#this is the only soap box i will ever get on at the drop of a hat

[pursuitseternal]

A “Decadent” treat for Valentine’s Day💝 Astarion x F!Reader with a sweet Sex Chocolate treat💝

Astarion x F!Reader | E | 3K aphrodisiac-infused smut

💝Gift for @bhaalbaaby 💝

Summary: You finally make it to Baldur’s Gate, coin burning holes in your pockets, a need to gift your companions to celebrate how much you appreciate them. You get a gift to, a box of chocolates from your Vampire lover, and some alone time in an alley

CW: semi-public sex, aphrodisiac sex, knife play, nipple play, blood kink, blood drinking in detail, panty snatching rogue, one feral vampire who wants your blood and more

Bites series | Ao3 link |Masterlist

“Decadent:”

🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫

At last… out of the crowds of Rivington, you made it. The bottleneck of Baldur’s Gate, the Southspan’s Main Street stretches out before you all. And that gold you have been hoarding like a dragon burns a hole deep in your pack. Everything smells… good and foul. Bakeries and perfumeries and smithy shops and fish mongers…. And you can’t wait to buy something from them all.

After all your party has done for you and with you, a few tokens of appreciation wouldn’t go amiss. Karlach takes you by the arm, and you’re glad she can’t burn you to cinders by now. Because in all her hysteria, she would have certainly forgotten. Gale makes a none-too-subtle move to pull Astarion from your side, begging him to show all the booksellers. “Don’t touch me, Wizard,” he grimaces, mostly for show and humor. But there is a little irritation in his silken voice. “I have my own plans,” he comments towards Gale, but his eyes dart in your direction. That little lowering of his head so he gazes at you like the predator he is… your stomach instantly drops to your knees.

For a man who is horrific at planning, he surely knows how to calculate a breathtaking seduction… and they always begin with him giving you that look.

“Cmon soldier, let’s go find something new and sharp and deadly shiny!” Karlach tugs you towards the closest smithy, and away from where Astarion is eyeing you like you’re his next snack.

Your Cleric loops her arm through yours and giggles. “Yeah and maybe we’ll find you a little something else to wear that isn’t scaled armor and chainmail.”

“Ooooh, yeah,” Karach peers over the top of your head to cackle back at Shadowheart, “find you something Fangs won’t be able to resist.”

You manage one last look over your shoulder before they turn you into a shop, one last glance at that devouring leer from your lover. But you watch that seductive grin instantly swallowed by a scowl as Gale grabs his elbow too. You barely hear the Wizard whining something about books and spell scrolls…

You shrug. Astarion would manage. Some time where he wasn’t trying to bury his cock balls deep in your thighs for once might be good for him.

The shops flash by you, a whirlwind of coin and scents and giggles, mirth and merriment. Something you and your friends haven’t had… ever. You hold too many parcels and pouches. Of course it would be easier to stash most of it into pockets or your pack if you still wore your nice, sensible armor. But no. Karlach wouldn’t let you out the door to the clothing shop without putting on that sweet little gown you bought. So now, you walk down the street, arms laden with parcels, your thighs rubbing together without the practicality of pants, the slits up the skirt over the fronts of your thighs almost too high as you shuffle your load. Not to mention how the sun is beating on your shoulders and the tops of your breasts that hadn’t seen light since you began this journey.

You had too many things: a book for Gale, some soaps for Halsin, a bottle of Baldur’s Grape for Wyll… but you needed to return now. Karlach and Shadowheart wanted to push on, so many more stores around this corner or that one.

But you needed a rest. And someone to carry your shit.

It’s only after you make a right, you realize it’s the wrong turn. Crates line the alley, and your arms are just too sore to keep going. Resolved to rest a moment, you set your gifts down, looking at the end of the narrow way to where it hangs over the Chionthar River.

“Lost, darling?” you feel his breath on your neck even as his words barely leave his lips. Astarion hovers right over your shoulder, how he snuck up on you so quickly, you can only shake your head.

“Typical rogue,” you huff an exhausted laugh. “Just couldn’t help being a prick and being stealthy at the same time?”

“I believe you mean, typical hero, coming to save his damsel in distress, lost in the sea of the City,” he flashes you that fanged smirk that makes your stomach flutter. “How fortunate I am here, with my skills and knowledge…”

Your turn in the little space he’s given you, between that crate behind you now and his looming body before.

“My hero, come to the rescue,” you simper, very much aware of the ways his eyes are dilating as they dart over your cleavage, down your lean but unsunned arms, even to where your new dress sinches at your waist.

“Heroes are usually rewarded handsomely for their efforts, darling….”

You feel him closing in on you, his thighs butting up into your skirts, but you giggle as you reach for one long, wrapped parcel from the stack beside you. “Here, hero,” you tease. “A different sort of weapon you enjoy sheathing than the one I think is on your mind.”

His brow arches, a pleasant smile on his thick lips. He leans back just a bit, reluctant but curious about what gift you’ve set in his hands. The paper and cloth tumbles at your feet, revealing a shining new dagger, a blade nice and light as he pulls it slightly from its scabbard. “My, my,” he tries to sound smooth, trying hard to hide the lump in his throat at the thoughtfulness of your gift. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He smiles, a true grin that deepens the wrinkles by his eyes, but it only happens once he turns away a bit, thinking himself mostly out of view. His hands slip the new blade into his belt, before pulling out something from behind his back. “But this time, you’re not the only one with a surprise, I am not woefully unprepared….”

A small square box in his cold, pale palm, he opens the paper lid.

Eleven little chocolate hearts fill the lining, except for one vacant spot that stares back at you. You feel him pressing closer again, the box basically pushed against the curve of your breasts.

“You got me… chocolates?” you cock your head, picking one up and giving it a sniff.

“I’ve always wanted to have a reason to… indulge in such finery. You’ve given me more than enough reason,” he purrs. Eyes fixed as he watches you bring it closer to your mouth. “They are so… sensual and delicious, I couldn’t help but hurry to find you for a nibble.”

You squint at him, sensing there is some… game at work here. “Seems like you got peckish on your way here,” you smirk at the empty spot. “Thought you didn’t enjoy the taste of anything that wasn’t blood, my vampire.”

“For this… I made an exception,” he grins wider, and you stare into his eyes, eyes almost black as he begins to press you against the rough wood of the crate. “Taste it, my dear… it goes down so smooth, so deliciously, you’ll… burn for more.”

You lick it, feeling a foreign heat that runs right from your tongue to your belly, a sweetness to its cream that you are unfamiliar with….

“They are a specialty around these parts, darling, a little something to, well…” he catches your hand, guiding the small chocolate between your lips, “why don’t you stick it in your mouth and swallow and find out.”

Something about that tingle on your tongue already, you seem to hum with your need for more… more of the chocolate, more of him…. No.

All of him.

You smile softly, closing your eyes and opening your mouth. It’s sweet and warm and… decadent. The little treat that he places on your tongue brings you to life. And you moan with abandon, delicious little noises as you savor its taste, until you do swallow it down. Eyes still closed to the world, you feel nothing now but the way his hands have found the bare skin of your thigh. Ghosting up your flesh, his nails skate beneath the hem of your skirt, drawing it higher… higher.

His touch is warm, you notice, the only thing warmer is your own increasingly burning skin. You pant, looking into his face where he looms above you. “What’s in those… sweets?” you need to swallow midway, and somehow, being so close to him to feel his breath on your cheek only makes the burning worse.

“Aren’t they sinfully good?” his voice is deep, rumbling as his hands find purchase beneath your clothing. It takes him no effort to lift you and set your ass down on that poor, helpless crate behind you. “Lovers’ chocolates… a specialty, an indulgence from the pleasure houses on these streets. And, as I’ve never had a lover with which to share them in two-hundred years…”

You are shaking as he slots himself between your thighs, the skirt of your new dress lifted quickly around your waist. With that infamous dexterity, he slinks his fingers beneath your undergarments and inside your cunt, the chocolates already flushing your skin and soaking your folds. “Seems like the right time to indulge in the decadence?”you are slurring your words.

“Indeed.” His fingers slowly stroke you, slowly pierce deeper into your channel as his other hand pulls you right to the edge of the crate. You don’t care it’s some alleyway… that anyone could see you or hear you. Not now with the chocolate in your blood, not now with his touch crooking and thrusting into your folds.

“You’ve indulged in your own little treats, haven’t you?” he whispers right against your lips. “This dress for one, by the hells, so much easier for me to do… all manner of things now.” Just to prove his point, his free hand steals into the neckline of your bodice, pulling that breast free. Moaning, arching, you writhe as he plucks at the hardening nipple. He smirks at you, a brief little laugh on his lips before he wraps them around it and sucks.

Even his mouth is warmed, his own tasting of the chocolate raging through his body, he did have a head start after all. With how your every nerve burns and your own sex swells to be sated, you marvel at how he’s taking his own godsdamned time right now—teasing out your arousal. As if he ever needed to work hard for you to be ready for him and his cock.

Ugh… the thought of it makes you salivate. You reach for his leathers, fingers shaking and fumbling with the ties. You groan, giving up on the laces completely. Pulling the waistband down, you ease his erection free. Even that beneath your touch is hot. Swollen. Ridged with veins so risen, you can’t look away from its… beauty.

“Even more eager than usual, aren’t we darling?” he rasps against your breast. His teeth, his fangs score slightly on the pad of your nipple, making you bite your mouth shut as you scream.

“Please…” you whimper as you try to pull his hips closer by his cock. But he stands firm, fingers still sweeping inside you, mouth still teasing your flesh.

“Oh I don’t think so…” he lifts his head to place a peck on your pouting lips. “There’s so much more of you to taste first, my little treat.” He grabs into your dress once more, lifting free your other breast before he devours it with the same skill and tenacity as the other.

His tongue is wet as he swirls it, lips so skilled at sucking your flesh, by now he knows every inch of your body. But it’s the way his thumb draws over your clit, a bit harder and tougher and timed to perfection with the lap of his tongue, you burst in a searing wave of climax. Barely a warning, and you are reduced to a moaning, gushing, flailing thing. His fingers are gripped firmly inside you, hard and thrusting as you ride out the waves of your orgasm.

But it’s the little pain you barely register, his fangs cutting into the top of your breast as he now feeds, that makes you almost come again, an aftershock to the intensity of the first. You gasp for air in your burning lungs, somehow you’ve managed to hold his cock through all your throes and shocks of orgasm. And now, he bucks into your fist, growing harder and harder the more and more he feeds.

Astarion’s fingers slide out from in you with a squelch, hips rolling with increased force into your grip. “You just had to treat yourself to a dress but insist on keeping those undergarments? Tch,” he sucks his teeth as he shakes his head in mock disapproval. “You’ll know better for next time, won’t you.”

“Whatever you think best,” you grin, half-unknowing the words coming from your mouth. Your hips buck for more… that heat in your body growing more and more unbearable, despite the soothing warmth from your single climax.

Gracefully, he leans in all the closer, unsheathing that new little dagger you got him. You feel it’s cool, deadly edge press softly at the base of your neck. “Shh, shh, shh,” he smirks with lust-dark eyes. Down to his dangerous smile, he mimics how you first met. “Not a sound now…. But those undergarments of your will just have to go… have to be sacrificed for what I need to do to you….”

You shake in anticipation, eyes fixed on his sultry, arrogant, fang-toothed grin as he slinks lower. That blade leaves your neck, perfectly intact. But as he steals its point beneath your skirts, its sharpened edge cuts the thin material of your underwear. Material ripping meets your ears as he performs the same little flick of his wrist against your other hip. Standing and returning his blade, he pulls the silky band out from under you.

“Seems I’ve done you a favor.” He leers down at you, palming your undergarments, smelling them, and putting them in his pocket. “You’ve already simply ruined these already, at any rate.”

You reach for his waist, the air kissing your wet folds too much now. He could stand there and taunt for so much longer, but it’s too much to bear. You guide that thick, warm, blunted head of his cock between your thighs, wrapping your legs around him until he’s filled you.

He practically mewls your name at the force. “Gods, I should have known not to underestimate what those chocolates would do to you, darling.”

He grunts the last word as you buck against him, trying to make him start taking you. Coaxing him just a bit deeper in. He doesn’t need more encouragement than that. Not with the way your cheeks must be glowing red with how hot they feel… not with the way you feel your arousal soaking the top of the crate now, growing cold as it leaves your burning body.

Hands grip the flesh of your ass beneath your dress, holding you firmly in place as he takes control. Eyes almost black, skin un-undeadly hot where he touches you, he feels so good… better than ever… the pulsing of his thrusts consuming you and sating that fire the chocolate has put in your belly. All you can do is grab him by that sweet ruffled collar, inch your way around his neck, and hold on for dear life.

That tightly held veil of refinement begins to slip, you hear it in the snap of his hips into you and against the crate, in the feral growls he makes each time he pierces harder and harder into you….

You crane your head back, mouth panting and wide as you show him what else you want him to do… you bear your teeth at him with a playful snap.

It’s more invitation than he needs, fangs sinking into the crook of your neck, the top of your shoulder. Bite… suck… swallow. Then he lifts again, repeating the same into your pounding artery. Bite… you moan so loudly…. Suck… his lips pull so hard on your flesh you can feel it bruising… Swallow… he lifts his head to pant for air. The most self-satisfied smirk on his sharp, pale face before he yanks your neck to the other side, leaving you a match set of bites there.

Bite…

You flood with pleasure, cresting over the edge harder than you could imagine.

Suck…

Your walls suck him in too, trapping him as he begins to stilt and buck harder. Climax for him sweeping him away harder too.

Swallow…

You scream into the mass of his silver curls, trying to muffle your cries where he’s lowered to feed on the top of your breast.

But he arches back, letting out his own panting groan, coming and ramming hard into you at last. You pray the crate doesn’t give under you with a laugh. Your hands steal into his hair, caressing down his smirking cheeks.

“How… many more of those chocolates did you get…?” the question barely carries on your breathless voice.

“Not enough,” he groans, licking the last trickles of your blood as he tucks your breasts back into the neck of your dress. What was your new dress. He chuckles, deep in his chest, cock still buried inside you. Reading your thoughts. “Don’t you fret, darling. I’ll buy you another dress. One for each I ruin.”

“Oh because…” you laugh, waving your hand down your front. “This level of violence will happen to my dresses again?”

“Every time you wear one, my love,” he breathes his own laugh before he finally… at long last… catches your lips in a slow and lingering kiss. “Undoubtedly every time.”

You shake your head even as his lips continue to work yours, as his hand winds into the hair at the base of your neck.

“Karlach and Shadowheart are going to give me such grief…”

“Only because they were right… I just couldn’t keep hand or fang off you, my darling.”

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Transferrable Skills Part 5

Transferrable Skills Masterlist

Read on AO3

CW: Hand feeding, praise, kink negotiations, discussion of power exchange dynamics, kissing (FINALLY)

When you reach for the cardboard box on the edge of the table, he catches both of your wrists in one hand. You only resist a little bit. His other hand flicks the box open and he picks up a thick fry.

“Open,” he rumbles, pressing it to your lips. When you open your mouth, you watch his pupils dilate. He purrs as you take a bite. “Good girl.”

The rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. You would let him feed you limp celery with that tone. You lean forward again, jaw dropping open.

“Should talk now,” Simon rumbles, thumb dragging over your lip as he feeds you the rest of the fry. The contact electrifies you down to your toes. You must make some kind of noise as you swallow because he smiles. “Didn’t consider I might feed you myself.”

“Okay,” you breathe, leaning into the hand cupping your cheek.

“Finished your stretches?”

The temperature in your body drops significantly. You lean away from him. “I…uh. I… didn’t.”

Simon hums a low note, hand finding your chin again without making you look into his eyes. “Hurtin’ somewhere?”

“No,” you rush to assure him. “No, I just… I was in my work clothes. And I didn’t want to do… that in front of Gaz and Soap.”

“Fair,” Simon says, drawing you forward to brush his lips over your forehead. You feel your face get hot all the way up to where they brush against you as he speaks. “You want to do them now, or later?”

The tension you barely noticed creeping into your shoulders melts away. Of course. Simon is just Simon now, not Ghost. If you aren’t comfortable doing something, he’s not going to get mad, just give you other options. He’s kept you safe, and he’ll make sure you continue to feel safe under his instruction. Even though everything is different, it’s all the same.

Tears prickle your eyes, so you squeeze them shut as you lean further into him. Suddenly, one of his arms is around your back, the one on your leg lifting you into his lap. If there’s even a grunt of effort, you don’t hear it over the way your breath gets caught in your throat. Your hands come up, automatically, to brace against his chest and one bicep before you’re folded into him like that’s the only place you ever needed to be.

And then his lips find yours.

God, how many times had you thought about kissing him? The fantasy is so muted compared to the real thing. His lips are thin and a little dry, surrounded by the barest scratch of stubble. He doesn’t coax your mouth open, just presses his lips against yours like he could do this all night. The tip of his tongue flicks out for a quick touch to your top lip, startling a sound out of you. He does it again, opening his mouth to moan into yours when you squeeze his arm in response.

When your own tongue comes out to touch the scar you’ve always admired at the corner of his mouth, he growls. “Fuck, Bambi.”

“Simon.” You barely recognize your own voice.

The hand on your thigh goes tight. It startles a gasp from you that he drinks down with a groan of is own.

He surprises you by pulling back enough to speak between kisses. “Beautiful, you know that? Thought I was hallucinating.” He tips you back a bit, taking all of your weight to scan your face. He grins as he says, “Was thinkin’ so hard abou’ you, and ‘ere you are.”

“You were thinking about me?”

“’Course, I was,” he says, leaning back into the couch. You end up resting your head against his shoulder. He sighs and kisses the top of your hair. “Missed our check in this week, ‘n you’d this big trip you were all nervous for. Didn’t get to see you off. Was lookin’ forward to gettin’ the tour of your hotel room, gettin’ y’r travel stories. ‘n then I got the call today, n’ I was cancelin’ on you again. Just about broke my ‘eart.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure what to say. You’d always kind of assumed he was indulging you, letting you ramble about your day until he could get to the good stuff, as your ex used to say. “I knew you were kind of… on call. I didn’t realize that you were saving hostages, but I knew you were busy.”

He twists a bit to look into your eyes. “Don’t like bein’ too busy to see you.”

“You just like seeing my ass,” you joke, burying your face into his neck to settle the butterflies in your stomach.

“’S a good arse,” he chuckles, shaking the meat of your thigh in his grip. “Was definitely lookin’ forward to a bit o’ skin. But if you were too tired, I jus’ wanted to ‘ear your voice, coax you through some of your stretches before bed. Speaking of…”

You roll your eyes at the significant look he gives you. The way he never forgets a command makes so much more sense now that you know what he does for a living. Your heart flutters to see the familiar way his scarred lips quirk at your sass, paired with the unfamiliar way he tweaks the skin of your hip with the gentlest pinch.

“I’ll do them later,” you concede. “I already did all my floor stretches, and I’m hungry now.”

“Good girl,” he says, patting your ass. “Should prob’ly eat before it gets cold.”

He pops open the second takeaway container to reveal your meal, a dish you had picked basically at random from the menu Gaz had showed you on his phone. It’s a lot less hand-feedable than Simon’s wrap and fries, so he lets you feed yourself, but he refuses to let you sit on the couch, even halfway. Just holds you in place while he eats one-handed, trading fries for bites of chicken adana and tipping water into your mouth every few minutes.

You’re ravenous until you’re suddenly not, halfway through your food. Simon doesn’t comment, just finishes the other half of your food while you rest against him, exhausted. Simon’s hand is still on your hip, his thumb tracing back and forth in an idle, steady pattern.

When he finishes eating, he asks, “Where’s your head at?”

“Nervous,” you say automatically. This, at least, is familiar. “’M tired, and I don’t know what you’re gonna expect of me.”

He taps three fingers on your hip, twice. “Trust me?”

“You saved my life today,” you point out.

“Tha’s work,” he dismisses. “Not workin’ now. You trust me?”

You think about it, because he always wants you to think about it before you answer. You fall back on your rules, the promises between the two of you.

“I trust you to be honest with me,” you answer, the mantra coming easy. “I trust that it’s okay to tell you if I’m not okay with something. I trust that you won’t yell at me. I trust that you’re not going to hurt or harm me on purpose to correct my behavior.”

“Very good,” he rumbles, pulling you close to press his lips against your forehead again. “I trust you to be ‘onest with me, too. Trust you’ll accept a no, when I give it. Trust that you’re not g’nna yell. An’ I trust you not to punish me if you’re upset.”

“Wow,” you say. “I never expected to hear you say that in person.”

“Never thought I’d ever ‘old you,” he replies. “An’ I’ve never folded a whats-it-called… a romper, before, neither. Interestin’ day o’ firsts.”

“It’s a jumpsuit if it’s long,” you mumble, mortified all over again that he’d had all of your stuff in his hands.

“’S impractical. Soft, though. Bet it’s real pretty on you.”

A swell of embarrassment swoops through your belly. It’s automatic to bury your face in your hands. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“None o’ tha’, now.” Simon grasps both of your wrists in one large hand again and brings them down to your chest.    He makes you look at his face with a finger under your chin. “Won’t promise I’ll never make fun, but I won’t say I think you’ll look good if I’m no’ bein’ ‘onest. Promised, yeah?”

“Trust you to be honest,” you whisper, tipping your face back into his shoulder. “Acknowledged.”

“Good girl. Three deep breaths.”

You push all of the air from your lungs, the way your therapist taught you. When you inhale, you feel his chest rise with yours. He matches you when you hold, then release the breath in a steady stream. Where the back of your hand touches his chest, you can feel his heartbeat, solid and steady as he takes the next breath with you. By the third inhale, you let your spine relax as you feel him do the same.

“Know we never planned on meeting,” he eventually rumbles. He tips you back to look down at you, then ducks down for a quick kiss. “But I’m gonna be selfish and say I’m glad you’re ‘ere. If you don’t want nothin’ else, tonight, gettin’ to ‘old you is still everythin’ I ever could’ve wanted. Honest. Acknowledge.”

“This is good. We don’t have to do anything else, and it’ll still be good,” you whisper. “Acknowledged.” You lick your lips, prop yourself up to look into his eyes, then away. “What if… What if I want to do more?”

“One step at a time,” Simon chuckles.    “Stretches first. Then we’ll see about tha’ reward I promised you, yeah?”

He brings his mouth to yours again. Your hands are freed so that he can cup your jaw so tenderly that it threatens to melt your heart, even as it electrifies you down to your toes. When you moan into his lips, he echoes you, then pulls a way to press his lips to your cheek.

“Up, Bambi. Let’s get you to the bed.”

[flowerfreya]

Hockey AU

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Content: Reader is in a secret relationship with Simon, who is a famous hockey player. Simon is injured in this and the reader needs to see him.

Masterlist

Simon is pissed. 

You can tell because he’s shit talking the other team. You see, Simon is usually quiet when he plays hockey. He’s focused. He just wants to play and win, but when his team starts losing, that when the shit talking starts.Simon is a sore loser, a hater to his core, and he knows that to throw off the other team is to shit talk. 

Simon is playing against a team that is okay , middle tier, they should be blowing them out the water instead the score is 2-1 and Simon has missed most of the shots that he took. You see him slam his stick on the ice, he does it so hard the stick breaks in half. 

The ref blows the whistle. That’s when you see the other player , wind back his hockey stick and swing it like a baseball bat to Simon's ankle. 

Simon’s ankle that been fucked up ever since his first game in professional hockey. The sports analysts talk about it every time that Simon has a game. Everytime Simon’s a little slow to goal they mention,”The ankle”. Meaning everyone knows that Simon aka Ghost on the ice has a bum ankle and the revival team just broke his stick against it. 

Simon doesn’t go down, but you see his back arch and then a yell. There is shoving from each side , a little bit of shit talking but not fighting yet. The player gets sent to the box and Ghost lines up and waits for the puck to drop. 

The ref blows the whistle and drops the buck but that seems like the least of their worries. Simon flings his stick to the side and throws off his gloves and just starts hammering the other team. In fact, all of them are fighting. Soap, Gaz, and Koing. You know how hockey players are, what that player did to Simon , it was like he did it to all of them and now they have to pay for that. 

You're not worried about Simon, he’s done this before and skated away. He probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow but you’ll just have to find a way to get him to stay in bed. 

The next play has you worried though. They are skating fast gaining traction then like a duel they start heading towards each other each pumping their legs trying to go as fast as possible but SImon already hurt, he’s always hurt , he never lets himself recover. He is always sore and stiff. 

The other player leans forward and bulldozers into Simon. 

Simon is on the ground, spinning, and then stops. The crowd lets out a collective gasp. You wait 15 seconds, you know the drill.He just got the wind knocked out of him, he’s fine. He will get back up. He doesn’t get back up. 

You start to move toward the tunnel, you know they won’t let you on the ice. Shit, they probably won’t let you in the tunnel. No one knows about you and Simon. Simon wants to tell everyone but his agent thinks it will hurt the Ghost persona he has. That means this relationship is just between you and him ( and maybe Soap … and Price … and Gaz, but he doesn’t know that and neither do you). 

You get there quick enough to beat the chaos that is about to ensue but you can only get so far before someone is stopping you. 

“Ma’am you can’t be back here, it’s a secure area”, the officer is looking at you strangely. You know you look crazy, wide eyes, and breathing too fast to be normal. But you know Simon is hurt. You know Simon is hurt, bad.And you need to see him. 

“Right”, you're trying to think fast , how can you get past him?How do you see Simon?, how to make sure he’s okay?

“You see I need to get back there, one of the player’s is hurt and I need to see him”

“You're on the medical team?”, he looks at you skeptical, he doesn’t believe you. Shit, you don’t believe you. 

“Yes”, you nod , you can hear the actual medical staff coming and you do something crazy. You dart past the security guard, you hear a hey!, but he can’t catch you. You wind up in the locker room and look for Simon’s cubicle and then you hid. 

You can hear Simon before you see him, “I’m fine, just took a hit , it’s hockey”, he growls. You hear Price say to him as calm as possible, “You passed out, we can’t allow you to go back”

“I’m fine, give me the head test, I’ll pass and you can put me back in”

“No” 

“Why?” 

“You try to go back out there , you’ll be missing more than this game”, Price answers back. 

That's when the security guard you ran past, whips into the room and asks if they have seen you, he describes you perfectly and they both shake their head, no. 

Simon waits till everyone clears out the room , before he calls your name, and you slip out of his locker. 

“First, you need to power wash this locker.Second, are you okay?”, you walk up to him trying to scan his body but he still has all his gear on making it harder to tell. 

Simon has never lied to you about being hurt and how much sometimes he just doesn’t want to do the work today, “My head feels like someone is taking a hammer and is just going to town”, he takes a seat and starts taking off his uniform. 

[darkworkcourier]

Could you write Ghost x fem!reader where she finds him attractive but is too shy to actually tell him but also can't hide the way she's feeling, so Ghost notices her interest and eventually they end up in bed (*cough* you know what I mean)? Also Ghost being gentle and protective towards her, plz

Ps. I love your writing!

Word Count: 8314

i’m incapable of short prompt fills, apparently! o, but i am filled with grief!

anywho, reader’s codename is ‘ladybird’ (hc that soap gave it to her because she’s lucky) but is otherwise nameless.

contains masturbation, oral sex, lots of feelings, wee bit of slow burn, ghost being like weirdly emotional and soft, and soap’s gratuitous and unfortunate use of emojis. 💀/🐞4ever

---

The first time it really hits you, you're in a helicopter about two miles above the ground—honestly a terrible place to face your feelings. It's a velvet-dark night, strategically chosen for the new moon, the countryside below nearly invisible. You're almost in a doze, caught up in the Chinook's blades' low, thunderous pulse and the sporadic rocking as it hits little glades of turbulence. Your eyes lose focus on some of the running lights, until they turn hazy, and its only when the man across from you moves his boot do you snap back to attention.

Ghost. Right. You learned his name a few weeks ago during your orientation, but he was deployed on a recon mission only a day later. Price summoned him back for this mission, but aside from a few gruff comments at the all-hands meeting, you haven't heard him say much.

For a moment, you think he might have dozed off, too. He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. And that’s fair, you think; Soap told you he didn’t think Ghost ever slept.

You silently study him, the way his head rocks a little with the turbulence, how much taller he is than everyone else in his row, the peculiar illusion that the eye sockets of his mask are empty—

And suddenly they aren’t.

He’s looking back at you, dark eyes regarding you passively, even though the mask makes every look significantly more intimidating. For moment that goes on way too long, you don’t look away, your gazes locked. Your heart takes the tracheal elevator to your throat, beating loud enough to drown out the Chinook’s roar.

You look away first, and you swear you hear him snort.

The rest of the journey to the drop-off zone, you deliberately don’t look at him; but when you close your eyes, there he is.

All you can think is ohhhh, shit.

---

Military crushes aren’t abnormal. Put enough people at the peak of physical excellence in a room, throw around some form-fitting uniforms, and mix in a few adrenaline rushes—it’s a goddamn potent mixture. You’ve had your share of mess hall dreamy-eyed gazing sessions, and a few ‘I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go’ moments in gyms and fitness centers. That’s fine; that’s normal.

What you start feeling for Ghost isn’t that.

Nevermind that he’s rarely out of tactical dress, and if he is, he usually defaults to a hoodie or something that doesn’t exactly entice the imagination. And he’s never out of some variation of his mask, so you can’t think woah, pal, do you cut glass with that jawline because as far as you can tell, he doesn’t have one. No mooning over cheekbones, admiring the curve of lips. He has nice eyes, but ever since the night in the Chinook, you haven’t been able to meet them for more than a second before your heart does that terrible little samba again.

Per your mental checklist, aside from being tall and muscular, he doesn’t check all your normal boxes. By all those counts, Gaz or Soap are way better fits. Hell, Soap likes to hang around in his silkies like they’re pajamas, showing off plenty to keep your fantasy fodder trough filled. And you’ve caught Gaz doing push-ups in the lounge, his tight shirt doing wonders for his shoulders.

But it’s Ghost who makes you feel like a hormonal teenager. It’s Ghost that gets you antsy and fidgety when he enters a room. And it’s Ghost that you think about during your rare alone time in the shower, when your hands start drifting south and the tile walls are your only support.

You’ve got it bad for him, and you have no idea what to do about it.

---

You’re doing recon in Berlin when Soap notices.

The mission details are simple: a drug lord known as Keiler using a night club as a go-between for his suppliers and dealers—all further complicated by the fact that he has plenty of friends in the arms trade, and by Laswell’s reports, he’s very generous to those friends. The club is a front, a money laundering wonderland. Through your observation, drugs and alcohol are doled out in equal volume, all to the backdrop of skull-splitting bass and sharp scalpels of strobe lights.

The biggest obstacle is that Keiler likes to use a private room overlooking the club as his perch, and your intelligence says that at any given time, he has a small army defending him. Getting to him requires an incredible degree of finesse. Naturally, Ghost is the one to do it.

You, Soap, and Gaz are scattered around the main floor of the club. Gaz is out on the dance floor, Soap’s taken up a spot near the bar, and you’re in the lounge. It’s the first time you’ve done something like this (and in an outfit with so little fabric), and you’re really not used to being ogled and pawed by a bunch of drunk, drugged, or horny Berliners.

Soap must see your discomfort from his position, as you hear a dry, amused, “Feelin’ a little tense, Ladybird?”

You swallow hard and chase it with a sip of your drink, which definitely needs to be watered down. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You look like you just drank petrol.”

“You’re the one who ordered it for me.”

Gaz cuts in with a weary, “Do we have eyes on Ghost, yet? I’m starting to get tired of people grabbing my—”

“I’m here,” Ghost’s voice scrapes over the comms, causing you to sit up straight and look around. You catch sight of Soap who has his hand curled in front of his mouth, clearly snickering like a heathen.

“Think you scared the shit out of Ladybird, LT,” he says.

He’s lucky he’s on the other side of the room, otherwise you’d pretend to be extremely clumsy and find an excuse to spill your drink on his (very, very tight) shirt. You mouth ‘shut up’ at him, and he reaches up with his pointer finger to draw an invisible halo over his head.

Ghost ignores him. “I’m near the east stairwell, headed to second deck. Got one guard at the far end. Gaz, you seein’ anything I should know about?”

A pause, then, “Negative, Ghost. I’ve got what you’ve got.”

“Copy. Going to second deck now.”

Out of habit, your eyes go to the east stairwell, peering through the haze pierced with multicolored lights to see a single dark shape ascending. He disappears behind a catwalk, then reappears to the right, mingling with the crowd near the second floor bar. Once he’s there, he seems to fade into the throng of people, most in dark clothing, some in masks. Just like that, he’s invisible.

It’s hard to focus on looking calm and happy to be there, but you keep sipping your drink, watching the dancers and feeling the bassline of yet another techno song thrumming in your chest. You’re glad you’re not out on the dance floor, or being called to give come-hither glances to bouncers and guards.

Then, “Coming back down to first deck,” Ghost says, clearly agitated. “Too many guards and too many people. We need another way up.”

Soap grins. “Violence isn’t the answer, LT?”

“Negative. Start looking for another route.”

On cue, you stand up and cross the room to the bar, sliding in beside Soap. He’s fishing for another couple Euro from his wallet, pushing it across to the bartender with two fingers. The bartender gives him a brief nod and refills his glass, while Soap turns his attention to you.

“Any bright ideas?”

You frown and adjust the straps on your top again. It’s a stupid piece of clothing, always feeling like it’s going to fall off. “Only the emergency stairs by the front doors, but I can’t imagine Keiler leaves those undefended.”

Soap looks thoughtful and scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, but probably no civilians, either. And if the door’s alarmed, Ghost can take care of that.”

As if summoned, you feel Ghost appear before you see him, a huge presence over your shoulder that makes you jump. “Jesus!” you hiss.

And Soap, the traitor, laughs to the point of wheezing as Ghost takes up the bar stool on his other side. “I think you’re giving our Ladybird here a complex,” Soap says through his laughter.

Ghost rolls his eyes. From this angle, you can see Ghost in more than just the dim light you’ve been working with most of the night. He’s not dressed too far outside his usual fashion wheelhouse—heavy boots, black trousers, and a loose black hoodie. His hood’s pulled up over a black beanie and a skull-painted gaiter, and he’s foregone his usual thick coating of greasepaint for black-ringed eyes (is that eyeliner?) and a streak of smoke-colored paint that just manages to obscure the color of his brows. The downside (for you, at least) is that the combo manages to draw his eyes into sharper contrast, making them that much more intense.

Suddenly, your heart’s doing the thing again.

Ghost doesn’t seem to notice any change in you, but you think Soap’s actually looking for it. He watches you, brows lifted, mouth curled like a flirtation of a smirk. Briefly, he glances between you and Ghost, and then the smirk appears in full force, enlightenment dawning.

Before he can insinuate a thing, you’re shoving your half-empty glass across the bar top with a too-high, “Bitte.” The bartender only gives you a brief, unamused look before taking your glass and remaking whatever godforsaken cocktail Soap ordered.

It’s not a good distraction, and the damage is already done. Soap knows, damnit. His smile is too easygoing, but he turns to Ghost and starts talking about the emergency stairwell, which is a relief. Ghost looks over his shoulder toward the stairwell in question, and as he does, Soap looks at you and makes the gesture of zipping his own mouth shut, throwing away the proverbial key with a wink.

As he does, Gaz pipes back up with, “Ghost, you copy?”

“Yeah, Gaz?”

“You, uh, know anything about a big guy with a tattoo of a boar on the back of his head?”

Ghost looks toward the dance floor, brows furrowing. “Yeah, that’d be Bauer, Keiler’s right hand man.”

“Great. Glad you know him, because he’s here.”

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to be. If Bauer’s here, then either Keiler’s doing something more than his usual partying upstairs, or Keiler knows someone’s here looking for him. Either way, the mission just got significantly harder, and your night got that much longer.

With a grunt, Ghost pushes off the bar and starts making his way to the emergency stairwell. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. Out here.”

Once he’s gone, there’s a pause—a very heavy pause. Then, Soap looks at you with an expression that is just a hair too pleased. “Ghost, huh?”

Your face heats up, right as the bartender hands you your drink. You reach for your wallet, only for the bartender to put a hand up and shake his head. “Nein, für das schöne Mädchen,” he says.

For the pretty girl.

“Bet Ghost thinks so, too,” Soap says, and you resolve to definitely spill your free drink on his too-tight pants.

---

Weeks after Keiler’s nice and cozy in a maximum-security prison and the 141 is back at base, you have another miniature existential crisis.

It’s all an accident—just a tempest of bad timing and bad luck. Ever since you came back from Germany, you’ve had a tough time getting a full night’s sleep. It’s easy to blame the natural stress of your work, the long hours, the high-adrenaline action you see more than you ever did before this job. And, well, part of it has to come from Ghost. He’s occupied your thoughts more than ever since the night club.

Your solution is to hit the gym late at night, pushing yourself until you can’t keep your eyes open and no amount of insomnia can overcome it. The first few nights of this effort work fine—you end up in bed around one or two in the morning, and sleep until your alarm goes off. No one bothers you; no one hogs the machines. It’s kind of nice.

However, you don’t account for all the night owls that share the base with you.

You head to the gym late on a Friday night, towel around your neck, water bottle at the ready, podcasts preloaded. If you ever hit the gym during the day, you usually do so in a t-shirt and sweatpants. At night, you’ve started opting for PT shorts and a tank top, happy for the lack of eyes around the room.

Except for tonight.

You open the door into the gym, only to hear the mechanical drone of a treadmill and someone sprinting damn fast on it. For a second, you freeze, hiding behind the corner. Then, slowly, you peer around it, clutching your phone and water bottle close to your chest.

Jesus Christ. It’s Ghost.

Ghost, in a t-shirt. In sweatpants. Running on a treadmill set to the highest incline. Panting.

Ghost, with bare arms, showing a detailed tattoo on his left arm, and prominent veins running over his chiseled muscles. He looks like a fucking Greek statue, and that’s just what you can see.

“Ohhh, my God,” you whisper to yourself, immediately working on an exit strategy that doesn’t involve catching his attention.

Which obviously doesn’t come to pass. It’s something you probably should have learned on the helo ride—Ghost knows when he’s being watched. He turns his head, dark eyes fixing on you immediately. Briefly, he looks back at the treadmill, then down at his watch, and back to the treadmill’s controls. He slows it down, dropping the incline, until he finally steps off and starts walking toward you.

Abort, abort.

You think about fleeing, running back to your room or rolling under a table or hiding behind a counter like he’s a goddamn velociraptor in the kitchen. You do none of those things, because despite your training, you freeze up. No one could blame you, you think. It’s hard to do much else when a six-foot-something skull-faced wall of muscle walks up to you. And you must look stellar, holed up in a corner by the door, your water bottle and phone held up like a shield.

Ghost takes in the sight of you, eyes flicking up, down, up. Heat rises to your face, and down to—to nowhere, because it’s better not to think about it. You suddenly feel too vulnerable in your choice of outfit, naked under his gaze.

“Ladybird,” he says. Your nickname becomes a hot scratch of sound, losing its whimsy in favor of a tone you can’t define. “You need somethin’?”

There’s a patch of sweat by his collar. You stare at it, then at the floor.

“No, I just—  I was, um, just about to leave, and... Yeah, I’m gonna go.”

He’s silent until you finally look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what what feels like an eon. He looks amused, but there’s a quirk in his brow like he can’t quite get a good read on you. “You look like you were about to use the gym.”

You look down at your bottle, phone, and towel like you’re just now noticing them. When you bring your attention back to him, you feel like you need to just kick the door open and escape, dignity be damned. “I... was,” you say slowly. Then, you rally yourself, trying to look upbeat and resolved. “Y’know what? You can keep using it. I’ll come back later.”

He shrugs, but you see it. Some secondary expression slinking around in his eyes like it’s working through the perpetually-moving cogs in his head. He gives you another one of those assessing glances, and for a second, you think he’s going to step into your space. His body language looks primed to do so, and you hold your breath in anticipation for it, unsure of what he’s going to do.

Then he takes a step back, and another.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind it, though.”

Before you can process his words, he’s back on the treadmill, tweaking the settings and raising the incline again. The belt starts moving, and he’s back to looking like power personified, a vision in motion.

You have got it so bad.

It’s a hasty retreat to your room, and once the door’s shut behind you, you’re panting like you had run on the treadmill and lifted weights.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss, discarding your things on the table beside your bed, kicking off your running shoes, then laying down and staring at the ceiling. He knows. He has to. Ghost’s whole job depends on him being observant, and he looked at you like he was reading a fucking book. 

You groan and press your palms into your eyes until phosphenes appear, dancing around and shimmering like fireworks behind your eyelids. You’re going to have to leave the 141 out of pure mortification. You’ll have to go into some kind of witness protection, change your name, and move to the other side of the earth. Or if you stay, you’ll have to pretend Ghost doesn’t exist. You’ll hide behind walls, slinking through the building’s HVAC just to avoid him like you’re working on a heist. Maybe you can convince Soap or Gaz to accompany you everywhere so you can hide behind their bulk.

But then, your horrible brain reminds you of what you’ll miss out on. It runs through a greatest hits reel of your crush so far—Ghost’s eyes, his presence stretching long over you like a shadow, his massive frame, his arms. The tattoo, detailed enough to tell from a distance, and then the thought of running your fingers over it, tracing all the fine points and lines. And are those his only tattoos, or are there more?

And his voice. Jesus, you replay the few words you’ve heard him say over and over, savoring each syllable, each quirk of his accent. Even the last thing he said—

I wouldn’t mind it, though.

That makes you open your eyes again, widening them as you take in the pocks and scrapes on the ceiling. He wouldn’t mind what? Having company in the gym? Having you, specifically, as his company? You don’t know what to make of it, or what he meant by it. Honestly, you feel like you don’t know anything right now.

Except that you want him. That’s the only thing you’re sure of. You want to know how his hands feel on you, how they would run over your bare skin, what the callouses on his fingers would feel like on the most delicate and sensitive parts of your body. Your imagination leaps ahead of you, guiding your own hand down into your shorts and under the band of your panties. You tease yourself, just dipping your fingers into the wet heat, trailing them over your clit like a hint to yourself, coaxing your arousal out of your panic.

His hands would feel different. When you rub your index finger over your clit, you imagine his finger instead, pressing gently against you, building up friction slowly, making you ache. You wonder if he’d savor your reactions, watching you get worked up, grinding against his hand to seek any kind of relief.

“Easy, Ladybird,” you imagine him saying, the nickname now a tease. And he’d know your real name, the one hidden away in your file. He’d whisper it into your ear, breath hot on your neck, his whole body eclipsing yours.

Your pace quickens, fingers running urgently between your clit and opening, causing your core to tighten and your breath to come in short gasps and barely-concealed moans. Ghost would tell you to let them out, let the whole damn base hear how aroused he makes you, how badly you’ve wanted him.

You breathe his name into the small space of your room, a whisper in the still air broken only by the low hum of the forced air in the vents. When you finally plunge your fingers in, it takes every bit of self-control not to outright moan and let everyone nearby know what you’re doing. Normally, you can stay quiet when you get yourself off, but you’re damn near frantic with this, whatever it is Ghost has done to you.

His fingers in you, fucking you in long, languid strokes, drawing himself out and pushing back in—all the while, watching your reactions. When you rock your hips to the pace of your hand, you imagine his voice again, “That’s right. Fuck yourself on my hand. Let me see you.”

You’d show him. Hell, you’d soak his hand, and it would remind him that it’s his fault you’re like this.

The wet sounds of your hand on your cunt is lewd and loud. It’s almost too much, enough to make you stop at the apex of your pleasure, to hide yourself under the blankets in shame and pretend that none of this happened.

But the vision of Ghost keeps you going, keeps your fingers moving in and out, crooking them inside and forcing out a gasp as a white-hot shock of pleasure lances up your spine and settles warm in your belly. The pad of your thumb presses against your clit, and you multitask on yourself, building up that friction, bringing yourself to the precipice.

He’d take you there. He might even pull you back from the edge over and over, teasing you with the fall.

“Do you want it? How bad? Show me.”

God, you would. Any way he wanted, you would show him. You’d beg and plead if that’s what got him to finally make you come.

So you whisper, “Please,” into the night, to a man who is never going to be in your bed, never going to touch you like this, never going to see your pleasure through to the end. The Ghost in your imagination has to stay there, behind locked doors and bulkheads, secured and contained for good.

But until then, you chase your orgasm with him, hitting that divine height and going into a freefall. Blood rushes in your ears, muscles twitching, heart racing. Your head comes off the pillow, back arching, toes digging into the mattress, mouth open on a moan that you refuse to let loose. You come way harder than you ever have using your own hand, enough that when you finally lower yourself back onto the bed, you grimace at the feeling of a wet patch on the sheets.

“Fuck,” you say, very emphatically. To yourself, to Ghost, to the whole damn situation.

Groaning, you reach over and grab the towel, wiping your hand and tucking it under your ass before rolling onto your back again and wondering what the hell you’re going to do.

---

You’re going to hide from Ghost, that’s what.

Captain Price gives the team a few days off to rest up for the next mission, and you decide right then and there that you’re going to spend every second off base, as far away from the barracks as you can get. You’ll get a hotel, order a ridiculously expensive amount of room service, and marinate in your feelings for a couple days until it’s all out of your system. Maybe you’ll go to a bar or coffee shop and chat up some nice person who isn’t a tall, broad, terrifying British soldier. And maybe you’ll have a night of incredible passion and twisted sheets, and it’ll be so cathartic that when you come back to base, you’ll be a whole new person.

That plan holds until your phone goes off while you’re packing up.

It’s a text from Soap: ‘wyd?’

‘Going off radar for a couple days. Why?’

He sends a sad emoji, then two beer glasses clinking together, a soccer ball, and then a big red question mark. Apparently, Soap only knows how to speak in hieroglyphs.

You smile, and type back, ‘Sorry, need to go clear my head.’

Skull emoji. Question mark.

‘None of your beeswax,’ you send, followed by the soap emoji.

‘that sucks,’ he types back. There’s a short pause, and then he types again. ‘cause he was looking for u earlier’

Your heart damn near comes to a stop, and you very hesitantly respond, ‘Why?’

‘idk. think he wanted to ask u smth’

Nope. You’re not taking the bait. If Ghost wants to talk to you, he can come right up and—and you can walk off in the opposite direction and act like there’s something incredibly interesting that you need to see right that second.

You type a few variations of ‘Then he can come and talk to me himself,’ but none of them sound particularly nice. Ghost hasn’t done anything wrong, so there’s no reason for you to act like he has. And for that matter, you’re supposed to be hiding from Ghost, not encouraging him to find you. Instead, you send back a clipped, ‘Okay.’

Nothing.

For one hopeful second, you think Soap’s mercifully let the conversation go, allowing you to go in peace to your nice hotel and your overpriced room service food.

Instead, you get the sunglasses emoji, a wink face, and, ‘k i told him to come see u’.

‘WHAT’

The only response is the skull and the little running cloud dash emoji, suggesting that Ghost is making a beeline right to your room. Panic seizes you and you fling your phone on your bed like somehow it’s going to help. It bounces harmlessly, then lands screen up, emojis taunting you.

Quickly, you start shoving the rest of your clothes and toiletries in your bag without a care as to where everything goes, eager to book it out of there as fast as your legs can take you. Once your bag is zipped up and thrown over your shoulder, you think you might be in the clear. Mission nearly accomplished.

Nearly.

Two solid knocks on your door almost make you hit the ceiling. You hold still, using that Jurassic Park wisdom again: if you don’t move, he can’t see you.

That applies to fictional dinosaurs, not trained killers, and certainly not Ghost. He knocks again, then follows it up with, “Ladybird, it’s me.”

Yeah, you know. That’s the problem.

Briefly, you consider going out the window, shimmying out and potentially getting caught on a base security camera for someone to laugh at later. That doesn’t make the problem go away, though.

You can just tell him you’re in a hurry, that your ride is at the gate right now and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Whatever conversation he wants to have, it’ll have to wait until you get back. It’s a good response. Solid. Foolproof.

And it dissolves the second you open the door.

He’s there, not vanished in the disappearing act you were hoping for, and all that want flares up again the moment you see him. He’s in casual dress like what he wore to the club—boots, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, balaclava. His posture’s more relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other hanging at his side. You meet his eyes, and your regret mixes with desire welling up inside you.

It’s that intense gaze from the helo, the brief but incendiary look from Berlin, the thoughtful gaze from the gym. You’re drawn up in it immediately, and this time, there’s no possibility of looking away. Ghost has you locked in.

He takes in the sight of you, dressed in your civvies, backpack on your shoulders, and raises his brows. “Going somewhere?”

Your mouth is cotton-dry, and you’re proud of yourself for putting a little syntax together. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m headed out.”

Right now, you should say. I’m going out right this second and I cannot be stopped. Do not engage.

But you don’t say that. You leave the words as they are, hanging between the two of you. In that moment, you’re two opposing fronts of contradictions—you want him to go, stay, talk, stay silent, touch you, leave you alone.

Ghost seems to sense this, that you’re not making any move to either speak to him or push him away. He doesn’t get into your space, staying right where he is while looking at you with his head slightly tilted. “Can I come in a sec?”

No. “Yes.” Please.

You take a step back, allowing him to walk into your room. His presence seems to fill it, like there’s too much of him and too little space to contain it. He closes the door behind himself, then finds a spot against the wall (the rare section that isn’t covered by posters or mementos) and leans against it. Still, still giving you your space.

You’re all nerves, waiting for him to speak, yet feeling like you should say something—to get all your feelings out in the open, exposed and waiting for him to pick over and do with what he will. But your anxiety and silence wins out, and instead you fidget, trying to find a point in the room to fix your gaze. Ghost takes all your attention though, holding it in a firm, invisible grip that can’t be broken no matter what you do. You get now, more than ever, why people are so scared of him when they end up at the wrong end of his skill set—he immobilizes them, rendering them completely unable to do a damn thing.

He watches you for an agonizingly long moment, then sighs. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you if you were busy, but Soap said you were around,” he says. Ghost doesn’t trail off or leave a space in his words for you to fill in the blanks. It’s a good thing—no place for you to misinterpret him—but it suddenly leaves you terrified at the possibility of what he’s going to say.

“Just for a little bit,” you hear yourself say, voice subdued and small.

He nods. “Then I’ll just get it out now before you go. More or less a question.”

Fuck. You feel a strange, uncomfortably cold sensation curl up tight and tense in your stomach. The feeling of standing at the edge of a long drop, knowing you have no choice but to let go.

His eyes are locked on yours, unrelenting, pinning. And then he says, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Right. No way to misinterpret.

You suck in a breath—a gasp, jerking at the question even though you knew it was coming.

You could lie. It’d be easy to do, just a few movements of tongue, jaw, and lips. No, I don’t. Three easy words. You could say you appreciate him as a teammate, as a professional, as someone you can trust in tough situations. He has your back; you have his. Anything beyond that is too much, to far outside of the commanding officer-subordinate hierarchy.

But you can’t lie to him. He’ll know. He’s trained in looking for tells, for the slightest quirk to denote that you’re holding back the truth. That, and you don’t want to lie to him.

Instead, quietly, you say, “Yes,” and inwardly brace for impact. Any kind of dressing-down from your C.O. and reminder of responsibilities and duties; or on a personal level, that Ghost doesn’t do relationships. You’re tensed up, waiting for its inevitable blow and all the shrapnel that’s definitely going to land right in your heart.

“Oh,” he says.

Oh.

Just one syllable, said deceptively, uncharacteristically soft. It belies so many things—possibilities, dangers. This man is fucking complicated.

And then he takes a step toward you. Just one. Just enough to close the gap that many inches. You don’t back up, but you’re too afraid to walk to him, unsure of what’s coming next.

He’s looking down at you, gaze passive, calm, and strangely open. You’ve learned new and interesting ways to read his eyes since you fell for him, but this one has an unknown definition, a kinesic oddity that you can’t translate.

And for a moment, you let yourself hope.

Then, he says your name. Not Ladybird. Not your rank. Your name. The sound of it is a rush in your ears, in your whole head, through every artery, vein, and capillary. He takes another step, slower than the first, drawing in closer before he says, “Do you want this?”

You nod. There’s nothing else you can do. You take a step toward him, looking up into his eyes and trying to read everything there. “Do you?” you ask. You’re still waiting for the rejection, as though Ghost is the type of person to lure you in only to shut you down.

Rejection doesn’t come. Instead, he steps forward to close the gap, one of his hands finding your waist.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Holy shit.

You stare at him in surprise, and the look on your face must be ridiculously easy to read. His other hand goes up under your chin, tilting your face toward him. The touch of his fingers is exactly like you imagined, the callouses on his thumb brushing over the soft skin underneath your jaw, causing you to shiver.

Ghost leans in close to your left side, skull’s grin close to your ear, and whispers, “Thought you hated me. Every time I looked at you, you’d look away.”

A near-hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat, and comes out as a compressed, breathless giggle. All that time, you were so hopelessly in love with him, you couldn’t look at him without feeling like your heart was about to give out; and he interpreted that as dislike.

“God, no,” you say. “Total opposite.”

He laughs in your ear, and the sound chases out the remainder of that cold tension, replacing it with a newfound heat that feels good. “Wish I’d known sooner,” he says, and one of his hands goes up to push a strap of your backpack off your shoulder.

You ease out of it, dropping it to the floor, before reaching out and tentatively touching his waist in return. Through the fabric of his hoodie, you can feel how solid he is underneath, and you run your hand along his side in silent wonder.

Ghost moves back suddenly, and you only have a second to question why before the light goes out, leaving you in muted darkness permeated only by the bare sliver of sunlight filtering through your curtain. One hand finds your waist again, pulling you close, walking you toward your bed.

All you can think is no fucking way over and over, even as the back of your legs hit the side of the bed, and Ghost is lowering you down. Your back touches the mattress, head on the pillow, and Ghost is over the top of you, his hands bracketing your head. He looks down at you, mostly in shadow, only the bright white of the skull motif visible in the darkness. Then, his eyes flicker to his left, and he abruptly snorts.

You furrow your brow. “What?”

Wordlessly, his hand moves to the right of your head, and he picks up your phone.

Your phone which is still on, showing the emoji-heavy conversation with Soap. Ghost flips the phone to show you the last text he sent.

Skull emoji, kiss, black heart, red heart, ladybug, eggplant, peach, confetti ball, birthday cake.

“What the fuck, Soap?” you say under your breath, grabbing the phone from Ghost. You quickly turn it off and shove it onto your bedside table, groaning in embarrassment.

Ghost shakes his head, and unlike Soap, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he brings the situation right back on the rails with one hand going up under your shirt. Then, he says, “Close your eyes a second.”

You do, without question. You hear a faint rustle of fabric, and then his lips press against yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and that thrill you felt at hearing your name seems to rush back through you twofold at the thought that he took his mask off for you. He kisses you firmly, a guarantee that this is what he wants. You reach up with one hand, combing your fingers through his hair, nails scraping along his scalp and drawing out a quiet groan. He smells like standard-issue soap and laundry detergent, and the faint spice of cologne only just clinging to his skin. The feeling of kissing him is dizzying, entrancing, and the sound of it just hammers home that this is happening to you, in your room, with him.

He pulls back just a little, kissing a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your chin, then your jaw, and up to your ear. The sensation makes you shiver again, arching up into him involuntarily. You hear and feel an amused huff of breath, before he says, “What do you want?”

Good god, what don’t you want?

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

He nods against your neck, then tilts his head up to press a kiss to your temple. “Tell me if it’s too much, or if there’s something you don’t like. Communicate.”

You grin, mostly at the sotto voce version of his command voice. “Yes, sir.”

He huffs a laugh and continues kissing down your neck, down to the hemline of your shirt. Undressing comes as an easy next step, shoes off first (and they were on the bed, ugh), and then Ghost pulls your shirt up; you lift yourself enough to help him pull it over your head. In the darkness, he does the same, and you watch his silhouette remove his hoodie, then pull his shirt over his head and drop it off the side of the bed. You can’t see his face, but the faint beam of sunlight touches his hair and brings out a hint of pale gold. It feels like a secret shared between you, adding to that warmth building up inside.

He leans back down, kissing down your sternum to the upper hem of your sports bra. He starts to go lower, and you decide then that you’d like to take at least a little initiative.

“Wait,” you whisper. “Come back up here.”

He does, like he’s accustomed to obeying your orders rather than the other way around. You reach up and touch his chest, eager to feel this part of him, the one he typically buries under layers of clothing and gear. He sighs at your touch, head dropping down to rest on the pillow beside you.

He’s firm and toned with well-honed muscle earned through endless missions and exercise. At the same time, the skin of his chest is surprisingly soft—even the scattered network of scars and keloids that mark his body. You feel old and new wounds, some still raised as they heal, some concave with age. They’re long, short, thick, thin, orderly, and jagged. Starbursts of bullet wounds, hard lines of cuts, spatters of shrapnel, textured lines of old stitches. His whole torso tells a long, tragic story from cover to cover, chest to back.

But he leans into this read of him, letting you feel every scar, every painful moment. His breathing is steady in your ear, giving way to the occasional sigh as your fingers trail over his skin.

In turn, he touches you. You don’t have even a fraction of his scars, but you have a few he can note. You know when he touches them, by the way his touch lingers, learning each one. It feels reverential, or communal—the two of you engaging in a silent trust exercise. He doesn’t ask about them, and neither do you. All of that is for another time.

Ghost presses a kiss to your shoulder, then pushes up until he’s over top of you again. His free hand goes down to the waistline of your jeans, finger tracing teasingly over the zipper. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. As if you’d say anything else.

He undoes the button, then the zipper, slowly pulling your jeans to your hips, then removing them entirely. He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, removing his boots, then his jeans. You lay there, watching him move, feeling your arousal start to grow and burn like a low flame.

When he touches you again, you silently agree that you wish you’d said or done something sooner. It’s bliss. He’s gentle with you, mindful even, in a way you’ve never experienced or anticipated from someone like him. He helps you out of your bra, letting you pull it all the way off before his hands palm your breasts in slow, deliberate movements. It’s an extension of his exploratory touches, learning your body inch by inch.

Your breathing quickens, and Ghost looks up at you in what you guess is concern. “Doing alright?” he asks.

Your face grows hot, and you nod, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “I’m fine,” you reply. “I just don’t know what to do.”

It’s not like you haven’t had sex before, but sex with him feels completely different, like it doesn’t belong in the same category. You’ve never wanted someone this badly, or had someone respond to you like this. It’s almost overwhelming, but Ghost reaches up and combs some of your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Lie back a bit,” he instructs. “And tell me if you need me to stop.”

You do as he says, leaning up against the pillows as he moves down your body, leaving a trail of kisses down your torso to your hips. He’s a shadow moving over you, long and languid, and every touch just adds to the mounting heat. When his fingers touch the hem of your underwear, you shiver in anticipation, then arch your hips to give him a little leverage in removing them. In one motion, you’re exposed to him, even in the dark. Yet after touching him, and him touching you, you don’t feel as vulnerable. If anything, this feels safe. This feels right.

His hands go to your hips, then run slowly along the outer sides of your thighs. You think he might fulfill that fantasy from earlier, fingering you until you’re a mess, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure with his skilled hands.

Which is why it surprises the hell out of you when he goes lower, until his head is between your thighs, sunlight leaving gold stripes along his back.

“Ghost,” you gasp.

He looks up at you, and now more than ever, you wish you could see his face. You only see the faint shine of his eyes, but at that moment, it’s enough.

Then he spreads you, and licks a stripe from your opening to your clit.

If you were entertaining any thoughts before, any fantasies carefully curated in those rare hours of alone time, they flee in that single movement. Even the Ghost of your imagination never did this, tasting and savoring you in long, slow laps that make your whole brain short out like a blown fuse. The sound is goddamn obscene, especially as he leans in close and starts to lap at your clit. It’s a shock of sound in the silence, louder than even your own noises when you got yourself off.

Your right hand finds his head, fingers running through his hair as he licks you. He alternates between short laps and long strokes, tongue circling around your clit, teasing you, making you shudder and moan. It’s frustrating and fucking heavenly, the sensation of ebb and flow, receding and rushing waves of heat building up then flowing back.

Right when you think you can’t take the teasing anymore, he switches tactics. The teasing abruptly ends, and Ghost gets relentless.

You moan way too loud when he sucks at your clit, tongue swirling around it, the sound of his mouth on you loud as a gunshot. You swear they have to hear it down the hallway, or anywhere on base. At this point, though, you really don’t care who hears you, because they don’t have Ghost between their legs, getting them off in ways no deity ever intended.

Then his fingers join his mouth, index tracing circles around your entrance, dipping in slowly, tauntingly.

“Fuck.” The word is sharp in the air, as you arch at the sensation.

It’s too much; it’s not enough.

He tilts his head up a little, but when he speaks, you feel his warm breath ghost over your sex. “Let me hear you,” he says, words drawn straight out of your fantasies. Every door containing that imaginary version of Ghost is unlocked, every bulkhead breached—that Ghost and this one are one in the same.

And when he pushes that first finger into you, you follow his order to the letter.

It comes out as a broken wail, cut off when he starts thrusting and licking you in alternate strokes. His pace quickens, merciless, sharp eyes watching you from the shadows as your head rolls back on the pillow, chest heaving to catch a single solid breath. Your hands drop to your sides, fisting the sheets just to have something to hang onto, any kind of anchor as Ghost guides you through a tempest.

You moan his name, last consonant catching on a sob of pleasure when he starts to add a second finger. Only then does he pause, and the absence of his mouth is stark. 

Then he says your name, temporarily drawing you out of the cumulonimbus of arousal you’re flying through, briefly bringing you back to earth.

You look down at him, the silhouette of his head, small locks of hair sticking up from where your fingers combed through. You see him tilt his head to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, and his voice rolls out like a dull roar of thunder in your ears. “It’s Simon,” he says. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, hearing his real name in the midst of all this is almost too much. Like the last little vestige of a play on stage falling away and revealing the inner workings of the backstage, all the ropes and pullies holding the show together. He’s more exposed now, more raw, more human.

You reach down, trembling hand brushing over his cheek, over stubble and scar tissue, and the soft skin of a very real face.

“Simon,” you whisper. It sounds like a confession.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel him smile against your hand, briefly turning his head to press a kiss against your palm. Then he’s lowering himself down again, coaxing you out of the eye of the storm and back into the maelstrom. Two fingers thrust and curl, filling you, leaving you empty, touching places that send bolts of pleasure through you.

Your pulse becomes the thunder of the helo’s blades, your body trembling with midair turbulence. Simon fucks you on his fingers, tongue lathing over your clit, mouth fucking worshiping you. He takes you to that precipice, the long fall, the drop through cloud cover to a faintly-marked point on the earth.

The step off the edge feels like perfect, natural progression.

Your orgasm sweeps through you from toe to tip, a roll of white-out pleasure shaking you, wringing a cry out of your mouth that makes Simon fuck you harder. His fingers don’t let up, working you through the tidal wave, taking you to shore on the other side.

You’re boneless at the end, slumping back on the pillow and panting, shivering, taking stock of your limbs and extremities as they each come back online after the outage. You only vaguely register the feeling of Simon moving on the bed, coming up to lay beside you.

He murmurs your name, then kisses you, and you can smell and taste yourself on him. Your hand goes up to run along his jawline, one rogue thought telling you, yeah, you can cut glass with it.

How everything gets so gentle afterwards is beyond you. Simon’s hand is on your face, thumb brushing the soft skin under your right eye. You can feel his erection against your leg, and somewhere in the back of your mind—still tingling with pleasure, shimmering bright and brilliant—you know how you’re going to take initiative.

You break the kiss just for a moment, delighting in the soft sigh of protest you hear and feel against your cheek. Then you lean in close, pitching your voice low like his, hoping it has the same effect on him.

“Hope you don’t have any plans this weekend,” you say, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

You feel him smile against your skin, and he shakes his head.

“Thought you were heading out,” he says.

“Only if you’re going with me.”

One arm goes around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzles against your neck. “We have some time, though, right?” his voice slides over you, suggestion clear and presented like a gift.

God, yeah you do.

---

Somewhere in between rounds, your phone goes off on your bedside stand.

Once.

Twice.

You don’t hear it, and the short buzz is drowned out by moans and the soft slap of skin on skin. When Simon makes a move like he’s going to check on it, you hook him back in place with your leg around his waist, pulling him in close, then kissing him silent. He falls into it, all too happy to oblige.

So you miss the skull and ladybug emojis, then the volume symbol.

[clementine-thedestroyer]

Omega!Gaz x Omega!reader x Alpha!Price….

Gaz has a pussy here, you’ve been warned. Either male omegas have cunts or he’s trans, pick whichever you prefer because I sure as hell don’t explain shit.

Omega-Omega couples were rare… but not unheard of.

You and Gaz were one of the rare examples of a pair of mated Omegas, and while it had been hard in the beginning (not for the reasons anyone assumes. Heats were, if anything, easier with another Omega) people around you would cite you two as an example of a perfect couple- just two people who loved each other more than anything else.

Gaz had worked hard to get where he was- to prove he could serve and hold his own right alongside betas and alphas without being a liability. It’d been hard, the military wasn’t exactly always the most progressive place, but Price had welcomed him into the 141 with open arms, treating him like he would any other soldier.

He’d felt accepted in the 141- at home, and after a while, he’d eventually decided to introduce you to his team, figuring you had a right to know the men who kept him from coming back home in a box and trusting Price to be accepting and respectful of your relationship (and also to keep the less socially-adept members of the team from making any off comments)

And it had been great- Price stood up to shake your hand as Gaz introduced you two, treating you like any other even when you fumbled the greeting and extended the wrong hand. He’d sat across from you and Gaz in the circular booth the group had claimed in the pub, giving the two of you kind smiles as he asked occasional, respectful questions about your relationship.

The night had nearly gone sideways when Soap had started to ask “So- like, the two of you, how does that work for your, you know.. hea-“ only to be immediately shut down with a stern glare from Price and the man Gaz had introduced as “Ghost” smacking him on the back of the neck.

You and Gaz had never considered opening up your relationship to an Alpha or beta. One too many insensitive comments (not unlike Soap’s, though at least his didn’t come from a place of malicious intent) and Alphas taking the first chance to trample over your relationship just because you were omegas has put you both off the subject as a whole.

But, Price’s protective demeanor, the scent of whiskey, smoke, and something distinctly him hanging off of him, the way he’d clap Gaz on the back or shoulder, treating him just like he would Ghost or Soap, the small, U-shaped smile he seemed to only give the two of you- and that was all it took for your resolve to crumble.

And Price? Well, he was just happy to have the two prettiest, sweetest omegas he’d ever met dropped right onto his lap.

All this time, he’d been keeping his emotions and desires under wraps- resisting the urge to shove his pretty new sergeant down on his cock until he choked and gagged, painstakingly applying the sticky, annoying little white patches over his scent glands so Gaz wouldn’t find his scent overwhelming or obnoxious and wouldn’t be able to tell when his scent got heavier after staring at Gaz’s ass a moment too long.

And then to find out his sergeant was mated? To another omega?? Oh the things that ran through his mind. The two of you would think him derange if you’d known the things he wanted to do to the two of you.

And of course, when he meets you, he’s only down worse. Seeing his sergeant and his precious girl he’d talk about so fondly- and he could blame him, you were a sight. A pretty girl like you for a pretty boy like Kyle, it was fitting.

That entire night at the pub, he’d been chanting don’t be a prick don't be a prick don't be a prick in his head like a mantra, desperately trying to stay professional and respectful. He was digging his nails into his thigh so hard trying to ground himself that he was half concerned he’d break skin.

Only to then, afterwards, find out that you two were pinning over him almost as bad as he was for you? To find out that the pair of omegas he wanted nothing more than to absolutely destroy were practically offering themselves up on a silver platter?

Oh, he was ecstatic.

When Price first gets the two of you into bed, he’s mean, sitting back in his chair and lighting one of his fancier cigars and smirking as he makes you two scissor and grind your clits together for him- not letting the two of you stop until he’s done with his cigar and both of you have cum.

He’s content to sit back and enjoy the sight, watching you cry and writhe under Gaz in over stimulation from already coming as he holds you tight and grinds his clit against yours desperately, panting out pleading, breathy apologies over not being able to cum faster.

Price likes to have the two of you kiss too- especially sweet kisses shared between the two of you that devolve into desperate, needy make out sessions all under Price’s watchful eyes.

He just likes to watch his omegas love on eachother- giving the two of you occasional instructions to give her a hickey for me, Gaz. Mark her all up for us. Love, how about you help our boy get out of those jeans? Good girl, good job.

He’ll give you or Gaz permission to hump the other’s thigh, only to take it away right as you're about to cum and laugh at the desperate, strangled plea he gets in return.

He’ll pull the two of you to your knees in front of him, having the two of you make out around and worship his cock. One of you will take him as far as you can in your mouth, while the other sucks and kisses at what doesn’t fit and at his heavy balls.

And fucking the two of you is an ordeal with how needy you can be- Price usually ends up with three fingers buried in one of your cunts and his cock stuffed deep in the other, trying desperately to keep pace and keep it together even with two whining, needy omegas under him.

[peachesofteal]

Picture

Same pairing as "I got you". When I first wrote these, I also wrote a hefty chunk of an entire Simon Riley series that just ended up sitting in my drafts. I've been editing it slowly and now it's being uploaded.

Simon Riley/female reader Part of the Sassy series - 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, pregnancy, pregnant reader, blow job, praise kink, blood, violence, injury, PTSD, anxiety, trust issues. Simon is bad at feelings. Soap is a good friend. POV switches. Soap gives Simon a picture.

There’s a gun in your nightstand. You don’t use it, ever. You don’t need it, haven’t needed it, haven’t touched it. You think, after the baby comes, you’ll put it away for good. Bury it in a locked box somewhere beneath a pile of boxes in the basement.

Speaking of boxes, you’re standing in a sea of them. Different boxes for different parts of the crib, dresser, and little bookshelf. The old recliner you used to have downstairs is up here now, nestled in the corner next to where you think you’re going to put the crib. It’s not a rocking chair, but it will have to do. It’s a sage green, the soft hue calming to your nerves, which you think helps the baby. Your baby, who the internet says is the size of a banana and can hear your heartbeat, who likes to kick you in your ribs at all hours of the night. You rub your palm over your belly as you shift your weight, staring down at the instructions for the wood paneling of the bookcase. You’re rotating the shiny paper in your hand, trying to understand which piece fits to which when your doorbell rings.

You frown. You weren’t expecting anyone. You didn’t really have friends, anyone who would visit.

Your mind wanders to the gun for a split second, but you shake it off. You’re home. You’re not in danger. There is nothing to fear. The mantra grounds you, solidifies you enough that you make your way down the stairs and peek through the peephole in the door.

When you see Soap’s face on the other side, you can practically feel your blood pressure drop.

“Hey, Johnny.” You say in greeting, face apprehensive. He lights up when you open the door, and then freezes like you’ve shot him.

“Sassafras.” He whispers in disbelief. You sigh, and step to the side.

“By yourself?” Soap stares at you like you’re nuts. You nod.

“Yeah… not like I could get in contact. Not like I wanted to, either.” He grimaces.

“So, he has no idea, you’re having his kid… you’re five months pregnant, and he doesn’t know.” You scoff.

“You make it sound like I’m helpless.” He looks from you to the pile of furniture pieces on the ground at your feet, and then to the screwdriver in his hand.

“You’re not helpless, lass.” He says softly, eyes sympathetic as they glance over your belly. “But this is a lot, for anyone to do alone.”

Later, you and Johnny sit on your back porch. He sips a beer; you drink a decaf iced tea. Bugs chirp in the grass of your little yard, the yellow glow of the string lights that you managed to get up twinkle above your heads.

“So, what’re you havin’?”

“It’s a boy.” You whisper, smile on your lips. You remembered when the doctor told you, remembered everything you felt when she said those three words. You were so… angry. How dare the universe give you a boy? How dare it give you the reminder, the carbon copy of a ghost.

Now, you’re not angry so much anymore. Only sometimes when you think about how he forced you away. How he ruined your rep with Price just to get rid of you. How he held you the last time, body pressed to yours, nose smashed against your cheek.

You’re not angry when you think about the baby. His son. Yours. You love him, already. You knew you loved him the day you decided you were going to keep him. He was your baby. Yours to love. To protect. You weren’t going to let the memories of his dad get in that way of that. You weren’t going to let yourself be haunted.

Johnny stays for a few days, sleeps on the couch. He helps you build the crib, and the dresser, and the bookshelf. You two spend the time catching up, reminiscing about the time you spent together, tromping halfway around the world.

“Trauma bonded.” You joke with an elbow to his stomach, on the good side. Not the side that he took the piece of shrapnel to that shredded his abdomen.

“Never thanked you that day. Saved my life.” 

“You saved mine too. We’re even.” 

When he says goodbye, you give him an ultrasound picture. You have a ton, at least six tacked to your fridge. You watch his eyes get a little misty, and you laugh.

“Come on Johnny. It’s just a picture.”

“Yeah. Of yours… and LT’s… kid.” He practically chokes on the last word, and you roll your eyes.

“Come back and see us, okay? Little guy will need an uncle.” His lips part and the he swallows before hectically nodding, sputtering promises about coming to visit as much as he can. He gives you a cell number, his, to call if you need anything or want to talk.

“Can’t imagine you’ll be available too often.” There’s no way. The 141 has a no contact rule, no communication. It’s for their safety, and everyone else’s. You both know this. He rubs his neck with a frown.

“Yah lass. But I’m still here if you need anything.” He gives you another hug before tucking the picture into a pocket and stepping off your front stoop.

If you had known what he was going to do with it, you would have never given it to him.

Simon parks two blocks away, worn print of a black blob in his hands. The edges are starting to fray, the two pieces peeling away from each other from overuse, being held too much. He’s been holding this picture in an iron grip for over a month, pulling it out from the pocket in his vest to stare at it until he forces himself to look away.

He remembers the night he got it, the night everything shifted, when the world tilted on its axis.

“LT.” Johnny had called to him that day, sought him out immediately after he got back. He didn’t want to see Johnny, didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He knew where he went. He knew he had wanted to visit you; see how you were doing.

See if you were okay. After what he did.

“I need her gone.” He had told Price, voice full of conviction. You were a distraction. A liability. Sure, you had every right to be there, but he didn’t care. He had seniority and he couldn’t think clearly. Couldn’t work. You were everywhere, in his mind, on his skin. He felt like he needed you. He tried to break himself of it at first, tried to cast you out. Disappeared on you without a word, hoping you’d give up on him. But after the bombing, the one that almost killed Johnny, and almost killed you, he couldn’t do it anymore. He could still hear the buzz of the comms, the dead silence echoing back to him when he called for you, over and over. It played on repeat in his nightmares. It dredged up old memories, reopened the scars in his mind of other losses, terrible losses that he’d never escape.

“Ghost.” Johnny’s voice was sharp, urgent. Like he sounds when something’s gone wrong. “LT, stop. I needa talk to ya.” Simon turns, stomach full of dread. He can’t place the expression on Johnny’s face. It’s grim, sure. But there’s something underneath that’s gleeful, excited. It puts him on edge, and he grunts.

“What?” There’s something in Johnny’s hand, a folded piece of paper, and he thrusts it into his chest. “What’s this?” It’s a picture of a blob with some dates at the top. There’s a name too, one he doesn’t recognize.

“Your son.” 

Simon doesn’t remember a lot after that. He remembers finding a chair to slump over in, remembers staring at the ultrasound picture for a long time. Long enough that the sun went down, Johnny’s voice filtering in and out of his ears as he fought the rising panic in his chest. “- she’s doing okay but seems tired. She was trying to put the nursery together when I showed up-“  Nursery. A Nursery, like where a baby sleeps. A baby. His baby. His kid. Your kid. You were having his kid. “and she gets sick in the mornings, I could hear her throwing up from the couch but other than that she says she’s got it handled. I think-“ You were having his baby. You were making him a…. father. His mind stumbled over the word. Buried memories of his own father fought to rise to the surface, and vomit tried to crawl up his mouth. His lungs felt like they were drowning in concrete. His ears were suddenly ringing. “Ghost?” Johnny reached for his shoulder, and he pushed him away, harder than he needed to. “Whoa. Hey, LT.” 

“Johnny. Shut the hell up.” 

He spent the next month with the picture tucked close to his chest. He pulls it out at night, or when he’s sitting in the same spot for an extended period of time, waiting. He stares at the image, trying to work out if those are toes, or fingers, or a face. He wonders if you’re okay, if you’re taking care of yourself, if you need him. He stares at your name printed at the top, the name that he didn’t know, until now. The one you never wanted to give him, and he never understood why.

“You don’t show me your face.” you countered him one night after he made you come until you lost count, and he glowered in response, lips still wet with the taste of your cunt. The truth was, he wanted to show you his face. Wanted to take you away from the god-awful city the 141 was working through, hide you away somewhere safe and show you his face, let you memorize it the way he memorized yours.

He realized, with a carnivorous pit opening in his stomach, since he knew your name now, he could find you.

And if he could find you, others might be able to, too.

He parked two blocks away because he didn’t want to spook you. He didn’t think you’d take too kindly to a stranger pulling into your driveway at night, and he figured you’d take less kindly if that stranger was him. So, he walks. He walks down your street, eyes cataloging every house on the block, every car. Which houses have soccer nets and toys in the yard. What the speed limit was. When the last time the street had been paved or had its potholes patched. He listens to how many dogs are barking, how many engines are starting or already running. He distracts himself with it, the awareness, until he’s stepping up onto your stoop, hand hovering above your doorbell.

When you open the door, your mouth goes slack, and you stare at him like you’re seeing a ghost. He swallows, throat dry, words jammed behind his tongue. You look… off. Different. Sick. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes, and you seem exhausted.

“Simon.” You say, voice half a whisper. He’s about to say hi, say sorry, say ‘can I come in?’ when he looks the rest of you over quickly and sees your belly for the first time. It’s swollen behind a sweatshirt that’s just a little bit too big, and he watches as your hand moves to rest on top of it protectively.

“Sass.” He croaks. You sigh.

“Want to come in?”

You’re dreaming of a memory. You know you are. You remember, this, this night, like it just happened yesterday. You’re on your knees, crowded against Ghost in a shitty dive bar bathroom. The music is thumping loudly through the walls, the floor sticking to your boots. 

“Thas’ it.” He mumbles, hand folding over your hair as you rock back and forth. Your mouth is stuffed full of him, lips stretched and cracked, drool dripping down your chin. So full, you can’t even flatten your tongue against your molars, but you think he likes the scrape by the way he groans every time he touches the back of your throat. “Bloody hell, Sass.” His fingers flexed against your scalp, and you feel the muscles is his legs tightening. He’s close, you can feel it, so you swallow him deeper until your eyes are leaking tears and he’s panting harshly. “That’s a good girl, just like that, so-“ He floods your throat with his come, salt and sweet and metallic filling your senses as it spills down into your stomach. He pulls you up to standing, pushing your back against the wall while he tucks himself back into his pants, and you’re about to tease him for being so quick off the mark when a fist pounds against the door, Soap’s voice on the other side. 

“We got a hit.” 

“Now?” you whisper, and Ghost shrugs. The 141 has been here for three weeks, tailing some small fish arms dealer, waiting for him to meet with his big fish buyer. He rights his mask, calloused fingers coming forward to adjust the collar of your shirt. 

“You keep your eyes open for me, yeah?” His touch traces along your cheek, and there’s something wild running beneath the surface of his skin, something you can just barely see. You nod quickly. 

“Yeah, Simon. I’ll keep em open.” 

The dream shifts. You’re sprinting down the street behind little fish, after he got spooked and tried to take off. He ran in your direction. You were the only option.

“Northwest!” you spit into your comms, rapidly changing direction as he does. He turns left, and then right, and then left until you’re in an outdoor market, turning in a circle as you realize you lost sight of him.

“Sassy, report.” Price calls and you swallow against your heaving breaths.

“Lost him. I’m at… don’t know. Don’t have coordinates. Some outdoor market.”

“Roger. Make your way east, we’ll scoop you.” You sigh in relief. You were a bomb tech, not a sprinter, and certainly not a stealth operator. You give another cursory glance around before turning to leave.

That’s when the shots ring out. Small pings that turn into loud screams as people run in every direction. Inwardly, you groan, and find yourself wishing you were still on the sticky bathroom floor with Simon’s cock in your mouth. Instead, you’re out here, out of breath, dodging bullets.

You duck behind a stall to pull your gun free.

“I’m taking fire.” You speak into the comms, fidgeting with your gun as you hunch over.

“Repeat.” It’s Ghost. His voice is tense, strung tight.

“Taking-“ bullets whiz by you and you pause, but keep the line open. “fire. They’re on top of one of these buildings.” It’s radio silence for a few seconds as you crawl along the stalls, low to the ground. There’s an alley a good hundred feet away, and you definitely could make it.

“Hold your position, Sass.” 

“Affirmative.” You sprint for the gap between buildings, pinning close to the wall and settling into a crouch, finger light on the trigger. You want to ask why you’re holding, but the answer comes when you hear responding fire, echo for echo against whoever’s on the roof. Price calls for you, seeking your location, and you answer quickly.

Two minutes later, Ghost is kneeling in front of you, gripping your tac vest and shoving you behind the blockade that is his body. He leads you out of the alley, steps slow and sure, confident…  until you hear a pop, and then a shout. 

The dream shifts, again. You’re standing in the med tent with your arms crossed while he’s getting a slug dug out of his shoulder, eyes tight behind the mask. He’s saying something to you, but the words are mush coming out of his mouth, slurred together and off beat. The medic gives him a nod when he leaves, and you release a breath

“I’m alright, Sass. It’s nothin’. C’mere.” A big hand finds yours. More words, jumbled nonsense. 

A doorbell rings from behind you, towards the front of the med tent and you frown. 

A doorbell. 

Your eyes open and you sit up in bed, curling over your ever-present bump that seems to get in the way of everything right now. You had heard a doorbell, right? You pull the ratty old sweatshirt over your body and creep down the stairs to check the door. It’s ten o’clock at night, for Christ’s sake. Who could it be? 

Fucking. Soap. You curse the Scot in your head. No good, piece of shit, sweetheart John MacTavish and his bleeding heart of gold, god damn him, you’re gonna- 

Simon clears his throat behind you, from where he stands, his massive body shifting uncomfortably in your living room. You close your eyes and try to breathe through your nose. Anxiety builds in your stomach, fear prickling along your scalp. What does he want? A dark thought shudders through you, the realization that if Simon Riley wanted, he could take your son. He could wait you out, disappear with him, and never be seen again. Two ghosts.

“Simon-“

“Were you gonna tell me, Sass?” He has the gall to sound put out, indignant, and you take another deep breath to calm yourself.

“That’s a joke, right?” You turn, face pinched with irritation. “You know, maybe I could have told you, if you hadn’t gotten me fired, if you hadn’t gone and destroyed my credibility with Price.”

“You went on bloody leave, and your credibility is not destroyed.”

“Yeah, sure.” You roll your eyes and then take a second to look at him, closely. His massive legs are straining in a pair of jeans, black sweatshirt with a hood pulled over his head and the infamous balaclava. He’s not wearing the paint, which surprises you, but you keep it to yourself. He looks good, and your hormones rush in your blood.

You don’t care. Just deliver the speech and give him what he wants. The out. 

“How-“ he starts but you cut him off. He’s not in control here, you are. 

“Am I? Or how far along am I?” He says nothing. “I’m okay. And I’m just over six months.” Your hand strokes your belly almost subconsciously, trying to settle the incessant kicking. He tracks you with his eyes, watching your palm move back and forth. You sigh. “Do you want to sit?” You motion to the couch, and he nods, slowly, lowering himself down next to you, posture rigid and stiff. He looks so uncomfortable, you almost laugh. “Look, Ghost-“

“Simon.” Simon. His accent is thick when he corrects you, and something tightens in your heart.

“Simon, you don’t have to do this. We don’t need anything from you. You’re off the hook.” His head snaps from the clenched fists that sit in his lap to your face. “I can do this. You don’t even have to be on the birth certificate. I have it all handled.” Lie. You’re lying to him, straight to his face, but he doesn’t know that. You don’t want him to know that you don’t have it handled. That you could be on bedrest in a matter of weeks, that you’re sick all the time and your PTSD is lingering in the back of your mind like a monster, waiting for you, watching for the moment you break so it can devour you whole.

“Who’s we?” his question snaps you out of your spiral.

“What?”

“You said ‘we don’t need anything from you’, who’s we? Is there someone else?” The words cut. They’re sharp, expectant, and he takes another look around the house. You know he’s already catalogued it, already looked for signs of another, checked to see if anything was amiss.  For a moment, you’re tempted to tell him there is someone else in your life, someone else in your bed. Someone holding your hand at all the appointments, someone rubbing your back as you chuck your entire stomach into the toilet every morning.

“N-no. It’s just me and-“

“Our son.” He finishes for you, and you close your eyes again against the swell of anger.

“My son.” You snap and if possible, his body gets even more tense. Your skin crawls under the sweatshirt and you stand abruptly, desperate to put distance between the two of you. “He’s my son, my baby. You haven’t been here; you have no right to just waltz in here like nothing’s wrong or like you have some claim to him.”

“I put him in ya, Sass. He’s my kid too.” Your breath catches in your throat. His entitlement burns in your blood, and you want to lash out. You have half a mind to hit him, strike him as hard as you can in hopes that maybe he’ll get the hint and leave you alone.

“You screwed me, Ghost.” You hiss his call sign, reverting back to it, distancing yourself from the man behind the mask. “I don’t know why you’re even here. You used me, then you treated me like trash and kicked me to the curb. Don’t pretend like you care now.” He stands from the couch, fingers raking down his thighs. You take a step back immediately.

“I wronged you. I know you hate me, but we should talk about-“

“Don’t. Just, let’s not do this, okay? We’re fine without you. We’re okay on our own. You don’t have to be here.” Silence fills the air between you two, and you curl your fingers into fists before you turn on your heel and stalk into the kitchen. Your hands are shaking, and you lean against the countertop to steady yourself, head spinning when you close your eyes. Why is he doing this? The floor creaks beneath his steps, and he turns the corner into the kitchen, coming to stand in front of you. He dwarfs you, and the size difference that used to thrill you now fills you with anxiety. You were going to have to give birth to his baby, after all. His giant, 94% percentile “large for gestational age” baby, as your doctor called it. He huffs a breath, and you glance up at him, noticing the furrow of his brow, the tense lines of his muscles. He looks nervous. 

“I- I’d like… I want to show you something.” Without giving you a chance to respond, he reaches for the bottom of the balaclava, peeling it up his neck before pulling free of it completely. Your brain short circuits. What, did he just… what? Your mouth drops open in shock as you stare. You can feel your heartrate increasing, and you blink in disbelief. He’s so… handsome. Handsome in a way you weren’t expecting. Not soft but, gentle in a way that surprises you. Strong nose, small scar on his cheek.

“Simon.” You whisper. He takes a hesitant step towards you, and then another when you don’t move away. He says your name, your real name. Not Sass, and you freeze where you stand. He knows your name. 

“It’s on the ultrasound.” He murmurs. He’s still standing so close to you, you can smell him, can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“Simon-“

“I’m mad for ya. Always have been. If you give me a chance, I’d-“

“Stop.” You cut him off before he can say anything else, before he can wear you down even more. “I… this… it’s complicated and… it’s late. I’m tired.” Cop out. You weren’t mentally prepared for this. You had hoped you would never have to have this conversation, you assumed you’d never see him again.

“Okay.” You breathe a sigh of relief when he relents so easily. Simon was used to executing and resulting, immediately and favorably. “I’m staying close.” Your sigh of relief catches in your chest. Fuck. “I’ll come by… tomorrow.” It’s not a request, but you’re too tired to argue.

“Okay.” You agree. You can button this up tomorrow. You can figure out what he wants and then send him on his way, get rid of him. You’re not giving into him, into whatever this is, so easily, just because he took the mask off. You can-

“Sass.” His hand is reaching towards your belly, and he’s watching you with an almost hopeful, longing expression. It’s hard to tell, because you’ve only ever been able to see his eyes. Now, the eyes that you were so used to interpreting on their own had suddenly become much more complex. “Can I?”

“Um. Uh… sure.” You’re treading into dangerous territory here, but you can’t find it in yourself to refuse him. Our son. His words from earlier echo in your mind. His palm presses to your skin, resting softly against the swell, thumb stroking into your sweatshirt. There’s a kick, a soft one, right near his hand, and you watch his face change, the mystery and wonder encompassing it sparking pesky hormone tears behind your eyes. Oh no. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. You try to hold them back, but it’s useless. You’re staring at his face, his whole, unguarded, unmasked face while he feels his son kick for the first time.

It's too much. You step back.

He clears his throat.

“Right. Well, tomorrow then.”

The next fic in this series is here.

[l3irdl3rain]

i'de love to hear a full step by step of your daily pet chores if you ever feel like writing it out

You asked for this anon. I tried to think of all my usual shit but obviously there’s other things that need to be done too. I didn’t even talk about shit that isn’t directly pet related like mopping but I have to do that way more often bc of the absurd number of animals I have

In the morning I am a zombie so I keep it simple. The cats get fed. Bianca, Kenny, and Val all eat closed in different rooms bc they’re on special diets. The others eat in the main part of the house but I have a special order I have to fill their dishes in to keep the peace.

Valentine gets 3 supplements mixed into his food in the morning, he also gets 1 capsule, and 2 oral liquids. I leave him to eat for 15 minutes and then check on him. If he’s finished his food I give him more and wait another 15 minutes. When he’s done eating I have to clean up his leftovers or someone else will eat them and get sick.

If I have time in the morning I feed the birds, if not I just feed them at lunch time. Also at lunch time I feed Stanley and do the pet waters. Fountains get cleaned and refilled 3 times a week, every other pet water is scrubbed with soap and water daily. I also feed Valentine lunch. Same deal where I check after 15 minutes and feed him more if he’s finished it.

In the evening the cats get fed again and medicated. Arthur gets eye drops, his face cleaned, and his anxiolytic. Kenny gets his anxiolytic. And Valentine gets 3 supplements mixed in his food, 1 tablet, and 3 liquid meds. I also give him subcutaneous fluids every evening.

Valentine also gets his diaper changed as needed as well as a bath every day or every other day.

Litter boxes get checked daily and cleaned as needed. They’re basically all dumped and replaced daily or every other day.

Josie and Otto don’t get fed daily, only as needed. I check Otto’s water parameters twice a week and do water changes as needed.

I wash bird food dishes with soap once a week or as needed. Cat food dishes get washed with soap every other day. Cat beds and blankets are washed once a week.

Oh, also right now Joey is getting a medication twice a day. Hopefully we’ll be able to stop that in a few months.

Okay actually one last thing! Valentine gets another meal before I go to bed. It’s his late night snack

[secretlovezz]

I was wondering I could request headcanons with König, Soap, Price and Ghost celebrating a birthday with their s/o who thought that they’d forget/didn’t know? If it’s too many characters (😭I know writing is a struggle) maybe it’d be okay with just Ghost?

By the time I’m writing this, my birthday would’ve been tomorrow :]

I hope you have a good afternoon/day/evening/night

I'm so late omg (I'm horrible at getting requests done I'm so sorry!!!!) but here it is!!! I ended up only writing for Soap and Ghost even though the goal was to write for all of 141+konig so maybe there'll be a part 2 with everyone else eventually😭 Happy belated birthday babe and thank you for the request 🫶🫶🫶🫶 ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Simon "Ghost" Riley

I feel like because Simon most likely doesn't celebrate/do things for his birthday he won't do too much for you (this doesn't mean he doesn't care though).

He gets you the cutest presents, ones with meaning and love, ones that'll last for as long as possible.

Although he's nervous Simon is slick about the process of giving you your gift.

He's hiding it behind a cushion while the two of you are casually watching a movie together on the couch.

He hasn't said much to you all day (he is horrible at keeping secrets from you so he's kept his mouth shut so he doesn't spill the fact that he got you something).

You notice his silence just like you notice how Simon is being twitchy next to you, the arm around your neck is flexing and his free hand is wiping against his pants to get rid of sweat.

You don't think you've ever been more anxious and on your birthday no less.

Has he forgotten?

You feel sick to your stomach, nausea overtaking you and making you uncomfortable. Your body wiggles against your boyfriend's side and his eyes drift to you. His brown eyes are searching you intently; his gaze makes you all the more nervous.

He contemplates saying anything before his lips finally part to ask, "You alright, Dove?"

Your head is snapping in his direction before he can even finish his question, eyes wide in a way that make Simon's squint in confusion. He twists his body to face you a little more forcing you to look at him.

"What's wrong," He asks, your eyes are darting to any place that isn't his eyes because if you do he'll see straight through you. Sometimes you hate that he can just tell when you're upset.

When you don't answer him Simon sighs and stretches his arm to reach behind him. Your eyes water and your plump bottom lip quivers in response to his movement but when he pulls his hand back in between the both of you he's holding a little box.

Now your eyes squint in confusion causing a tear or two to fall out. Your boyfriend is quickly dropping the box and reaching to wipe them from your face pressing a swift kiss to your forehead before pulling back.

Before you can ask him anything about the box simon is grabbing your hands putting them together in a cupping motion and dropping the box into your hands. You look at him doe eyed and he motions for you to open it kissing your temple once more. If you weren't a little sad you would have laughed or giggled at the horrible attempt of a bow around the box. You pull at it and it comes loose and falls into your lap. You glance at Simon once more eyes still a little watery and he nuzzles his nose against your cheek.

You open the box slowly a little worried of what you might find inside.

When you open it to see dog tags you choke out a sob.

"It's a replica, not the real thing but still, happy birthday dove," Simon says while swiftly moving your face into the crook of his neck. You move yourself to straddle your boyfriend arms wrapping around his neck. You stop your cries to place a quick kiss on his neck. Your professions of love mumbled into his neck as you hiccup.

"I love you, hm? So much," he says and Simon chuckles when you whine at him.

"So so much," He whispers.

《---------------♡

John "Soap" McTavish

I lowkey feel like there's no possible way for you to feel like he's forgotten.

He's talking your ear off about what you guys are gonna do weeks before.

But imagine he gets called away just days before your birthday, he'd get so sad :(

He wanted to celebrate it properly; take you out to dinner buy you some flowers and a present that you would adore one that could make you smile.

So alas he's away on your big day and he's so busy and has so much work to do he almost doesn't get the chance to call you.

You try to watch a movie, one that you and Johnny would enjoy together if he were home, cuddled up against each other, slipping gentle intimate kisses to one another, laughing and giggling at stupidly cringe movie scenes. His hands would never leave you, they never did.

You miss him.

The thought made your lips quiver and your eyes water. You felt that you usually did okay, good even when Johnny wasn't around but today was your birthday and he wasn't here and it was harder than you thought it would be.

You picked up your phone and turned it on.

No notifications.

You'd hoped he'd at least text you but it was rounding 10:30, it was dark out and the lack of natural light was making you sleepy, but there was still nothing from him.

You're nodding off trying to keep yourself awake but eventually, your eyes are closing and your head is leaning back towards the cushion of the couch. You're snapped out of your closeness to sleep by the ringing of your phone. You scrambled for it moving quickly to answer whoever was calling you.

"Hello?" You answer.

A rumbling chuckle on the other line causes tears to gather at your water line, "were you sleeping, can hear it in your voice," you could imagine the smile gracing his face.

Your voice is shakey and quiet when you respond, "I miss you," you pull your knees to your chest, "I wish you were here."

You hear the ruffles of fabric, you wonder what he's doing.

"Wish I was there too believe me... Jesus, I miss you. Was gonna have flowers sent to you but Cap'n's threw me into somethin' I couldn't get out of and-"

You smile, cheesing into your pajama pants, "You were gonna buy me flowers?"

Johnny scoffs softly, "'course, my pretty girl deserves her flowers always and when I get back I'm gonna get you so many flowers you won't know what to do."

You laugh and he thinks he's never heard a sound more beautiful. He joins your laughter for a moment before the both of you quiet down slowly.

"Happy birthday sweet girl," Johnny whispers, "I love you"

[onlymingyus]

Lemon Drop

pairing; kwon soonyoung (hoshi) x reader

genre; fluff, suggestive

warnings; arguing over something petty very briefly, reader has breasts, kissing breasts, use to pet names, and mention of food

w/c; 850 and some change

requested; no

a/n; i saw a tiktok about a woman stopping an petty argument with her husband by flashing him, and it led me here. thank you to @duhnova, @junkissed-replies, and @wonwussy for beta reading. special thanks for my supernova for the title!

before continuing remember reblogs are incredibly important and please read how to support me here

Soonyoung furrows his brows looking at the container that had once held two different cookies. He had bought them earlier in the day and then made his way outside to do chores while you worked on things inside the house. Now he was staring down at a single cookie. 

Yes, he had bought one for himself and one for you, but the point that was upsetting him was that the molten lava cookie was gone. In the place of the chocolate filled cookie was the lemonade one he had thought you would enjoy the most. 

Glancing around the kitchen, a pouty frown on his face, Soonyoung finds you with your hands in the sink. You were humming some song stuck in your head as you washed dishes. Normally he would find it adorable but the only thing on his mind at that moment was that you were a cookie thief. 

“Y/N, baby…love of my life?” 

Furrowing your brows, you use the back of your wrist to turn on the water to rinse the soap off your hands before glancing over to Soonyoung who was still standing over the cookie box. His words weren’t necessarily out of the ordinary but you could still tell he had something on his mind. 

“Soonyoung, darling, what is it?” 

The man lets out a huff as you mock him. Hadn’t you done that by choosing the wrong cookie? You watch him point down to the box and he watches your brow lift in confusion. 

“The cookie? What about it babe?” 

Soonyoung takes a step in place, much like a child who couldn’t get his point across without words. You watch him sigh, his hands moving under the small box to lift it and show you the single lemon flavored cookie inside. 

“This was yours. I mean, come on baby, when have I ever chosen the fruit cookie?” 

Your mouth falls open slightly in disbelief and slight amusement as you take a few steps towards your boyfriend and the offensive cookie. 

“You didn’t tell me you wanted the other cookie. Am I a mind reader, Soonie?” 

Pouting outwardly now, Soonyoung drops the box back on to the counter with a huff. His eyes fall to it before lifting towards you once again when you shake your head and start to walk away from him now. 

“Well no, but Y/N! You should have known which one, you know me. I really wanted to eat that one. I was outside in the sun, working so hard on the yard. I kept thinking about that cookie and now… it’s just…” 

He was rambling. Soonyoung had started to ramble about the loss of a cookie. Leaning your head back you let out an annoyed sigh knowing how childish he could get when things didn’t go his way. Turning to walk backwards you just nod along with Soonyoung’s words making him feel more frustrated until his eyes fall to your hands. 

“Oh my god, just what?” 

With an annoyed sigh you then prompt him to keep speaking as your fingers work your shirt up over your chest along with your bra, the man can only stare. Your breasts look soft and inviting to Soonyoung but he can only shake his head when he hears you hum at him trying to get him to speak up. 

“Tell me about your cookie, Soonyoung.” 

Nodding, Soonyoung gestures towards you and then at the box on the counter. You can’t help but to smile as he stutters over his words trying to form full comprehensible sentences while he eats you with his eyes. 

“It was going to be really good. It was chocolate. Fuck, Y/N…I just want a snack. I–God you are pretty. I was trying to have a serious conversation, but I can’t…when you have those out.” 

Taking a step towards you, Soonyoung finds himself having to chase you in a way as you take another step backwards from him. 

“The cookie was good, and why can’t you talk to me like this?” 

Pulling your shirt over your head you toss it at Soonyoung who barely catches it in time to watch you drop your bra on the floor. 

“I don’t think this is fair. I was trying to be mad about something.” 

Nodding, you purse your lips in amusement. Soonyoung’s fingers clutch around your shirt in his fist but his eyes move from your breasts to your face causing you to smirk. 

“Do you want to be mad or do you want your snack? It’s your choice.” 

You watch as Soonyoung’s face changes, a smile pulling at his lips. Your shirt falls from his fingers and he walks towards you with more purpose. 

“I want my snack. I’m not mad anymore. I’ll just go by another fucking cookie this week.” 

Laughing, you run your fingers through Soonyoung’s hair once he is close enough. The man groans quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your right breast before shaking his head. He knew you had won this one, but he wasn’t sure he cared if he had lost when you were his prize. 

© onlymingyus - all rights reserved. Reposting/modifying of any fic, or pieces of original writings posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations not allowed. 

[fangirltothefullest]

You need to go on this spam journey with me.

I will never open spam mail. Ever. But GODS I love peeking into my spam box sometimes and just reading the headers. TONS of fake paypal invoices, randos telling me about penis enlargement supplements and watches. My College sold my email which is fucking wild but that's why I have so much now and it's fun to take a peek and laugh at the silliness of the headers alone. My new favourite is tracking the ever fake and weird "life" of one totally real and not an automated bot Pace Kross, the everyperson with the email of jmackcross29 that have been dropping in my spam box since June.

"Pace Kross" is so busy in my spam box you guys. It begins on June 23rd, so simple..... (Read this in the most soap opera voice you can)

They're trying to link me totally not suspicious New York Times pet care articles. How lovely! They follow up with one of these:

A true person of culture: pets and traveling. And this of course is followed by a no subject email....

I am not interested, Pace Kross, you must step up your game. I shan't be swayed by your little games.

But then it gets intimate!

(don't be fooled it was not sent on June 17th, Pace Kross is a bit of a fibber)

They have photos they want to give me to send their love! Aww~! How very sweet! But then! Pace Kross's life takes a TURN!

Suddenly they want me to call because it's an "emergent"!! One that their physical health problems are causing them to be unable to do anything about!! TRAGIC!

I will never answer you Pace Kross.... what will you do?

Turns out I don't have to! And neither does whoever Kelsey is! My sister? My lover? My mother? Either way, crisis averted! And then we get more lore on my new relationship with this mysterious Pace Kross......

What am I celebrating 10 years of? New Development! I simply must know! am I engaged to this Kelsey? Am I married? IS it the anniversary of my birth? When I got my first car? What will their next email be?

July 1st- of course it's time to talk about fireworks. I now have new information! I must live on the East River! I learn new things about myself every day, thank you Pace Kross.

We are presented next with what must surely be photos of 4th of July. But who is Mack Danger? Is he with me? Is he my beloved? Is it our anniversary? The intrigue! Why is Pace Kross sending me these photos for Mack Danger's eyes and Mack Danger's eyes alone???

I will receive no answer, for I shan't open them.

July 5th, it is Christmas in July, of course, how could I forget. The plot unfolds- I have spent time with Pace Kross. I surely must know Pace Kross intimately to have such moments as reflecting on commercials that remind us of one another. Do not fret dear Pace Kross, I shall always be reminded of you whenever I see a commercial that establishes very little and leaves me questioning the product <3

But things take yet another turn.....

One must never argue politics, Pace Kross, you do not know what will be coming after all, immediately following your email.....

Is one from who I can only assume is your angry spouse! Alas, it too goes unanswered.

What follows are more emails for Mack Danger's eyes only. Impeccable curiosity spiking here... but I respect the privacy of anyone named Mack Danger.

Mack Danger must surely be a spy, after all, to merit such secrecy, and Pace Kross must be his informant. It only makes sense. It even says "top secret". The machinations unfold.....

And now the day arrives....

July 8th: It is my 10 year anniversary and I finally have context as to why Pace Kross was so upset they could not attend..... I am their beloved daughter! SHOCKING REVELATIONS ALL AROUND! A reel for my big day follows, of course.

Reminiscing got to them because they follow the big day with this:

I can only imagine this is Mack Danger they are speaking of in Philadelphia, followed by the pain they feel in missing me.

It leaves only more questions.

Was I put up for adoption at a young age? Dear me, what could have separated us?

July 16th: Mack Danger is now in Togo..... perhaps he knows why we are estranged. Was I kidnapped? Is there a ransom spam bot wanting you to pay to free me, Pace Kross? It's me I am here, your totally real and not fabricated estranged daughter and whoever Kelsey is... is likely here with me. Was that the emergent? Is Mack Danger on the case? Is that why I needn't have called any more?

July 20th, the last thing Pace Kross has sent to me. It holds no information, just an attachment I can only guess at. *stares into the middle distance*

I can only assume that whatever government had all those secrets has gotten to Pace Kross. I hope their dear angry spouse, Joan Kross, who is also probably from jmackross29@gmail, does not miss them too much.

[itsohh]

Mi Calvario

A/N: Female reader, didn't want to write a full series so here's just a bunch of snippets of events that took place. Anything in box brackets is spoken in Spanish. (Because like who wants to try scroll for a key during a fic, not me and my Spanish is horrible. (I cheated in Spanish class in highschool))

Summary: With Las Almas in ruin, Rudy makes sures to check up on the only other Vaqueros who isn't in prison. Wife of Alejandro, you insist on joining Rudy in the fight. Despite the constantly underlying illness that keeps you out of the field, your determined to fight for your home.

Word count: 1981

Warnings: None

AO3 Masterlist

Ever one with the shadows, Ghost paused with his reunion with Rudy. "Who's your friend?" His eyes glanced to the darkest corner of the room, Soaps soon followed his lead. Soap really had to squint and then the smallest movement came.

"[Stand down.]" Rudy didn't need to turn his head for you to know he was speaking to you.

"[Look at you Rudy, still making friends even at this age huh?]" Out from the shadows you stepped, rifle now slung over your shoulder.

"[More of Alejandro's friends but eh.]"

"[Always was the one to work well with others.]" You fiddled with the strap of your glove around your rist, tightening it slightly.

In full view of the moon light the two SAS operatives were able to see your full form.

"Forgive me, this Ghost and Soap."

"Pleasure." Soap smiled and Ghost nodded to you.

"This is Major-"

"Ah not any more. That's you now." You tutted. Rudy paused and glanced towards the men.

"She's ex Vaqueros."

"Ex?" Soap raised a brow.

"Retired if you believe it. Well, at least I was until the entire fucking city went up in smoke."

"Bit young to be retired?" Soaps question had you light slightly under your breath.

"Ah, a charmer. My retirement wasn't one of my own will. Medical reasons. Active duty kept it making it worse." A sigh left your mouth. "I would have kept working until I dropped but ah Alejandro wouldn't have it. Caring bastard. Don't worry, it won't affect my performance." You gave him a wink.

"Alejandro's going to kill me for getting you involved."

"Think the whole citys involved at this point. Think the question is, what is this? What shit have we stepped into?"

Ghost glanced at Soap, a small nod before he opened his mouth.

-

"So, your close with Alejandro?" Soap asked as the four of you approached the prison.

"Very."

"What made you join the Vaqueros?"

"Alejandro of course. There's not many people out there who are as passionate about their home like he is. I was I suppose when it comes down to it, a drifter. Just went and did what my military told me to. It wasn't until I met Alejandro that I realized why we fight. His passion is contagious." There was a gleen to your eyes as you spoke.

"You sound like you idolized him."

"I do, in a way. If there's anyone worth dying for it would be him."

"[Yeah but he's also your husba-]" Rudy started to speak before you interupted him with a harsh but non serious tone.

"[Shut up.]" A deep breath left your lips. "[I'll have you know, I've believe that long since anything happened between us. Besides you feel the same way, I don't see how that would relate at all.]"

"[I wasn't trying to make an attack I was just bringing it up.]" The pair of you started to bicker, still rather teasing. Your words so fast, Soap wasn't unable to keep up. Ghost could.

-

"I'll take point." You nodded to Ghost as he braced against Alejandro's cell door. At your signal, he opened the door and you took a step in. To an empty room? Your thought and slight confusion was cut off when your back slammed against the wall of the cell. Alejandro's arm pressed against your throat and anger consumed his face. Despite the pain, you couldn't help but stare at him in glee. You loved to see him like this and it felt far too long since you had seen him at all. The sweet sound of Alejandro's demanding voice filled your ears and Rudy quickly jumped to your defense.

Alejandro's eyes blinked and he glanced from Rudy to you. "[If you wanted to get rough darling I won't complain but perhaps let's keep that to our bedroom hmm?]" You groaned slightly and Alejandro immediately stepped forward even closer. There was no gap between the two of you. Both hands on the side of your face, his lips roughly pressed against yours. A thousand words all put in one kiss.

"Oh!" Soaps' surprised voice broke the pair of you from your little world.

Just as quickly as it started, he stopped.

The group of you had a job to do.

"[What are you doing here, you should be safe at home?]" His voice was one of concern but still adoration. It seems it was a mutual agreement that the pair of you hadn't seen each other recently enough.

"[And leave you to rot in this old prison? Never.]" He flashed you a smile as he was given a weapon.

"[That's my girl. My Calvary eh?]"

"[Make no mistake darling, I'm still very much retired. I'm not Calvary anymore."]

"[Nonsense, your always my Calvary, once Vaqueros always Vaqueros.]"

-

Gloves off, Alejandro subtly rubbed your hand while Price made his speech. When you went to reach for the mask, Alejandro grip tightened.

"[This isn't your fight.]" His voice hush, low enough for only you to hear.

"[Did all those years mean nothing? Los Vaqueros is my family, Alejandro. That place is my home too. I'm not letting some fucking entitled little American take it. He needs to pay for burning our city.]" Alejandro glanced away for a moment but let go of your hand.

"[I missed seeing that fire of yours.]" He grinned, eventually turning back to face you, he wouldn't fight you on this. Alejandro gave you a nod as you took the mask into your personal. There was still a lot of prep to do.

-

Adjusting the scope on your gun, you didn't look up as Soap approached you. Ghost hovered near by the man, an eye on the pair of you. "You alright?" He placed your gloves on the crate near to you. They had been on the planning table.

"No complaints here Sergeant."

"Arthritis?" He glanced down towards your hands. "You keep stretching your hands."

"Carpal tunnel." You looked up and placed the gun down before you hopped up on the grate. "The vibrations from gunfire make it flare up."

"Alejandro seemed worried. He keeps staring at your hands."

"Mmm." You eyes flashed over to Alejandro you true to Soaps words, was staring at you. When you eyes caught his, he gave you a smile and looked back towards Rudy who was well used to his behavior. "He's protective like that. When this is over, ugh I'm not going to be able to do anything around the house." Despite the annoyance in your voice, there was a warm smile on your face.

"How long have the pair of you been together? I don't think I've seen anyone look at another person like Alejandro looks at you."

"Ah, officially about four years give or take. [What about Ghost?]" Your eyes flashed over to the man who stood, watching and no doubtly listening to your conversation. Soap gave you a slightly confused look while Ghost silently glared into your soul. He certainly heard you. A laugh bubbled from your chest and you lightly hit the side of his arm. "Ah perhaps you will understand when your older Sergeant."

"Heard that one before. Why'd they call you Calverio?"

"Calvary. Ah you show up one time on horseback and you don't hear the end of it."

"What happened?"

"Ask Alejandro that one when you're not busy. It's his favourite story to exaggerate. His entire face lights up. Only other story that makes his face light up I think is our wedding day."

"A good day I presume."

"One of the best, a little bit daunting on my side though."

"How so?"

"Ah, lots of people, lots of traditions. It's was a massive, massive festival. Then there was always that unlying threat. What if someone took this opportunity to kill us."

"Someone would do that?"

"People will do anything when they're desperate. When their hate rules their honor."

"Ain't that the truth."

"But." Your face lit up with a smile. "Everything went according to plan. I remember him complaining about his checks hurting a few days later from smiling too much." Your smile turned into a laugh. "I actually have a photo in my wallet if you would like to see."

"Of course, bit surprised you have it on you."

"I came in my normal clothing. I use these shoes to do shopping." You hummed and brought out your wallet. Soap watched as you pulled back a small compartment and pulled out a picture. It had creases on the folds and could see how you had taped it up to prevent it from deterioration. He leaned forward and moved next to you to look at the picture.

There in the middle of a massive group of people, the pair of you stood. Both dressed in white surrounded by friends and family. He could see the walls of brightly coloured flowers in the background only outshone by the smiles on your face. At first, Soap could only recognise the pair of you and Rudy who stood next to Alejandro.

"Wow, you look beautiful."

"I'm just glad you can't notice that I was still crying."

"You were crying?"

"Yeah, Alejandro was crying too. That happened at the reception though. I think that's when it was sinking in." Soap squinted at the picture for a moment.

"Is that Laswell?" He pointed to the back of the picture. It was almost impossible to see her with the woman next to her.

"It is. Yeah, Kate and her wife showed for the ceremony. Didn't stay too long at reception. They didn't really know too many other people. Regardless, it was good to see them. Mmm, if we ever end up renewing our vows you should come. It would be fun to have you all there."

"And see Alejandro, a blubbering mess? Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Of course that's if we get around to it. Maybe one day in the future. Alejandro's a very busy man and this whole thing is going to make him a lot busier. Perhaps he would let me come back to work." You hummed, your eyes trailing off the picture to find Alejandro but failing your mission.

"Not going to happen." A hand on your shoulder practically made you jump. So used to Alejandro's movements, you had almost become immune to it. His steps, his presence didn't set off a single red flag in your head so often he would get the element of surprise on you. "Showing Soap pictures of our wedding are you?" You head turned to see that light expression on his face.

"Just the one. I could do some desk work-"

"[No. I recall the doctor saying that desk work would perhaps make your hands even worse.]"

"Ah there's no arguing with you about this is there. Can't blame a girl for trying no?"

-

"[Perfect time to renovate.]" The pair of you stared at the base.

"[Will have to.]" He agreed. "[How's the house?]"

"[Unaffected. The Shadows didn't come that far out.]" He turned to face you, suspicion on his face. "[Rudy originally only came to check up on me.]"

"[Let me guess, you insisted on join him?]"

"[He could get all the help he could and you know he was never really good at saying no to me.]"

"[That's only because you don't listen when people tell you no.]"

"[Your one to talk Colonel.]" You drape your wrists around his neck, his eyes on yours. "[I felt like I've just woken up from a nightmare in a way. All this destruction doesn't seem real.]"

"[Mmm woken from a nightmare into a dream perhaps.]" His eyes flickered from yours down to your lips for a moment, you knew exactly what he wanted. A request you were happy to make. With a roll of your eyes you granted his silent request, his upon his as the sun set behind you.

[lunarw0rks]

Through The Ashes | Alternate Ending

Summary: You've been given an offer to join the 141 Task Force. Upon taking it, you find yourself ensnared with the mysterious masked man who won't take his eyes off you.

Warning(s): canon-typical violence, mild injuries/gore, gun mention, suggestive content (18+), fluff

A/N: for those of you who desired a sunnier ending, here you go! This was requested by @redhoodsupergirl. the bold text is a passage from the original. I apologize if this is Bestie!Soap erasure h/j (I didn't know how to fit him in)

❥ y'all should comment where you think y/n went during leave, and if you think she ever came back | Word Count: 2.4k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ORIGINAL ENDING // requests | ao3 ver. | playlist

Alternate Ending

“Good to see you boys again.” The glitched voice emitting through your wire stops you dead in your tracks. You place a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, yanking him to a stop so you can hear it further.

When he does, he sprints to the other side of the large room, checking the entrance and windows for any sign of hostiles.

You look at him wide-eyed, as the line goes dead again. Graves had patched into your frequency and clogged it so you couldn’t reach your team. Whatever he was planning before, it’s here now and there’s no time to stop.

Your earpiece unexpectedly picks up the frequency again when you reach the middle of the dining hall. It gargles out a few words that you can’t understand, and then it emits a high-pitched shriek so boosted it makes you keel over and rip it out.

Ghost moves quicker than before, as your hurried steps try to catch up with him, your boots echoing with each careful stride—as if to not get your foot caught in any of the uneven patches of flooring.

The glass on the chandeliers began to rattle, as did the glassware packed away in boxes. You felt the floor vibrate, and the tarps over the exposed drywall began to whoosh. The electricity flickered as a loud whoosh of a jet passed overhead. The lights exploded into sparks, making you cover your ears for cover.

You had no time to get any closer to the door before the force of a nearby explosion knocked you to the hard ground. The world around feels like it’s been tilted on its axis, and your vision is doubled. You see Ghost already scrambled to his feet, and he’s outstretching his hand to help you up.

You reach for it and just barely brush against his fingertips. When you’re too sluggish, he clasps your upper arm and jerks you toward him, just barely getting you upright.

Another jet passes overhead, and the sound of the engine fills your ears once more. When another bomb drops, it’s closer than the last. You knock into one of the pillars, losing your balance again. A clamorous groan of the building causes him to lose his grip on you, and you’re knocked down again, fading in and out of consciousness.

Ghost comes to, and looks around at the rubble before him. The section you ended up on was completely blocked by walls and exposed cables that shot sparks every few seconds. Besides those, the night sky was his only guide, casting a blue tint on the hotel now in pieces.

“7-1, this is Ghost, how copy?” He spoke into his radio, hoping to hear yours going off in the distance.

“Frequency’s shot…” He growled under his breath, tightening his lip in concentration. Not only was he down his comms, you were on the other side of the rubble, or God forbid, already gone.

Wherever you were, he was going to find you. You weren’t going to fight this alone, no matter what ambush Graves had planned.

He raised his rifle, sweeping the remains for any signs of Graves’ men. His ears were trained on any sound of life, enemy or not.

The place was quiet—too quiet, for his liking. Either his entire team was dead, or another fiery pass was coming.

The only way to the other side of the dining hall was climbing through one of the vents he spotted by the stairs if there was one remaining after the blast. He crept through the doorway, keeping his strides near silent as he made it to the stairwell, which was missing its bottom half now, nearly disconnecting the entire upper level of the building.

He spotted the vent and hoisted himself up on it using the front desk. He felt around inside, making sure it was stable enough to let him crawl through. His rifle went in first, then his upper half.

He inched his way through the tight squeeze, grunting at the strain it was putting on his ribs. He knew that pinching pain, he’d cracked a rib when the second pass sent you both astray. There was no time to whine, he kept army crawling through the vent, finally seeing the literal light at the end of the tunnel.

He made it to the other side, finally around the large lumps of rubble. He slung his rifle back to its previous position as he crept through the dark space, dodging the broken furniture and turning to ash before his eyes.

Finally, he heard the faint gurgling of a radio in the distance, meaning you had to be nearby, or at least your radio was.

His rifle lowered when he saw an arm sticking through one of the chunks of concrete, your full frame covered by a china cabinet that luckily was being held up by one of the remaining pillars. He’d never moved faster, shoving the cabinet aside like it was nothing to him.

His sore ribs screamed as he tore through the decay, finally revealing you to him.

He let out an audible sigh, seeing that you didn’t end up in the gruesome state he was imagining you in when your hand left his. Besides being banged up, it seemed only your foot had been nailed by the wreckage.

He knelt beside you, pressing his two fingers to find a pulse. Faint, but there nonetheless.

“Ghost, what’s your status?” His radio chimed, forcing him to take his attention off you for a few moments. “Ghost, do you copy?” The voice repeated.

“This is 7-1 Ghost responding, solid copy. One injured, working towards an exit strategy now.”

He engaged back, only keeping himself composed because he knew he had a job to do. You. It was his job to get you out of here, and he’d be dead before he failed that job.

Your eyes opened only a small amount at the sound of his rough voice. You were too out of it to be of any assistance, or to figure out what the hell happened for that matter.

When you tried to move yourself out of the odd position you were in, he pinned you by the shoulders. “Don’t move your legs.” He muttered, scanning the situation around him for a way to jack the rubble up and free the foot.

You had no choice but to lay there, coming in and out of prudence. The only pain you felt besides a small headache, was a persistent compressing sensation in your right foot.

He managed to use one of the boards as a jack, hiking the block up enough to shove your foot out from under it.

You groaned at the sudden release of its pressure, which only unleashed the pain the lack of blood flow was preventing. At least you knew your foot still had some nerves left, if you were in a position to think of the silver lining.

“Lean on me, Sergeant.” He wrapped his arms around you, using all his strength to get you upright. There was no way you’d be putting weight on your leg, so he not only had to guide you out of here, but now he had to find an exit.

Your head fell forward as he practically dragged you along, unable to hold any part of yourself together.

“I got you…” He kept repeating it as if he was also comforting himself. He pulled out his sidearm, keeping it at the side with his free hand.

He squinted into the void, finding a patch of wall that had a hole big enough for the both of you. That was his best bet.

There was no guarantee this “convoy” would be out there waiting for you two, in position to neutralize the two of you the second he crawled through. That was the risk he was willing to take. 

Worst case; you looked mangled enough, that if he needed to shield you while being pumped with bullets, there might be a chance of you passing for a dead body.

“7-1, approaching the South side. Is it clear?”

“All clear. No sign of hostiles since the blast.”

He threaded himself through first, scanning the hillside to be sure of its safety first just in case. He leaned through wrapping your arms around him first, then lifting you so you would have to put pressure on the leg.

When you’re both through, he slithers down the tattered village, looking for any sign of the team.

He spotted the emergency lights in the distance, finally finding the triage center Price set up. When the superior turns his head, seeing Ghost’s outline carrying your unconscious self, he runs over, helping to distribute some of your dead weight.

“Leg injury, concussion too,” Ghost spoke in a pressurized tone as you were passed along to the medics. Price watched Simon with concern, privy to his attempts at hiding his own injuries—he’d done it many a time before.

Captain Price replied sternly, making sure the entire Task Force was at his attention.

“I want us all out of here before Graves gets a hold of another bloody missile. We’re going to recover, and then come at him hard.” 

—

The four hours it took for your surgery to finish, he spent pacing in his dorm, despite the nurse’s orders to stay off his feet. He did indeed have a rib fracture, and he was lucky that’s all had, according to the medics.

A soft knock at his door halted his anxious pacing, making him hastily open the door. He was greeted by Price, whose professional poker face wasn’t doing Simon’s unnerve any favors.

“Hospital called me. The surgery went just fine, but they’re keeping her for observation.”

If he wasn’t so experienced in keeping his composure, he would’ve jumped into his car and driven there that second. Price kept the announcement short, and continued on his way back to his office.

Despite whatever came of all of this, you were out. He’d gotten you out, and you were now free to get out of this hellhole before it swallowed you.

That look on your face when you asked him about the violence, and how everyone else carried on like it wasn’t making them sick to their stomach.

That look was the reason you needed out of this life. He wouldn’t deny your skills as an operator for a minute, but you weren’t broken like he was. Not yet. If you were to have second thoughts about stress leave, he’d push you out the door himself. Nearly losing you today was enough convincing.

—

Simon stared blankly out the window of the bar he’d picked out.

Every vehicle that pulled into the lot made him straighten his posture, hoping it would be you each time. Finally, a taxi pulled in, and he saw your familiar figure step out. The dim lights on the entrance didn’t do much to reveal your state to him as you passed the windows, making your way towards the entrance.

The ding of the bell above the door makes him set his bottle down and lift the scowl off his face.

“Thought you wouldn’t show.” He said as you approached the booth, a large cast on your right leg, and a few scrapes in the process of healing.

“Why not? You pulled me out of a burning building, L.T.” You carefully tucked your leg into the booth, shifting in the cushion to get comfortable. The limited movements were something you still needed to get used to, but you were glad to even have a leg.

“Simon.” He says, making you lift your eyes from the menu. “You’re not under me anymore.” The last sentence sounded like a justification as if that wasn’t his real reason for letting you use his name.

If you had told your past self, the newbie with a fresh hatred for him, that you’d be sitting in a bar having a civil conversation—you’d have thrown a fit.

The drink he ordered for you arrived; a stout, of course.

“How’s the pain?” He asked, attempting to mask his concern as he finished off his pint.

“Burns sometimes��� but other than that, no nerve damage.” You responded, resting your chin on your fist.

“Shouldn’t put a damper on your vacation then, right?”

You chuckled at his attempt at humor. “Not on my watch. I’ll be relaxing with one leg up the entire time if I can help it.”

His eyes scanned you in an up-and-down fashion as you sneered—like you’d noticed him doing many times before. At least this time it wasn’t lustful or hateful, it was civility.

You both enjoyed a few drinks, keeping up the friendly banter through the entire evening. As the bartenders began wiping down tables and flipping chairs, he placed a bill on the table and walked you to the door.

You turned on your phone, checking the time. “I should get going. My flight was pushed to to tomorrow morning.”

“I can drive you, in the morning?” He proposed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

You smirked and stepped a little closer. “I think we’re past sharing car rides with one another, Simon.” You had flashbacks to the last time he drove you somewhere, which only ended in a very risky hookup.

You could picture the reddened cheeks he had, even through the mask. His mouth said nothing in response, but his eyes had a way of uttering the words ‘Touché’ at your brazen remark.

He’d die at the chance of touching you again, but you weren’t in any position physically; emotionally, you were right about one thing—the impure mistakes you two made on your journey to this point.

You opened the taxi app you’d used previously and arranged your ride back to the hotel, exchanging glances with him as he watched you. You slid your phone into the pocket of your wallet, waiting patiently for your ride.

Like many times before, the silence between you two was more than enough conversation. Though there were thoughts racing through his head the entire time, he wasn’t sure where to start.

The crunch of the gravel under the taxi’s tires woke you both up, making you turn to one another for your farewell. A hug too innocent, a handshake too professional, and words unjust.

As you approached the car door, he cleared his throat to get your attention. He’d be damned if he didn’t get this out of his system before you leave the Task Force and possibly never see him again.

“Did you bring your files with you?” He asked, making you contort your brows in confusion. Files?

“The number listed on mine,” he began, shifting in his stance as he gathered the courage for his brave finish.

“You should call it.”

TAGLIST: @neoarchipelago @ghostlythots @gothgirl6-6-6 @cloudyyjanee @ladyelissarose @almightywdm @glitterypirateduck @brokenghostgirl1 @cheyenne-with-a-c @a-jupiter-n-mars-blog @liliumbosniacum (if you're not tagged it's not letting me)

[moon4nge1]

- Osamu Miya Headcanons!!

✧ ☽ ✧

His Features/Expressions!

⤻ prettiest smile!! -this boy has one of the most beautiful smiles! He instantly gets 10x more attractive, his friends wonder why he doesn’t actually do it often. Trust, the fan girls will drop dead if they ever saw it.

⤻ his roots showing -Samu actually doesn’t mind when his dark roots peak through his grey hair. But when they become way much more noticeable, then he’ll get them touched up. He used to trust you with this, but after making him go platinum for a week….let just say he’ll rather spend 20 bucks.

⤻ dimples!! -him and Tsumu have the cutest set of dimples! It’s a shame he doesn’t show them off as much.

⤻ natural frown -when Samu is lazing around, his face contorts to a frown! He isn’t actually sad, it’s just his resting face. When his fan base was starting, many admires gifted him many things to “cheer him up”. He thought they were weird.

⤻ scent of ocean spray + laundry soap! -THIS MAN SMELLS SO GOOD!! You’ll catch him smelling like sweat outside the gym. Many of his teammates were surprised at his smell that they even went out to buy his very same laundry soap!

His Backpack!

⤻ bento boxes/homemade snacks! -he cannot leave the house without one or the other! He actually has many bento boxes because his teammates beg him for his food!

⤻ phone charger -because practices runs super late, he uses that time to charge his phone!

⤻ deodorant, knee pads, bandages, and pain relief cream!!! -even though the locker room his stacked with these, he still likes to have them on hand! Especially after one practice Tsumu complained all the way home about his aching arms and sore fingers.

⤻ one notebook -yes he uses one notebook for all eight of his classes. And he somehow knows where everything is?? One time a classmate asked for his notes, the ended up failing the test; no one asked him after that.

Lover Boy!

⤻ love language = gifting you food -mostly the foods are all his! Like if he made something extra in the kitchen, he’ll be sure to bring you the leftovers the next day! He used to hand feed you these foods, but after shoving the spoon too far in, he lost your trust.

⤻ big on holding hands!! -whenever you guys are out in public, his hand immediately goes to yours. It’s to a point where he’s not even thinking about it, it’s a natural reaction! His hands are a little rough from volleyball, but they still feel nice against yours regardless.

⤻ “babe” or “princess” -his pet names for you! ‘Babe’ is always his go to. Most of his sentences to you contain ‘babe’ in it. He only used “princess” when he’s being super sweet or teasing you. “Come on princess, use your words” he teasingly whispered in your ear.

⤻ will hand feed you his new recipes! -this goes with his love language! In all honesty, you’re still weary when he puts a utensil near your mouth. He doesn’t mind you feeding yourself, but he feels it’s more intimate when he does it! Most of the times to get you to eat his food, he has to take it off the utensil.

⤻ cooking dates + picnics dates >> -you guys will playfully have a small coking competition. It then turns very competitive, and you both are sabotaging the other; the food does not turn out good! He plans the picnic in the afternoon! You guys watch the sun go down, and then stargaze together!

©moon4nge1 - please do not steal, copy, or repost on any other platforms without my permission!

✧ ☽ ✧ ps. I had accidentally deleted my account! So I’m having to rewrite everything! If you had already saw this, then I would appreciate it if you liked it again! T-T

[random-thot-generator]

Dirty Little Secret + pt. 3

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH x FEM READER

-

Summary: Johnny shows up out of the blue and gets to meet Aunt Rue. Cue the impromptu come-to-Jesus meeting.

Warnings/Tags: Angst - obviously, Profanity, Sex is mentioned but nothing explicit, Soap's POV, Rue's POV, Reader is taking a moment, Aunt Rue's a good mum, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Again, no smut. We're not there yet, folks. Wanted to get Johnny's side of the story out there, along with Aunt Rue's thoughts on the matter. Just a warning. Edited this to Kickstart My Heart on loop, so if there's a shit-ton of mistakes... my bad. 🤷‍♀️)

Word Count: 2K

-

Johnny felt like the wind had been knocked out of him when he heard your voice behind the counter, but when you suddenly popped into view, it almost brought him to his knees. The only thing that kept him from reaching for you was that horrible, devastated expression on your face. Tucking his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking, he took a hesitant step towards the counter, as if approaching a cornered, wild animal.

"I'm no' here t'cause ye grief, hen," he murmured, trying to make eye contact. "I jus' wanted t'see ya."

You blinked up at him, huffing a breath out of your open mouth. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," you confessed, sounding dazed. "How did you…?"

Johnny scratched the back of his neck, feeling like a bit of a creeper. "I, uh… I saw ye on the news. Some sort o' festival 'r somethin'."

"The May Day celebration," you mumbled, remembering the news cameraman panning his camera along the row of booths on the boardwalk. "Bloody hell. So… you saw me and just decided to stop by for a visit? After six months?"

Johnny's look turned sour. "It was no' like I knew where the hell ye'd gone off to, now was it? Ye jus' took off without sayin' a bloody word," he replied, his tone low and accusing.

You scoffed, your own expression growing dark. "And how could I have told you, Johnny? It's not like you ever bothered to give me your number, remember?" you fired back.

The bitterness in your tone cooled his anger instantly. "I…" He huffed out a breath, shoulders slumping. "Yer right. Tha's on me." His contrite expression returned. "It was jus' a shock, comin' back an' findin' ya gone, yer flat empty. I was no' expectin' it. Not after…" He blew out a breath, running his hand over his mohawk. "I dinnae ken wha' t'think."

You crossed your arms over your chest, lips trembling. "I'm surprised you thought of me at all. Why did you even go back to my flat? Things not work out with your other bird?"

"Other bird?" he repeated, scowling, looking utterly confused.

Before you could clarify, your aunt pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips as her eyes darted between you and Johnny. "Everything alright, love?" she asked you.

"Everything's fine." You dragged your eyes away from him to address your aunt, your tone softening. "I'm sorry 'bout your tea. The box was empty, and then he showed up, and…" You sighed, closing your eyes, shoulders dropping in defeat. "I— I need to go back to the stockroom. Maybe there's another box of oolong back there."

Picking up on the obvious tension and your need to escape the young man, Aunt Rue patted your arm affectionately. "'Course, love. Go ahead. I'll see t'him."

You gave a slight nod, eyes slanting towards Johnny for only a second, but then your chin gave a wobble, and you rushed through the swinging door. He called after you, taking an unconscious step forward, hand reaching out, but you didn't stop. A pained expression crossed his face before he turned and paced a few steps away, raising both hands to rub over his head, holding them there as he blew out a frustrated breath.

Rue pursed her lips, studying him before her eyes cut back to the kitchen door. "So, I take it ya know one another," she drawled.

Johnny turned back around, dropping his arms to his sides. He looked like a whipped pup. "Yes, ma'am. We were… She was my…" A myriad of emotions played over his face before he sighed, remorse evident in his eyes. "Aye. We know each other."

Rue smirked, brows lifting. "I see." She turned to the hot water urns and grabbed a couple of to-go cups. "Tea or coffee, lad?"

Johnny blew out a frustrated sigh. "Dinnae bother, ma'am. I should prob'ly jus' go. Sorry t'have bothered—"

Rue snorted, amused. "Ya ain't gettin' off that easy, lad. Been dealin' with that heartbroken lass for six months. I've got questions, an' you're just the one to answer 'em. So. Tea or coffee?"

Johnny opened his mouth to refuse but didn't have it in him to argue. "Coffee, please. Black with sugar," he mumbled.

Rue hummed in acknowledgment, making them both a strong cup, forgetting about the oolong. She needed all cylinders firing for this one. As she worked, Red finally showed, cheerful as always. He gave Johnny a friendly nod, opening his mouth to greet Rue, but she cut him off.

"No time for chit-chat this mornin', Red," she told him, throwing a couple of rolls into a bag and handing them over. She reached beneath the counter and grabbed his favorite jam packets, then rounded the counter to hand them to him. "On the house, yeah?" she said, ignoring his shocked expression. "Off ya go, then. See ya tomorrow."

Red could do little more than nod as Rue herded him out the door, casting a flummoxed look back as she shut the door and locked it behind him. Reaching for the cups she left sitting on the counter, she handed one to Johnny.

"C'mon, lad. Let's go out back an' have ourselves a wee chinwag."

She led the way to the back exit, checking to be sure you were still inside before motioning him out the door. Walking over to a pair of metal folding chairs leaned against the wall, she grabbed one, nodding for Johnny to take the other, then sat down with a tired sigh. Once, they were both seated, she crossed her legs and looked him over with a critical eye.

"Alright, then. First things first, lad. I'm Rue, her aunt, and you are…"

"John, ma'am. John MacTavish, but ye can call me Johnny."

She nodded, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "Well, it's nice t'meet ya, Johnny." She took a quick sip of coffee and smacked her lips. "Now, let's get down t'brass tacks, shall we?" She sat back and crossed her arms over her lap. "I'm goin' to take a wild guess an' say you're the reason why my girl came runnin' home with her tail between her legs. Not seen her in that bad a shape since her da dumped her on my doorstep, so it must have been serious. How long were ya together?"

Taken aback, it took a moment for Johnny to answer. "I been seein' her fer almost two years, but we were no'… I mean, it wasnae…" He huffed a frustrated breath and scrubbed his hand over his 'hawk. "It's— It's complicated."

Rue rolled her eyes, making a scoffing noise. "Bloody hell, this generation, I swear…" She shook her head. "Just say ya were fuckin', lad. Jesus." She scoffed again. "Complicated, he says…" she muttered.

Johnny gaped at her, surprised by her blunt words. His brows furrowed, an embarrassed look on his reddening face. "It was no' jus' fuckin'," he muttered, sounding defensive. "I cared 'bout her— do care 'bout her."

"Uh-huh. So, what happened, then? What would send my girl runnin' back to the one place she worked so hard to escape, hm?"

His lips parted, but he didn't have an answer. Eyes darting back and forth, he searched for an explanation, a reason why you would just up and leave him without saying anything. He thought it might have been another bloke, but after that last night together, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. So, why? Why did you leave? He had been searching for that answer for the last six months. Finally, he settled for repeating your confusing words from earlier. "She said somethin' 'bout another bird," he said glumly. "Dunno wha' the hell she's talkin' 'bout."

Rue's brows ticked up. "Sure about that? You're a handsome lad. Doubt ya have trouble pullin' the birds."

"No!" he snapped. "I'd never che—." He cut himself off, gritting his teeth in frustration. "There was no other bird," he grumbled out.

His hand clenched into a fist, the other warping the to-go cup, some of the hot brew spilling over his knuckles. Cursing under his breath, he set it on the ground, slinging the hot liquid off his hand. He glared at the back of his hand, then huffed a tired breath, his expression softening. "I dinnae want anyone else. Jus' her." He shook his head, looking lost.

Rue studied him, her head tilting to the side. "She never mentioned you, ya know? Never once spoke your name. I knew she was hurtin'— obviously, but there was somethin' about the way she looked when I'd try to bring it up, like she was... ashamed. 'Course, we've all been fools for love, so I figured some bloke had filled her head with a bunch of pretty words, promisin' her the moon an' stars, then broke her heart, but…" Her eyes narrowed. "Explain to me what 'complicated' means."

A look akin to the shamed face you would always give her now came over his. He started picking at one of his cuticles, studying it with keen interest, his bottom lip jutting out a little.

"When we first started hookin' up, it wasnae a big deal. We'd run into each other at the pub an' end up back at her place." He shrugged but then paused, his eyes growing solemn. "But then, somethin' changed. I'd catch m'self thinkin' 'bout her, like all the bloody time, while I was deployed. Then I'd come home an' find m'self goin' back t'tha' same damn pub, hopin' t'see her, gettin' pissed when she was no' there." He sighed, shook his head. "I finally gave up pretendin' it was jus' a hook up, an' started goin' over t'her place when I was on leave."

"So, you're a soldier, then," Rue said softly.

A grim look pulled the corners of his mouth down. "Aye. A sergeant in the Army. Special forces." He frowned, an inner struggle going on inside his head. "I ken 's no' the best job t'have, no' when ya got a lass waitin' fer ya at home. 'S hard t'make it work, bein' gone so much. Most birds canna hack it, end up callin' it quits. Figured I'd come home one day an' she'd be shacked up wi' some other bloke. Thought that might'a been wha' happened, but... I had t'see fer m'self." A sad expression made his eyes look luminous in the morning sun. "Tol' m'self I should leave her be, let 'er go, but I canna do it."

He sighed, leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at the scruff on his cheek. "I never tol' her how I felt, dinnae think it was fair puttin' tha' on her. Tried no' t'crowd her, dinnae hang about her place, makin' a nuisance o' m'self. Thought I was protectin' her, but it was jus' as much fer me, I guess. Dinnae help."

Rue's heart went out to the poor lad, despite how bloody stupid he was. "Could ya not tell that she loved ya, lad?"

Johnny's brows shot up, his mouth falling open. "She… She loves me?"

Rue sniffed a laugh. "Bloody hell, you really are an eejit, aren't ya?" She shook her head, amazed at how clueless he was. "'Course she loves ya, ya daft numpty." Her eyes grew shrewd as she watched him process the revelation, saw the hope bloom in his eyes.

"So, tell me, Johnny boy. What are ya willin' to do to get her back?"

-

part 2 part 4

[oval3000]

"Hello" Ch.6

Simon Riley x Reader

Not my art! Not my characters!

After defeating Makorav, Simon went back home to enjoy his night rest. The next day he heard noises outside his apartment. When he went to see who was making those noises, by peaking through the eye hole on his door, he saw you. He never thought you would change his life forever.

!WARNING ⚠️  Terrible grammer, past abuse, abuse, smut, ptsd, trauma, swearing, Obsession, Possessive, death,boring story. Different story plot then the game (Makorav dead)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

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Months has gone by. For Simon, it was torture. He wanted to see you. He missed you everyday. Eventually, Soap caught on that something was bothering him.

"Doing good, Lt?"

"Yes."

"You seem a little down."

"I'm fine Johnny."

"Gaz told me about your new place. So when is the home invite?"

"Soon." He didn't want anybody to visit. Not he's unsure about you. He loves you, obviously, but he doesn't if you're still a flight risk. What if he invited Johnny and you blab him how you're being held agiants your will. Simon can't have that.

As for you. You felt alone. Felt as if no one will ever see you again. You made what you can do with whatever you could. A truck will come by and drop off a box in which you would go and pick it up. You never interact with the driver, so when it first arrived it raised some concerns on your part. Turns out it was just a box full of groceries and necessities. Simon didn't want you to worry, he did say that he was going to take care of everything.

You have a simple routine. You would wake up get ready for the day, make food, clean, watch TV.

At night, it would just be you. You would turn to the side where Simon slept and imagined him there.

You hated yourself for feeling this way. He made you feel this way. You miss him. You miss his hugs, his voice. He made sure you would only rely on him and he did.

You needed him. He's the only one that can give you the satisfaction you deserve.

Your life outside the house is gone. You haven't been in contact with your family or friends. As for Jacob, your ex-boyfriend, he's no longer and will no longer be in your life or anyone's life. Simon made sure of it.

You miss them, you can't lie, however, your new life is here no where else. You did wanted to start fresh and new, you never thought this was what your new life would give you.

Your day would go on the same. Wake up, get ready, eat, clean, watch TV or draw whatever keeps your mind from going insane, sleep.

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Simon felt light on his legs as he left the base. When he was told that it was time to go home, he didn't waste anytime.

He quickly drove himself into the neck of the woods. Going through the only pathway available. He got out of the vehicle, leaving his gear inside. He opened the door, "Y/n" he stood there until he saw you coming out of the shared bedroom.

"You're back." You ran to him.

Your legs moved on your own and ran straight to Simon. He saw the look on your face, the smile. The smile he worked so hard to gain again, like the first time you both met.

You hugged him. You hugged him tight. "Miss me, sweetheart?"

You nodded as he embraced you. Your head buried on his chest. You missed his scent. His touch.

He's right, eventually, you'll learn to love him back.

"I thought you weren't coming back"

"Of course I will. I did. I'll never. Ever! Leave you. Do you understand me?"

You nodded once again as he took a good look at you.

Your hand placed on his chest. His tumb on your chin while the other hand, wrapped on your waist. You felt his hand move away from your chin and into your, right, cheek. You felt the warmth of palm resting, comfortably, on your skin.

Simon noticed that there was something on your mind, "what is it, love? Tell me. What do you want?"

"I want you to kiss me, Simon. Please"

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If someone told you months ago if you would sleep with your front door neighbor, you would've easily said no.

Times have change.

Simon grabbed your thighs and lifted you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he pulled you closer to him.

You felt his tounge, his touch, all of it.

The kiss was so deep and passionate, you couldn't help but to let out moans.

He wasn't rough, he was gentle. He placed you, gently, on the bed. His kiss trailed down to your neck. His hands pushed yours to the side, trapping you in.

He moved around your neck and up to your chin. His kisses were soft, it made your head fall back, arching your back a little.

He sat up with, unbuckling his pants. You sat up from hearing the noise of his belt and pants falling to the floor.

You couldn't deny that your were nervous. When he took off his underwear, you looked away.

"Don't be shy, sweetheart. All of this is yours" he took off his shirt, climbing onto the bed. "Just like all of you is mine." He lifted up your shirt revealing your bra. You felt his hands going down as he unzipped your shorts and pulled them down. He quickly went onto your bra and quickly unhooked it. When your bra slid down, your hands went up to cover your breast.

Simon grabbed onto your wrist pulling them away. "Don't cover yourself, love. I want to see you. All of you." He placed you back down with your hands above your head. He went down and left trails of kisses on your collarbone and chest.

You felt his mouth on your nipples, "ah..Ah...ngh..S-simon."

"You like that." He moved down on your area, pulling down on your panties, quickly tossing them to the side. He spread your legs wide and pushed your knees up to your chest. You felt the air hit your bare pussy. You bit your lips, stopping you from making too much noises.

"So beautiful." He went down, burying his face. "So perfect." His tounge went all over your lips and folds. "So good." His tounge went over your clit. "All mine."

He went in sucking on your clit, pushing his tounge deep inside you.

He felt his cock hardened as he felt your area leak.

He looked up and saw your hand covering your mouth. His eyes of lust became angry. He quickly went over you, grasping onto your wrist, shoving them away. His hand gripped on your face,"never. Ever! Cover yourself. I want to hear your voice."

He let go on his grip and went down. He rubbed your clit in circles, feeling it all wet. He pushed in a finger. Going in and out.

Your moans were music to his ear. He added another finger, but it didn't last long when you squirted all over his hand.

He hovered over you, your knees still up to your chest.

He inserted his cock inside you, pounding you.

You were so high on his touch, you couldn't see properly.

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You felt your legs go numb as they shook, violently. Simon rested his head on your neck, catching his breath. His sweat mixing in with yours.

He kissed you deeply. "You did so good for me, sweetheart."

He moved your hair away from your face, kissing your forehead. He got up and went to the bathroom. You heard the shower head turning on.

He carried you, bridal style, onto the bathroom and into the tub. He got on after you sitting down at the end of the tub. He grabbed your waist, pulling you closer to him, his legs spread out so you could lean on his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tightly. You looked back at Simon "I love you."

He smiled at you, feeling that light in his heart glow ten times more. "Say it again."

"I love you, Simon."

"I love you too, love."

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He saw your sleeping form. He could watch you sleep for hours. He missed you. He loves you and you love him back.

He was never letting you go. Ever.

[writingbyshiloh]

Night Shift

AN: I want superstrength so I’m being indulgent. I actually have a part 2 in mind but it took AGES so I figured I’d drop pt 1 

CW: NO BETA (I’ll check it over later), robbery, reader has unspecific powers, but some super strength etc. Rude customer hitting on reader if I use the term FIFO it means first in first out etc very big in food service (IDK which one of y’all sufferers in food service with me but there we go), suggestive thoughts from Reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Tag List: @tokoyamisstuff, @imonlyherebecauseofthisbandilike, @oiiilyyyy

Was being an assistant manager of a Burger Mart your life dream? Absolutely not. It was something to pay the bills while you put your energy into what you cared about. 

Did you enjoy the evening shift? Absolutely fucking not. It’s hell on earth. The store somehow makes enough to justify staying open until 11 pm but only with a skeleton crew. You, another cashier and a fry cook, no doubt stoned out of her mind.

You pull out another small wear from the soapy water, not bothering to see what it is as you rise off the soap before plunking it onto a tray. It's while you’re switching the loads in the sanitizer over someone crackles on the headset.

“Can you come to the front? Ger-Bear is here.” 

You grab your tray aggressively, scoops and spoons rattling around. “Call me Ger-Bear” (On his Burger Mart rewards account you can see his name is Gerry), is your least favourite person in the world. He has two moods and you’re not sure which you hate more. His “this is too many onions, learn how to do your job.” and “Thanks darling, your hands are so soft.” you wonder which one you’ll get today, you hate both equally. 

You plunk your tray on the counter, hopefully, your coworkers will pick up that slack. Turning to the counter, you see Ger-Bear, holding out his membership card. One of his “learn your job.” moods. 

“The usual?” you ask, putting on your best customer service voice while wanting to bash your head into the wall. He doesn’t reply just shaking his card in your face. You scan it and direct him to the counter. You unfortunately have his order memorized so you can just put it in instantly. Even if you make it right you’re sure he’ll send it back. 

“Hi. What can I get for ya?” your voice sounded fake and tired to your ears, as you greet the next customer, eyes focused on the screen. It's his voice that makes you snap your head up. His height makes you tilt your head back even further. And of course, he's fucking blue. Why would you ever have just a normal shift? 

“Hi. Can I get a box of burgers? On the house.” The smooth baritone of his voice almost causes you to miss the thinly veiled threat. As if you’re going to fight this guy over a fucking box of burger patties. You sigh while weighing your options. 

He watches you internally debate what to do, while the crew behind you isn’t paying attention. Your hands are still above the desk so he knows you can’t hit a panic button. He hopes you would hurry up though, it’s not a great look to be freshly out of jail and immediately caught again in Burger Mart. 

“Hey! This is not what I ordered.” Ger Bear shouts from the end of the bar. You’re used to his usual song and dance. Gerry is so engrossed in the onions on his burger that he’s not paying attention as he walks back to the counter to berate you for messing up something you should have known. 

He never makes it back to the counter. Instead, he bumps into a solid blue mass of flesh. You can’t help but enjoy how terrified Gerry looks as he takes a step back, argument dying on his lips. 

“Apologize. Now.” The singular twin says arms crossed to make his muscles look even better. 

You have to press your lips together to avoid grinning at Gerry as he stumbles through an apology to you and your staff, saying his burger is perfect and that he's going to give everyone 10s on the BM survey. 

“You can have whatever you want.” you tell Mauler as you both watch Gerry slink back to his seat. “Follow me.”

He raises an eyebrow but does as you ask. You give yourself a second to admire his shoulders and arms before leading him into the back room.

“Don’t you have a twin?” you ask, back resting against the deep freeze door to keep it open for him. You’re grateful for the human-sized BM jacket the store has, meaning you don’t have to share the warmth. Plus a jacket would cover up his muscles, while you watch them flex and shift looking for what they want. “Wait, are you getting this shit to use for the clone-twin thing? Is it a food source?” 

The one-mauler twin turns around from where he hunched over, sorting through the deep freeze for a box of something. Remember that Burger Mart does not pay for “hostage time”:  you decide to help him. Plus you can probably use this robbery to get your shithead manager fired. 

“Look at you, not just a pretty face.” He says, passing through the door with a box to put by the others he selected. You feel your face heat up but hopefully the cold air from the freezer will counteract it. 

“Do you have more of the deluxe patties?” he asks. He puts one arm on the outer door frame and leans against it to look down at you. If you die now, what a way to go you think. 

You duck under the doorway and his arm to bring him to the other deep freezer mostly used for storage. He's much better company than you thought he would be, but Burger Mart doesn’t pay after when your schedule says your shift ended.

You drag a breakroom chair to prop the door open. Being in the second deep freeze is tidier. Anyone working can haul things from the first deep fridge, but the second one is only for stock and few are allowed to access it, mostly you and your manager,

Cardboard boxes are arranged neatly on shelves, so you know exactly what he's looking for and where it is. Sliding your hand under the metal shelf above you lift it, allowing space for someone to grab the fresh fifoed box of patties.

It’s too heavy for a normal human to lift, the shelves full of products but you can manage it. 

“The fresh ones are at the back…” you prompt him out of his staring. “If you want to… y’know, fucking grab them.” 

You pish the shelves slightly higher to make room for his arm so he can grab what he needs. While you have some superhuman strength they’re still fucking heavy. You catch him staring as he stacks the boxes with the others.  

“You said it yourself, I’m not just a pretty face.” 

“That was scary.” Fry Cook Anna says from the passenger seat of your car. You and your staff stayed later to fill out incident reports to hopefully get time off for trauma. “But you could take him, right?” 

With your mind focused on the shit directions Anna gave you, you’re only half listening.

“With some prep, I think so. Maybe both if I have a lot of time.” you mumble. 

“What? Like warming up?” It’s Anna's questions that make you realize you mistook her words, she meant a physical fight. 

“Yeah, like that.” You lie, hoping she's too high to remember any of it.