#simon ghost x reader

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

[sheepispink]

lt simon riley x hybrid!reader in which you're forced into his life and he cant handle it, ignoring your existence until you talk to inanimate objects to make up for it. angst ofc

sorry if this is lowkey bad, my writing has been flopping rn

edit: i am aware that the oh post had more than a few similarities to the op whose work i credited. I have responded here and made necessary adjustments to this fic. If i hear no response, then it will be left like this and i will do no other changes.

PART TWO

The news of a hybrid being assigned to him was the worst possible, maybe even comparable to the time he had to wear full gear in the middle east. There was just something about it he didnt like, not that he wanted to stereotype their kind but some could be so clingy, so needy and to think he’s have that, following him around? . But what he hates more is the way you’re sitting outside his flat door when he hears the knock, wide eyes trying to entice him to your outstretched hand. Though unfortunately for you, he just closes the door again.

For the first week, you tried over and over again. He didn't seem to want to talk to you at all, let alone acknowledge that you were in his house. The only instructions he ever spoke was to not leave the house nor damage anything inside the house. It wasn't like you’d attempt to test either rules on purpose anyway. Instead, you tried to be useful by cleaning up where you could, even if you couldn't help but get distracted by how fun sliding across the freshly mopped floors were. Plus, blanket forts were so fun to make, what do you mean they made more mess? You switched to cooking soon after, attempting to make him breakfast except every time you tried to wake up early, he was always already gone. So, you wake up extra, extra early, finding out he wakes at five and so you wake up at four the next day. You decide on sizzled meat rashers, a fried egg and a toaster waffle because you don't really understand how the oven works. It’s not your fault his has so many funny buttons.

Unfortunately for you, his hearing is almost as good as yours, or perhaps he just never sleeps properly. That’s why he walked in just when you were nodding off in a bowl of cracked eggs, the time too early for a young one like you, even if you were well into your twenties. He left the house with a slam that day.

After that you stopped trying, noticing it to be clearly obvious that he didn't want anything to do with you in the slightest. He didn't even glance at you, or ask if you wanted to eat anymore. The only reminder that you actually lived here were the remnants of your fur on the fluffy pillow that was your bed, and your name written on your pre-bought meals since he didn't trust you in his kitchen anymore. Questions were left to hang in the air, soft whines echoing around the empty room each night and only the dim TV for company.

Ghost had returned early today, a problem in base had left the place in slight disarray and the task force thought it’d be better if they just packed up for the day, maybe do paperwork at home instead. He clicks open the door, surprised to actually hear noise in the usually silent flat, though he’s already dreading whatever mess you’ve cooked up. As he enters the hallway, the noise becomes clearer, sounding like a voice, your voice, actually. “This is a super secret covert meeting, alright everyone? No one can know!” You squeak, and he’s raising a brow, mind already jumping to conclusions of you being a double agent sent to spy on him. He should’ve known they’d pull a dirty trick like that, especially with how Graves has been acting, there’s bound to be others to follow. But to infiltrate his own home is something that brings him great anger, making him all the more silent when he sneaks around the house, mind running through potential ways he’ll interrogate the information out of you.

A double agent was far too much credit for you though. You were just a silly animal who was sitting on the sofa opposite a tatty teddy bear, a pillow with a messily drawn paper face stuck to it and a t-shirt that you had draped over a pillow, the cartoon cat staring back at you. They have mugs in front of them, albeit not full of anything apart from your own mug of tea. “Just kidding, let’s order then we can start.”

You hum, pretending to take a list from the bear though it’s actually those takeaway menus that come through the letterbox. He watches carefully as you pick up one at random, eyes squinting as you attempt and almost fail to read the text. Facilities never bothered with educating their hybrids, only intent in teaching them the arts of being loyal and desirable so they’d get their pay.

“Men….u? St.. art…eer?” It’s near impossible to understand any of it, and eventually you have to put it down, huffing out a complaint. “Okay fine, i can't read at all.” Frustrated, you pull off the t-shirt, leaving the pillow to fall on the floor. You’ve watched countless videos, only with the help of the voice recognition function on the remote control, and have attempted daily for this whole week. “So what have you guys done this week?”

He notices now that you have the tv displaying an episode from those random TV series, you probably don't even know the name of it. You’re almost attempting to recreate the same scene of the friends sitting around the table, eyes flickering at the TV as you eye how they sit. You mimic a squeaky voice, holding the teddy bear by the scruff as you move its head around. “I went to the park with my handler.”

Somehow your eyes light up despite the fact you had made that up yourself, clapping your hands together. “Wow, I love the park! I wish I could chase the squirrels…” Your expression falters for a second, eyes drooped until you shake your head, moving to puppet the pillow in the middle instead. “I went to the movies with mine, and then we got icecream.”

You smile again, retracting your hand and placing it on your hips. “Damn, icecream too! ..Um.. It doesn’t matter what I did. We should do something together, but it has to be something easy.. and not too fun because if we leave a mess Simon will be mad.” He almost feels bad, but it’s not his fault, you will make a mess, and he’s already tired enough as it is. What he hadn't expected was what you’d say next.

“I don't think we’ll be able to do these meetups anymore guys.” You mumble out, frown growing on your lips as you puppeteer the bear. “What, why?”

“I-i think I’ll be getting kicked out soon. Or maybe I should just run away.. Should I? I mean, it’s not a totally bad idea and Simon won't have to deal with me!”

You stare back at the two fake people in front of you, the silence hanging heavy in the air until you reach forward, plucking the paper smiley face off the pillow and sticking on a sad face instead. “I know, I know— running away is bad and I'll only get hurt. What else then?”

The silence is long again and for once Simon can feel the distraught look on your face as you clench the hem of your loose sweater, nose wrinkled. It’s clear you’re not feeling too good, especially if you’ve resorted to talking to your own stuffed animals about running away to make him happier. It’s a pitiful sight to say the least but he can't blame you either, he’s purposefully ignored every single one of your feeble attempts to talk to him. It’s not like it helps that you’ve been cooped in a house for two weeks straight, not able to talk to anyone else. Now that he’s forced to notice, forced to think about it, it’s clear he’s torturing you, in some sick unintentional way. You’re locked away, a prisoner, a ghost— someone no one even knows exists despite how much you cry and beg for a sound to be made.

The small shuffle of your steps is sad, the way you put everything into position perfectly in case he gets annoyed, not that he’d ever express it anyway– sometimes you wish he just would say something, anything. But he doesn't, and you take the tatty teddy bear, hugging it to your chest. Not even your tail can bring you much warmth, the matted fur rough against your skin as you’ve failed to upkeep it’s maintenance the more miserable you grow.

You wont stay here for long, you’ll be moved elsewhere and grow older, less ‘desirable’ as you lose all your hybrid fluffiness until you’re finally left on the streets, scavenging bins for food like your parents did. A cycle that only repeats for you.

—————-

part 2

other hybrid drabble i did

[leyavo]

Simon x Cat x Neighbour!reader

Part two > (previous part)

Simon Riley was a lot like his cat, dropping by your flat whenever he wanted. Thanking you for looking after Cat in small little ways.

Bringing you home little trinkets from his work travels. “Got it from some market, can’t tell you where though. Would have to kill ya and I really don’t want that.” Little things that line every inch of your windowsill, crystals he’s found because he knows you like them.

Thankfully it wasn’t a mouse, Simon hunting one down after Cat delivered one to you. And as you watched him pause, head angled to listen for the squeaks or little scurries. You couldn’t help but think he was a cat too. For a big guy, he was light on his feet and everything he did quiet.

“Dinner?” You asked, trying not to look at the mouse dangling between Simon’s finger and thumb by its tail. “Not a huge fan of rodent.”

He invites you into his flat for the first time, promising that it’s rodent free. “Woah your place is real big,” you say, opening your arms in the space as if you expected to touch wall to wall. Simon’s thinking of all the activities he could do with you, but decides dinners a good start.

Dinner turns into grabbing a morning coffee after a run and even going on evening runs, which angers him because before him you never would have done so alone. Sitting on the bench in the park to stretch or take a rest as you sip your water bottle, stickers decorating the outside.

When the pipe under your sink was dripping water for months, he fixed it and you didn’t find out till you went to check if the bucket was full of water again. No, no bucket under the sink. There was a small tool box in its place, stuff you had no idea what to do with.

Cat was drinking from the bucket under the sink, that’s how Simon discovered it. He’s even got a picture of it on his phone as well as a load of pictures you’d sent him with Cat. Sometimes he looks through them in his room back at the base. A few videos of your soft voice calling Cat.

So you sent him a picture of said toolbox and messaged him. “Did the fairies visit me?” He didn’t respond till the next day, “big bloody fairy.” promising to show you what they were for and sending you a video of basic plumbing if you wanted to learn yourself whilst you waited for his return.

Cue Simon teaching you how to fix the plumbing in your flat. The two of you squeezed into the little box of a bathroom as he listened to you explain about the low pressure of the shower and the tap on the sink you wanted to swap with something pretty.

The eroded shower hose snapping and spraying the both of you with water. Simon’s hoody drenched, sticking to every curve and dip of his muscles. Your back leant against the wall as his arm reached above you to turn the water off.

“I really wanna kiss ya,” he said, head inching closer to yours, gaze flitting to your lips. “Kiss me.”

You use his place for sex and make sure Cat is in your flat, “don’t want the kid to see,” is what Simon says.

Whenever Simon sees you’ve run out of anything, he’ll pick it up when he’s doing his weekly food shop. The coffee sachets refilled when you go to the kettle and when you ask, Simon shrugs “the fairies,” he says, sipping his cup of tea with the morning paper.

Even when you are officially dating you were still going between the two flats. Joking that cat had the studio and you could stay with Simon.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: Did it hurt? Simon: Yes Y/N: I was talking about the fall from heaven Simon: It all hurts Simon: My life is constant pain and suffering Y/N: Stop being depressed and flirt back!

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[simonz-angel]

sittin’ up on simon’s face and smothering him 👅👅👅

tears crest the corners of his eyes, throat gasping in a shuddering breath against you. n simon’s reeling, away and latching onto you in a mess of ecstasy. his cocky demeanor melts down his face in hot, salty tears, nose pulling into a soft scrunch as he tries his absolute best to keep up.

your hips roll, moaning and giggling when his nose nudges at your clit. your fingers curl into his hair, sliding through the short blonde before you grip tight and ground your hips down onto his open mouth. and he lets you, lets you use him as you please, his only defiance being the garbled whines.

“not so mouthy are ya’ now, huh, baby?” you smile down at him, pushing his head further into the feathery pillow supporting him, your sweet pussy fuckin smothering him.

n his big eyes glisten up at you, nails cutting into the plush of your thick thighs. he can’t tell if he’s in heaven with your warm, soft thighs wrapped tight round his head, with the way you shove your pussy onto his mouth. or hell with the way black pricks at the corners of his eyes.

his fingers tap, digging into the meat at the side of your thigh, whining. your hips slip upwards slightly when his back arches, when he writhes against the bed, desperate to get your attention to his leaking cock that lays pretty against his stomach.

“so damn needy,” you roll your eyes, pressing your hand into his forehead to get his head at just the right angle. “always thinkin’ with your fuckin cock.”

[goatgoesmbe]

You're a medic at Taskforce 141.

Except. you're still in medical school, at the final year, and must complete an elective rotation.

You applied for a specialized field elective, which is why you're here.

So expect more stress and sleep deprivation. finals. thesis. reports. all that on top of your work.

No time to care about yourself, messy hair, crumpled uniform worn to sleep, eyebags.

Of course, you work under supervision- a decent man really. He was just doing his job, but it pissed you off how he diminished you sometimes- making you feel like you can't do your job with many stuff on your plate already (which is true I guess, but- come on, you're here for the experience)

Fortunately, there are an odd four that somehow always made your day better.

Like how the Captain stepped in every time your supervisor not acknowledging you.

Or a certain sergeant with a mohawk who for some reason always needed something to patch up. He's probably just wreckless- but you like to think it's because he wanted to see you

Another sergeant- which was the kindest of the bunch. Will sometimes get you a cup of coffee how you like it, even accompany you during lunch- handfeeding you as you are busy studying for finals.

And the lieutenant cared about you in his own way.

Like that one time you were proof-reading your thesis late at night (or early morning) in the rec room..

"Your methodology is weak."

You jumped so hard that your laptop nearly toppled over.

Lieutenant Ghost stood behind you, arms crossed over his broad chest, silent as a ghost as he glanced at your screen, unimpressed.

"What-"

He ignored the question and nodded at your laptop. "You're making assumptions about patient stabilization times. Your sample size is too small. And your survival rate data is incomplete."

You frowned, feeling offended. "Excuse me-?"

Ghost exhaled, the closest thing to a sigh you'd ever heard from him.

He reached over, scrolling through your document with annoying precision, stopping at a paragraph.

"Here. You said field tourniquet applications reduce fatality rates by 60%, but you didn’t specify by mechanism—exsanguination control or delayed shock treatment?"

You stared. Not at the screen. At him.

This man—this cold, intimidating, emotionally-unavailable lieutenant—was critiquing her thesis at one in the morning.

"You… you read this?" You asked, incredulous.

He didn’t look at her. "You left your notes unsecured last week. I glanced through them."

"Glanced? You just ripped apart my entire methodology!"

He finally met your eyes, gaze sharp, unwavering.

"If you’re going to write a thesis based on field medicine, do it right. I won’t have you publishing half-baked conclusions based on incomplete data."

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He straightened, arms still crossed. "Rewrite them all tomorrow, get some sleep, or you’ll make more mistakes."

And just like that, he turned, heading toward the exit.

You called after him. "Lieutenant."

He paused.

"…Thanks," You mumbled with a smile.

He said nothing, but in the dim light, you swore you saw the faintest blush at the high of his cheeks- peeking behind his balaclava. And then he turned to walk away, disappearing into the night.

i like making reader to be miserable but loved, so- because let's be real, we read fics because we're miserable and wanted to be loved

[skyrigel]

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

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

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

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

One, two and — SMASH.

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

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

He has never been more in love.

Masterlist

[eddiesghxst]

18+ — MINORS DNI

idk something abt ghost, knowing how massive of a tank he is, refusing each and every one of your advances. you’re tiny! and ghost is big (in more ways than one). could lift you with his pinky finger— there’s no way his gigantic self is gonna fit anywhere in your body— “i’ll break you��— which was undeniably hot when he said it and sent your head spinning, but god you’re nothing if not persistent. a down right brat if ghost is being honest. but you don’t back down from a challenge and he can give you a star for that.

you have no clue what you’ve gotten yourself into— ghost can see it on your face when you tug his pants down. he’s got a tree swinging between his legs for fucks sake.

and usually this is when women shake their head and decide they’d like to still have the ability to walk, but you’re climbing over him with a type of determination ghost has only ever seen out on the field.

it takes a while— because ghost kept having to tell you to slow down, take your time— but eventually you get him in, and he’s not expecting you to get it all in, so imagine his shock when you keep wriggling your cunt down his cock.

he groans, heavy and low, can’t take his eyes off how nicely you split open on him. and when you get all the way down, ghost finally looks up at you and jesus christ— he can practically see your brain melting out of your ears. but god, he can’t stop now, no. he pulls you close and flips you over, gruff voice coming out low and annoyed as he slowly rolls his hips into you, a pitiful moan slipping from your lips as he grits out— “you never listen.“

you make a confused noise around a whiney moan and ghost huffs because— jesus christ you seriously never listen.

he leans in close, one hand fisted tight in your hair as the other grips your sheets and he presses into you deep, grunting when he feels your warm cunt fluttering around him.

“told you i’d fuckin’ break you.”

[starryylies]

Simon's reaction his s/o saying "waiting for it still marriage" but turns out she just wasn't ready to show her body ( tho she likes it but yk second thought about it) , but still wants to get fuk by him

Hii thank you for this ask!!

This ask hit close to home. I feel the same way honestly 😭😭

I’m so sorry on how late the response is. I hope you enjoy though!

You’d told simon pretty early on in the relationship that you wanted to wait until marriage.

Simon was perfectly fine with that because that indirectly meant you saw him getting married to you.

It was a Saturday afternoon and you thought Simon had gone to pick up some groceries while you were laying on your shared bed, on a call with your friend

You were expressing how you feel like a liar since you’re basically hiding the truth on as to why you don’t want to have sex with simon.

Simon being the sneaky fuck he is decided to evesdrop because he was suddenly nervous as to why you don’t want to do it with him if marriage is not the reason.

He started overthinking, feeling as if he isn’t attractive enough for you to actually have sex with him.

But his train of thought was halted when you told your friend that it’s because you don’t know if he will react pleasantly to the way your body looks and also because he’d be the first person to see it.

Simon was dumbfounded, like he genuinely didn’t understand where the fuck you’d even get the idea that he won’t like your stunning and perfect body, He knows it’s stunning and perfect because he’s staring at it almost all the time

but the first person to see it thing really inflated his ego.

Simon wants to burst in your room and confront you but he stops himself to hear what you have to say next

You tell your friend you’re scared he might find your body disgusting and unattractive.

And that’s when simon decides he’s heard enough and decides to barge into your room.

“Hey si, what’re you doing home so quick, did you get the groceries?” You’re startled by his sudden appearance and start worrying if he heard your conversation

“I never went”

“ were you evesdropping on me?” You ask hurriedly

“Yes” he says with a blank face.

You really don’t know how to reply to that but applaud his honesty from inside

“Love, I needa speak to you”

“I don’t get where you’ve gotten this idea from but ya really need to get rid of it” he says curtly

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” You groan out

“Well not hard enough.”

“Simon!”

“Okay sorry, but trust me luv. I’ll be the lucky bastard who’d get to see you and trust me there’s no way in hell I’d ever think of it as any less than the best”

“But si, it’s not like the girls on insta and TikTok”

“I don’t have social media”

“Fine then it’s not like the girls in porn”

“Even you know I don’t watch porn, find it fucking terrible and hilarious. Don’t know how ya wank to it honestly.”

You’re left speechless.

Simon seems to catch onto that and then continues to say,

“And love trust me, we don’t have to do it if you’re not ready yet. Whenever and wherever you are, I’m ready too” he gives you a soft pat on your head, tracing his fingers down to your cheek and giving it a soft pinch.

“So wherever?” You joke, giving him a toothy and mischievous smirk.

“In the fuckin’ backseat if ya want to baby” he laughs out, his deep chuckle reverberating in your spine.

“I love you si, thank you for not being an ass about this”

you give him a soft kiss which takes further by making it more intense, his mouth gobbling yours and sounds of soft moans in between flooding the room.

Oh and your friend on the call is stuck hearing all that as well :)

[moody-alcoholic]

Sick

Ghoap x reader, established relationship

CW: Sick reader, vomit, hurt/comfort.

I'm trying and failing to keep my random dribbles under 1k words.

____

“The whole thing’s a waste of time.” Johnny says as he walks through the front door with Simon.

“An order’s an order.” Simon replies, hanging his coat up. Johnny closes the door sighing.

“Don't mean I have to like it.” Johnny says following him. 

“Yeah well such is life.” Simon sighs, stepping down into the living room. 

“We’re home!” Johnny shouts walking into the living room. It's late, maybe you’re sleeping. Simon goes into the kitchen. 

It took all your energy to pull yourself out of bed, hearing them walk through the door and call for you, you forced yourself to move. You feel weak, shaky, your body is sticky with a fever. You thought it was just a cold, this is more than a cold. Your head is throbbing, your body aches. You’ve missed them though, you always miss them when they’re away. 

“Hey love.” Johnny calls coming over to you. You lean against the doorframe, nausea bubbles in you and you press your hand on your stomach. Your mouth fills with saliva and before you can stop yourself you’re sprinting to the bathroom. 

You hear footsteps following you as you vomit into the toilet. Your head throbs with each heave, tears run down your face. You feel hands on you, Johnny’s rubbing your back as Simon pulls your hair out your face. 

“You’re burning up love.” Johnny says the back of his hand pressing against your cheek.

“I thought it was just a cold.” You say as your stomach settles and you get a chance to breathe. 

“It’s more than a cold.” Simon says, stroking your head. “We need to get this fever down.” You reach over for the toilet paper to wipe your mouth. Johnny grips your shoulders pulling you against his chest. He pulls some paper off for you and presses it into your hands. You dab your mouth hearing Simon running the bath. 

Johnny’s arms wrap around you holding you against him. He presses kisses on your head running his hands over you. 

“I’m sorry.” You say feeling guilt rise in you, the shivering comes back and your head starts going foggy. 

“Don’t be silly love, we’re here now. You’re okay.” He says squeezing you tighter against him. Simon comes to bend down next to you both, his hand comes up to brush your forehead. 

“Why didn’t you call us? We could have come home.”  He says. 

“You’re busy, I didn’t want to bother you.” You say. Simon sighs, leaning over and planting a kiss on your forehead before he leaves the room. Cold air blows in and you shiver in Johnny’s chest. He grips you tighter, running his hands up and down your arms to try and warm you. 

“C’mon, let’s get you out of these clothes.” He encourages tugging on the bottom of your pyjama top. You raise your arms for him letting him strip the soaked clothes off you, you shiver wrapping your arms around your chest. He shuffles pulling your bottoms off before picking you in his arms. 

“I can walk.” you murmur as he places you down in the hot water of the bath. 

“Sure.” He chuckles as Simon comes back into the bathroom with a glass of water in his hand. He bends down by the bath helping you bring it up to your mouth. You take little sips while Johnny coos over you, picking up a flannel and wetting it in the cool water of the bath before pressing it around your upper body.

You lean back in the bath, closing your eyes letting the water wash away the tension built up in your muscles. Johnny’s hand keeps your hair out your face as he dabs your forehead. Now and then you open your eyes looking at the concerned look on their faces as they fuss over you. 

The longer you stay in the bath letting the water cool you the more tired you become. The nausea fades and you’re just left with the throbbing in your head. 

“Ready to go back to bed?” Simon asks eventually, his fingers stroking your cheek. You open your eyes, humming and looking at them, you don't really want to move, enjoying the warm water relaxing you. Johnny smiles, getting up to grab a towel. You let out a sigh feeling goosebumps rise on your skin as Simon helps you sit up in the bath. 

Simon's hands stay on you, holding your back and your waist as you stand, stepping out into the towel Johnny is holding out for you. Your teeth almost immediately start to chatter as the cold air from the flat hits your skin. 

“Let’s get you all tucked up in bed.” Johnny says, wrapping his arms around you and guiding you into the bedroom. 

“Let me sleep in the spare room, I don’t want to get you sick too.” You protest as he sits you down on the bed. You hear Simon open the wardrobe.

“Don’t worry ‘bout us love.” Johnny says helping you dry, you let them dote over you as the fogginess comes back to your head and warmth from the bath starts to fade. 

You barely remember them dressing you in fresh clothes only that you’re now laid down in the bed with Johnny tucked up behind you. 

“Where’s Simon?” You ask looking round the empty room, there's a bright light coming into the room through the door making your head throb forcing you to close your eyes. 

“He’ll be back in a sec.” Johnny says, pulling his arms around you. You can feel his warmth behind you, his kisses on your neck pulling your hair out your face. You hear Simon come back, opening your eyes to see him bed down by you with a bowl and a cloth. 

You smile at him shuffling in the bed. He pats the damp cloth round your face. It’s nice, almost instantly taking away some of the throbbing in your forehead. You let out a sigh relaxing into Johnny’s warm embrace. 

“That's it, just relax.” Johnny hums in your ear. You close your eyes sinking into the bed. 

“We’ve got you, you’re okay.” Simon says. “Just rest, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

____

[circe69]

"had to get it in, couldn't wait around!" - s.r. x reader

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ who is it? simon "ghost" riley x you

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ what is it? enemies always fuck better, right? you hate him, or so you thought...

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ cws: unprotected p in v, angry simon turned soft, huge d!ck, knife play kinda? ass play, heavy make out. word count: 2.4k

<3

"what the fuck was that about?"

you stomped into an empty, abandoned conference room and stood at the end of a long table, with one masked man sitting at the other end. your arms crossed themselves across your chest, and you popped a hip out to the side as you waited for his answer.

simon motherfucking riley was your arch nemesis. someone you didn't trust, never agreed with, and certainly never wanted to work with. but the world isn't fair. it keeps spinning even when you despise someone, and captain price couldn't care less about your feelings towards simon when it came to the thousands of lives you were saving every mission.

usually, if you're in a group, you don't dare speak to simon this way. you only nod your head at his commands and walk away, hoping that he's receiving the millions of telepathic "fuck you's" you put out somewhere into the universe. but now, you're alone, and there is no better time than the present to tell your lieutenant off.

"if you need to blow some steam, i suggest going for a few boxing rounds w' soap. he's always looking for-" he paused whatever ministrations he was writing on a file and looked up at you slowly, "an easy opponent."

you huff and smirk out of pure anger as you briskly round the table, making your way over to him. "I'm not here to fucking play around, lieutenant, I'm here to let you know I'm pissed because you gave everybody else an assignment overseas next month except for me." you paused and let his eyes meet yours as your strong volume turned into a whisper. "I've worked just as hard, if not fucking harder than the rest of these task force fuckers, and we both know I'd be a good shot out there."

when it comes to you giving your superior a piece of your mind, simon usually submits completely. he never fires back, to everyone else's surprise, and he always allows you to use him, so to speak, to yell at him and get everything out of your system before entering the world again.

but not today.

simon slowly stood up from his chair, keeping eye contact with you as he expanded to almost double your size in every factor possible.

the seconds felt like years as his eyes bore down into yours. your heart rate was doubling every time one of you blinked, and you had to tense every single muscle in your body just to remain stagnant in position. the silence was deafening, and as the seconds passed, you remembered everything you've seen this man do, every corpse he's thrown to the side like a piece of garbage in his way, every knife rusted and wasted because it's been buried deep in the jaw of his enemies, and the eyes that have seen all of this from the first person perspective, are staring right into your-

SLAM.

simons hand comes down onto the wooden table with the force of 10 men, it sounds like, and you couldn't do anything but jump. you flinch. you fucking flinch and it feels like you're waving a white flag.

His gloved fingers reach out to your chin and tug you by the jaw, forcing your face inches away from his, "I have fuckin' had it with your attitude. you can act like a bitch all you fucking want to price, to gaz, and I sure as fuck don't care about how you treat soap. but to me," he squeezes your chin to reinstate your obedience before drifting his hand to rest on your neck, "to me, you either respect me or don't say shit at all. so get used to swallowing your words around here from now on, cause there won't be anywhere else for them to fucking go but down your own throat."

coincidentally, you do swallow. hard and slow, and simons eyes watch and feel your neck bobbing as you begin to shake just slightly under his pressure. as he squeezes, a small squeak releases itself from your lips and you mentally kick yourself for it, knowing that's just what he wants. because once you let yourself go to the stormy waters that is simon riley, you'll never be the same again. he'll make sure of it.

"you say yes sir." his low voice whispered into the empty room, your face somewhere even closer than before, every minute that passes you move an inch. you still can't open your mouth, you're suffering from shell shock and there's no mercy to be found in the eyes of your shooter.

simon pulls out a blade from his thigh holster and presses it to your side, "say. it. now." he yells even louder. you feel the sharp sting of the metal start to break through the cotton of your shirt and tease your skin. a tear breaks free from your eyes, and you are completely gone. you're done for. absolutely dead in every sense but the physical.

"yes sir." you whisper, finally freeing yourself from some kind of paralysis. you feel the blade crash onto the table, as well as the sweet release of your neck from his hand. an extra wave of oxygen that you didn't know you were missing flowed though you in small gasps.

simon said nothing as he walked straight past you, out of the door, slamming it behind him. he left you, his knife, and a part of your soul, there in that room.

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

it had been a few days since simon had blown any ounce of relationship between the two of you into ash and dust, and you can't tell if the looks simon gives you now are filled with rage or just empty. empty meanings, empty promises, because he just doesn't care. but ever since he's made it clear with you that he is not to be messed with, you've unfortunately want him more.

simon riley is a fucking apex predator, and in the past, you've just been standing there, petting him, taunting him, and expecting nothing to happen. well now, you not only expect it, you fucking want it. you dream about all the things he could do to you. but all the things he hasn't said just prove that he couldn't care less.

that night, the only news channel your small tv offers called for rain, a lot of it, mixed with thunderstorms and lightning. as you dry your hair off with a towel, you walk to your window and look outside. your stomach churns at the sight of the angry clouds heading your way. you absolutely despise thunderstorms, and you prefer for a long night because there is no way you would be getting any sleep.

"fuck." you whisper to yourself as it starts to drizzle.

you try to ignore it as you kick off your slippers and get under your soft covers, pulling your duvet all the way up to your ears to try to mute the sound. it was now raining harder, and occasional sparks of electricity lit up your room from the sky, so you tossed and turn all night until you finally fell asleep.

it wasn't until hours later that a large boom of thunder shook you awake. you sat up immediately in a panic, gasping for air and looking around you as if you were expecting anything, something to explain the sound. tears started rolling down your face not only in fear, but in frustration also. you were so upset and so tired. you needed something, someone. just to tell you it was going to be okay. you slipped out of bed with a shaky hand clutching a necklace around your neck as you opened the door of your room and walked out.

the cold air of the hallway caused your skin to raise up into goosebumps and your nipples to pebble through your thin tank top, and even as you crossed your arms over yourself, it wasn't enough.

you headed straight for a door right down the hall. one with a name on the wood that you never thought you would go to in need in a million years. but you didn't know what to do.

your small knuckles rapped on the door, right underneath a nameplate.

simon "ghost" riley

you hear heavy footsteps and several locks unfastening before the door swings open.

a maskless man appears, with no shirt, and a large hand rubbing the side of his face. he was no doubt asleep before this. his eyes squinted as he leaned against the doorframe, trying to adjust to the light. your jaw hung slightly agape at the sight of him, so human. so disgustingly human who's done such non-humane things.

his eyes swept over your face as he noticed the tear stained cheeks, reddened from lack of sleep and continued down your body, down your full teardrop breasts, across your bare stomach, your sweatpants that hung loosely off your hips, and no words were spoken as he grabbed you by both forearms and drug you inside his room.

you gasped as he moved you backwards towards his bed, his much larger and comfier bed, and you no longer had any reason to stop him as he drug you under the covers with him. you couldn't believe him as he snuck in close to you, silently, as if it were normal.

it wasn’t until you felt an arm come up to rest upon your hip, and the floodgates opened. you couldn’t stop tears from rolling down your eyes. you were so confused, so scared, so fucking tired. small whimpers and gasps of breath continued.

“shhh.” came from simon’s mouth as he pulled you closer and softly squeezed your hip.

“you hate me” you whispered back, sobbing louder.

“hm-mm, no.”

“yes, you fucking hate me and you’ve just pulled me into your bed,” you start whining louder as your hands reach up to cover your face.

simon’s eyes slowly opened to look into yours before swatting your ass ,”quit crying n' go to sleep.”

you only responded with smaller, shorter intakes of breath and sniffles.

“y’hear me?” he patted your ass where he had slapped it before.

you nodded and whispered, “yes sir.”

a growl tore threw simon’s mouth as he looked up at the bedroom ceiling before throwing his forearm over his eyes, “fuckin’ hell.”

this time it’s you who reaches out, as you place a small palm on his bicep. he flinches at the touch before sighing,

“c’mere puppy.”

you slowly crawl on top of simon, placing both hands on his arms before allowing your head to fall between his neck and shoulder. a warmth slithered through you as you relaxed into him, and as his hand slowly caressed and squeezed the fat of your ass, the warmth exceeded just below your navel.

you made the mistake of squirming, and he noticed.

he clicked his tongue against his teeth while pulling you closer, “stay still.”

“i-i’m trying to get comfortable-"

"well stop." he interrupted, "just relax."

the wind outside howled, as simon's breath and yours intertwined through the space between you. and just like the storms outside, simon was the most unexpected thing to ever exist. he was trying hard to not scare you off, to be gentle, even though every thing in him contradicts that. but you know better. you know that he is gentle somewhere behind that mask.

you squirmed again, "simon I just don't know what to do." you leaned up to look at him. and there it was, the look that he only gave you, the small and desperate iris' just begging for some kind of affection. even without much light, you could still see him grasping at the frays for you. seconds of intense eye contact went by for simon broke the silence,

"just kiss m'then."

you gasped, sitting back a centimeter, but then nodded. and leaned into his touch. into him.

the kiss was soft and delicate, your lips and his just barely overlapping as you took in his woodsy smell, pine and maple, but that was all it took to pull a groan from simon.

more, more, is all he thought as he grabbed you by the hips and prodded his tongue against your lips. you smiled at the action, and without hesitation, opened up for him completely.

it was nothing but violent, raw, and urgent, the way simon kissed you. you moaned into his mouth as he smacked the fat of your ass, "all it took," he mumbled, "all it took was a little tongue for you to shut the fuck up."

you whined at the loss of contact as simon struggled to pull your pants down, but it disintegrated as he swiped a finger between your thighs, "fuck." simon whispered at the wetness pooling from your sex. "how many times have I yelled at you and gotten you wet?" he said, as he flipped you both around so you were now in your back, head smushing the soft pillow.

you groaned as he discarded his sweatpants and boxers, leaving his cock to spring out against his stomach. "how many times, baby?" he asked again, "you think about me hurting you when you play with this pretty pussy?" his index reached out to circle your clit a few times.

you couldn't help it, your body was betraying you in real time as your walls fluttered around nothing. "yes, yes I think about it, I think about you all the time simon." your babbles spilled out of you like water, and simon was lapping it up.

he chuckled, "don't even n'to prep you, you're a fuckin' faucet, sweetheart." his lengthy cock, with precut oozing out of the tip, was begging to be inside you, begging to fill you up. as he grabbed his length and positioned himself to your weeping hole, he looked you in the eyes, "y'want this?"

your eyes met his and for a second, you felt some sort of fire igniting deep within you, why was he even asking? why did it feel like the monster he is was softening for you?

you grabbed his hip and thrusted yourself, notching the tip of him inside your walls. "yes, I fucking want this, simon."

he chuckled as he watched him disappear inside you, inch by inch, every fucking centimeter felt like a year lived without you. he needed to make up for it, because the one woman that he couldn't stand just happened to be the woman he couldn't live without.

[daydreamsareallineed]

This man 😭

Things Simon Riley says

Masterlist

Nothing.

This man is silent all of the time.

It’s unsettling.

You almost think he’s mute because of how eerily silent he is literally all of the time.

(You had also thought he was deaf so you attempted to sign really badly and John lost his shit laughing. “He can hear just fine love. He’s just an arsehole.”)

John is your personal translator for the first few months and can somehow read Simon’s expressions while you slowly figure it out.

Which leads to the first time he does speak around you.

Simon, his voice hoarse and low from no use, greeting you for the first time as he walks into John’s house, “good ta see ya.”

Simon shaking his head and chuckling at your wide and startled eyes.

Simon slowly saying more and more to you, sometimes it’s a simple, “how are ya today?” and other times it’s your name in that baritone gruff voice that heats up your face.

Simon grumbling at Johnny when he attempts to sit beside you at dinner one night, “no, move.”

Simon glaring at him and uttering the simple two words again.

Simon quietly saying, “food’s good,” to you as you all finish your meal and you nearly choke on your food thanking him.

Simon correctly the guys when they refer to you as ‘John’s neighbor’, “she’s got a name. Use it.”

Simon barking out, “10 more laps for that shit” when they’re all doing PT and Johnny pops off about how he might ask out “John’s cute little neighbor.”

Simon sending you a text one day that reads “dinner tonight? I’ll cook.”

Simon making causal conversation as he methodically prepares ramen for you two, the hulking man taking up your entire kitchen, “How long ‘ave ya lived here?”

Simon blocking you entering the kitchen when you try to clean up with a stern , “no sit down and eat. I cooked so I’ll clean up.”

Simon keeping your weekly dinners up for months until he has to go on a mission and before he leaves the last time, he places a kiss on the corner of your lips while whispering “I’ll be back. 6 months tops. Take pictures of everything you make and we’ll make together when I get back.”

[girl-lostconnection]

Simon hides fruits in his pockets because he knows fruitbat!reader can smell them

Simon: Having fun?

Y/N, sniffing like a bloodhound: Gimme my mango. I know that's for me. You don't like mangos

Simon: Maybe I changed my mind?

Y/N: You always bring me a mango don't fucking lie to me

Also the guys seeing reader grouched over a trashcan as they tear into the juiciest mango known to man. The juice is dripping down their chin. Their arms. Everything's so uncomfortably sticky. They wipe their hands on Soap's shirt when he's not looking

After they're done they're breathing heavily because they inhaled that mango so quickly they didn't breathe at all for like 2 minutes

You are so fucking funny, anon. Yeah, that definitely happened.

They devoured the mango so fast the sugar crashed into their system made them see pearly gates for a moment there

Also I’m a firm believer that Soap is the only person they can sneak on, because Simon is like the Eye of Sauron — sees everything and hears everything, Kyle can also fly so he just perches up above and it’s not worth the trouble chasing him when there’s easier target.

I think Reader wiped their sticky little hands on Price exactly once. Because Price is not the man to do this to so he spent like half an hour licking their hands clean while maintaining very intense eye contact. Reader never wiped their hands on him again.

Price still stares them down every time they are finished with eating, because the man is a freak. He’s WAITING for a chance to let this side of himself out.

The literal embodiment of “healthy dose of PROLONGED EYE CONTACT” read in Bo Burnham’s voice

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

A Game Night to Remember

Pairing: Poly!Task Force 141 x Reader


Warnings: Fluff, playful banter, minor cursing, competitive chaos, mild suggestiveness, Ghost casually flexing his strength, Price being a dad-gamer
Author's Note: Game night with the 141 is a battlefield, and nobody is safe. Enjoy this silly thing, it’s by far my favorite story so far-
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It started as a simple game night—a friendly competition to unwind after a long week. You had spent the whole day setting up in your living room, arranging snacks, picking out a selection of games, and mentally preparing yourself for the absolute chaos that would inevitably follow.

Price, ever the responsible leader, had suggested a low-stakes game like Uno or Monopoly. Ghost immediately vetoed Monopoly, stating it "ruins friendships and leads to violence." Soap, on the other hand, was all for it, declaring that he could "absolutely crush anyone at the game." Gaz sided with Ghost, purely because he knew Soap was a sore winner.

So, you settled on Uno.

Tonight was no different than the usual game night—except you were currently curled up in Soap’s lap, enjoying the way his arms wrapped securely around your waist as he half-focused on the Uno cards in his hands and half-focused on teasing Ghost.

“Ghost, mate,” Soap smirked, shifting slightly beneath you as he played a Wild +4 on the masked man. His fingers traced idle patterns on your thigh, absentmindedly affectionate, as he prepared for the inevitable fallout. “Hope ye don’t take this personally.”

Ghost’s stare was nothing short of deadly. You could feel the tension radiating off of him as he slowly, methodically, picked up four cards. His fingers flexed against his own hand of cards, and you swore you saw his knuckles go white.

“You sure you wanna do that, Johnny?”

Soap just grinned, his chin resting against your shoulder. “Aye, I’m sure.”

You let out a soft laugh, reaching up to brush your fingers along Soap’s jawline in silent amusement. Meanwhile, Gaz, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, caught your eye and gave you a look that screamed, Soap is a dead man. You reached out and ruffled his short curls, a gesture that had him rolling his eyes but leaning into your touch anyway.

Ghost didn’t retaliate immediately. No, he played the long game. Price, sitting to your left with one arm draped lazily along the couch, was watching everything unfold with the kind of tired amusement only a man with too much patience could have. He reached over, fingers brushing against your knee as he gave you a knowing glance.

“You might wanna switch laps soon, love. Soap’s about to be in trouble.”

You snickered. “I think I’m safe. Ghost wouldn’t dare get me caught in the crossfire.”

At that, Ghost’s head turned toward you, and even though his expression was unreadable behind the mask, you could feel his amusement.

“Wouldn’t I?”

And then he played a card.

A +4.

Directly on Soap.

Soap immediately sat up straighter, arms tightening around your waist as he sucked in a sharp breath. “Ye bloody bastard—”

“Just playin’ the game,” Ghost cut in smoothly, leaning back against the couch. You could tell from the way his fingers tapped against his knee that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Gaz burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “Oh, this is so much better than the mission briefings.”

You giggled, shifting slightly in Soap’s lap, only for Price to tug you gently toward him. “Alright, c’mere, sweetheart. You might as well sit somewhere safer before Johnny flips the whole damn table.”

You hummed, making a big show of considering it before dramatically sliding into Price’s lap instead. His arms came around you immediately, warm and steady, pulling you comfortably against his chest. He pressed a light kiss to your temple before murmuring, “Smart choice.”

Soap shot you a betrayed look. “Traitor.”

You shrugged playfully. “Self-preservation, Johnny.”

Before Soap could argue, Gaz suddenly slapped down his own +4 card—right on Ghost.

The room froze.

Soap inhaled sharply. Ghost turned slowly toward Gaz. Price let out a quiet chuckle against your ear, his grip on you tightening slightly as if preparing for the inevitable chaos.

Gaz, to his credit, only grinned. “Just playin’ the game, mate.”

And then? All hell broke loose.

Ghost didn’t react immediately—no, he sat there for a moment, completely still, fingers tapping against his thigh. Then, slowly, he reached forward and placed down a Reverse card.

Directly back to Gaz.

Gaz’s smirk faltered. “Wait—”

Ghost dropped another +4 after playing a skip on Soap.

Soap howled with laughter, practically bouncing in his seat while ignoring the fact he was skipped. “OH, THAT’S BRUTAL!”

Gaz groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face as he picked up his cards. “Okay. Fine. I deserved that.”

Ghost didn’t respond—he just sat back, crossed his arms, and let the mask hide whatever smug satisfaction he was surely feeling.

Still grinning, you turned slightly in Price’s lap, shifting to face Soap. His expression was still alight with amusement, but there was a touch of something else when his blue eyes met yours—something soft.

“Ye abandoned me for this?” He gestured to Price, feigning heartbreak.

Price chuckled, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to the side of your neck before murmuring, “C’mon, Johnny. You really think I’d let them sit anywhere but here?”

Soap huffed, but his lips twitched. “Aye, fair.”

Feeling a little playful, you reached for Soap’s hand across the table, your fingers tracing over the scars on his knuckles before giving him a light squeeze. “I’ll make it up to you later,” you promised, voice warm.

Soap exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a smile before flipping your hand over to kiss your wrist. “Better.”

Gaz, meanwhile, was glaring at his new stack of cards. “Alright, alright. Just wait until I get my revenge—”

Before he could finish, you gently reached out and brushed your fingers through his short curls, the way you knew he liked. His irritation melted almost immediately, his eyes flickering toward you as his expression softened.

“You’re too cute when you’re mad,” you teased.

Gaz rolled his eyes but let his head tilt slightly into your touch. “Flattery won’t save you from the next round, love.”

You giggled, only to gasp when Ghost suddenly gripped the back of the couch and—with almost no effort at all—pulled the entire thing closer.

For a moment, you just blinked at him. The casual show of strength had you momentarily stunned, especially when his large, gloved hand came to rest lightly on your knee, thumb tracing slow, idle circles through the fabric of your sweatpants.

Price didn’t even react—he just let out a huff of amusement against your temple, like this was completely normal behavior. Gaz gave Ghost a flat look, something between really? and of course you did.

Soap muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ, big man.”

And Ghost? He acted like nothing had happened at all.

“You enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” His voice was low, gravelly, laced with that rare touch of fondness he reserved just for you.

You felt your cheeks warm. “Mhm. I like seeing you guys all riled up.”

Soap grinned. “Oh, love, ye haven’t seen riled up yet.”

Gaz leaned forward, eyes playful. “One more round?”

Price exhaled through his nose, a half-sigh, half-chuckle. “You lot are gonna be the death of me.”

You turned in his lap, cupping his face gently between your hands. His beard tickled your palms as you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “But you love us,” you reminded him, all honeyed words and knowing smiles.

Price’s lips quirked. “Yeah, yeah.” He kissed you slow, deliberate, savoring the taste of your affection before pulling away just enough to murmur, “Let’s get this over with.”

And so, the next round began.

And this time? Mario Kart was next.

——

Mario Kart Snippet- Down the Rainbow Road

Mario Kart with Task Force 141 was a whole different battlefield.

The second the game started, Soap immediately went for chaos, spamming bananas and green shells without a second thought. Gaz played it smart, drifting around every turn with near-perfect precision, aiming for first place with ruthless determination. Ghost? Oh, he was the silent menace—the kind of player who saved his red shells for the worst possible moment, right before the finish line just to watch you suffer.

And Price? He played like a dad who had no idea what he was doing but was somehow still winning.

You were in third place, completely focused, when a red shell suddenly appeared on-screen.

“NO—”

Your desperate protest was drowned out by Soap’s evil cackle. “GOODBYE, DARLIN’!”

The shell exploded against you, sending your kart spinning out of control just as Gaz zipped past, shouting, “Thanks for taking that hit for me, love!”

“You traitor!” you gasped, watching your ranking drop.

Across the couch, Ghost sat perfectly still, the only sign of his amusement being the slow, smug shift of his mask as he tilted his head. His kart cruised past you effortlessly.

You turned to him, eyes narrowing.

“You did that on purpose.”

He hummed, neither confirming nor denying, but the way his gloved fingers tapped idly against his controller said everything.

Price, meanwhile, was squinting at the screen. “What button do I press to—”

And somehow, he still finished in first place.

The room erupted in protest.

Soap groaned. “Yer lyin’!”

Gaz threw his controller down. “He doesn’t even know what he’s doing!”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I feel betrayed.”

Ghost just sat back, voice amused. “We’re playin’ another round.”

And so, game night continued—because nobody was walking away until justice was served.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[dmitriene]

cw: reader is a ghost, simon is a messed man, really strange making out.

simon ghost riley knows there's something living in those damned walls of his apartment, something haunted, barely able to catch in his rough grasp, you, who mess with his already fucked up head so cruelly, giggle with giddy sounds reverberating around the place, in his ears, driving him mad, stealing his things, sometimes hiding, sometimes as if taking them with yourself, giving back only after a couple of days, if not weeks.

he's not the one to believe in ghost's, not while it's simon's second name, but you aren't a human, he hears you, knows you're all around his place, never leaving, so he's forced to accept this reality, where you float at the night in the dark corners of his bedroom, humming, cooing a melody he can't understand, but it's cloaks him to sleep everytime he's back from a long deployment.

simon notices that you ain't leaving even when he dissappears for month, but you settle quietly for a time when you notice that he's snappy, always alerted, sleeping with a knife under his pillow, so you don't mess with him, even though he can't do anything to you, somehow, it's unpleasant to see him so broken, that's why you let him rest, sitting in the walls and corners, just waiting.

you only take matters into your own hands when simon hasn't been out of bed for a week, except to warm up a quick meal and wash his face, despite that even such a short routine is difficult to him, so you've planned to comfort him, to encourage him to do something, getting out late at night and floating gently to his bed, where he sleeps, sprawled on his back, not even flinching when you settle on top, straddling.

trailing your fingers over the curve of his cheekbones, turning dark at where stubble had outgrown just like his hair, inkept, because he couldn't make himself look in the mirror more than a couple minutes to shave, as your touch descended lower, his lips open slightly, some old, raised scar hiding there along his skin, pale with age, and then you touched again and again, studying his features, both rugged and delicate, before stopping at the waistband of his pajama pants.

you can't take them off, not in your haunted state, but you can play with simon, your touches feeling like a blow of a cold wind, insistent, piercing, making him flinch, thick eyebrows knitting over his eyes, eyelashes quivering, awakening with each glide of you, as you rolled your hips, seated right over his crotch, his eyes finally breaking open, adjusting not to the pitch darkness of the room, but the glow of you in front of his lidded, hazy gaze.

exposed in your strange existence, to the point where he can count your every bone through the transparent shell of your ghostly body, your ribs, hips that straddle around his own, nothing between your legs, except unfamiliar, burning warmth, the curve of your breasts, a little smile playing at your lips, sharp, teasing, it's not nice, and either ain't bad, but what's matters the most is that he can feel you.

simon's hand cupping the round curve of your hip, tugging, feeling both the sharpness of your bone and a coldness of the shell, barrier that holds it all in, and you gasp, eyes wide open, shocked, glancing over at where you can feel the heaviness of his touch, rough and calloused, making your spine shiver, your hips squirming, body pressing down on him, and he groans.

your existence is something he can't quite comprehend, but you're warm, been patient with him, and nuzzled needily at him while he slept, so perhaps, he should give you what you wanted, a chance for a little game, his hand holding you down roughly, pinning against his crotch, cock swelling warm and throbbing beneath you, eliciting a hushed, echoing keen from your mouth, as he cups a tentative palm where your pussy should be, digging, and you react instantly.

arching with curling toes, swell of your ass perched out, squishy when his fingers trail over there, sinking in, making you slump forward over his sinewy chest, curling your clawing fingers in his shirt, and you know that simon is not just a man, but someone that can touch the death, his fingers sinking somewhere deeper into you, so easily, without resistance, making your body tremble as if alive, and there's more for you to know about him, after.

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