep your cynicism at bay. Being present isn’t a kind of luxury you can often afford. Most days, you don’t even get a chance to eat sitting down. “What does that accomplish?” you ask.

Bradley, who’s still watching you with a smile, replies, “Does everything you do have a purpose?”

“Of course,” you say. “Why else would I do it?”

Bradley raises his eyebrows and puts his hands into his pockets. “That’s very practical of you.”

“It’s efficient,” you point out, trying to highlight the importance of productivity.

Bradley nods patiently. “Sounds like you need a night off, Doc.”

You laugh. “I just had a night off. But it had a purpose – my friend needed help wooing the bartender.”

Bradley chuckles. “Has the purpose ever been to just have a good time?”

You make a face and shrug. “That’s not really a priority of mine.”

“Wow, Doc, you’re a hoot,” Bradley replies facetiously.

“I warned you,” you remind him, opening your car door.

Bradley leans his arm over the frame of your car as you climb inside. “You know you leave me no choice, right?” he says, ducking his head slightly to peer into the vehicle.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“We’re going to have to rearrange your list of priorities,” he says.

You watch him for a moment, marveling at his persistence. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before flitting back up to your eyes again, and you wonder what it might feel like to be kissed by a guy like Bradley. It would probably be sexy and spontaneous. It would probably catch you off guard and possibly even offend you a little. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t mind being mildly offended if it meant kissing Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw. “I’m not sure that’s a realistic goal,” you say. Your tone might be sarcastic, but the statement is fairly accurate.

Bradley grins. “I don’t mind a challenge.”

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on-a-lucky-tide · 4 months ago

Text

One of my favourite cultural differences about travelling around Europe particularly is the unspoken rules about eye contact.

As a British (read: anglo-centric) person, you're not meant to look directly at someone unless having a conversation and even then you're meant to break it up a bit. Riding the tube is an exercise in polite avoidance. But when I first visited Slavic states, oh my fucking god... Direct, intense eye contact for prolonged periods of time, or just gazing directly at you for indiscernible reasons.

Imagine Lieutenant Price having to manage with Nikolai's intense and unrelenting stare when they're working together. It triggers every one of his repressed British sensibilities. He tries everything to manage it in a socially acceptable way. The tight-lipped non-smile and the jut of the chin, sometimes with added eyebrow raise, the throat clear with sniff and arse shuffle, the pretend to find interest in something else nearby, the busy himself with checking and rechecking his equipment. Nothing works. Nik doesn't take the hint.

Nik, who is an excellent people reader and extremely worldly even in his very early thirties, figures out the issue within seconds but persists because watching the sweet, handsome British lieutenant with all his gruff machismo squirm like the inexperienced young man he actually is for once is truly delightful.

#captain john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #after a while price gets used to it #it feels like nik is watching his back #listening intently #then when they fall in love that look is one that sees his very soul #whenever nik looks at him price gets tingly and squirmy for different reasons

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3amfanfiction · 8 months ago

Note

You wrote this about Simon: “At this lieutenant, already chewed up and spit out by the world. More scars than skin at this point. You wonder how many people only see the scars and not the shivering body underneath it, waiting for a soft touch.”

I’d LOVE to read more of this - i wanna be the one to offer him the soft touch he wants so badly, maaaan! He’s just so big n’ strong but i want to let him curl up against me while i pet him until he stops shivering

This came through at the perfect time. I had the desire to write but I was picking at all my wips half heartedly bc none of the them were what I wanted.

But this? This I wanted.

So thank you again and please enjoy 1.5k words of acclimatizing Simon to soft touches.

<33

Ask referencing this post.

~~~~

He scared you, the first time you saw him.

Not because of how big he was (tall, thick, muscular) or the look in his eyes (cold, dismissive, too watchful), not even because of the scars themselves (numerous, expansive, tragic).

It was because you knew any interaction would come across as a threat. He had that look in his eyes that said he'd seen the worst of what the world had to offer and he persisted through luck and spite equally. Now he was sat in front of you, too disciplined to let his skin shiver but hating being seen. Hating that you were looking.

When you met him it was through a friend of a friend sort of thing. One of your friends was seeing a Scottish boy and invited you out for drinks with them. You had no reason to say no so you found yourself sitting at a high-top doing your best not to bother the man sitting quietly to your right.

His gruff, Simon, during introductions was the only thing he had said in the last hour, content to sit quietly and watch. Almost outside of the group even though he was sitting at the same table. You made sure to include him when you were speaking to the group, your eyes darting to each person as you spoke, not leaving anyone out. But you made sure to never direct a hard question at him that required an answer. It was all, I bet you never have a problem seeing over the crowd. or I'll grab everyone a drink while I'm up or Sorry, I'll be out of your space in a moment, my jacket was getting a little warm.

He would look at you. Every time you spoke to him he wouldn't shy away from eye contact but that was where his involvement ended. Never a head nod or shake, never a verbal answer.

By the end of the night you were positive he didn't like you. He didn't dis-like you but he didn't like you, you were pretty sure. That was okay though. You'd done your best not to infringe on his space, not wanting to step on his toes. You thought you had done a good job all around and put it out of your mind, the interaction over and done with and no longer needing to be reviewed.

What you never realized was Simon's shoulders lowered a whole inch throughout the course of the night.

\\\

You called your friend out on the number of times she invited you to hang out with Johnny and Simon, flat out asking if she and Johnny were trying to set you and Simon up through subtle double-dating.

"No!" She leaned forward grabbing your hand, her eyes looking earnestly into yours, "I promise it's not like that. Johnny told me he's pretty much all Simon has. Well, their team is. So they're always together when they're home. I don't want Simon to feel like a third wheel or left out or anything."

And you believed her. This was one of her strong suits, always looking out for others. That's probably why you two got along so well, a pair of givers, the both of you. And she had a point. The idea of Simon sitting awkwardly with the other two as his only companions made something twist in your stomach. You didn't want that for him.

So you kept seeing Simon and you kept doing your best to give him space but include him at the same time. You were shocked the first day he spoke to you but the fact that it was a bad joke made a sort of perfect sense.

"What's the best way to carve wood?"

You looked over at him in shock that this was what he chose to break the ice with. At the same time you were delighted and you couldn't help but feel giddy at the prospect of Simon telling you a joke. A bad one by the sound of it.

"How?"

"Whittle by whittle."

"That was absolutely terrible."

He smiled to himself if his eye crinkles had anything to say about it. That giddy feeling bubbling up inside you was getting unsettlingly big right about now. You looked at the ground and bit your lip to keep from a cheesy grin of your own breaking out.

Before you knew it he had no problem speaking to you. While never particularly verbose, he would respond to comments directed towards him, offer his opinion if options were offered, and kept telling awful jokes.

You were hopelessly charmed.

You broke your own rules and reached for him first.

You were sat next to him on a bench, the sun setting and the evening air cooling further. He had told you another one of his god-awful jokes when you unthinkingly swatted out with your hand, brushing his arm. His muscles jumped and his arm tensed right before you made contact as if bracing for a hit. An involuntary reaction to someone reaching for him. It was a horrifying realization.

You sobered quickly and your chuckle died off awkwardly. You turned to face forward, looking out at the street, watching for any sign of your friend or Johnny who had stepped into the store for a quick moment leaving you and Simon to find a bench while you waited. You hoped that if you didn't draw attention to it then your faux pas would pass unmentioned.

You let out a relieved sigh when Simon continued with another comment, not taking your overstepping to heart. By the time the other two had rejoined you the whole situation was forgotten, water under the bridge. You didn't think of it again until it was the end of the night with everyone about to go their separate ways.

When you said goodbye to Simon he said it back, reaching out to brush his hand down your arm in return in almost the exact same spot as where you'd touched him earlier.

Your heart skipped a beat before picking up a double pace. You couldn't help but beam at him, a wide grin splitting your face even as he grunted and turned away, likely embarrassed by your show of emotion.

Today had been a good day after all.

You thought you had ruined it for a moment there, thankful when Simon seemed to brush past it. You hadn't expected him to reciprocate in the same manner though.

Maybe he really did like hanging out with you. You never doubted it for a second.

\\\

It took time–a slow steady build to where you ended up, curled up on the couch together with Simon laying on top of you. You both had your tops off to bask in a little skin-to-skin time.

You'd been together for a few months at this point and it was like night and day to compare him to the Simon you met all that time ago. This one couldn't keep his hands off you to save his life. It was a slow warm-up to get past his walls in a way that wasn't upsetting to either of you. Soft touches that slowly built, leading to hand holding, to hugging, to kissing, to this.

You dragged your fingers slowly up his back, fingertips catching on raised scar tissue before continuing on, ever moving. He hummed into the crook of your neck where he had buried his face when you switched from fingertips to nails, gently scratching the skin.

You loved spending time like this, feeling Simon melt into you, eager for every touch he could get. If you were sitting still and Simon was in the vicinity you could bet that he would be pressed against your side before too much time had passed. Eager for the soft caresses you always had for him.

He was starved for touch and you wanted to feed him.

So you offered, again and again in the beginning–most times with no luck, to let him touch you. On the couch watching TV? Your arms would open, inviting a hug when he walked by. At the table? Your head was tilting up for a kiss if he wanted one. Passing each other in the hallway? You'd raise your hand and hold it in front of you, letting him press his big barrel chest into your palm if he wanted.

It was a slow acclimatization that brought you to today and the taste was all the sweeter for the time you had poured into it.

You lifted a hand to drag it through the spiky hairs at the back of his head, enjoying his groan of contentment. It sounded like he was already halfway asleep and you knew you wouldn't be leaving this spot for a while.

Might as well settle in and get comfortable. You familiarized him to gentle touches, now he was insatiable for them. He would be consuming them from you greedily for as long as you offered.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #i enjoyed writing this #asks #thank you nonnie for sending in this ask! i appreciate it more than you know #touch starved!simon riley #slow acclimatization #as it should be

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ilium-ilia · 4 months ago

Text

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Five: failed kintsugi

tw: none

Simon Riley does not exist.

Right now, he’s far away, tucked in bed in that dilapidating apartment back in London, hibernating as the cold chill of winter swallows the city with algid fingers. Everything he loves is hidden away in a neat little box compartmentalized somewhere in the grey matter of his brain where neither light nor susurrus can reach it. He sleeps soundly—dormant, but creaking the way the earth does when magma boils beneath the surface, waiting to spew forth and devour.

For now, there is only Ghost, and he is all sharp canines and malice. There is enough iron on his body—in the form of guns, bullets, and knives—to drown a man, and still he persists. Old viscera haunts the soles of his boots leaving behind stains that he can never quite rinse free, and a skull balaclava clings to his face like a second skin. He is nothing but dark eyes, ichor, and compos mentis among strewn offals for it to leave a sour taste on his tongue. A trained killer. A honed blade.

But there are instances where Simon Riley and Ghost intersect. They intertwine like roots from different trees, or how blood from different bodies mix when they meet on a cold floor. One can’t survive without the other.

At the moment, they’re both infatuated with a handkerchief.

Black fabric patterned with silly, cartoonish dogs stare up at him as he holds it as gently as he can in his gloved hands. Though the soft leather and stiff fabric dulls his tactile senses, his thumb still runs over the cloth with mesmerizing motion. Something whispers low and dangerous in Ghost’s ear—Simon’s desires cut through the hum of the transport aircraft with a saccharine lull.

Ghost smothers it before it can bear fruit.

“Think he’s got a kid?”

Though it’s difficult to hear Kyle over the humming of the engines as they soar thousands of feet in the air, Johnny hums as he leans back in his seat. “Sure hope not. I have a hard time imagining him around a kid.”

Chuckling, Kyle glances back over at his lieutenant for a short moment, eyes still focused on that handkerchief. He’s bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, lost in his own world.

“No, I think he’s got someone else waiting for him back home,” Johnny comments as he toys with the strap on his rifle. The red lighting inside the airbus makes his eyes throb as if they’re about to melt, but his lips quirk into a sly grin. “He’s got himself his own little ghost.”

“Little ghost?” Kyle repeats incredulously.

“Yeah, you know. A little phantom. A spectre. Ghostette?” Johnny eggs.

Kyle shakes his head. “You’re taking the piss.”

“What?” Johnny asks as if actually offended. “We call him Ghost. It’s only fitting that his girl gets a nickname, too.”

“If there is a girl,” Kyle corrects.

Lips pressing together, Johnny looks back at his superior just in time to watch him fold the handkerchief. It’s neatly done; a perfect square with crisp edges. Once finished, he leans to the side and shoves it into his back pocket for safe keeping. When his hands return back in front of him, he stares down at them as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

“Oh, there’s a girl alright.”

The next few weeks are brutal. October gloom slowly morphs into an algid January bite, and throughout it all, Simon fights. His trigger finger cramps with how often he pulls it these days, and he manages to snag a new hole in the sleeve of his jacket as barbed wire slices through his flesh like a butcher’s knife through a pig. For him, this is nothing new. He’s well acquainted with the way scar tissue mends over a wound and how gunpowder coalesces with blood into some noisome aroma that lurks in his dreams.

Still, he has a slight reprieve in the form of that handkerchief. Thumb running over the threads, he fusses over it in the darkness of a safe house or in a snowy foxhole. Even when he’s halfway across the world, you still haunt him.

The chill of winter follows him all the way back to London where he’s greeted by an empty apartment and a lugubrious heater that’s slow to turn on. He drags himself into the shower where he washes off weeks worth of toil and incessant eye black that still traces the rim of his eyes. When he’s finished, he can still smell the way death lingers on him, and he doesn’t feel any lighter and absolved from the violence he so expertly executed, but his freshly washed skin and clean clothes will have to do.

He lays in bed on his back, ready to catch up on the infinite hours of sleep he’s lost, but it does not come easy. The rainy afternoon sun bleeds through his blinds and stains his floor with pale silver, but it’s not enough to snuff out that throe in his stomach. He’s being watched. That silly piece of cloth stares at him from the corner of his nightstand.

You promise? That you’ll come see me?

You’re in the living room when a knock interrupts your evening.

Hands twitching, your head snaps towards the front door as your eyes narrow. The time on your phone says it’s just past seven—not exactly obnoxiously late, but concerning enough when you aren’t expecting any visitors. Pushing yourself to your feet, you carefully hop along the hallway as you avoid all the squeaky spots in the floor as you approach the door. You press your face against the wood as you gaze through the peephole, and the very moment your brain registers the hulking figure on the other side, your hand flies to the lock.

Simon Riley stands in front of you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Water droplets from unforgiving rain adorns the fabric of his balaclava, framing his obsidian eyes like rhinestones. Once you’re able to get over your shock, a smile pulls at your lips.

“Simon,” you exclaim softly as your hand falls from the door.

It isn’t until you speak that you realize just how disheveled you are. Donning nothing but loose pajamas and large house slippers to stave off the cold, you feel underdressed. Naked in your own home.

“It’s good to see you,” you continue breathlessly. “Do you want to come in and warm up a bit? That rain is brutal today.”

Simon shifts and the wet heels of his boots squeak against the floor. Though his balaclava and hood obscures his face, his eyes are plenty easy to read. He studies you—observant as ever—as he traces the features of your face with his gaze. His shoulders loosen once he’s soaked you in.

“Don’t waste your evening on me,” he says. His voice is stiff and gruff; worn down from rigorous and relentless use. “Just keepin’ my promise.”

As he speaks, his eyes unmistakably wander to the scar on the wall behind you. The hole Eric had punched into your wall has become nothing but a faint memory with a less than perfect patching job. Still, its presence has burned a hole in Simon’s mind, and he feels acrid annoyance boil in his stomach at the mere idea that it had ever soiled your home in the first place.

“Please,” you insist as you step to the side to let him through. “I was just about to put the kettle on, and it’s freezing out. It’s no trouble at all.”

There’s a short pause as Simon mulls your proposition over. “Alright,” he finally says. “Won’t keep you long.”

The cold radiates off of his body as he takes a step through the entryway, closing the door behind him. He kneels to the floor to undo the shoelaces on his boots, halfing his height. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long as you step backwards to give him space as you wander into the kitchen.

“When did you get home?” you ask as you retrieve your kettle.

“Couple hours ago,” he answers, voice still coarse.

Running water spews from the sink as you begin to fill the kettle, and Simon’s boots gently thunk against the wall as he lines them up next to yours. You steal a glance at them and you try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when you see the stark difference in size between his boots and your flimsy work shoes.

“Late night traveling, then?” you ask as you set the kettle on the stove. You turn the heat on with a few clicks and then watch as the electric coils burn a bright red.

“Something like that,” he mumbles. Once his boots are situated, he turns to face you as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Your throat grows dry when you note how his shoulders almost brush against either side of the frame.

Nodding, you gesture to the lone couch in your living room. “Feel free to grab a seat. I’d hate to make you stand around. I’m sure you’re tired.”

Simon hums as he follows your prompt and you watch his eyes dilate before he slowly stalks into the next room. “What’s in the box?”

“Oh, that? Don’t mind that,” you wave off as you curiously follow behind him. “I bought myself a new lamp. I tried to glue the glass base of the other one back together, you know with like the gold glue and stuff? It didn’t really work out and I hate using the overhead light so I figured it was about time I bought a new one. Haven’t quite gotten it put together yet, though. Feel free to move it out of the way, it’s kind of an eyesore.”

Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you duck back into the kitchen while Simon continues to wander around the room. As the water begins to boil, you rummage through your cupboards to raid it for tea. You’re met with mostly empty shelves coated with a painfully minute amount of sparse food. Rent has become a little more difficult to keep on top of these last few months. Though Eric wasn’t good for many things, he at least kept the kitchen stocked. Still, you’re saved by a stray box of breakfast tea shoved to the very back of the bottom shelf, and you eagerly snatch it with a huff.

“You alright with breakfast tea?” you call as your fingers sort through the bags.

Simon is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Plain.”

You manage to catch the kettle as soon as it begins to whistle, and you remove it from the stove as you prepare your cups. Retrieving your favorite Halloween mug for yourself, and a cheeky don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning tea one for Simon, you let the bags steep before you’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of tearing cardboard.

Wandering into the living room, you find Simon sitting on the floor with the box that belongs to your new lamp ripped open. Several parts and pieces lay out in front of him in their own separate bags, seemingly sorted into piles based on screws and main structural pieces. A small piece of paper sits in his hands as he carefully reads through the instructions.

“Simon, you don’t have to do that,” you insist, dumbfounded.

Ignoring you, he continues to read through the instructions before his eyes narrow. “Where the hell did you buy this from?”

“Ikea…”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles as he tosses the paper to the side. “Useless.”

Without the help of any sort of direction, Simon begins to put your new table lamp together. Really, there doesn’t seem to be too many pieces, but even from a short distance you can make out about twenty different screws with several varying sizes. With his balaclava on and his hood pulled up over his head, Simon looks more like a robber than a handyman, yet here he is, building your lamp as if it’s his favorite hobby.

Chuckling, you return to the kitchen to grab the tea before meandering back into the living room. After setting Simon’s mug on the coffee table, you curl up on the couch as you warm your hands on the ceramic while watching him work—brows furrowed, eyes steady, hands moving.

How did the two of you get to this point? When did you go from strangers to… whatever this is?

How do you name this feeling in your stomach—this fluttering sanguinity?

As you sip on the tea and revel in the warm liquid pooling in your stomach, you notice Simon has rolled the sleeves up on his jacket. It’s up far enough to reveal a myriad of tattoos on his left forearm—the very one you had seen a hint of that night at the pub all those weeks ago. Skulls, smoke, and dog tags wrap around his arm in a monochrome mural, bringing depth to his otherwise pale skin. On his other arm, you notice a still healing cut. It’s deep and angry with red, puffy scar tissue freshly formed over a long gash, and you watch as it pulls taut while the muscles underneath it dances as he works.

“What happened to your arm?” you ask, unable to hide your solicitude.

Simon turns his attention away from your lamp and looks up at you. His head tilts to the side in a way that sends butterflies scrambling in your stomach, and you feel your skin begin to tingle and burn as if you’ve been set ablaze.

“Right,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Stupid question, I suppose.”

Something of a titter leaves Simon as he stands from his spot on the floor. It feels like you have to break your neck just to keep looking at him, but the lamp is finally put together—lightbulb, lampshade, and the works. He picks it up from the floor and places it on the side table next to the couch before plugging it into the wall. You excitedly place your half finished tea on the coffee table before leaning over the arm of the couch and twisting the switch. Warm light pours out of it like a fond memory.

“Well, would you look at that,” you beam. Really, it’s not anything spectacular; after all, it’s just a silly lamp. But it feels like—in some way—you’re getting a part of your life back. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Simon responds simply.

A small string of tension weaves throughout the room as Simon continues to stand with eyes flickering back and forth between you and the lamp. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance back at the coffee table. His tea remains untouched, and now cold. Really, you don’t know why you had expected him to drink it. He never takes his mask off.

Perhaps that's why he asked for it plain; he doesn’t want to waste any milk or sweeteners.

“I missed you,” you suddenly blurt out.

This sudden revelation that spews from your lips surprises not only you, but Simon as well. You see it in the way his eyes land on you; how they flicker over your face—how they linger on your lips. He always lingers on your lips, but you know it’s not in the way the fuzziness in your stomach wants them to. Your tongue swipes over the corner of your lip as it prods against the painful reminder that Eric gave you all those months ago.

“I never used to worry about you,” you continue as you shift in your spot on the couch. You feel smaller than a bug as he stands tall, looking down at you. “I mean, I knew you were in the military, so when you’d vanish without notice I would just assume that you were out saving the world, or something. But I… I worried this time.” You pause as your words and embarrassment begin to choke you. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re back.”

“Course I came back,” he says as if stating a fact. “Had to make sure you weren’t getting into any more trouble.”

You laugh, thankful for his teasing tone. It’s comforting to know he’s not put off by all of your awkward ramblings, or at least if he is, he’s good at hiding it. How you’ve managed not to annoy a quiet man like Simon is beyond you.

“Yeah, well, I think you scared off any trouble that would find me,” you admit with a shy smile.

“Brute force will do that.”

Simon is… funny. In his own weird, macabre way. Everything about him seems to lure you in like a moth to a flame, and at this point you don’t think you even care about getting burned—you know the butterflies in your stomach certainly don’t.

“Do you wanna catch a movie this weekend now that you’re back?” Once more, your mouth is opening and spewing out words before you even have the chance to think them through, but instead of retracting your statement, you double down. “It would be more relaxing than the pub, I’d imagine.”

“What? Need protecting?” he asks dryly.

You grin. “You never know when trouble is gonna find me.”

Humming, Simon digs his hands into his coat pocket and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face with dull light for a few seconds before he passes it over to you. It’s his contact list—the keyboard is waiting for a new recipient.

“Text me the day and time, and I’ll be there.”

The butterflies in your stomach begin to bloom. They flutter and tickle the walls of your stomach as you take his phone into your hands, but they begin to thrash the moment you write your name and number. They want more—need more. You fear that if you don’t give them more, they’ll devour you, bones and all.

“Alright,” you say, handing his phone back to him with a coy grin. “It’s a date, then.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #everything you touch #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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writersdrug · 10 months ago

Text

The Good Friend

Chapter 1. A New Hobby

Summary: Johnny regularly checks up on Ghost after he sustained a bullet to the hip on their most recent deployment. It's already too late for him to escape, once he sees what's kept his beloved lieutenant so occupied over the past few days.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, implied violence, restraining, psychotic behavior, blood, forced to help in kidnapping, obsessive behavior. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS. By clicking "Keep Reading" you are consenting to be responsible for the media you consume.

A/N: The people have spoken

Simon on medical leave: a disaster and a headache for the rest of the 141.

There's a daily text along the lines of "Let me know when we get shipped out next." It never mattered how many times Price responded with "You're not joining us for a while. Find a hobby, Simon." He was persistent in coming back to work as soon as possible - shattered hip be damned.

Price had given Soap the job of checking up on the poor brute. "Maybe he misses the usual company." He'd say. "Go see 'im, check in with the muppet."

Soap was a good friend, but there was only so much grumbling he could stomach from Simon. Those "check-ins" would turn into a pity party, with Simon saying "I should be out there, helpin' you lot. Only wastin' away in 'ere. Losin' my head." And it was true - every time Johnny visited, there was an open can of beer on the coffee table, or a glass of whiskey in his hand. The bottle of prescription, opioid pain killers on the kitchen table. Some ill-advised coping mechanism within arm's reach.

It hurt Johnny to see it, it really did. He cared about Simon, missed him, would do anything to get his beloved L.T. back on the team. But he knew the man needed rest and recovery, despite how much it was sending Simon into a spiral. Johnny offered to help clean up his place, but Simon angrily denied the offer. "Don't need a bloody caretaker." He spat.

Just tryin' to be a good friend, Soap wanted to say, but instead he answered with a slam of Simon's front door and a hushed "feckin' bastard."

Johnny was tired of it. When the fuck was this medical leave supposed to end? Apparently, in two weeks ("thank the feckin' lord") -

But, Soap soon discovered, Simon had requested more time off.

Price stated he'd said something about "still not feeling right", which immediately had Soap confused. That old bawbag would've been back in the game the second the bullet was out of his hip, if it wasn't for regulations. It festered in the back of his mind all day: why would Simon do that? What could possibly hold his attention more than the task force? More than Johnny?

There was only one way to find out.

Soap stands in front of Simon's door, knocking loudly against the dark wood. An unexpected visit, which Simon might be frustrated by - but Soap is dying to see what's got his lieutenant so preoccupied. Hopefully, he hasn't fallen into a pit of depression, choosing to drink himself to death, rather than come back to the team.

However, after just a few moments of standing on his porch, Simon answers it rather quickly. And he looks happy. Delighted, even.

"'Bout time, Johnny." Simon says, stepping aside to let him in. "Was wondering if you got lost."

"Was wonderin' if you'd gone crazy." Soap banters back, kicking the door shut behind him. "Cap said ye want more time?"

Simon chuckled quietly, locking the deadbolt behind Soap. He shoves his hands - gloved hands - into his sweatshirt pocket. "Took his advice. Found a hobby."

"Lemme guess: knittin' me a Christmas sweater?"

"You fuckin' wish."

It's good. It makes Soap sigh with relief (internally), seeing Simon in such good spirits. He tosses the pack of blems onto the coffee table and follows Simon into the kitchen. The smell of rubbing alcohol hits him before he sees the counter; bandages, gauze, bloody gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and an open suture kit.

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his teeth bared in a wince. "Shite, Ghost- ye reopen tha' bullet wound?" he says, lifting up one of the bloodied pieces of gauze.

"Hm?" Simon turns to face him, then looks at what he's holding. "Oh- nah, I'm fine. Luvie here bumped her head."

Johnny looks up, confused, following Simon's back with his eyes as he makes his way into the dining room - his mind goes blank when he sees the poor, bloodied thing, tied to one of the chairs.

You're staring back at him, hair messed and blood dried against a nasty gash on your forehead. Fabric is stuffed into your mouth, with a strip of duct tape securing it around your head. Your eyes light up with hope as they take Johnny in; you're heaving, poor thing, breaths more like whines as you fight through the delirium of your concussion. Your right ankle is swollen and a nasty shade of purple. Blood all over the chair, your thighs, and now, Johnny finally notices, Simon's hands.

"Dinged 'erself pretty good on my bookcase." Simon says, too calmly, his broad frame standing behind the chair you're strapped into. "Slippery lil' thing, she is."

Simon rips the duct tape off - your voice immediately fills the room, echoing inside Soap's head with your begging and pleading, please please please get me out of here, please help me, he kidnapped me, he's a monster, please-

Johnny has to look away - there's too much noise, too much going on - his eyes trail down the dark hall and into Simon's bedroom. The bookshelf is toppled over, volumes strewn about the floor, a lamp shattered on the ground and casting an eerie angle of light through the room. He hears the sound of his own blood pumping, his chest and throat feel tight, mind racing a million miles a second. Did his LT do this? His Simon?

"Johnny."

He turns back to you. The duct tape is back in place, and now you're weakly thrashing about as much as you can - which really isn't much. Ghost is staring at Soap, one of his hands wrapped around your shoulder, knuckles white with how hard he's gripping you; which is most likely what's making you cry so much.

"Need ya to help stitch 'er up." Simon says, his eyes cold. It's an order. "'Fore she bleeds out on us."

Johnny feels like he's going to vomit. He needs to stop thinking, to stop shaking, and do something. His lieutenant's kidnapped a bloody civilian, for Christ's sake. Why? And what the fuck did he do to her?

"Won't let me touch 'er. Hard to stitch the wound when she's throwin' a fit - damn near stabbed 'er in the eye. I'll hold 'er while you do th' job."

Johnny finally inhales after holding his breath for so long. He stumbles backwards into the kitchen, remembering where the front door is, thinking he should have been in his car and on the phone with the police by now. If he does, though, Simon will be gone forever. Locked up in prison, far away from Soap. How can he save this? How can he save you, and him? "Simon, ye- ye can't be serious, mate-"

"If you walk out tha' fuckin' door I'll kill 'er before you reach it."

That ruffles your feathers. You're whimpering again, screaming against the gag - at him? At Ghost? He freezes where he stands, trying to remember his training. Act first, think later. Do what keeps the most people alive in the moment. That's what Simon had taught him. The same man who was threatening to kill you, ironically, based on what Soap decided to do.

"Get the sutures off the counter." Simon ordered, apparently sensing Soap's inner turmoil. He knows Johnny wouldn't leave you there, not after the threat.

He couldn't.

Soap exhaled heavily through his teeth, forcing his muscles to move. He snatched the suture kit off the counter and stormed back into the living room. He heard Ghost hum in approval as he slapped it down on the table.

"You do it." he said, his voice low and full with grit. "Ye stitch 'er up, I'll help ye take her to the hospital. We come back n' clean up-"

"Shut the fuck up-" Simon growled out to Soap, gripping your chin in his large hand and yanking your head back against his abdomen. "Get to work. Don't let 'er die on me, now."

Die. Die. You had a concussion and a headwound, but you weren't dying - still, he knew that wasn't what Ghost meant. If Soap didn't help, you would die, one way or another. He had to think of this differently, for the time being. He was helping you. He'd take this little by little - first, patch you up. Figure out what the fuck to do with you later; also, how to keep this from ruining Simon's career, because he couldn't leave the task force. Soap wouldn't let that happen.

So, he took the needle and sutures in his hand, and knelt on the floor, between your restrained legs. Ignored the way you screamed and thrashed, only held still by Ghost's meaty paws. Didn't focus on Ghost's satisfied grin. He was doing this to save your life, you'd understand that later. He was doing this to save Simon's career.

Like a good friend.

Next ->

Taglist: @a-sadmilky

Ghost photo credit to @chatskaja

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palinecrosis · 3 months ago

Text

reed800 > reed900 and the mischaracterization of connor

I never understood people’s affinity for reed900 over reed800, and all the reasonings I’ve heard for it never make sense to me. Just to be clear, this post isnt meant to attack anybody who ships reed900, I’ve watched Detroit evolution alright. I fucked with it heavy. I’ve got a solid three Reed900 fics in my ao3 bookmarks. I have credentials. Don’t come for me.

Anyway, I will always prefer Connor and Gavin’s dynamic over a Nines and Gavin hypothetical one. I feel like the reason people don’t like covnin is because they often misinterpret Connor’s character, I see this amongst convin shippers too, not just people who dislike the ship.

I keep hearing the argument that “Gavin hates Connor, and Connor doesn’t stand up for himself. Nines would be more cold, which matches Gavin’s personality.” This is probably the shittiest take I’ve ever heard. The DBH fandom tends to see Connor as meek. Because of this, they think he’s vulnerable to Gavin’s hostility, which is just not true. When we’re introduced to Gavin, he’s antagonistic towards Connor right of the bat. Connor, in order to keep the peace, remains professional. This is because initially, it’s not in Connor’s interest/programming to disobey or disrupt humans. He prefers to move along, focus on the mission and ignore unnecessary distractions. However, when Gavin persists, when the android being interrogated is about to self destruct, Connor has the choice to physically stop the officer from restraining it and he does, defying Gavin in the process as well. Connor does not care about Gavin’s human authority in this case, he only cares about what he knows to be true and sticking to his objective.

Now you may bring up the breakroom scene in which Gavin punches Connor, Connor just seems to let it happen despite it being a direct physical attack and not just an offhand comment. I hate when people bring this up because at this time, Connor was not deviant yet. He did not develop enough consciousness/deviancy to actively choose to defend himself. Again, in order to move things along and cause the least ruckus possible, he takes it. I’ve also heard arguments that Connor “pretends” to be hurt in order to seem subservient to Gavin to make it seem like he’s not fighting back against a human. I like that theory!

People also seem to forget that when things directly misalign with his mission, Connor is quick to go against anybody, even humans, who stand in the way. Have people forgotten what Connor did to Gavin in the archive room? He beat the living shit out of him, incapacitated him, and walked off with a final tie adjustment as if it was nothing. This is the Connor who you’re calling meek, the one who pretended to be the Traci’s dead girlfriend to get to Jericho. The one who sampled Markus’ voice to take advantage of beaten down Simon’s loyalty. The one who nagged Hank to rent Traci’s until the lieutenant humiliatedly obliged. The one who chased Kara and a child down a highway. The one who gets himself killed multiple times just to accomplish his mission. The one who sarcastically told Gavin he’d “miss their bromance.” PLEASE.

All of this is to make a point for a romantic/sexual dynamic between Connor and Gavin that actually puts them as equals. Where we get the good ending with deviant Connor, androids having rights, Gavin being forced into sensitivity training and actually learn to see androids as people (we love the Gavin Reed Redemption tag). None of that degrading convin bullshit where Connor puts up with Gavin’s bigotry and thinks “I can fix him!” Where Gavin actually takes responsibility for his own behavior and slowly learns to change his outlook.

Connor would not shut up to Gavin’s insults. He’d push back just as hard, sarcastic and sardonic in his own way. He’d spit some sort of off putting logical roast at Gavin to hurt his feelings, psychoanalyzing him to a T. They’d have amazing back and forth, banter fuelled with sexual tension, actual physical fights, prolonged angry eye contact, pinning down and grabbing dangerously close to certain areas. Connor beginning to warm up to Gavin’s hostility, being smart, seeing past it, knowing it’s a cover up for something more raw and vulnerable. Gavin starting to think “Maybe he’s not so bad” to “he’s funny” to “he’s pretty fucking hot” to “shit maybe I like him”. DO WE NOT SEE THE VISION!!

anyways I need to convert more people to like convin. yeah you can make your case for reed900 but they will never have as much chemistry as convin and not nearly as much hatefuck potential. thank you for reading.

#convin #gavin reed #detroit become human #reed800 #reed900 #connor dbh #dbh nines #rant post #analysis #ive been waiting to put this into words for ages #fucking finally

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starryylies · 5 months ago

Note

Simon with a small bubbly reader, like total opposite from Si being big and cold. And she wears like all pink and is very girly and the rest of the team can't believe their together

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

Simon Riley wasn’t really a big fan of colours, or people.

You on the other hand were both.

He doesn’t understand how you can always be so pink for every occasion. Like if he didn’t know you he’d probably think you’re advertising the Barbie movie.

When he first met you he thought you were ‘faking’ your nice attitude but he was proven wrong when you stepped up to help him during a rough patch after a difficult deployment, breaking through his walls brick by brick

Thought you were the happiest person until he saw you crumble while you talked about your past relationships and how badly you were treated and hurt.

This lead to him being angered and sending out a few of his men to do a background check up on your exes who soon won’t be seeing light above the ground anymore

Loves how you can be yourself around him and display your femininity without being judged.

Let’s you paint his nails pink and wears them to work next day because he knows it’s your way of claiming him.

Wearing it to work attracts a lot of attention though, a few people snicker in the background about how stupid he’s looking

While the rest are more astonished to know that their lieutenant is actually dating someone because why there is no other explanation to why he’d have his fingernails painted pink with heart nail-art on the middle finger.

Soap is one of the many people who tries his best to get tea from Simon during break time,

“So ya got y’rself a missus and didn’ even tell yr’ best friend ‘bout it?

Simon just laughs it off and ends the conversation.

Johnny being the persistent penguin he is, decides to show up at Simon’s house bringing Gaz and price as leverage

They’re shocked to see a real not imaginary girl open the door, such a pretty girl at that too

Simon hears the chatter outside and walks up to see if everything’s okay, only to see his team standing on his front porch with a biscuit box to gift in johnnys hand.

You invite them in and serve them snacks while they just stare at the bleak contrast between you and Simon.

You’re the definition of sunshine and well, he‘s just simon

Soap and gaz tease simon on how he managed to ‘bag Such a pretty thing”

While Simon just gives them a glare that says “fuck off”

While price asks for your muffin recipe.

After the boys leave, simon cuddles you right that night an mumbles how he’s so lucky to have you and how much he loves you.

(He got affected by what soap and gaz said about you and how you’re out of his league.)

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊⋆ ₊ ﾟ ☽ * ₊ ⋆* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊⋆ ₊ ﾟ ☽ * ₊ ⋆ ੈ✩

Header credits to- @anitalenia

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erindrinkstea · 6 months ago

Text

Fractured Foundations

Poly! Groveling! 141 x GN! Reader

TW: Angst, Emotional Abuse, Violence, Blood, and Death

Description, Part 1, Part 2 Announcement

Main Masterlist | CoD Masterlist

Note: First Chapter Rewrite!

The Task Force 141.

Everyone in the Military respected and looked up to the special task force.

They were perfectly disciplined soldiers working in perfect sync— extremely loyal with an unbreakable bond like no other.

Once, you used to look to them as well. You adored them and idolized them. That all changed the moment you had entered their circle— you had been faced with the cold hard truth. You were an outsider.

Your arrival to them disturbed their perfect balance. Unlike the rest of the team, Price did not choose you. He didn't want you and nor did the others.

You could not blame them, your first impression made a nasty mark on the team. It was one thing for the 141 to not like you but it was another for them to hate you.

Months before you joined the 141, you were a proud member of a different team. A team that happened to have been assigned accidentally to the same mission as the 141. In the confusion, mistaking Soap for the enemy— you took the shot. The shot that almost costed the Scot his life as it pierced straight through his jugular.

It was only after your Captain had knocked the rifle out of your hands did you realize what you gunned down wasn't the enemy but a fellow soldier.

They would have had your head if not for your combat medic that saved the scotsman's life and pleaded for yours to be spared.

The guilt of what happened clung to you and stained your hands with red.

You thought you would never cross paths with the 141 again after the incident, ruining your first impression with the task force.

Years later, things changed after one mission gone wrong with your team.

A mission that cost the lives of not only your Captain but your First Lieutenant as well. It wasn't much of a surprise to you when the rest of your team disbanded, leaving you behind in the field.

The deaths of their superiors and close friends was a sign for them to finally retire.

You were the last remaining member of your team that still persisted to continue in your duty. So you went to Laswell for reassignment and was met with shock once she announced you'd be going to the Task Force 141.

The one task force who you would rather avoid your entire life if you could help it.

She spoke to you of how your potential can be properly utilized under the right team and she believes that the 141 would need an asset like you.

Emphasis on the need. Not want.

The team was not delighted with the news of your addition, you weren't all that excited either. The team saw different from Laswell, they saw a liability rather than an asset.

A reminder of what haunts them years back. A person that almost costed them the life of their friend.

Captain John "Price". He's the team's steady leader, always maintaining a polite facade. You noticed that his signature handshakes and shoulder pats— a small yet important gesture of his trust— were absent when it came to you. He liked to keep his contact with you in the minimum. It hurt you seeing how he acts like touching you hurt him.

Sargeant John "Soap" Mactavish. He and his easy charm and chatty mouth. He was neutral around you, always quiet and keeping the conversation quick and straight to the point. You felt shame whenever he would trace the scar on his neck, never letting you forget what happened.

Sargent Kyle "Gaz" Garrick. He was known for showing affection to his team in subtle ways, never afraid to show his loyalty through actions. They did say actions speak louder than words and when he often actively avoided you— it stings. He may be subtle with his love for the team but his dislike to you was clear as day. His posture often becoming stiff when you were both in the same room.

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley. He wasn't just rude or cold like the others, he was terrifying. His tones always sharp, always scrutinizing your every move, and the weight of his glare made you feel like suffocating. Whatever respect he afforded his teammates, he withheld from you with deliberate intent.

You had tried to make amends.

For two years without relenting— you took up the responsibility of the reports, organizing the armory, and cooking meals after missions knowing that Gaz would be too exhausted.

But nothing you did seem to matter.

Today was just another reminder.

"Apologies, Lieutenant." You held back tears, feeling like a kid under the heat of Ghost's scolding. The mission went a bit sideways after an enemy managed to take you hostage— almost using you for escaping if not for Soap's clean shot.

The bullet slightly grazed you cheek as it landed a finishing blow in the enemy's head. "This better not happen again, Lieutenant." Ghost stormed off without another word, leaving you feeling embarrassed and ashamed.

It was unfair. You knew that they hold great resentment against you but still— "This isn't fair." You mumble, close to tears.

Why did you have to apologize? Soap never did when he made a mistake— everyone laughed it off. You got taken off guard and it wasn't your fault yet they still blamed you.

The team was supposed to stick together and they left you behind, never bothered to check if you were still following. Probably never noticed until you got taken hostage.

They never even felt scared for your life— you saw how Ghost looked at you when the enemy held you in gunpoint. He was ready to drop you for the mission. He had decided then and there that your life was not worth it. You saw how ready he was, never faltering his hold on his gun.

You snap out of your thoughts.

"Hey, sweet girl." You blinked away tears before it could escape as the German Shepherd entered the room. She immediately circled your feet and tilted her head curiously, sensing that you were upset. "I'm okay." You assured, kneeling down to rub her head.

After a while, you retreated back to your room. You slumped onto your bed and looked at the picture frame by your test. A photo of you and your former team. You missed them.

You missed being in a team that actually accepted you. A team where you actually belonged.

You drowned in your thoughts for a couple minutes before mumbling, "I don't wanna do this anymore." You don't want to retire but you didn't want to stay in the 141 any longer. It was torture.

You left your room, heading to the kitchen to get something to bite, food was always a welcome comfort. It was better than sulking.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

You passed Gaz on the way but didn't bother with even acknowledging his presence. The Sargeant paused mid-step, glancing at you as you continued to pass him.

For once, he didn't become stiff but felt uncomfortable nonetheless. You looked... blank. A look that he had seen from tortured vitims that seem to have given up. It didn't well with him that you looked that way.

In the end, he didn't think much of it and brushed it off as exhaustion after the mission. But you were never the type to ignore a person even when tired and when you just passed him—

It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

#Erindrinkstea #Call of Duty #Task Force 141 #CoD #TF141 #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #john price #Task Force 141 x Reader

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imaginedreamwrite · 3 months ago

Note

its fine if you don't want to do this request, I've just been thinking of it for a while and figured I'd try it out.

Omega medic reader who has caught the eye of 141 and they want to court her. But she has a past and woth that past is a child. Child is around 1.5/2 and for some reason ended up on base and causes confusion between 141.

She was your closely guarded secret. Your little girl that had been born almost 2 years ago was not known to many people on base, and you were grateful for that. She was the child you had with your ex, an alpha who signed rights away before she was even born.

Your sweet girl, your darling girl, was beautiful and your whole world. You had done all that you could to keep knowledge of her existence to only a select few, especially considering you were an omega who worked on a military base.

It wasn’t inherently that you didn’t trust the alpha’s you worked with because most of them were incredible soldiers. Your decision to keep your daughter a secret was to protect her from getting attached, from being hurt by an alpha who might come into your life without wanting to stay.

All things considering, you had it fairly good.

You were an unmarked and unmarked omega, a nurse who worked in the hospital and lived in an on base housing unit. Your daughter was in daycare on base, close to your work and home, giving you more time to spend with her.

Still, the secrecy weighed on you, you know it did.

Especially when it came to them, the four alpha’s who were persistently trying to court you. The 141 alpha’s—Captain John Price, Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley, Sergeant John Soap MacTavish and Sergeant Kyle Gaz Garrick—were on your radar, and you were on theirs. It didn’t matter if you were emotionally guarded and physically closed off to courting, they tried anyway.

They wouldn’t push, they weren’t those kinds of alpha’s, yet they hadn’t tried to hide their intentions. They wanted to court you, and if you didn’t have the secret you carried you might have given in.

But it wasn’t just you, it was your daughter as well. And your daughter, your sweet little girl, didn’t need to be getting attached to alpha’s. You didn’t need the risk of her thinking those alpha’s were her daddies, only for them to potentially walk out.

No, you were keeping her a secret to protect her. Or that was your initial thought, your initial plan that had been going extraordinarily well until it hadn’t.

You were in a break in the mess hall, your scrubs a little scuffed and dirty from a long shift. Your eyes felt heavy, your body ached from a lack of sleep and your daughter’s inability to sleep last night. You had found a quiet table at the back of the mess hall, though it hadn’t stayed quiet for long when Sargent Garrick and Sergeant MacTavish joined you.

The conversation was cordial, though they were clearly trying to get you to open up to them, whilst you were keeping it as neutral as possible. As they were asking about your plans for the weekend, you saw your daughter being carried by one of the daycare staff. Your heart leapt out of your chest when you saw your daughter, her face pale and her eyes wide, hands gripping the daycare teachers shirt.

“I’m sorry, she wanted her mama. And we tried calling but your phone must’ve died, the hospital admin said you were on break. She’s not feeling good-“ the teacher walked up to the table, speaking to you with sympathy as your daughter shifted, practically dove toward you.

You caught her as she dove for you, her hands balled into your scrubs, her soft little whimpers evidence of her ill state. You rubbed her back, left in your own state of shock as your secret came crashing down around you.

“Mama? You have a bairn, hen?” Johnny’s surprise was equal to Gaz’s, both of their scents reflecting their confusion. “Why didnae tell us?”

“It’s complicated-” you struggled for words, couldn’t find the means to speak, to gather your thoughts. Your eyes flit from Johnny to Gaz, and then back again. Ultimately you felt like you were caught between a rock and a hard place, uncertain of what to do next.

But as your baby girl mumbled a mama, you were quick to rise to your feet. You didn’t bother with your food, you didn’t bother giving Gaz or Johnny an explanation, you started walking away from them. You had to take your daughter home, you had to put her to bed and take care of her-“

“Y/N, wait!” Gaz called after you, the sound of his footsteps carting after you, his long strides bringing him to your side quicker than expected.

“Don’t-” you stopped, looking back at him, back at Johnny—and beyond, where Ghost and Price now stood, your secret blown up.

“Why didn’t you tell us, love? What’d you think we’d do, hmm?” Gaz spoke softly, the pause you took giving Johnny enough time to catch up to the two of you.

“She’s beautiful, hen.” Johnny’s voice was gentle, a croon as he ducked his head and smiled at your girl who was clinging to you. “Just like her mama.”

“Can we not do this right now? She’s sick, she needs to go home.” You backed up, you inched away from them, feeling like a cornered animal who had to choose between saving themselves and saving their child. “I didn’t tell you because I…I have my reasons-”

“Ya don’t need to push us away, love. Let us-“ you were being overwhelmed by scents, their alpha pheromones growing and meshing once the other two joined. Price and Ghost gazed upon you and your daughter, just as equally surprised as Johnny and Gaz.

“I have to go.” You kept your daughter pressed to your body, securing her against your chest. You didn’t wait for them to say anything else, you turned away from them and left the mess hall, taking your daughter home.

Your secret, all your protective instincts and steps were all outdone in a single moment, caused by the flu.

#alpha!john price #alpha!John Price x omega!reader #alpha!kyle Gaz Garrick x omega!Reader #alpha!Simon Riley x omega!reader #alpha!John MacTavish x omega!Reader

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modernquackfare · 5 months ago

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Hello, how are you? If you're taking requests could you please write this one. Its been cooking in my brain since christmas.

Its a bit funny, angsty with lots of misunderstanding. So basically, Ghost has a civilian wife he never told the taskforce because he's overprotective. Now they are in deployment and simon is downright a pain in the ass with a permanent chub in his paints.

Soap or Gaz thinks he's like that due to being sexually frustrated and enlist a not so new recruit who have been with them for like six months, to get rid of simon's problem and it doesn't hurt that the recruit has a crush on Ghost.

The last day of deployment and they make the operation seduce ghost on when its so happens to be bring your family to base day and the taskforce finds out about wife!reader.

Could you please write this, i know its a bit long and complicated. Thank you❤️❤️

A/N: This was an awesome idea to write and think about! Thank you for the request :) i kinda did a little bit of head hopping here, sorry, and i hope it doesnt take away from the enjoyment of reading TT

Ghost x Fem!Reader - Secret Wife

CW: Sexual references MDNI

This really isn't Ghost's scene anymore. A dim and dusty dive bar, considered upscale in comparison to The Foxhole back on base. Every surface slick with polished wood, torn cushions under his thighs, and the smell of a deep laugh lingering in every corner. At the very least, they serve drink that isn't watery beer or tequila that tastes like paint.

It's not the bar itself, per se, that he's lost his taste for—but rather the hand that shakes his shoulder away from his glass, leading to an arm that leads to the Scottish pain in his ass.

"Her over there," Soap nudges, blithely unaware of his own pointing finger. "Thas' gotta be yer type, aye? C'mon, throw us a bone here, or we’ll need to start huntin' for the perfect lad for you instead."

"Don't start, Johnny," Ghost grunts, his unoccupied hand dusting the air in dismissal.

Gaz leans in, warm gaze turned to the very woman sitting at the bar just feet away. None of them can quite recall her name, but hers is a bit of a familiar face. A smile in the hall, or accidental eye contact in the briefing room. One of a hundred others, Ghost bitterly notes, adjusting the fit of his trousers under the table.

Is it too much to hope for a quiet night out, with nothing but a bourbon to nurse and a silent curse at Ghost's own decision to persist in this line of work? It's been on his mind lately, that decision of his. He could have settled, found himself some kind of security gig or the deed to a run down warehouse he can turn into a gym. Found himself his very own Rocky Balboa to lead to victory—or something.

"If you won't do it, I will," Gaz quips, pushing himself out of the booth and striding on over to Miss Solitude at the bar. The woman turns, gaze flicking from Gaz, to their table, and then back to Gaz.

Soap shakes his head. "Right in there, like a bloody rat up a drainpipe. You’ve gotta be quicker than that, LT. No need to be shy, you just buy her a bevvy and get to talkin'."

"Was never a chance to begin with."

"Like hell there wasn't."

The conversation is finalized with a scoff and flicking hand, as if Ghost meant to shoo away a buzzing fly. Might as well be.

***

If it wasn't the long showers, it was how distracted he was behaving lately. If not that, then it definitely came down to the absolute wallop Ghost landed on Soap a week or more later during their hand-to-hand combat training. Something has the lieutenant in the trenches of his own mind—and if only to preserve the unbruised quality of his own skin, Soap recruits Gaz in his efforts to get Ghost laid.

Gaz snickers behind his hand when Soap first suggests the idea. "You sure that's the problem here? It's not like—"

"Just think about it, Gaz," Soap insists, gesturing as if presenting to a row of investors. "He's never spent a night anywhere but in his own bloody room. Like he's some kind of old man who needs to be in bed before nine. I mean, look at him."

The two turn to watch Ghost in his spot by the wall, gazing into a gooey custard bun he's torn in half. He squeezes it, shoves one half back into its wrapper, and stuffs it into his pocket.

Gaz whistles softly. "It's like watching a big cat pace in a cage."

"Aye, I know. And I have a plan to fix it." Soap then gestures across the firing range, to a certain figure clutching a pistol in two hands. Liora, her name is? Something like that.

Raising an eyebrow, Gaz tilts his head. "What, with her? Girl from the bar? She was nice when I talked with her, but she's already got her eyes on someone else already. Not sure who, but she's practically taken, mate."

"Never say never," Soap winks nonetheless, gesturing lightly as Liora lays down her gun. He then shrugs suggestively, beginning his trek towards her. "Lt's a silver tuna, being all masked up and sour as he is. Given the chance, well—"

"I'm sure," Gaz sighs, tinged with light amusement. "Go on, then. Go ask her."

***

As it turns out, Soap and Gaz have half their job done for them. Liora, as quiet as she is, and largely suspicious about her two superiors' intentions, eventually reveals that her affinity for this mystery man does, in fact, lead back to Ghost. Akin to a schoolgirl, she's got a crush. A fierce one.

In between missions, while Ghost is tapping away at a laptop and twitching in his seat, Gaz nudges Liora into delivering him some coffee. If not that, Soap pushes her into volunteering during training to spar with him. All the while, she tries to hold his gaze a little longer, let her hand linger just a little more. This time in particular, Soap and Gaz giggle across the room like children with a toy car, watching as Liora gathers up her courage to tell Ghost a joke.

"Soap said you liked jokes," she shrugs. "So...why did the soldier bring a ladder to the training ground?"

"Mmh, why?" Ghost mumbles, half attentive to her words.

Liora cluelessly sits beside him, half a giggle in her voice. "To join the high ranks." It coaxes an amused huff out of him—and nothing more.

***

How could Ghost find anything funny these days? The tension is up to his ears, racing through every vein. And his wife, God, his poor wife back home has no idea what's in store for her once this damned deployment is over. You sent him a lovely little video from the shower this morning to try to ease the pain of being away for so long. A sweet gesture in intention, but all it's done is exacerbate the ache in his loins and tongue for a familiar feel and taste, to hold you in his arms and sink steadily into you or press you to the wall as he takes what he needs from your soft, pliable body.

Ghost grunts. Damn his mind. He's the very farthest thing from a professional when it comes to you. Liora—or so the others call that girl—is gone by the time he's come to his senses, replaced by Soap, who pounds a closed fist against his back in greeting. "Hopeless, brother. You're hopeless."

"Piss off, Johnny."

"You keep squirmin' like your gear's riding up," He sighs, hands on his hips. "Still cannae wrap ma head 'round why you won't just give her a shot."

Ghost glares up at him, attention diverted from his work. "You been puttin' her up to this?"

"She's nae faking, Ghost. C'mon. Give the poor lass a chance. C'mon, ma pride's hingin' on this, mate." Soap grabs hold of his shoulder and shakes it around, moving him like a damn joystick. "Go on, you wee bawbag, at least give her the time o' day."

"14:32, you muppet."

Soap leaves it at that with a laugh, swaggering off elsewhere as Ghost counts down the hours until he can retreat to the privacy of his room and fist his cock to your little videos until it hurts.

***

The end of his deployment. Never a sweeter day there's been—aside from your wedding, perhaps. Ghost is shedding layers in his room, yanking off his fatigues in exchange for civvies, just as the creaking sound of his unlocked bedroom door sounds out. You're here. Normally, Ghost saves you any kind of journey and just heads home alone—but the impatience is getting to his fevered brain. Besides, you could do with a little break from the house.

He turns to face you. "Oh, I've been on the brink of murdering—"

Ghost's words come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Liora, rather than you, standing in the doorway of his room. This is a dangerous situation for her, invading on a superior's privacy without a clear go-head. Not to mention rude in it of itself. He drops his shirt, suddenly aware of his own half-dress. No one but his wife sees him like this, tattooed sleeve bared, boots off and nothing but a face mask to hide his identity.

He doesn't speak, thinking his cold stare would do the job for him, as it tends to, but clueless Liora steps forward in a rush of misplaced confidence. "Just wanted to say goodbye," she whispers, her hand reaching out to stroke his arm. It makes his skin tingle in all the worst ways. "Guess I'll have to find a new sparring partner for now, sir. Hope they can take hits as well as you."

Does she not see it, he wonders. How he dodges her touch and exhales a sigh of indifference. Poor girl. She's got a lot to learn.

His indifference, nonetheless, does not deter her. Liora trails her hand up his shoulders, far too intimate for a girl who is little more than an acquaintance. But curse his speed, failing him at the most crucial of times—the door opens again, and of course, you walk in as Ghost has a hand on Liora's wrist. Unclear to you whether he meant to push it away or pull it closer. Ghost releases his grip and mutters a sharp, "leave us," to the girl, before facing his beloved wife.

There you stand, as pretty as the day he met you, gaze flitting from a mortified Liora—now leaving the room—to your husband. Ghost stalks closer, brown eyes softening at the sight of you. "Was waiting for you, love."

"You needed company to wait for me?" You ask, arms crossing before your chest. That sting of instinctual fear and possessiveness, the tight curling ache in your gut that clenches at the thought of being deceived and abandoned by the once you love most—you can't ignore it. Logic attempts to unfurl its spindly talons, telling you that it would make no sense for Ghost to have called some girl into his room just as his wife makes her way up to see him. But what was she doing in his room? Pawing at him, as if it were her place to do so?

Ghost's gaze falls fondly upon you, warm and uncharacteristically tired. "Didn't ask for her to come in. She helped herself."

"Really?" you huff, treading forward to stop before him. "Didn't look like it, Si."

"Doesn't have to," He grunts back. "You trust me."

It's true. You know the kind of man he is, and it isn't a cheating fool that takes what he has for granted. God knows he wouldn't risk losing more after everything he's already lost. Especially not you, the light of his shadowy life. Your arms fall to your sides, and you sigh. "She must have had real guts, then. Coming into your room, trying to...what was it she wanted, anyway?" Feeling the tension siphon from the room, Ghost returns to packing, laying haphazardly folded shirts into his last duffel and grunting a noncommittal sound. "Fuck if I know. 'M pretty sure it's Soap and Gaz's doing, though. They've been insisting on me giving her a chance. Poor tossers got another thing comin'." You laugh as you take a seat beside his bag, glancing around the room. Impersonal decor, as always. Ghost has always been a private person, even within the confines of privacy. Hell, his closest friends don't even know you exist. It used to make you suspicious, being his secret girlfriend back in the day. Now, though, the secrecy is natural, comforting even.

"I don't suppose you'd be up to ending that streak, would you?" You suggest, leaning over his bag.

Ghost can only sigh, the deepest gust of breath he's ever held. May God smite him where he stands if he ever says no to you.

***

Gaz, mouth agape, glances over at the Scot beside him. "A wife?"

Ghost, inevitably, agreed to let the two of them meet you. That makes three other people out of the entire base that knows of your existence—the third being Price. You wave, albeit a little shyly, and smile in greeting the numpties that Ghost has spoken so much about. Good guys, if a bit foolish. "That's me."

"Creepin' Jesus," Soap grimaces, in all of his discomfort and mild embarrassment, "Didnae ken you had a wife, Lt. Couldnae have told me that before I started nudging that other poor lass into trying to get a ride outta you?"

Flicking his head up in satisfaction, Ghost chuckles. "Teach you a lesson, you children. I think you owe my missus an apology." "Ach, sorry ma'am," Gaz concedes, while Soap follows with a similarly apologetic smile.

"You've got a bonnie one, Lt. Save some for the rest of us, eh?" "Not happening. What the hell made you think that was a good idea?"

Soap glances over at him, eyebrows raised. "What, setting you up? You needed a ride, man, you were fair uptight and tense all the time. Almost put a window in my face wi' that fist o' yours."

It evokes another breathy laugh from you, drawing your husband's loving gaze before it trails back to Soap and Gaz. "Right. But that's my business, isn't it?"

"Thanks for trying to help him out anyway," You cut in, nodding your head politely to their happy smirks. "I'm sure he needed it, even if he does do his best not to show it."

Your words earn you a stern gaze—but nothing you couldn't handle. Let Ghost direct that energy into something else. Something fun that you have a few ideas for.

Soap and Gaz bid their goodbyes to Ghost before walking off, audibly muttering, "how the hell did that sour old bastard get such a sweet wife?" Or something along those lines. Regardless, you turn your attention to your dear, suffering husband with a tricky smirk. "So. You've been having some difficulties lately? Anything I could help with? If you're not expected to be somewhere else within the next hour or so, that is."

It coaxes a deep chuckle out of your husband, who's already sliding his hand 'round your waist down to the curve of your ass, gently squeezing. Nobody's around to see, anyhow. Ghost whispers into your reddening ear. "I think we'll be needing more than an hour, sweet thing."

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kyokutsu-sama · 1 year ago

Text

Headcanons

"How would they react if you sat on their lap and hugged them while they were busy?" A/n: I had this one lost in my drafts for a while and I didn't even remember it😅(It was a bit of a random idea, but somehow it was cute❤️)

---------------------------------------------------

Jushiro : Jushiro seemed focused on the papers that were on the table and had forgotten the world around him, but you decided to test him a little. You opened the door and saw the man with long white hair lost in his thoughts who didn't even realize you were there until you started approaching the table. He looked at you and smiled, you approached him and sat on his lap hugging him, which left him a little confused at first and asked you about it. "Are you okay, love?" He asked when he felt your fingers caressing the back of his neck "Yes, I just came to give you a hug and see how you were" He smiled and kissed your cheek as thanks for worrying about him. He's such a cutie and he wouldn't mind if you stayed there with him.

Shunsui : Shunsui, for the first time in his life, seemed to be doing his job properly. If it hadn't been for Nanao threatening him, saying that she would drag him to the office by his hair if she found him drunk in one of the bars in Seireitei, he wouldn't have been there. You met him in the office and smiled after seeing him working, you got close to him and he switched his attention to you. "Y/n! Good to see you here dear" He greeted, leaning back in the chair. You didn't say anything and sat on his lap and hugged him, he hugged you and placed a few kisses on your neck, still wondering why such a kind act and why you haven't said a word since you entered. "You missed me, didn't you?" He asked, moving your face away from his shoulder and looking at you "Actually, I just came by to hug you, but I can't say I didn't miss you a little" You said running your hands over his face "My lieutenant threatened me and that's the reason I'm here" You smiled and placed your head in the crook of his neck, keeping him close to you.

Byakuya : Busy as always, Byakuya had a somewhat tired look as he read and reread the endless reports on his desk. You opened the door a little and peeked inside only to find him focused on his work, you entered and went to him. He only realized that you were there when you got close to him and put him back in the chair and sat on his lap, then he raised an eyebrow, confused by the fact that you just sit on his lap and hugged him for no apparent reason. "Is everything okay Y/n?" He asked after a while "Yes, I'm just stopping by to see you" You said as you ran your fingers through his hair "I was working on---" "Just stop for a moment, okay ?"You smiled at him, caressing his cheek He took a long sigh but didn't want to persist, surrendering to your affection.

Kenpachi : Of all the places you thought he could be, the office was the one where you least expected him to be. He hated that part of the job, you were the one who took on that role and you even used to scold him for spending his days away or leaving all that work to you. You watched him for a while, still trying to believe what your eyes were seeing, who would have thought he would be there? You closed the door and walked over to him, you sat on his lap and hugged him. He dropped the papers on the table and didn't hesitate to question you about that action. "Are you trying something, woman?" He asked, frowning "No, I just came to check on you. Is it wrong to worry about you?" You asked, looking at his confused expression "No, it's not. Unless you have a good reason for sneaking in here and sitting on my lap" "Beyond concern and kindness, no, I don't think so" You smiled and tried to move away from him "You're playing with fire, woman. Come here"He said before pinning your body against his with one arm And that's it, now you were trapped in his arms and he wouldn't let you go anytime soon.

#bleach #bleach fandom #gotei 13 #shunsui kyoraku #zaraki kenpachi #jushiro ukitake #byakuya kuchiki #bleach imagines #bleach headcanons #bleach x reader

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