Bear's Writing Den

Where I stash my writing - Personal Blog is @bear-woopsgetbooped Some content is 18+ NSFW (She/her 23) Requests are open!

[a-writing-bear]

BEAR'S COMPLETE MASTERLIST ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

Name: Bear

Pronouns: She/Her

I am an Adult and I do post Adult content.

Personal Blog is @bear-woopsgetbooped

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I've created a new master list post to make it easier for Mobile users! I am more likely to post on Ao3 before Tumblr purely due to the tedious nature of the Tumblr Text editor. Please do not re-upload any of my writing or put it through AI!  I no longer post on IG, FF or Wattpad so if you see any of my work there it's been stolen!

CONTENT RATING:

Explicit Smut and/or Violence

Implied Smut or Suggestive and/or Violence (Mature)

General

💀 LT. SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY 💀

Lines Between Us [ONGOING Multichapter - Childhood Friend AU] This links to the Masterpost with all chapters for this fic TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK Related Asks/Drabbles Not Quite [COMPLETE 4 Multi-fic Series - Ghost Fuck-Buddy AU] This links to ALL 4 of the fics in this collection TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK Fuck the Bouncer [ONESHOT - Nightclub AU & Bouncer!Ghost] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK Command [ONESHOT - Submissive!Ghost & Edging] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK Ink it Up [ONESHOT - Tattoo Kink fic] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

🧼 SGT. JOHN 'SOAP' MACTAVISH 🧼

Veneration [ONESHOT - The Catholic Soap Fic] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

💰 CAPT. JOHN PRICE 💰

Point of Interest [ONESHOT - Unbothered!Reader x Bothered!Price Gift/request fic] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

🎖️ TF141 🎖️

Toxic!TF141 [DRABBLE/IMAGINES Collection] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK TF141 Heat Waves & Sunny Holidays [DRABBLE/IMAGINES Collection] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

🌌 DIN DJARIN 🌌

Tatooine Lineman [BK1 of THIGTN Series] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

💫 ROLAN 💫

A Sudden Tryst [ONESHOT - The Cellar PWP fic] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK 5+1 Asking for a Kiss [ONESHOT - 5+1 Trope Fluff] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

👾 SHAKARIAN 👾

To Be Real With You [ONESHOT - Angst & Comfort Fluff] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

🌱 ZELINK 🌱

Of Duty & Doctrine [ONESHOT - Knight & Princess Trope, gift/request fic] TUMBLR LINK // AO3 LINK

[a-writing-bear]

been binge-reading lines between us... headcannons for everyday simon?? before reader comes back into his life? what did he do when not reading and not on deployment? love the story pls write more!

Ah oh my god thank you for sending this ask Anon! Always love more character building. Chapter 14 is in the works!!

For those not in the loop - all of the headcanons in this post relate to THIS current ongoing fic!

Here’s some important headcanons I think of LBU!Simon before your reunion..

Before you come back into his life he keeps his outings to a minimum- he avoids going out to the city center especially considering most urban areas in the UK have laws requiring removal of face coverings. He thinks the slow ambling crowds of public transport are aggravating. Don’t get him started on the price of water bottles or tea these days.

Despite not liking leaving the house, Simon also doesn’t like online shopping or ordering things in- not only is it a security thing for him, it’s also that he’s annoyed when he doesn’t get exactly what he ordered or when dealing with deliveries means having to check and track! He lives minimally not just out of efficiency and habit but out of laziness.

As a result of no online shopping, he will insist on grocery shopping at a local off-licence or independent store rather than a chain like Tesco- not for any reasons like ‘sticking it to the big business’ or ‘organic’ crap; he just prefers the smaller customer traffic and the store owners don’t tend to eye him up like a criminal when he walks in. Reminds him of when he worked at a butchers.

He picked a flat with an off licence nearby because he kept losing his damn papers for rolling and was sick of opening his fridge to nothing convenient. He also picked a flat in this area because it had the best street view.

He likes to complete jogs around the neighbourhood to also people watch; the usual people who pass him that he recognises receive a  curt head nod and his inner voice will imagine a world where he’s not an awkward bastard and just said hello like everyone else.

While he enjoys watching the footie like most of the lads, he’s more into rugby to play. Football tends to wear him out and he feels chasing a ball around feels less like a game and more like a chore for him. Rugby had been a good outlet for him but quickly fitness and training for the military when he was first ranking up got him out of leisure rugby; he used to play in an army team- he just never stuck around for after-match socialising. 

He likes gigs and concerts that have breathing room in the back, he doesn’t mind not being at the front. He’s got ‘divorced dad/male manipulator’ tastes when it comes to albums and between metal and rock, he’s had a guilty pleasure for some 80-90s indie. Listened to some 90s rap like every other council house boy too except that was probably due to Tommy’s insistence on using their shared bedroom radio.

He tried to go on a date once with the local bartender who was overly flirty with him. He gave it a fair shot cus cheaper drinks are good and who will turn down easy tits? It ended with him making a break for it and subtly abandoning her when he went on a smoke break because he found her conversation too dull. No amount of tits can fix that for Simon.

Before you came back he never entertained the idea of getting married or settling down. He’s got commitment anxiety- worried anyone he’d meet would regret being shackled to him like how his mum felt with his father. When he meets you, the idea of living alone and not having your name next to his on a piece of paper seems criminal; who is he if not YOUR partner? What would even be the point of being Simon Riley if it wasn’t for you? Might as well just fully embrace being the military drone that is Ghost.

[a-writing-bear]

Tatooine Lineman - Chapter 2

Fandom: The Mandalorian Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Mention of Age Difference, Slow burn For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Tumblr Version Masterlink (Split into Chapters) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Chapter Summary: You settle into routine as Mando's travelling mechanic and companion. You try to share a little piece of yourself, and he does so too. Author Note: Mando'a translations at end of post!

Story under ‘Keep Reading’

Previous Chapter

Space is not impressive. You’ve been on enough journeys that the great expanse does little to impress you. Instead your focus is on the various blinking buttons that twinkle like artificial starlight in the cockpit and the contradictory uncomfortable posture of the armored man in the seat in front of you. Mando has been absolutely silent, and you wonder if he’s feeling as awkward as you must be. Luckily, the child doesn’t seem to notice the uneasy air, much too happy to sit and wriggle in your lap as it points to all the buttons in front of you.

“So…is bounty hunting…fun?” Your words linger as you help guide the child's hand away from a switch he’s desperate to press. Your question is received with nothing and you can tell he’s not amused by your poor attempt to clear the air of the tension. “I mean you must like travelling if you’re doing this…” you fiddle with the cloth of the baby’s swaddle. The Mandalorian merely leans forward to flick another switch. Even with the lack of response, you know he must be listening because there’s a subtle movement of his helmet towards you.

“I used to travel a lot, mostly on outer rim planets but we’d stay on their surface for weeks.” You mumble- your ramblings are a product of your own frustrations, desperately wanting to kill the isolating feeling of the shared space. “In those really undeveloped areas- where electricity is still dodgy and power cells are expensive, he used to bring me to maintain the lines.”

“Lines?” That modulated voice joins the conversation rather timidly. The only sign of curiosity from him is the way his hand pulls off the controls and vaguely gestures.

“Uh yeah- like powerlines. Very old school- they’d trail from homestead to homestead. He was a lineman.” The Mando makes a little hmph, as if amused by the idea of such a primitive job still existing. You try not to feel judged and you shift and your hands move to articulate the example.

“He’d hang about spaceports offering to rewire and upgrade people’s speeders at each spot. We’d make a game of picking out clients- choose them by their ride and make them as efficient as possible in hopes they’d offer him a proper mechanics job.” You say rather distantly, as if you can imagine your father beside you once more. Your memories blur as you think about all the afternoons sitting on top of your dad’s rusted toolbox, staring at all the people passing by. Mando turns to properly face you, watching your own slightly sad expression as if he’s expecting a bit more. You feel like you’re put on the spot, his attention swerving to you like a stagelight.

“They never did. Can’t trust off-worlders. We’d end up on a new planet every month, wherever the work could take us. It kinda…” You clarify. There’s a long pause as Mando keeps staring- you feel your cheeks starting to warm from the attention he’s giving you. “Well it’s kinda like you. Linemen and hunters huh.” You awkwardly chuckle at your own comment and at first you think Mando takes offence; hard not to think that when he quickly turns to stare out his windshield again. That is until you hear a low chuckle from his modulator too.

“Same difference.” He says it definitively, as if speaking costs credits. The fuzzy edge of his modulator sounded almost tired and forlorn by the concept. 

-

You’re not the galaxy’s finest mechanic, but the more you fiddle with the intricate wiring and mechanisms of the Razor crest, the more you realise you’re definitely more adept than the Mandalorian. With every sparking thin wiry cable, and loose busted plates, it becomes clear how dire his need for assistance had become. When Mando comes to check your changes, you start realising that perhaps you and Peli are undercharging for the work you’ve been doing. The worst part of it, is the constant crouching and bending over to reach low panels- squeezing yourselves into the bowels of his ship like descending into a technological cave; Half of the time you wonder how ridiculous you must look as you are shoved through the little metal opening, trying to reach in to grab some loose bits and bobs. You’re quickly rewiring a transistor, temporarily solving an acceleration issue, when you hear Mando’s modulated voice mutter something. 

“Is it necessary to work like that?” 

At the sudden echo of his words, you pull back, waist narrowly getting caught at the bend of the metal and almost slipping onto your knees as you try to respond to him. The slip has the man going to catch you ever so slightly, his large covered palms grasping you and trying to steady you as you weasel out and turn to face him. Gloved hands linger on your waist and it’s only when you turn to look at him in the visor that he suddenly drops the protective grip. His hands quickly drag into crossed arms and he looks to the side, and he mutters another moment, this time in some language you don’t understand.

“gar're a chayaikir dala…”

“What?” 

“Nothing- it’s- uh.. is all that work needed?” He fidgets slightly, as if he’s not sure what to say but points to the open panel you were just bent into. You furrow your brows and shoot him an annoyed glare. 

“Do you want to get stranded? I’m fixing your accelerator so it doesn’t die on us! So yeah, very needed- anyway what’s up?” The man seems taken aback at your almost confrontational attitude, but he nods before asking if you require any materials, if there was anything he could do for you seeing as he planned on stopping somewhere soon. You don’t miss the way he suddenly starts shifting his body weight to mirror you, as if wanting to shift his focus solely on your response.

“Thanks but I am at your beck and call Mando, I’ll do whatever you want me to.” You announce sincerely yet Mando stills. Hands go to rest on his holster and he seemingly eyes you up- the prolonged examination makes you want to fidget, cheeks burning as you realise how that might have sounded.

“Right. Of course.” He affirms, there’s a short intake of breath you barely notice through his modulator before he gives a jerky but distinct nod of approval. “This is the way.” 

Days on the razor crest from then on are comfortably routine; The Mandalorian sets the course, reads his quarry notes, checks his trajectories before the two of you go through maintenance checks on the armoury and battery. Despite your reassurance that you wish to assist however you can, he seems restrained in his requests. You’ve given him your name but he still stays shrouded in anonymity, avoiding at all cost any pestering about who he actually is. You take what you can get, and you give what you think he can take. Your tirade over his engineering logistical nightmare continues and this culminates into a  little bit of a lecture when he eventually shows you the manually operated laser turrets that haven’t been calibrated properly. 

“Seriously? For a guy whose weapons are his religion, you suck at laser focusing.” you critique him and he just stands with his arms on his hips again. It’s been a good week in each other's space, no longer feeling like you have to think carefully of what to say. You've started teasing the man. 

“I was calibrating phasers before you were even born, Kid.” He sounds so smug as he says it, knowing how your face scrunches up at the comment; still calling you kid in a way that is not entirely unpleasant (though you try not to think about it when you’re lonely and have too many issues to unpack). His voice is low, as he watches you tinker. It seems to be a recurring theme whenever he talks to you- constantly pointing out your youth as if it stuns him how independent you can be. 

“Yeah? How much before? Am I being kidnapped by some old bantha in a walking metal coffin?” You point at his form. “I’m not even that young! I travel on my own all the time-”

“I’m not sure your mother would-”

“Peli’s not my mother! Kriff!” you exclaim with horror at the absurdity of the idea- you’re flustered and the Mandalorian seems almost apologetic as he laughs. His gloved hand goes to rub the back of his neck as he comes close to move one of the pieces you’re working on.

“Right. Sorry I assumed..”

“Assumed wrong.” You go to point accusingly at him- poking his helmet from the side as he’s slightly shorter than you as you stand on some box to reach upper wires. “Sure, She’s taken care of me since I started showing up with spare parts but she’s not my mother.” Your eyes trail to look at the door of the sleeping bunk where you know the child is currently napping in. “She’s…more like a crazy aunt. Who cares- family is complicated."

At this statement, Mando seems to shuffle over, he goes to grasp at your wrist and pulls it away from his helmeted face. He nods once more, as if absorbing the implicit request to change the topic. stuck in his own haze of a memory, he doesn't let go of your wrist until you cough slightly in nervousness. He drops your wrist before retreating fast.

“Oi- you didn’t answer me then. How old are you then?” You wonder what he’s thinking whenever he openly glares at you like this. He doesn’t say anything, his feet slightly move in thought of whether to turn and ignore your question.

“Old enough.”

He leaves you to finish up your work.

-

You ask him about all the planets he’s been to before he met you. He confirms your suspicions when he just shrugs and says something passive like ‘too many to keep track’. Not that it really matters, the names and the coordinates don’t make up his worth or value as a space-faring adventurer. His worth as a traveller comes in the way he seems to be able to map and track bounties like they are easy games, combat being a breeze as he shackles them all easy; his expertise comes to a frightening forefront when you watch how quick-thinking he can be when you’re pulled over by authorities and the sort. Sometimes, when Mando tells you to handle the baby while he interrogates or deals with those he’s captured down below, you get a brutal reminder that this older man could kill you in one single move before you’d even get a chance to say stop or ask why.

And honestly, you think that initial fear breeds more haphazard interest in your heart.

It’s not hard to estimate when you started having a tiniest bit of a crush on the mandalorian. You’ve always had a little bit of a flirt with danger and you can’t deny that those broad shoulders and heavy steps make you ache a little thinking about what it would be like to be under strong arms and steely gazes. What’s made worse is the way he treats the child, as if domesticated and docile- nothing like his gruffness when he’s working. You accompany him outside of the ship every now and again, trailing alongside him like a strange unconventional family unit. You’ll carry the child, resting him against your hip like you imagine your mother once would have you, with his metal pram hovering behind following you and the Mando through busy market streets. It’s strangely civilian at times: Mando will search for work while you and the child slum it in a cantina, picking at something more decent than a ration pack and sipping caf that’s a bit too burnt. You’d take the child to a stall where you barter- sometimes finding a steal you know you can thrift off at the next spaceport or maybe even something you can nick knowing Peli will find good use for it. The kid always seems intrigued. He’s not used to the quieter notions of underhand dealings; it’s as if the child only knows business the way his dad does- etched with sly comments and minor violence. Even so, The man always meets up with you again, sometimes a bit battered but most of the time oozing pride. He’s never empty handed when he returns, either a bounty already tied up or a new lead sending you down another planet-shaped rabbit hole. 

His competence and consistency is why it's shocking when you end up having a discussion about precautions and responsibilities.

“I need you to learn how to fly.”  His voice crackles with a subtle sense of concern and anxiousness as he stores away his phase rifle and unclips some charges, energy still fizzling as the 3 of you hurried back onto the vessel. You look at him like he’s a madman as you clutch the child against your body like a safety pillow. The rendezvous had ended quite spectacularly with Mando practically grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you back on board with the baby and jumping into hyperspace in less than a minute flat; You reckon something had gone awry and now the man has truly lost his mind.

“I barely know how to take off, let alone make a getaway, Mando! And your ship is always one hit away from falling apart, Surely priority should be fixing-” 

“Priority one: A lesson on how to get you and kid outta here when I’m not able to.” he practically growls as he lays a heavy palm on the small of your back, guiding you to sit in the pilot's seat. You don’t argue back, not when you can feel the press of his palm through his leather gloves. Your body slumps into the worn out captain’s seat, and your hands tremble slightly as he gestures for you to put your hands on the dashboard and one of the flight sticks. You try to focus on the way he mumbles out directions- buttons all having distinct functions that seem to confound you a little. When you manage to maneuver the vessel confidently at sublight speeds, Mando makes a pleased noise. 

“Good progress.”

It makes you preen- as if a pet wanting more praise. Just like that, the routine adapts; you spend a minimum of 4 hours practicing flight and movement all under Mando's constant watch. You start to notice his delicate way of correcting you, and the easing comfort of company when he starts to crouch close to you whenever he’s pointing out to a sightline, whispering the instructions as you try to guide. Within the week, responsibilities shift to equal out the piloting load- while Mando continues to be the navigator during hunts, he trusts you to take the seat when it’s simple stop and go. Other days when he’d prefer to keep the two of you off the surface, you’re happy to orbit and muck about flying the Crest nearby (so long as it doesn’t waste his fuel!). His expert instruction and teachings  finally come to use when just past the planet Aldephi, Mando’s voice rings out frustrated and tense over the commlink; he sounds slightly out of breath as you hear blaster fire in the background. You had been spoonfeeding the child some broth and watching a generic holovid when the noise came crackling to attention.

“Get ready to hyperjump- Quarry incoming, company to follow. Extraction 2 klicks away.”

At that sudden notice, the baby’s dinner is forgotten and you hurry to saddle into the pilot's chair. You can make out the blurry view of your Beskar-clad boss practically dragging an unfortunate captive  towards the Crest. The moment Mando manages to shove the handcuffed prisoner on and you can hear the heavy presence of his proper return, you close the ramp and manage to accelerate straight away- your getaway perfectly executed with so little of a light turbulence when you find yourself securely parsecs away. 

“Good job Meshla.” His voice clings to your ego, feeding you grand delusions that you could get more attention from him. The adrenaline of having successfully saved him has you more cockily proud than before.

“Wasn’t that crazy?! Do I look like a cool bounty hunter yet?” You joke as you swivel to face him, stretching out your arms and doing little jazz hands as if flourishing your deeds like it’s a performance. You see his gloves twitch as he puts away his blaster and leans against a metal panel as he seemingly debates the question.

“Copyc. Should film it next time”

There it is again, You hate it when he does that. Sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention, or when he’s trying to avoid a true answer the Mandalorian resorts to a language you don’t understand. You have asked multiple times for clarification or a courteous translation but he seemingly shies away from the request. You frown, and as if he feels some guilt in not letting you in on his mysterious words, Mando decides to pat you on the shoulder and give you another signature nod. You wish it was more than that as you lean into his touch.

“What language is that?” you asked determined to drag it out of him; you can recognise the slurred vowels of Huttese, and you decently understand droidspeak with the practice of the one back in the Hangor but Mando’s words get lost and jumbled up as you try to parse what he’s always murmuring. 

“Mando’a.” He retracts his touch from you as if burnt by your words but you’re too nosy to drop your investigation.

“Oh! Right, should have guessed it- I’m guessing it’s not much use outside of Mandalore…” You look toward the child, who gurgles when you bring it up into your lap, obviously wanting to resume his feeding from earlier. “Will you be teaching your son Mando’a then?”

“He’s not….” Mando stutters- which catches you by surprise at the almost upset tone he takes as he looks at the two of you. “He is not…Mandalorian.” You try to make light of the awkward comment, shifting the baby in your lap and reaching over to grab the spoon you had been using with him. 

“Aw man, guess I can’t convince you to teach me-”

“No.” Suddenly Mando moves away, ignoring your sheepish smile, instead stating the rejection so promptly hurts the burgeoning affection that’s been building. 

-

You regret making that joke when Mando refuses to speak Mando’a in your presence for about a week. Like a snail, he also tries to hide away in the little closet of his bunk when he can, as if avoiding speaking to you. It makes you worry; you had enjoyed the progress you had with the older man, but it feels like you’ve been once more shut out like a quarry who talks too much.

You wish to remedy the little broken part of your companionship and so one particularly safe day, when a bounty’s been handed in and you’re able to slip away to a market you purchase a slightly expensive treat as an apology of sorts. It’s not much but you suppose it’s the most you could do- not that Mando is very open with his wants or tastes. You package away the gift and later when the three of you sit preparing the ration packs for dinner you push into his hand a poorly wrapped container holding the two delicate slices of jogan cake you managed to buy. 

“What is-”

“I’m sorry for pushing on the mando’a a few days ago. I thought I'd apologise for the overstepping.” He stares at you through his visor, clutching the container rather weakly before unpacking it and inspecting it like he’s never seen a desert before.

“Oh kriff I don’t even know if you like jogan-”

“Vor'e.” He blurts out, pinching the box slightly as he goes to show the child who sits practically drooling at the sight and smell of the fruity aroma. Your eyes light up! He’s back to speaking it- you try to ignore the fluttering feelings of accomplishment in your belly as you hang onto his words. “That means thank you.” You like it. You like how soft he sounds when he says it, and you roll the word over and over in your head before you test it out.

“Vor’e!” You say excitedly, you got to take one of the packaged slices of cake out of his hold and start to unwrap it for the hungry child. It feels special knowing that Mando has given you one of his words; you feel like you've won a prize, unlocked something from such a shut case of a man. Mando hums and watches as you feed the green child and you can feel the shift back to the comfortable silence you had earned before.When the child is promptly fed and you’ve had your fill of mediocre ration pack (and a small nibble of the dessert that was pushed into your face by the child) you watch Mando get ready to smuggle his food into his private bunk. You ponder what it must be like to be unable to share a meal with others, if it gets lonely. You mutter out before he can leave your view:

“Have a good dinner Mando! Vor’e for tonight!” You cheekily use the new word, happy to be gifted the translation and eager to use it before it loses its novelty. You hear a slight modulated breath as he nods..

“Vo’re. Goodnight Meshla.” He leaves before you can ask for that clarification, the door making a disappointing swish as it closes behind him.

Meshla. Must be some nickname.

The child gurgles, tiny fingers squeezing yours as it tries to check if there’s any more of the blessed cake.

-----

TRANSLATIONS “Gar're a chayaikir dala…” = You’re a tease woman… Meshla = Beautiful Copyc = Attractive (Beyond just physical.) Vo’re = Thanks (Informal)

[a-writing-bear]

Tatooine Lineman - Chapter 1

Fandom: The Mandalorian Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Eventual smut (No smut in this chapter) Age Difference For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Tumblr Version Masterlink (Split into Chapters) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Chapter Summary: After years of scavenging and working as a part-time mechanic for Peli Motto, you start to realise you want a bit more to the life you've managed to scrounge up on Tatooine. While you try not to be on the wrong end of blaster fire as much as possible, an encounter with the mysterious Mandalorian has you intrigued. Luckily, your dear friend Peli decides for you that a little extra work assisting the stranger and his child might do you some good...

Story under ‘Keep Reading’

Next Chapter

“And I need you more than want you And I want you for all time And the Wichita lineman Is still on the line.” >>> DATA LOG 1 - 9ABY, TATOOINE, MOS EISLEY, HANGAR 3-5

Many planets on the Outer Rim don’t have the unconventional charm like Tatooine does with its warm afternoons and dusty nights; the place is, as usual, bustling with various travellers and suspicious characters that you try not to pay close attention to. Your usual choice of loitering venue, Hangar 3-5 in the town of Mos Eisley, luckily keeps you away from the blaster end of dodgy characters, allowing solace from the riff raff beyond the lot’s walls. Instead it has turned into a somewhat semi-profitable experience. Peli, as kind as she can be gritty, has gotten used to your usual comings and goings- much too happy to take any crap parts you happen to scrounge for her on your various whistle-stop journeys through the planets. Subsequently, on your end, nothing will stop you from accepting the credits she doles out. It’s not easy being a scavenger of sorts, yet it’s even harder to settle the way Peli keeps offering you to. Positions of a comfy but busy life working full time at Hangar 3-5 sound stifling, but with the slightly steady income she’s been giving you, you find yourself not minding the little bit of loyalty you’ve cultivated in yourself working for her. That being said, mechanical work sometimes bores you when it’s the same old everyday- Case in point, as you watch your dear older friend fiddle with an old engine as you hover around her, bored out of your mind.

“I’m just saying, would it kill you to stay here and work a real job instead of dreaming about dangerous men and sleazy backwater dumps?” Her nagging voice mutters as sparks from her welder nearly fly into her face. The two of you are trying to pass the time in her slightly rundown garage. She is waiting for the next job, and you are waiting for your life to begin somehow. With most days like this in between jobs, the two of you always end up in some sort of passive-aggressive discussion about your plans and goals. The curly haired woman always ends up sounding like a concerned aunt in your brain, replacing the long-gone family you may have once had.  Your face crinkles, irritation in your gaze as you lightly argue back.

“It’s not about dangerous men or other planets. I can’t just be a scavenger or even a spaceport mechanic the rest of my life. It’s about doing something interesting, helping people.” You kick at the metal tin box that she’s sitting on as you twirl a wrench absentmindedly in your hand. You can tell she’s once again not buying the excuses.

“Pfft. Join the kriffing New Republic if you’re keen on that sweetheart. Doing good my ass-” Her scoffed remarks and reply get interrupted as you hear a sudden rattling and noise from outside the office window. Arriving barely held together, a rare ST-70 Razor crest comes down into the Hangar’s space; it lands rather carefully despite its near-torn-apart exterior. Both you and Peli scramble to the window to gauge who it is, but as the ramp slides down and the pit droids get ready to start work, blaster fire pulls you both into a bit of a tizzy.

“Hey! HEY! You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” Peli goes rushing outside, ready to reprimand the tall beskar-clad stranger, with you following suit. Instead of joining Peli in her attempt to point out every flaw with the man's gunship, you wander warily towards the 3 droids who had retreated in fear. Your gentle hands cradle and pet the one who nearly got shot, and you bite your lip as you watch the conversation unfold from a settled distance. There’s an urge to stare. How could you not? The man is seemingly draped in complete Beskar armour, the glint and shine distracting and unnerving. You’ve heard of their kind, hidden in secrets and insular notions. You had made note of the rumours of some hanging about on the nearby planet of Nevarro, just in case. Like before, your mind repeats the mantra to stay out of the way of the wrong end of a blaster of suspicious characters. As Peli goes on about carbon scoring, broken thrusters and a tremendously egregious fuel leak, you find yourself snickering at the contradictory state of man’s armour relative to his ship. You think he must be more narcissistic with the armour than pragmatic with his ship. You regret the giggles when the man glares at you from the side as Peli continues her spiel. When he promises her pay and shoots you another disturbingly steely glare with his helmet, you find yourself moving quickly to grab your mechanic kit. It’s been a while since a man’s stare has made you feel so on edge. This man would require his ship as quickly as he dumped it here, and you’re not looking to disappoint a man with that much weaponry on his arms alone. The man accepts the deal with a pitiful deposit and a less-than-promising agreement to come back with more. He grouches out another bark on droid work, and you feel a tenseness aimed at you as he stalks off.

“Yeah. No droids. I heard ya. You don’t have to say it twice.” Peli pockets the meagre amount and whistles at you and the 3 pit droids to bring her own kit.

“Are you seriously taking his measly 500? Half of Mos Eisley won't even take imperial” You croak out, your action of zipping up your coveralls at odds with your own uncertain voice. 

“Work’s work, kid. You either pick it up or you piss off. Besides, didn’t you say you like being helpful?” She snides as she throws you a rag to start cleaning up the grease on the ship. You can hear the confidence in her voice, knowing precisely that you wouldn't leave even if she tried to exile you. You care too much. You give her a playful pout, eyes then focused on the hunk of junk that the mysterious bounty hunter had left. 

It still beats scavenging.

-----

“You know, this would go much faster if I got some help.” You loudly complain when you accidentally smack your head rolling out from under one of the panels. It’s been about an hour since the man had left his vehicle in your possession, and Peli had decided to put you on wire checks, which turns out to be actual spaghetti strand hell. You spare her an annoyed look as you spot her ‘busy’ playing cards with the DUMs. You whine as your back aches from being on the roller.

“You heard the Mandalorian, no droids. Customer’s demands.”

“Last I checked, you’re made of blood and flesh, Peli,” you snort, throwing one of the rags you’ve used to wipe the sweat off your brow to your side, ready to go back to messing with the wires.

“I’m supervising, someone’s gotta be able to pull you out when you catch on fire messing with that regulator. I’m not convinced the Mandalorian’s been the best with maintenance.” You chuckle, pulling at some loose and questionable wires, trying to cut and strip bare the ones that are obviously in need of dire replacement. 

You can hear her upping her stakes as your hands fiddle with one of the wires, when suddenly you hear a loud thrum and hiss, you feel the ship shake slightly as the ramp comes down- opening the Crest. You’re about to ask Peli if you’ve accidentally made it malfunction when you hear her hush the droids and flick her eyes to you before asking for her blaster. She sends you a look of unease, signalling you to stay still as she moves forward carefully, ready to shoot any criminal who may have been recklessly left inside. Kriff, bounty hunters are careless with cargo. You try not to draw attention as you watch your boss nervously checking, your own hands searching your boilersuit for the small vibroblade you keep on hand just in case.

You slide out and stealthily go to stand up, and just as you’re about to jump beside her and be a daring hero, you hear Peli’s voice soften with genuine confusion. You nearly drop your own blade when you round the side and make eye contact with the unexpected guest that waddles out of the Razor Crest. You can tell Peli is immediately smitten as she picks the creature up, and you too can’t help but feel a little guilty for having your blade out in response to such a sweet little green thing. You want to coo at it as Peli cradles the baby. Peli commands you to get some of the leftover bone broth in the kitchen, and when you come back ready to spoon-feed the child, you hear her already muttering a plan to extort more money from the bounty hunter.

“Let’s not swindle money using a child, Peli, I fear that's unbecoming of us.” You murmur as you go to take the child out of her arms; it nestles softly into your grasp, pushing its jutting ears against your chest as if trying to find the comfiest spot of warmth. Your thoughts wander back to the mess that is the heap of junk sitting in the hangar- Why would he leave a baby on its own? The Mandalorian seemed reckless with his property, but you can’t truly imagine he would be neglectful of a child; perhaps your understanding of Mandalorian culture was too ancient and wrong.

You don’t have enough time to ponder the thought, not when Peli immediately goes to pick up the bundle of wire and welding material from where you were just working. The rest of the afternoon is spent trying to fix the ship as the child runs around like a wild porg in a crowded cantina, bumbling and pestering each one of the pit droids and the treadwell droid. It touches nearly everything, and you can’t help but let it with its endearing big eyes, daring you to stop it. After a few tiresome hours of chasing it and trying to fix a clogged-up filter, the baby decides it wants to lie in your lap. Your legs fold carefully to let it nest as you sit below the ship's main hull. You hum a tune from childhood, one that you’re not quite sure how you remember, considering the blurry visions of lost parents and separated homes. The child seems not to mind, swiftly falling into a slumber that reminds you of a docile pet. Nails quietly scratch at some rusted metal, and your palms move diligently buffing out the orange when you hear heavy footsteps from the entrance of 3-5.

The Mandalorian is back. And he wordlessly moves to the inside of the ship, not noticing the way you are perched under the main body still tinkering. You carefully clamber up, tiptoeing to yield the womprat of a being to Peli, who immediately begins to gently bounce the baby back into a dream-filled lull. You want to approach the man and give him a rundown of the repairs you’ve already finished. You’re barely past the side when you sense his panic. You can hear the hurried and almost anxious way he slinks around his ship, that is, until the slight reverberation of his movement stops, and the bounty hunter comes out quickly from his ship as if something sizzling about to explode. 

And he seems particularly distraught and aggravated.

“Where is he?” 

Peli steps forward quickly, the child is already stirring and you roll your eyes- The child immediately turns to gaze at its father(?) before locking its attention on you. The small 3-fingered darling grasps the air, pointing to you and Peli wastes no time in handing you back the child as you both approach the bounty hunter. Peli is first to ridicule him.

“You can't just leave a child all alone like that.” With that comment the man’s intimidating presence seems to melt away, instead his helmet looks down at the cooing baby in your arms almost with a sense of shame. From the way he almost seems to shrink at Peli’s criticism, you wonder if the man is new to having kids. “You know, you have an awful lot to learn about raisin' a young one.”

Mando doesn’t attempt to wrestle the child out of your arms, and the baby itself doesn’t seem to be too eager to leave your doting attention either. You can feel the stranger’s focus on you through his helm, but something about the way his shoulders seem to relax, you can tell it’s not out of hostility like before. Peli natters on about the repairs and your voice calmly joins in when she mentions the fuel leak.

“I’ve rewired quite a bit, to make it more efficient in hyperdrive. Minimise fuel usage…” Your words drift off into another hum when the baby coos halfway through your explanation. The Mandalorian seems to be intrigued, head turning to glance at where you pointed at on his gunship before going back to watching you rock the baby. It’s endearing the way the baby continues to babble in your arms and you get too distracted by it’s little babbling to pay true attention to Peli’s one sided conversation. You instead focus on swaying slightly with the baby, your soft smile focused on the way its ears move with every gentle noise you make. The Mando seems to also be enamoured by the two of you as you start up a lil hum again, listening to Peli’s review with his helm stuck on your figure instead. When the Mandalorian finally lets out a restrained thank you and starts leaving you look up a bit panicked that he’s not taking the child with him. 

“Oh, I guess I was right. You got a job, didn't you?” Baby in your hold, both you and Pel scramble to follow him back out of the Hangar's entrance where you spot a bounty hunter who you recognised has been lounging in the local cantina the past few days. Something tells you that it’s not trustworthy, especially with the sleazy stance the younger man takes. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything but nods as he stops in front of the speeder bikes. Definitely not bringing the baby. 

“You know, it's costing me a lot of money to keep these droids even powered up.” The way Mando looks at Peli over that statement suggests he could care less about your robot coworkers, so Peli-, ever the smart businesswoman, instead flicks her head and points to you. “And the girl needs taking care of too- to keep her off the street.”  The metal stranger pauses, then nods, and then he nods precisely at you, as if deciding that Peli was in dire need of his credits. It has your cheeks flush a little in embarrassment. Curse Peli for using you as a pity chip. 

The other man, who is closer to your age, shoots you a wink; his poor attempt at a smirk has you cradling the baby a little firmer and the man looks far too amused with his brows raised as he watches the baby wriggle in your arm. You hope to god the Mandalorian is as good as they say his armoured brethren are- with a partner like that you doubt they get much done. You watch as they speed off into the warm afternoon and once again Peli says an offhand comment about how obnoxious the guild lot could be. When the baby starts muttering again, She tells you it’s time to redo some more panelling.

-----

As the night approaches and the streets outside the hangar quieten down, you’re thankful the baby seems well entertained by the task of sorting some nuts and bolts you had in your tool box. The work on the ship has been mind-boggling and exhaustive but you can’t help the little bit of pride that swells up in your chest as you take a step back and admire it. It’s pre-imperial, so the engineering of the craft is less regulated. Every inch of it has tech you rarely get to work on. It's exciting how you get to work on it- so many tweaks and features make you daydream about what daring space battles and chases it must be getting into. 

Peli has gone to pick up some more fuel, leaving no one but you, the child and the droids who sit and watch from the messy corners of  the Hangar. You mutter little stories to the baby, sometimes asking questions of the baby but it doesn’t reply; not that you’d expect it to- it’s far too small and immersed in figuring out your tool box to tell you its name or why it’s with that scary man. You’re so engrossed in your tasks that you assume the footsteps that you hear just behind you must be the Mandalorian as Peli would usually be shouting about prices if she came back.

“You’re a bit earlier than expected but I did manage to finish working on the front end-” 

A click. Hard metal presses against the back of your head and you still. You see the baby’s ears dip, it’s looking up at the person who got their blaster hazardly aimed at you. You nearly gasp as you watch the baby back up terrified- it can sense that whoever this is, it is not a friend of his or you.

“Grab it.” The grating man’s voice commands and you flinch as he nudges the barrel against you once more. It’s the guild guy from before. Where’s Mando? There’s a slight tremble as you stand up to go pick up the child, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try to remain calm.  You slowly reach out your hand to the green child who scuttles to duck behind the red metal toolbox in nervousness. The man groans impatiently, boot kicking your thigh as you lurch. “Hurry up.”

“L-let me- let me just comfort him.” you snap back, as you try hard to communicate through your expression that you intend to not let this man hurt it. The baby comes closer, scurrying quickly into your arms and you let out a breath of relief as the man lets you hold onto it, hugging it as if it was your own.

“Any ideas of using your commlink and you’re dead meat.” You keep your eyes focused on the floor and on the baby as he grabs you by the scruff of your boilersuit and pulls you to the inside of the razor crest. He’s quick to tie you up- wrists itching with the rope and jaw aching with the cloth he gags you with. He lets the baby continue to sit with you as you’re forced to wait and watch him fidget- pacing around the Mando’s ship mumbling about how ‘Toro Calican’ will be the guild's newest and finest hunter. 

“Hey! I’m back- got some roasted tip-yip for the baby in case this turns into a 2 day job..”

When you hear the expected clanking and relaxed footsteps of Peli’s return, you stupidly yell out into the cloth despite knowing it wont make much difference- The baby shrieks slightly when Toro kicks your kneeling body to shut up. Immediately you hear Peli drop the battered fuel canister and the bag of stuff while Toro makes a dash to aim his blaster directly at her too. She scowls but her expression changes to concern the moment her gaze spots you and the baby sitting in the ship. The sleazy guy makes little effort to tie Peli up, this time just constantly holding the gun to her face and promising to shoot the child first if any of you make an attempt to overpower him. 

It’s a horrifically tense waiting game. You pray the Mandalorian cares enough about the baby to keep you somewhat alive too- maybe in saving the child the green thing will beg his father to save you as well. As if the child can sense your faltering faith, it goes to push its body into you, settling to sit and stare at the bounty hunter while simultaneously comforting you with gentle pats and cooing noises. You close your eyes. You imagine what you were doing at this exact moment yesterday; you were probably just playing cards out of boredom with Peli, still stuck on fanatic ideas of going somewhere else, on saving the world or something ridiculously naive. Fuck. Should have wished to stay bored. Beats being tied up.  Peli tries to reason with Toro but he yells a bit more telling her to shush. You try to not watch the nervous movements of his fingers as they twitch on his blaster. He himself is uncertain of what he’s doing. Your brain supplies a reminder, clear as can be, that your knife is poking at you, stuck in your boot! If only you could get it out and free yourself. Maybe you could overpower him or snatch that damn weapon out of his greedy mitts. You want to scream at yourself for being stupid enough to not have locked up the entrance earlier- if only you had your knife you wouldn't be in this mess and-

The child nudges you.

Its big bulging eyes stare up at you and it makes a noise. You tell it to hush, fearing what the man might do if the baby makes things difficult. Maybe it's fussy? Hungry? Not the time baby! You can feel a wave of panic build up as the baby continues to wriggle. The baby obviously wants something as it starts moving. Toro is too distracted by Peli’s ramblings about the Mandalorian and you are about to knock your head against the box you’ve been leant on to try and get it to stop fussing but to your shock little green hands go to pick at your work boot.

The vibroblade! It knows you have a vibroblade there. How?

You don’t question it as your eyes widen. You watch it carefully and sneakily pull it out from your boot and it goes to helpfully drag it to your hands tied behind your back. You try to mouth a  thank you to him through the cloth gag, and the green creature goes to sit in front of you again, playing innocent  as if knowing now this is just a waiting game for when his guardian comes back and you can make your escape. The Mandalorian doesn’t take too long to arrive. He is so light on his feet that you almost don’t hear him pass through the hangar’s entranceway. He is wary with his blaster already out as if he must have known something had gone awfully sideways. Toro makes a dramatic show of it: pushing Peli forward and grabs the baby in his arms roughly. It takes everything in your self control not to lunge at him with your hands already free. Toro suspects nothing as he continues his theatric monologue. As the man tells Peli to cuff the mandalorian, you see her own eyes sparkle with confidence, she’s signalling to you that the armoured man with his hands up has something up his sleeve as well. In a sudden flash of light which you can only assume is a flare charge, Toro staggers and you surge up now free to grab the child out of his grip and take a quick slice at his waist. The criminal yelps out as he drops his blaster trying to feel the blood oozing out when the Mandalorian shoots him. He drops dead alarmingly quickly and you’re still huffing as you hang onto the child for dear life- frantically checking it to see he wasn’t jostled too much in the scuffle. As all of you calm down and regain your wits, you continue to nurture the child. You pout when Peli motions for you to give him to the Mandalorian. Your heart aches a little, hands hesitant as you give the Man his child. The beskar-clad warrior dumps a bag of credits into Peli’s hand. It is far more than necessary, not that Peli would ever tell him that.

“That cover me?”

“Yeah. Yes, this is gonna cover you.” Peli is trying to not show her underlying joy of being overpaid. She’s about to let the man go off without another word before her attention spots you and the endeared way you look longingly at the child. You’re concerned. How can the Mandalorian be trusted with a child? Had it not been for you both it may not have survived the encounter. Peli’s shaken with a devious new idea…

“It’ll cover the repairs but not my girl you know?” Mando turns to face you and then tilts his head to Peli in what can only be assumed as confusion. “Had to work her overtime since you said no droids. Could have had her scavenging all day. Lost income cus of that!” You’re about to say something in your own defence when Peli shoots you an expression of ‘shut the fuck up’ as she continues bullshitting.

“Look, we both know what kids are like. They need some experience. How ‘bout this, you take my girl here to scavenge while you bounty hunt and I’ll give your next maintenance check a discount. Kriff, she’s a damn good mechanic too- wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have someone on board to keep an eye on your gauges and on the baby of yours.” You’re about to vehemently protest, what a stupid idea! A Mandalorian isn’t going to agree to take you on what? Some joyride through the planets just so he can have a babysitter-

“You want to?” His modulator makes his voice thrum low, but there’s a soft firmness to it as he looks at you. He’s serious in his offer. The baby is staring at you too and gurgles. Fuck.

“Yeah. Yeah that would be great actually.” you answer before you can really process what’s being agreed. 

“It’s a deal.” The mandalorian shakes Peli’s hand and motions for you to get packing as he walks over to the crest. You rushedly take your usual overnight bag that you use for when you scavenge and you look back at Peli nervously as you make your way up his loading ramp. She waves goodbye with a gleeful grin and gestures for you to call her on comlink when you can. The mandalorian points to a ladder up to his cockpit and closes the ramp with a satisfying thump. Gingerly, you go to sit in the cockpit, the baby joining you as it waddles around the floor pleased to see you joining them. When the Mandalorian joins you and silently engages the craft to leave you can’t help but close your eyes once more. You try to be optimistic- deep down you know this chance does excite you regardless of the anxiety of it all.

Tatooine wasn’t that great anyway.

Next Chapter

[a-writing-bear]

That's How I Got To Nevarro. (Din Djarin Series Masterlink)

Fandom: The Mandalorian Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Eventual Smut, Canon-typical Violence, Canon compliant, Age difference For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. Ao3 Link (Series collection) Tumblr post version links underneath ALTERNATIVELY you can search this blog using the tag #Series:THIGTN SERIES SUMMARY: After years of scavenging and working as a part-time mechanic for Peli Motto, you start to realise you want a bit more to the life you've managed to scrounge up on Tatooine. While you try not to be on the wrong end of blaster fire as much as possible, an encounter with the mysterious Mandalorian has you intrigued. Luckily, your dear friend Peli decides for you that a little extra work assisting the stranger and his child might do you some good...

BOOK 1 - 'TATOOINE LINEMAN'

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER 1 - Hangars & Hang-ups

CHAPTER 2 - Routine

[a-writing-bear]

Lines Between Us - Chapter 13

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Childhood Friend AU, Anxiety For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Tumblr Version Masterlink (Split into Chapters) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Chapter Summary: The chapter in which begins the muddled mess of inviting you to meet his team properly. Simon just wanted to drink tea with his girlfriend.

Story under ‘Keep Reading’

Previous Chapter 

It’s a strange comedy scene, one he can imagine playing out in the likes of a corny play or maybe even written about in some girly romance comedy novel: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, sat daintily on your couch like some exhibit, moodily quiet as your civilian friends harp on about some random drama you’ve had at work. The contradictory quality of his broodiness between the delightful giggling of your peers has him almost gagging, but of course, he’d do pretty much anything for you at this point. Anything to keep you happy, to keep up this perceived tameness of his intentions. He will play docile if it means getting to prowl in your herd of peaceful sheep.

His tea is his only current lifeline, the mug cradled in his big palms as if it will slip away the second someone shunts their attention onto him. You’d been so eager to invite him into your wider life- friends now being texted with his name mentioned wherever possible with pride. The label ‘boyfriend’ slips into your vocabulary as easily as the weather, like you’ve known him as that for centuries. He revels in it. Tonight you’ve invited a variety of friends over for dinner (“it’s called Tea dove, none of that southern ‘dinner’ nonsense” he had jabbed at you when you were planning it all) and it’s been painstakingly awkward to avoid some of the stares that linger on his simple black medical mask, or the dragged looks as they eyed up the difference in his stature to yours. An odd pairing. Odd if they didn’t know how much you fulfil his distant dreams of complacency, Odd if you don’t take into consideration the fact you’re well known for keeping the difficult few controlled. It’s simultaneously hard and easy to play politely. A nod here, a gentle hum of agreement or a practised chuckle he uses when he's trying to appease superiors; Simon has learnt it all and prepped himself the moment you told him they were coming over.

“So you’ve known each other since secondary?” The upturned grin of a woman who leans forward towards him makes him a bit wary- as if he knows she's trying to delve too deep into your past as well as his. He gives no more than a murmur of a yes.

“Your girlfriend hardly ever talks about her past life, fancy she’s been hiding something from us with the way she’s practically flustered when she gets a text from you.” Before he can even try to muster an awkward response, your voice interrupts, hurtling through the conversation like a quick arrow shooting past. It’s a warning of sorts. You whine at your friends for putting him on the spot, and Simon tries not to shirk.

“Got any cool army stories to tell?” One of the few boys in your group calls out, typically overly interested in the fantasy that is their view of the armed forces. Thoughts of bloody bandages, gunfire and debris don’t mix well with his now cold tea. His nose scrunchies, of course, It’s natural they’d be curious, they’ve heard you mention how often he’s gone. Seen how lonely you go home.

“ er..nawt much to say..”

There's a flicker of disappointment from most of the small, intimate crowd, and Simon has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes and cuss most of the group out. As if trying to remedy the near disappointment in their voices, Simon rambles on needlessly, a shy attempt at bonding with your crowd:

“‘I’m at the local barracks a lot- training the typical band of idiots…gym- uhh..” his eyes flicker around the group as if sitting in some sort of strange interrogation or perhaps some damned ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ counselling. 

“I read a lot. Read quite a bit- actually met her through reading. I guess.” He stumbles on each bit, wincing at how silly it all sounded- such a big buff beast of a man hunched over small novels.​

When the interest in him finally fizzles out, and he’s managed to fend off any more questions of his character, He excuses himself to help tidy up some of the random cups and plates littered around your living room; the remnants of ice cream melted and messy stick on his finger as he retreats. He makes his escape carrying the dishes as if in a balancing act. As he dumps them in the basin of soapy water that you’ve left out, he has half a mind to return when he hears your cheerful laughter amongst a chorus of cheers from the room next door.

It aches his chest a little. You sound pleased. He’s relieved to have made you sound so pleased- somehow amusing you with his poor attempts to fit into your secure lifestyle. His finger dragged remnants of silky dish soap around ceramic, lazily fiddling with a tea plate as he tried to listen to the muffled noises from nearby. He’s mercifully grappled out of this wandering thought when his phone buzzes incessantly, a rare text from Gaz flicking up on his screen.

[Down for a drink on Saturday? Coming up for a gig. I’ll Take the train and meet with Price and Soap, then Manc]

Ghost tilts his head as he contemplates the offer- coming up for a gig tends to mean that Gaz would like to crash at his flat; save some pounds rather than spending a valuable £50 on a shitty Premier Inn (Not acknowledging that the £50 inevitably gets swept away in the pint purchases regardless).

[Can’t. Busy.]

[Since when were you the busy sort? Manchester burning down?]

His eyes twitch at that. Was it so hard to believe that perhaps Simon Riley was a busy man off duty- that he was just as charming, adept and interesting as Ghost? His life was becoming something other than sitting around waiting for the next mission. The rest of 141 probably would implode at the very imagery.

[My business.]

There’s a long enough pause where no reply pings that Simon stupidly believes that Gaz has accepted his excuse. This is shattered in mere moments when his phone beeps with a buzz. Insistent text messages start invading his inbox; this time it’s not the Londoner but instead it's the other obnoxious Sergeant that he has the pleasure of being harrassed by. Fucking Gaz is calling in reinforcements.

[Gaz says you’re bailing on us!!]

[I’m not wasting train tickets for you to bail, LNER ain't cheap, spooky boy!]

It becomes clear as the two hooligans text and Price only sends him an apology for not replying, that saying no was seemingly an ‘irresponsible and unacceptable’ answer, from a professional standpoint, of course.

[I know where your missus lives, we can just ask her :)]

Soap jokingly threatens. It does get a slight chuckle out of him. The group liked to push his buttons, but surely they weren’t serious?

-

Horrifically, they were serious. His captain decides the best way to force Simon’s hand is to simply forward a screenshot of incoming train tickets and a map preview of the distance it would take from the Manchester station to Ghost’s flat. He cringes, about to send some frankly rude messages and perhaps block them all when you come looking for him. You look adorable, even with another myriad of cups and plates in hand and looking a little worn out from all your guests who are already abandoning the small get-together. You give him a quizzical glare, watching him type furiously, but he simply leans down to give you a gentle kiss on the forehead as he continues to scroll through the socially intimidating threats of his friends.

“Simon…You’ve got that annoyed face on.” You tease despite not being able to see his lips pursing through the mask. Your voice is still light and airy from the gleeful energy of before.

“The lads are being right asses.” He massages his brow. At the mention of his friends, you perk up. It’s been a few days since you last discussed the idea of him sharing that part of his social circle (can it be considered a circle if it’s more like a square of 4 people?), and he can tell there’s a constant itch that seems to bother you- wanting to dig a little out of curiosity about this more regimented version of him. 

“They…might be coming on up. To Manc. Saturday”

Simon wants to smother down his frustration, maybe shoot it dead, when he witnesses an almost cunning sly version of you, poking at his side, nestling in like some alien trying to burrow deep into his ribs. You have gained a sort of unexplainable determination from the idea of getting to meet his brothers-in-arms.

“They’re not-”

“Oh come on Si, I can be so friendly-”

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Dove.” he shoves his phone into his back pocket and goes to grab your shoulders as if needing to stop your attempts to placate him into agreeing. A rough palm caresses your cheek, and he leans in, forehead to forehead. “They’re not… house-trained much..like your…lot.”

He says it rather conspiratorially, gesturing to the background banter of your friends packing up, as if there’s a mystery to why his colleagues can’t be anywhere near you with a 5ft pole. You scoff and push back on his rejection, and Simon tries not to get more disgruntled by your perseverance. He mulls it over in his head when you give him a pleading pout and reckons as long as he can control where, when and how, then maybe this will go the way he wants it to. He doesn’t want to be exposed any more than he already has for you; his other life is already blurring too much in every soft touch of the expanse of your skin you give him. You can have Simon’s flesh. They can have his blood. Fuck- you have his soul, and they can keep his spirit. He will dole out the parts that make him the two versions of himself until they no longer conflict with each other.

“Fine. Fine, you can come, shite, but-” You’re already tiptoeing to give him a kiss. He takes it greedily. He’s a weak man. “No questions about work. Please.”

You nod hastily, not one to let opportunities go wasted.

-

Saturday rolls around rather anxiously. Simon can feel the distress seep and trickle slightly in his bones. His flat feels even more of a void of comfort now that he’s spent various nights in your sheets, and so Simon finds it mind-numbingly monotonous cleaning it up and adjusting what he can before people come over. There are some lingering signs that you exist; one of your jackets lies limp yet territorial over his couch, and your various hair baubles can be found scattered amongst his shelves and tables. Simon wonders if he should stow them away, store them somewhere only he will check, as if letting them see more pieces of you would be allowing them to take what belongs to him. As if it’s even possible for him to have a claim over you just by grasping onto one of your possessions.

He told you to come by after he’s received them. Treating it like a drop-off or military rendezvous, he plans meticulously when they will be around and when you need to come over. He is constantly stressing the importance of not making a big deal of it when they inevitably hound you, to which you reply snarkily that it’s he who is making mountains out of mole holes. He knows he’s overthinking it, but Simon at least relaxes at the reminder that you’ve offered him to crash at yours so that Soap and Gaz can rest soundly and not pay daylight robbery for a hotel. Not a mission without a planned exit, a good bailout if anything.

He hears the hum of the taxi before it even stops outside his grey, dreary building, spots it through his window blinds like a stakeout. Soap is already bursting at the seams, fizzling with an almost vibration-like excitement as he tumbles out of the car and starts to hop over to the building’s door. Gaz carries a duffel, but more importantly, what looks to be a shopping bag full of tinnies. The dark-skinned man whistles at Johnny to come back and help pick up the slack, annoyed he’s been given the whole lot of goodies. His captain, always the leader, clambers out too, sluggishly relaxed. Ghost watches as he fishes out some notes and tosses them to the driver as he leaves. Never one to rush without reason, Price simply steps to the curb and pulls out a pack to smoke.  While the sergeants amble with more stashes of snacks and beverages, Price doesn’t hesitate to take his sweet time, deep in thought. Simon doesn’t appreciate the way that John manages to catch his observations through the blinds- catching him with a smirk as he stomps out the cigarette, and does a little wave as if it’s normal to actively scope a civilian building.

When Ghost reluctantly lets them in, chastising Johnny for not keeping his voice down as they come up, there's a weird tenseness. An ache in his shoulder and a soreness in his neck; his previous injuries flare up as if suddenly remembering their own horrendous existence. Being reunited with this band of idiots seemingly antagonises the more worn-out versions of Ghost.

“Missed us, big guy?” Johnny chirps out, patting him on the back before shoving a heavy crumpled Tesco bag into his grasp. “Got you gifts! Bought some things for the hen too.”

Simon tries not to immediately wrangle the bag open at the comment, feeling already regretful of the situation when Johnny gives him a wink. The bag luckily contains nothing sinister or embarrassing but a nice bottle of cider and a fancy-looking tin of Scottish shortbread. The Scotsman has already settled down on his couch, humming to himself in a way only a satisfied stray cat could.

“Speaking of her, where is your lady Ghost?” Gaz asks casually as he puts away some of the stuff they’ve brought into his fridge.

“Later,” he grunts out, trudging his way to pass his friend the Cider bottle after a quick inspection that it would be something you’d actually enjoy. “She’s preoccupied right now. She’ll join later”

“Aw, here I thought you were tryna hide her away from us, LT”

“Probably is- doesn’t want us to see the bird that slapped-” A loud cough and the demanding presence of Price juts in, having made his way into the flat and into the conversation.

“Let’s not antagonise our host, shall we, boys.” The Scot and Londoner both give a mock and fairly limp salute as they shut their mouths once more. Price gives Ghost a handshake and a nod, already confident in his jeans and sated by the smoky puffs of a cigarette gone by. The gig that Gaz intends to drag them all to is tomorrow, so the aim of Friday is to simply play the rest of them into a modicum of leisure. It feels very much like nights in base common rooms or the hours Ghost has spent listening to the ramblings of his teammates when they have no other entertainment but themselves. His thigh aches, legs moving on it’s on as it bounces- he checks his wristwatch with semi-focused jitters. Usually, he is steely and composed, but as he finds himself sinking into a careful companionship with his group, Simon’s own nerves play him. Ghost is relaxed. Your boyfriend Simon Riley is not.

[I hope I haven’t missed much!]

[I’m stopping to pick up the pizza. ETA 20?]

[Omw Si! be there in 5 x]

He knows what five minutes can feel like- he’s spent multiple five-minute periods of his life in combat, with bombs near exploding or with him tied in a room and not knowing how long extraction could take. Your five minutes, however, feels infinitely longer. Your boyfriend tries to focus on the words of his coworkers (already moved on to some forgettable football rankings) when the bare-knuckled rapping on the door has him shoot up from his position. You’re mid-knock when he swings it open and immediately goes to try to carry the heavy boxes of delivery you picked up. As if they are a group of waddling ducklings, he can hear Soap and Gaz saddle up side by side. Gaz at least has the decency to pretend that his eagerness is so he can help take the weight of the food off your hands, whereas Soap fails to contain his shit-eating grin much longer.

Ghost is about to pull rank and call off the mutts that are his teammates when you instead greet him with that heart-melting smile and pull his mask slightly down to give him a sheltered kiss. You don’t say a word except a thank you to Gaz as you push your way into the flat past a dazed Simon as if your composure couldn't care less about such public displays of affection.

“Nice to finally meet ya, lass! Cannae we all get kisses then?”

Jesus Christ.

[a-writing-bear]

Command (Oneshot)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Explicit Sex, Edging, Orgasm delay, Begging, Handjobs & Blowjobs, Sub!SimonRiley, Established relationship Word count: 1,463 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Story Summary: Simon's been coming home snappy and needs a reminder on how to behave at home. The stress of work is going to be nothing compared to the stress of you teasing him all night.

Story under 'Keep Reading’

Oftentimes, Ghost doesn’t mind the toils of his rank; he can stomach the paperwork and the day-to-day boredom that is dealing with recruits and low-level soldiers so long as he gets the occasional break from the monotony of it all. He feeds off schedules and direction, so when things get particularly tricky and repetitive, he craves alternative guidance. He could argue that lacking a lot of it while growing up has conditioned him to enjoy the clarity of being told what to do and how to do it. Which is how he supposes he’s found himself breathless and panting as you sit in his lap, barely moving with a half-amused grin and an evil glint in your pretty eyes.

“F-fuck love please-” He grits out, a groan melting into a slight yelp when you cause him to buck up as you shift directly over his crotch. There’s a low hum in your throat as you tut and move off his strong thighs. There was a command for him to sit still that loops in his brain as you fidget and purposely drag your hands across his hefty panting body. You’ve told him he’s been too pissy coming home, too volatile, and unforgivably neglectful. He hangs his head in shame at the playful taunt, knowing exactly what you mean. It’s been an aggravating experience being stuck on base for the last few months, and it had started to melt into his home life despite his reassurance that he’d never bring back work stress. Any moment he’s managed to get back to your shared home, he’s been a right prick- minor snaps and short fuses that always ended with him having to bite back unnecessarily petty comments that pop up in his brain.  He knows he’s been too stressed to be the usual calm and collected lover he usually is with you.

There are moments where you like the abrasive creature he becomes, the one that groans dirty things into your ear and demands good behaviour, but today? Today, you hold the invisible leash that has him tied up and torn. He came home so silent, only answering your questions with short, annoying murmurs, and it was only when you had finally had enough and barked at him a demand for him to put his ‘fucking shit’ in the closet properly that you noticed how his body perked up, shifted to face you fully as he expected more from your usually soft voice. It was as if a switch flicked, and you were dealing with a much more attentive figure, who was waiting to hang onto every word you had to shove toward him. 

“I-I Agh- God shit...” His words were coming out more strangled as you continued to lightly run your palms against his chest and down, barely pressing the tender touch on his thighs. Your fingers stop just by the base of his length before you kiss his neck ever-so-gently, so that you hear his breath hitch. He watches obsessively as you move to climb onto the bed behind him, your knees knocking into his lower back as you continue to torment him with your proximity. When you whisper into his ear from behind about being quiet and patient, you swear you can hear a minor whimper that escapes him. His grip fists the bedsheets next to him as you force him to sit up straighter and keep his flustered eyes to the front of your dark room.

The heat of his dick in your palm as you go to stroke him burns. The first stroke is clumsy, the girth of it making it hard to get a good grip on him as you position yourself in a way he can’t see your face while you pleasure him. The next stroke is punishing as you feel his pre-cum slide down against your fingers. He likes this. Likes being used a little, being punished for being the asshole he is when he’s had it bad at work. You feel it in the way his back tenses, then relaxes the more you jerk him off. You can feel the simmering energy that’s waiting to burst as he follows orders not to move. Good soldier. Good, perfect soldier who listens to the orders of women much smaller and weaker than him. When you start to hear his breath getting heavier and feel the sweat start to collect on the back of his neck, you move off of him, hand leaving his weeping cock as quickly as it had begun. He’s near the end. He makes a gargled noise, and you can’t help but lean closer just to remind him that he owes you one for his poor behaviour. He nods frantically, as if trying to reassure you he intends to make it up any way he can. He can and will if it means getting to feel your warmth around him again, like the mindless animal he is. He is close, the edge of heaven personified by the way you press against him and go back to using those fingers to slowly pump him. He gulps and lets his head roll forward as he watches your movements, mesmerised by how slippery your grip looks on his dick- not wanting to tear his focus away from the sensation. You ask him to recite his day back to you, explain what had got him in such a sour mood when he stormed home. You hear an exasperated breathless half-laugh, as if he’s amused by the incredulity of a well-feared lieutenant being picked apart by his darling harmless girlfriend, but as your grasp a little firmer at the base, it’s cut off with a slight groan.

“...C-crap morning drills.. Whinging recruits...then-” He whines when you nip at his neck, “uh..Logistics meetings and paperwork- Cap’ gave orders to deal with some fucking naff shit-” You squeeze a warning for the swearing, and he moans pathetically but nods and backtracks. He continues with the rambling, rattling off the tedious task he’s had to do all week. It makes sense, his pent-up behaviour, the image of your tall, bulky boyfriend stuck in strategy rooms and sequestered at a desk has you kissing his scarred face with a pitying, affectionate kiss. Simon leans into you, as if trying to get more from you, knowing how much he needs it.

When he’s done talking, barely able to say much more than pant another beg for you to keep jerking him, you decide to be merciful as you slink off the bed and off the heat of his back. Simon immediately tries to grab at your waist as you pad your way in front of him, wedging yourself in between his legs as you glance at his long cock that’s hard and glistening with his pre. You push against him, hands fumbling to drag his rough palms into your hair- silently permitting him to hold onto you as your breath hovers above his tip. You don’t move as you feel his stare fixating on your lips. When you meet his eyes, you can see him lost in a trance, waiting and wanting with such dangerous patience. When you finally murmur the instruction for him to fuck your face, he moves quicker than a bolt of thunder. His fingers twist into your hair, and his hips press into your body as he goes to shove his desperate dick down your throat. He groans like a madman as he bucks into your mouth with precise and firm thrusts, as if he’s doing this with a practised and regimented rhythm. You can feel the drool pooling and dripping from the corner of your lips, and your eyes well up with a little bit of tears from the harshness of his movements.  Then, just as your hands go to rub more into the flesh of his thighs, you feel the stuttering of his movements, hear the moan of complete exhaustion as Simon suddenly yanks you by the hair off his dick.

He cums. Spurts of his mess on your face as he throws his head back and lets out the lowest moan you’ve ever heard from the man. It’s disgustingly satisfying watching him relax and falter as you stand up shakily, your bones aching slightly, tired from kneeling. You clamber smugly back onto his lap. His softening dick twitches beneath you, the milky white drips getting over your clothes as you settle back into the first spot. You try to wipe off his semen onto the bedsheets as you go to speak to him once more. You point out a cruel and cunning thought: You didn’t tell him he could cum yet.

He grunts out another whine as you continue to fidget in his lap once more.

[a-writing-bear]

TF141 x Reader Drabbles/Imagines - Heat Waves & Sunny Holidays

A drabble for each of the TF141 of how they might be when there's a heatwave and when they take you on a sunny holiday. (Hope all my Brits are enjoying the current heatwave!) Important Tags/Warnings: Established relationships, Suggestive Content. AO3 Link Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist

LT. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley Contrary to what some may believe, Ghost does not enjoy the cold- he’s just an expert of staying warm and comfy in situations when the cold is biting and humourless. It’s why his hoodies and cover ups are rarely out of his outfit rotation, he’s become accustomed to covering up and maintaining his radiator-esque body temp. He enjoys the sun with a strange sense of escapism; Growing up in dreary and miserably wet Manchester in barely heated council housing makes a man crave the warmth as much as possible. Overall, Simon’s not usually one to be exposed if he can help it, but he has a guilty pleasure with the heat. When it’s warm and it’s just the two of you in the flat, he will gladly shuck off his shirt for a much looser sleeveless shirt and some workout shorts- loving the excuse to show off his various tattoos that decorate his pale skin. He detests having to set up fans and keeps cursing his past self for not agreeing to install an air conditioning unit.

If it’s been a particularly rough year and he’s managed to accumulate enough leave to plan a holiday, Simon funnels much of his bonus and various savings into bringing you somewhere sunny and private; maybe a really nice AirBnb villa in far away tropical country where he knows he won’t run into other obnoxious British tourists. He is willing to pay out of pocket if it means a secure location where he can get you in a revealing bathing suit all to himself. The moment the temperature climbs, he’s already thinking about all the ways he can get you pressed against the edge of a swimming pool, tits pressed against his chest as the two of you cool down, ready to rut against you in a bold attempt to make you sweat.

SGT. Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish The sun always brings out the near feral energy from Johnny. Whenever he knows it’s going to be a hot day, the rare heatwave sweeping over the UK, he’s stocking the fridge with various drinks and icy sweet treats in order to tempt you into joining him. If you’re stuck in the British Isles, he’s taking you out for lunch at some slightly overpriced cafe and sitting you outside where he can watch you glimmer and flush against the heat, trying to show off how pretty his girlfriend is in her warm weather outfits. He gets touchy, as if the warmth makes his blood pump even more for you; You joke that he’s wearing his sunglasses not to avoid the glare but instead to sneak more looks at your body when you’re out in public.

If he’s managed to get you somewhere warm for holiday, he is the sort to be walking around shirtless in just his swim shorts; He imagines having you laid down for him on some nice sandy beach, always offering to rub you down and slather you in some sun lotion- anything to touch you. He adores watching you bask in the sun or when you’re both drenched coming out of the ocean’s waves. If it was up to him, he’d have you grinding in his lap while he was untying the thin threads that keep your bikini top up, perfectly sweaty as you two stay out till the sky finally cools off.

SGT. Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick Kyle is a Londoner through and through when it's hot- that means a pint in hand and lots of cheery commentary on how the beer garden is the perfect venue for a bit of mindless shenanigans. He’s happy to take you out, the two of you wandering around the city, meeting up with friends as he digs his hand into the back pocket of your shorts and keeps kissing your neck like it’s the best way to cool you off. With almost every pub playing live music, you get a particularly extroverted version of him who too easily sings along to songs you are sure he would never play himself. By the end of the hot swelter of a day, he’s become best mates with the bartender and whoever’s been in control with the speaker. 

Gaz loves a good sunshine trip- Greece, Italy, Portugal; He’s a big fan of booking a trip for you both to do stereotypically cheesy couple holidays. His favourite spot is some balcony of a hotel room, where you would be leaning against the ledge wearing a skirt he can sneak his hands past. He loves the way he can get you to wear dresses that show off your legs and would come up with various weather-related excuses as to why it was a perfect sundress occasion. Gaz wants to make sure that every trip ends with you and him tangled up in soft airy sheets, cool summer breezes kissing your skin as he worships you, not caring if the sliding doors are open for the other guests to hear; You try not to tell him off for the naughty smug smile he has on his face whenever you get complaints from other people in the resort after a night of them hearing you two go at it. 

CAPT. John Price John Price is thankful of the many deployments out in unbearably hot countries; it makes the heat waves that hit the UK seem like nothing and he enjoys having an excuse to spoil you when you start getting grumpy from the sweaty experience. He’s extra prepared with chilled drinks, fans and he's installed air conditioning for the living room. He has already planned a barbecue for you two to enjoy on your patio after you’re done lounging, complete with tons of cocktails for you and a generous pile of tins for himself. He loves the midday naps where you press up against him, the heat making the both of you more pliant and calm. He’s happy to make sure his wife is enjoying herself- willing to arrange the garden in the perfect way even if it means taking out the dusty outdoor umbrella and searching for your sun hat that’s lost deep in the closet. He knows you’d be happy to ogle him as he does some garden work, just trying to show off as always. He will round the evening off hopping into the shower together before he rubs your shoulders, knowing he can get away with asking for a lot more than a few appreciative stares.

On the rare occasion that Price books a proper holiday off, he shells out enough to get a very nice suite at a fancy hotel on some sunny island. He intends on not leaving the premises- much rather parking you by the hot tub where he can call for room service as the two of you cuddle up. He is keen to parade you around the private property in shiny jewellery, wanting you to be draped in nothing but his gifts and a lingerie set that shows off your perfect curves as you put on a little show for him while he smokes his cigar. The captain will be so glad to turn off his phone as you sit before him ready to be teased in the warm heat.

[a-writing-bear]

Point of Interest (Oneshot)

This is a Gift for @onyxriftmask whose prompt had me daydreaming all morning! Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: John Price/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Mature, Bored & Ignored Kink? I guess?? Masturbation over the idea of Voyeurism. Price is also slightly abusing his power to try and annoy reader. Female Reader, No use of Y/N. Word count: 2,063 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Story Summary: Captain John Price is not used to people not giving a shit when he walks into a room. The reader couldn't care less about impressing anyone but herself; she reacts to very little, let alone to her new boss. Price wants to be the exception. Based on this prompt: "John price x reader where reader is just so nonchalant about boys and quiet like ghost but speaks up when they want and is so normal. Like “ew don’t talk to me like that” when someone starts flirting type normal. And it drives Price mad like he wants reader soooooo bad (he want dat cookie so bad). He wants to be the only boy reader cares about but they’re so normal and nonchalant he doesn’t know what to do. But trust and believe he’s gonna try (and ofc get it I mean look at him) and win reader over. "

Story under 'Keep Reading’

Captain John Price is used to overly eager rookies. He’s used to gung-ho “Yes sirs” and nods of constant respect from subordinates; Even with his boys in the task force, there's a certain level of commanded regard that he’s become accustomed to. While Ghost, Gaz and Soap don’t necessarily bootlick the way others do, there’s never a cold indifference to his advice or disinterest in his orders and his passive musings.

Then he met the newbie. She had been an operative on loan, a recommendation from his sergeants as someone they had spotted and bonded with during their times on base and other various deployments. Price had to admit there was a level of unimpressed doubt when her hefty file had appeared on his desk; Surely the boys had simply picked out a pretty bird to cajole onto the squad- a simple addition to solve their ongoing crisis of not having a logistical and medical expert. He thought carefully as he read through each flattering note written about her. The statistics were impressive, and her record was almost unbelievable, which is why he couldn’t help but be skeptical. Oh well. Might as well choose someone easy on the eyes. He was wholly unprepared for the first interaction he had when they showed up for a trial mission, and he met her for the first time. She had walked into the temporary warehouse base with barely a bothered glance towards the looming glare of Ghost. She had brushed off Soap’s hug with a firm pat on the shoulder, and when Gaz gave her a pleasant “nice to see you again”, she just nodded. Despite this rather indifferent arrival, the boys had been so buzzed to see her, all encapsulated by a strange energy towards the woman as if her presence was something of note. It caught Price off guard and suspicious. 

This woman seemed not to give a single shit about being invited to TF141. It was almost as if the privilege of working with them was nothing but a leisurely exercise, a random task she could do for the sake of boredom. And yet, she was so efficient, her work and ability far surpassing the already glowing paragraphs the others had left about her. Price had been almost insulted at how she shrugged so carelessly when he had offered her the full-time position, but he was even more surprised when she signed the contract quickly without much but a soft hum. She barely thanked him before excusing herself from his office as if he had asked her a meaningless question. That irked him. The woman had not strayed much from that point- always polite, reserved, and only cutting through their bullshit on the rare occasions when she would entertain the team with pointed and precise snark. Price was fascinated. He’s used to the endearingly confrontational attitude of Farah, and Lord knows he’s become well-tuned with talking to Laswell; both of those military combat women being paramount examples of strong, domineering characters. This newbie, on the other hand, was not even challenging or stubborn- she was simply unfazed by the beratings or the pressures of those around her. She was above the constant anxiety he had expected from her.

It was hard to garner any sort of reaction; The puzzle of the woman was truly decentered from the male patriarchy of modern military service. Price supposed she had to present herself in such a way; perhaps as a mechanism to prevent arguments or accusations of career climbing through unsavoury means. He would have stuck to this theory if it weren’t for the way he had seen him interact with the utter dregs of the male gaze. No, this wasn't a coping mechanism; this was simply the way she was- unbothered by men and the likes of people like him.

“Looking cute there, sweetheart.” The drawl in a man's voice hardly made her look up from her drink. The team had settled and decided to wind down in some generic pub beer garden at the end of a day near base. The establishment had been teeming with off-duty officers and soldiers, practically drooling at the sight of the newbie in her casual civvies (An infuriatingly well-fitted tank top and distracting shorts Price swears he’s only seen in obnoxious workout ads). With Ghost busy having a smoke, Soap mingling with some bartender, and Gaz ordering a pint, Price was the only one to witness this man getting aired by the newbie’s usual nonchalance.

“Hey, I’m speaking to you. Playing hard to get, eh?” The voice continued, and Price was ready to shift in his seat and maybe flash his credentials. His back was already shifting to sit up when she finally seemed to take note of someone speaking to her. She had simply looked up, as if only noticing the flirt's existence, and tutted as he blocked her sunny view of the rest of the beer garden. There was a string of silence as her hands only moved to pull her straw closer to her mouth as she drank her cold drink, and then lazily tilted her focus to the man's eyes.

“Do I know you?” Her voice cut sharply with each word sounding so uninterested. Price could feel the hair on the back of his neck. The man's cocky grin morphed into one of disgruntlement.

“I know you’re one of TF141’s lapdogs.” He said mockingly, half-heartedly pointing to Price, who wanted to see this scene play out. She didn’t react, no more than a tight lip and a sigh as she leaned forward- icy drink pushed towards her captain. 

“Is that all you got, mutt?” The man’s face bloomed a bright red as she continued to stare him down and lazily play with her straw. When he finally got the message and stalked off, Price couldn’t help but watch the way the girl's finger twirled the paper straw and how the condensation on the cup clung to her fingertips.

“You alright, Sergeant? I can get that guy-”

“No need, Captain.” She brushed it off like nothing, not even wanting any comfort from her superior. Price suddenly had a strange inkling at the back of his mind. The more he watched how relaxed she was as she continued to reject offers of phone numbers and pitiful attempts at flirting, Price couldn’t help but bounce his leg in an almost impatient confusion. Her entire demeanour had made a mark in his brain.

Later that evening, Price couldn’t stop thinking about it all. The way she didn’t even preen when he would compliment her, or the way she seemed to ignore obvious fawning and near-babying from others. The girl was not easily swayed, if it was possible to sway her at all. When Price found his mind drifting onto it while he slaved over paperwork, he couldn’t help but replay all the gentle nods and slow blink she’d give when he asked something of her. Constant. She was constantly calm. 

Price wanted to see her falter. At first, it was a silly desire, a curiosity just to know what she’d look like, bothered and riled up. To see how her face might change if she held any interest in the words he wanted to say to her. He began to experiment. It began with changing the firmness of his voice- harsher when critiquing her. That had resulted in nothing but a salute and quicker times as she barely flinched at his demands. Then he had tried giving her more tasks- tasks of which she simply took without any complaint as well. In a sort of last resort, he had even tried to frustrate the rookie- long hours, needless paperwork, then the opposite with a subtle compliment about her technique, her hair, her smile- All for nothing. All he got in return was a “sure” or a “whatever, sir,” or “Got it, captain.” She was driving him mad. He knew he was being unfair, a bit embarrassed when even Gaz pointed out he was seemingly pushing the new girl for some unknown reason. He was picking on the poor rookie. The older man was racking his brain himself. He didn’t understand why he was so fixated on the lacklustre reactions he was getting from the much younger recruit- why did her nonchalance bother him so much?

It all came to a head when he found himself sitting in the dark of his private quarters. A long day of running practice drills with her as his assistant and exemplar had still resulted in no new changes in her attitude towards him; She had been so obedient yet emotionless to his commands, as if being beside him as he yelled at recruits held no worth to her. Price had treated her like his new project, and she seemed to pay no mind- no mind to the way he wanted to have her. His hands twitched as he sat by his desk. His jeans suddenly felt uncomfortable as he recalled the gaze of the unfazed woman. He was definitely going mad, maybe from the loneliness and frustration of all his work. Price tried to reason with himself- it had been a while since any woman had piqued his interest, and the shame of it being her was fading the more he imagined her eyes staring into his.

He could envision it. She would be sitting across from him, watching lackadaisically as if his existence was nothing more than a blip in her life; How would she look if he rutted into his own palm at the sight of her? Disgust? Annoyance? Interest? He’d take anything. Anything to see some sort of reaction from his most perfect and deliberate recruit. His rough fingers found their way into his waistband, a soft huff leaving his chest as he couldn’t stop himself from fantasising over it all. With slow, languid strokes, he grasped himself for the first time in ages as he tried to picture what she might look like sitting on his bed or beneath him. It was filthy, the way he began to lust over the idea of having her gasp or even whine if she saw what he was doing. What she might be like if she knew what he was thinking of; his thoughts supplied nothing but glorious imaginations of her presence impacted by his depraved dreams. He felt insane for jerking off at the idea of her tutting or pursing her lips, perhaps even mocking him as he came into his large hands. Any reaction from her to seeing him would undo the very controlled strings that made up his existence.

John had barely rested from the fantasy, his hands being cleaned with a towel, still slightly sticky and breath heavy as he tried to look up at his ceiling and regain his own pride. He knew he was fucked up for being so turned on by a woman who was an expert in ignoring him. Someone under his command, no less. As he mulled over his dilemma. His head suddenly jerked at the sound of a knock on his door and the voice of the woman he had just lusted over:

“Captain. I’ve got your paperwork.”  The tall man got up nervously, tried hard to look professional as he shoved his cock back into his pants and shuffled hurriedly to open the door with his own version of tempered nonchalance. 

“Yes Thank you, Sergeant. You’re dismiss-” He had muttered, not being able to finish his words with one hand going to grab the folder out of her hand, when suddenly she stilled. Those dangerous eyes looked him up and down, as if examining him. Eyes flicking to his slightly messy hair and the near guilty look on his face. It was as if she could read him like a well-worn book. Captain John Price suddenly felt like an experiment himself, being judged as the smaller beauty peered at him. As if she knew his weakness and of his cursed attraction to her, the edge of her lips curled ever so slightly, a soft and knowing grin as she pushed the folder into his chest before turning to leave.

“Have a good rest of your night, Captain.”

She left before her could say anything, leaving him with just enough to make his cock stir in his pants once again.

[a-writing-bear]

Veneration (Oneshot)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish/Reader Tags/Warnings: Explicit Sex, Catholic Guilt, Implied Abuse and Abandonment (not from Soap!) Cheating, Religious Imagery and use of commandments. Word count: 4,959 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Story Summary: Soap comes home from a mission to spend time with his family who insists he spends more time at church. He is religiously conflicted with his faith and his work. He meets a woman who changes his outlook.

Story under 'Keep Reading’

Johnny thinks he’s a sinner. That’s a statement doused in fear and existential conflict, as his knees press against the worn-out cushioned kneeler of the rickety church pew. The church he grew up in has not changed, unlike the nature of his sins; its comfort has not waned since he last set foot inside for prayer. He is softened by the way the light still flickers through the tall windows- the multicoloured stained glass with unmoving eyes judging the way they always do over the various years he finds himself crawling back. The way the preacher sounds is the same despite being someone different, droning over the congregation as they are invited inward, sounding so full, yet the words are etched with a loneliness in every echoed sermon. 

Remember to keep holy the Lord’s Day. 

He’s not been to Mass, let alone confession, in at least several months now. Johnny reckons he makes a poor excuse for a Catholic. His confessions always feel half-baked, as each year it’s always punctuated by the same hushed murmurs of how many he has killed and by how many he has wronged; no matter the intention of his deeds, the blood that washes over his spiritual body drowns him in some level of distinct childish shame. Each word feels shaky despite the number of times he’s done it, a level of subtle anxiety as if the hidden figure on the other side will be cruel in not absolving him. Every syllable of his act of contrition leaves with a tone of tiredness, and when the ‘Amen’ leaves his lips, he bites the inside of his mouth waiting for the reassurance that, even as a sinner, Johnny is good. Johnny will be saved. 

You shall not kill.

He is not one to break his beliefs without good reason, the ten commandments bearing down on his psyche when he least expects it. And if, for some Godly reason, his Lord had blessed him with his deadly skills and would praise him for fighting the good fight, Johnny will own up to the misdemeanours he commits. With tight grasps and joking words- He can sin without guilt. He can continue walking in the world knowing he is only Catholic in the name he’s been given and not in the blood he’s spilt- not truly. Until he is met with her.

He spots her down the line of the pew in front of him, nestled beside what looks to be a man not far from his age. The Scot’s eyes flitter to the way the dress she wears flows gently on her form- the silhouette pure and homely, just like the one his youngest sister is clad in today. “Catholic girls and Catholic sensibilities”, he hums to no one but himself as he watches with slight intrigue in the way the new woman seems to fidget while the sermon proceeds. Uncomfortable and out of place, as if she feels no safety within the hall or beside what Soap assumes is her lover. Johnny tries not to linger on the way her shoulders knock against the man's, the way her cheeks blush when she struggles to fish out a note for the collection plate and the slight sniffle of embarrassment when she nearly drops the bible while searching for the right page. 

At first, he knows he’s just staring out of wonder; He’s known this church long enough to recognise the man as a neighbour of a neighbour, a boy he’s probably seen once or twice growing up, perhaps even in the same dusty schoolyard many aeons ago. But her? No, he can’t recognise the beautiful doe-like movement, or the light sound of her voice when they all finish up their words and start to file out the heavy church doors. By the time his family start pushing him to meet everyone again, to partake in pleasantries that are deemed necessary for a Sunday afternoon, he recognises worryingly within himself that he is staring at her out of attraction. His sister nudges him in the arm, elbow jutting and quick as his family drags him in front of the woman and her accompanying man. He feels oddly as if he is a mutt before a wolf that is snarling as it stands slightly in front of the pretty woman- protective stance not doing much as he watches the way she lingers nervously. 

“Have you met Harry’s wife?” His sweet mother’s voice is full of friendly intention, pride swelling as she explains to the couple that Johnny has returned home temporarily, free from the constraints of his ever-busy deployments. The pretty figure nods politely, quiet but focused, still like a statue as her Harry shakes his hand. The man is no match for the brutish build Johnny fills out. He could win a fight against this man easily, the true chase and fight being between him and the hen. It is with the way Johnny catches her glare, curious eyes digging into his and running away with a quick flinch to the ground when caught. He is a mutt, and she is a pedigree, all dolled up with a collar in the form of the golden band on her finger.

You shall not covet your neighbour’s wife.

The excitement of churchyard discussion lulls, and as they all bid farewell to the various people Soap’s grown up with, he can’t stop himself from daydreaming about the life he could have once had if he weren’t such a bastard. The self-sacrifice of his title and dedication to being a soldier is losing its charm. The rosary beads in his back jeans pocket make him wiggle in the car seat out of discomfort.

---

His darling mother had not been as pleased as he’d hoped when he first sent the letter home that he was promoted to Sergeant. It made him feel slightly slimy when he picked up the temporary phone to the slight wailing of distraught cries in the background and the annoyed murmurs of his oldest sister telling him his ageing mother was beside herself. Even Years before that, the announcement of his enrollment into the army had already been an angry battle of emotion-filled disdain and concern for his safety. His parents had not been pleased at the idea of potentially losing their only son to the rage of gunfire or worse- the sin of dying in a useless cause; ignoring the grace of God’s peaceful retreats. 

Honour your father and mother.

So, in reflection of these past aggravations he’s brought upon his family, Soap tries not to talk about what he does when he’s off in some faraway land and to make peace with any of his parent’s demands. He will be the good Catholic boy who follows family routines to a tee when he's home. He avoids military talk like some plague that he must ward off with light-hearted jokes and painstakingly domestic chores like picking up his youngest sister from her local bible study group. When he pulls up to the address he had been texted, he admires the beautiful end-of-the-street terrace house; the brick is weathered, and the sidewalk is a tad worn, but it looks stable and strong, as if a beacon of perfect domesticity. It looks like the kind of perfect shelter he’s only seen in children’s books. It is nothing like the modern studio flat he has in central Glasgow. It almost amazes him how this is still a part of the same overpopulous city he’s always lived in. To him, it’s a different world.

He parks up and jogs slightly to the door, pushing the little doorbell that chimes out with an electronic buzz. He hears female laughter and hurried steps from the other side of the nicely painted door while swaying on his feet in slight impatience. He nearly stumbles slightly when the door opens with a wild swing, and he is faced with the bonnie girl from church a few days ago. She looks surprised, head tilted, before her eyes sparkle with what seems to be pleasant recognition. With a charming small smile, she lets him in; constant mutters that his sister is to be found somewhere in the lovely little house. 

Johnny slips off his slightly mucky trainers, where he can see various shoes of her other guests lying, and pads rather awkwardly into the unknown property. He dilligently follows the vision of the woman as if a follower of a saint. He gives a kind nod to the faces he recognises in the lively living room, immediately seeing his sister huffing to rush and pack away her items as the rest of the prayer group seems to be busy enjoying cakes and coffee. He tries not to make a scene when his sister loudly and exasperately begs to stay a bit longer to finish her dessert, and Soap can’t help but relinquish control and relent when both his sister and the pretty lady offer him a slice of Dundee cake on a rather girly teaplate. 

Polite conversation. No crude references or dark jokes. No laddy banter and certainly no mention of his team that is seemingly nightmares away in the moment. He tries to play it cool with the new girl whose supposedly a staple in his family’s life; no one had told him Harry’s wife was such a distinct and prominent member of the church society, and they certainly did not inform him of how close her mentorship with his sisters was. He feels like he’s a spy, listening to a life his family lives without him, a life that has her within it. It makes Soap covet something that he’s never really missed or wanted. A nice suburban house, a living room filled with happy people, a place to call his own that didn’t feel so empty.

You shall not covet your neighbour’s goods.

In the midst of polite sips of a fruit tea in a mug he’s been given, her conversation has him falter- unlike those who avoid discussing his dangerous job, she picks at it like a bird picking at the ground, digging with a pointed beak search for something, hungry and interested:

“Out there…when you fight. Do you still believe in God?”

The question is spoken without shame, as if she isn’t looking for debate but rather confirmation. As if she can see through the familyman veneer that Soap is trying to play up as easily as an angel asking Joseph if he trusts in God’s words. With a furrowed brow and a nervous gulp, Soap leans closer to reply, eyes wary of the company they keep- surrounded by believers who would no doubt cast him aside at an inkling of disloyalty.

“Aye. I’d wish him to be true,” she purses her thin lips into an unsatisfied line, yet her glance lacks the sting of hatred he had expected from such a callous answer.

“Wish? Not hope?” She chooses words like they mean something deeper, as if there’s a stark difference between hoping and wishing, and for once Johnny is thrown into a loop of perilous and grievous thoughts. Hope is to dream of something tangible, to believe in the good graces of something you believe would come, to know something might be there and be lucky enough to be at its mercy. To wish is to doubt if it even exists, but want badly for it. 

“Dinnae ken the difference lass” He shrugs, the words gritted as he stirs the teaspoon in his mug rather plainly, hoping no one notices the tension that is building between the two of them.

“Then hopefully God will show you the difference soon enough.” She says rather ominously, dainty hand going to rest on his shoulder in a soft and gentle pat- Soap tries not to melt in the way her palm feels through his shirt or the way she looks more insightfully. From this interaction alone, He finds himself wanting to linger in her presence, shadow the enigma that’s making him reconfigure where his beliefs lie. How much forgiveness can he wring out from that pleasant smile and patient voice, he wonders.

Later, when his sister is riding shotgun in their parents’ car, and he’s tapping the wheel with some unknown anxiety, his sibling is busy chatting on about the wife he can’t be thinking about. Talks of what she’s like, how kind and caring she can be, how utterly faithful she is, and Soap has to wrangle with the fact its the same woman he feels is clawing at his heart like some demon already. Impossible not to think of.

“Thanks for picking me up- usually she’d drop me off but ta shitheap of her car broke down and she cannae get it fixed easily.” His sister mentions offhandedly, clearly missing the way his hands still and then slide over the steering wheel in sudden interest.

“Is tha right? Whattya mean bonnie cannae get it fixed? That’s what her husbands are for…” he tries to poke out, a masculine urge to prod and criticise the competition even if there's no audience or brawl to champion over.

“He cannae fix a car. Tried and failed- ain’t paying for a mechanic either, mind you- awful right?” Soap hums in agreement. He can fix a car- hell, he was working on engines and twirling wrenches before his oldest sibling had been born. His chest swells in a sort of sick glee at the idea that a man who had managed to snag such a devout and blissful beauty was not able to commit himself to simple duties like providing for his wife. He’s about to make a comment of passive interest when his sister suggests pure temptation.

“Eh, Johnny, why dun you go help hen? You can fix her car. Sure, she’d be well pleased, and it means she can go back to picking up stuff for the church sale!” Immediately, Soap flusters, and there's an awkward level of excuse-making, but as he listens to his sister go on about the various church services being delayed by the woman’s lack of a vehicle, he thinks he could make it an excuse. Help the woman, and it won’t mean anything by it- he’s solely doing it for the goodness of his community, to return the favour of the churchgoers he pretends to mix with. To hide his black wool in the flock of sheep that is his parish, and pray that the lass is a kind sort of shepherd. 

It’s how he finds himself once again at her doorstep, standing under the porch light as if a sinner coming in for repentance. When he meets her and looks her down again, he finds himself unable to tear away from the bruise that is blooming just above the collar of her cardigan. He doesn’t comment, not when she’s letting him in quickly and grabbing his hand like he’d get lost. She thanks him as she leads him to the garage where the broken car sits, and he tries not to pout when he notices the way she holds one of her arms tight. There’s an unspoken pain that he is not allowed to uncover- not unless he wishes to doom them both. He lies when she asks if he’s interested in joining the bible study group. Says the reason is his long departures and busy drills when he’s on base, not that he can’t think of the gospel or of psalms when he’s too busy daydreaming of her. His hands get covered with slick and inky grease, and he revels in the way he notices her stay to watch him tinker.

“Where’s tha man of the house?” his accent shortening the words a bit too much. She spins him a tale of long nights alone as her husband is away on business, sales of some sort, the kind of job that leaves her in too big a bed cold. He tries not to fixate on the way she spins her ring. He feels a level of guilt knowing that if she were his, he’d be doing the same with his deployments- leaving her vulnerable and isolated.

“He left just last night. Won’t be back for a week.”

And suddenly something shifts. His guilt turns into something else: a pang of interest at the unspoken tone that pervades the conversation. When he looks up at that clarification, the woman is close. He can smell the flowery scent of her laundry that clings to her cardigan. He can feel the needy loneliness that practically oozes off of her. He doesn’t stop her when she goes to pull him into a kiss. Her lips tremble against his, and his dirty, greased hands go to ruin the woven fabric of the light coloured cloth, pulling her closer as they nip at each other like the devout drinking water once more. Death, Life, meaningless meaning- everything and nothing makes sense as the smaller figure pushes her body into his with reverence as if she’s offering herself like a lamb to a dangerous spirit in sacrifice.

You shall not commit adultery.

Johnny knows he’s a sinner. Knows it well to punish it with painful repentance when his knees knock the bannister of her staircase while they rush to clamber into the private room of another man’s wife. Knows it as he helps push up her skirt as she lies down spread on some frilly duvet, underneath the watch of a crucifix hung up on the nearby wall. Rough hands go to grope and grasp, his touch warm like Hell’s fire as she keeps murmuring encouragement to continue their sinful ministrations. They are both complicit in this damnation. The soldier follows orders well, as if it’s God’s own command to defile the woman before him.

His hands hover and still over her bruises, the purples and blues looking too oxymoronic for her untainted skin. When he goes to rub his fingers in careful worship af if a healer trying to salve, she grabs at his wrists and whispers words of mercy and forgiveness- she is okay, that she is not harmed now; that God is protecting her. His mind floods with anger and upset that someone so naive could be used in such an unholy matter. He is plotting ways he can out the cruel man she calls her betrothed. He is about to submit to the desire to track him down until his own shame hits him first. He is no less than a user of her, too, a hypocrite as he continues to grind against her and bury his face into her neck, licking and kissing treasured murmurs of an adoration he’s not supposed to be giving her. He, too, is a man who has been given a playtoy of the heavens- but fuck it if he breaks his toys.

This routine continues over the next few days. Johnny leaves his flat under the guise of aiding his community, fixing a fellow congregation member’s car for the greater good. Doing it so that his little sister’s favourite church leader can come back to picking her up, totally not because Johnny can bury himself in the heavenly sin that is the woman with wild eyes and honeyed words. The woman who would somehow absolve his sins even without the power of some Pope or Holy Spirit. By the time the deadline of her husband’s return elapses with no sign of the devil himself, Johnny finds himself committing another sin. The whole community whispers on Sunday when she walks in alone; her gait more sullied and her stature shrinking when she can sense the rumour already bubbling under the surface of the parish’s ocean of fake smiles. Johnny is doing well. Benign, as he is kind to his neighbour, he waves at her instead, signalling for her to sit beside him and his family and trying to shoo away the unwanted attention her lone entrance had brought. Later, after service, when she bids them farewell she is bold enough to give Johnny a lingering hug; his family voice their concerns and prayers for her spirit.

“Bless Bonnie, such a worry to have a woman like that alone and distraught. Do you think he’s coming back, Johnny? What's going on in men’s head when they abandon a gal like that?”

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour.

“Am sure he’s just delayed, is all. Busy man. He’ll come back for his lass, will be a blessing when he does, Lord knows- I know he should. He’s a good man that Harry,” He says rather quietly. He lies as easily as reloading his gun, tactical and precise. He’s seen what that bastard’s done to her. He does not hope he will return. The words feel so bitter and venomous the more he dwells on them. He doesn’t face his sister’s look of concern out of remorse for the joy the woman’s loneliness has brought him.

Her husband doesn’t return before Soap is sent word of another mission. It’s nauseating thinking about how he’s going back to military-issued bedding and commanding orders. This time around, however, his deployment doesn’t begin with a cold, quick lock-up of his flat or a slightly clingy hug from his sisters. It instead starts with a sweet, delightful lass insisting she host a good luck get-together before he goes. As thanks for being such a kind soul. A caring soul. A good man. Crossing the threshold of the flat for something other than a quick screw and church responsibilities has him shudder slightly. In his hand, a metal tin of store-bought shortbread rattles against his watch, taunting him as he thinks of ways he can play coy about having to leave once more to a life of harm and hurt.

The going-away party is full of his neighbours from childhood, his family unit spread across her living room as if this is one of their own territories. The idea is dangerously close to the fantasy that he’s been allowing to play in his head when he sees the church girl, to slot her into his second life so swiftly, like a puzzle piece of domesticity. He kisses his dear mother on the cheek and says words of excitement to little cousins and close-enough neighbours that when he goes to deposit the shortbread on the dining table between the other various deserts, he nearly misses the way the sweet lass calls him over. Beckoning him like some siren.

He follows her out into her tiny garden- her Eden that seems to be protected by brick walls and minor shrubbery. In caressing his cheek and pulling him into a hidden kiss, he thinks this must be what Adam felt when offered the apple from his beloved; torn and blinded by a love more powerful than any saint’s blessing. She does it softly and slowly, and it has him nervous, knowing anyone could catch them if they were to venture out of the main event. 

“St. John Ogilvie was punished for coming home and preaching for the Scottish Catholics in hiding.” She murmurs into his chest as he holds her like some precious holy relic. “Hunted and hung by his own countrymen for believing in a God he had only known after his travels far away…” The story has him hypnotised, sensing an underlying warning in her tale. When she ends it, he does nothing but pull away and stroke her hair out of her face, carding through the locks of hair like he’s counting his rosary beads. She looks dazed and distant, but the moment her holds her cheek, she melts like there’s a blessing in his hold. 

“Let them pray for me, but the prayers of heretics I will not have." She recalls firmly as they go back into the crowd that is awaiting to cheer for him. He’d is to be sent off with prayers and a parish goodbye, promising to beg for his safety while he’s gone. When the evening is over, and the parish files out with good lucks and boons of mercy, the back of his t-shirt is nipped by her hand. She pulls him back into the cursed doorway- asking if he would stay for the night, knowing for a fact he has his military to-go bag already stored in his car’s boot. He wonders if this is God’s intention when its all too easy to say ‘Of course’ and shoot her a wink.

She wastes no time in guiding him back to her once-shared room. They pad through the hallway in a dance of fleeting touches and shallow gasps, the more they pull at each other’s clothing. Naked and exposed, flesh against flesh as he crowds over her, Johnny can’t help but believe there must be some sick saint getting off on his depravity for this woman. They have returned to a state of beasts, ones that feed off of nothing but God’s harvests and the flesh of each other. When he’s able to pinch and pull at her nipples, he thinks of the bairns he could be making if this were his wife. The duties of man, he could fulfil what he promised to strive for long ago- God would make an honest man of him if he let her start it. Call him pathetic and predictable, but the very idea of it all has him spinning. He is a good Catholic boy.

Nimble hands pull at his dick, stroke him till he’s hard and needy for her cunt; he aches when she says his name so delightfully shy- as if she is a virgin once more ready to be fulfilled by something more than pure faith. It’s unholy the way she stretches- the sensation of his head catching on her entrance, making him almost whimper from pleasure.

“Ach fuck- hen, Jesus Christ, you’re tight-”

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

The chorus of moans and the raw way his name leaves her mouth as he makes love to her rivals the heavenly melodies and Ave Marias he has once kept in his brain. There is no other chant, besides her wanton pleas for more. With each thrust in and out of her pulsing walls and slick mess, Johnny feels himself like a man converted- renewed perhaps with a strange calling wherein her pleasure is the only testament he shall dedicate to. Perhaps he will worship not at an altar but at her bedside; Communion is to be with the sweet taste of her lips instead of wine- confession shall be the words he can’t help but desperately admit as he’s fucking right between her thighs and rutting against her blessed form. He is chasing this feral enlightenment like a dog chasing his own tail, circling over and over as he keeps pushing into her wet bliss. There would be no holier imagery than what she would look like down on her knees for him and only him. When he feels her tighten and her body shake in relief and divine filth, Johny can’t help but cum into her. The true believer in him can’t help but praise the fact she’s leaking with his spend, thinking of a time where maybe she might take and be marked as his undeniably forever more.

He falls beside her, rests against her, hands still trailing her skin like he has to know she’s not a figment of his own religiously fueled fervour. When he catches her dainty fingers in his, he doesn’t miss the way her ring is missing- the band glinting on the dresser furthest away from the bed. The girl looks toward him, cheeks all flushed from their connection.

“I will pray for your safe return, Johnny. Promise you’ll come back to me.”

There is a deeper beg in her statement, a wish she has but cannot really articulate. He can’t tell if it’s the fear that he will abandon her like the man before him, or the fear he will be lost without a body to be buried. Johnny lets out a meek ‘I will’ as they fall asleep together.

The next day in the early morning, before the sun has even broken through the dark sky, Soap creeps out and down to fetch his keys- already clothed in his cleanest shirt and comfiest jeans. It’s a long flight out, and he knows he must leave before he is tempted to stay. His fingers sort through the various bits and bobs in the girl’s little wooden bowl near her door; his keys clink against a prayer coin that was haphazardly thrown into the mix.

You shall not steal.

It’s engraved with a prayer to St.Michael. It slips into his pocket wordlessly, and Soap feels like he’s a child pocketing a penny from the collection plate; it’s not enough to make a difference. God has his signs; who is he to not accept them? When he is among his teammates, his brothers in arms, they don’t push when they notice he’s wearing his cross necklace again alongside his ‘RC’ engraved dogtag. Neither Ghost, Gaz, nor Price takes comment on the way Soap is quieter and more withdrawn as they pull into the briefing, nor how he murmurs a prayer before he switches on his comms. His short existence clad in tactical gear will be his penitence for abandoning a blessed woman.

I am the Lord your God: You shall not have strange Gods before me.

He prays again. This time, however, He is not sure it is the same God whom he called upon from before. Instead, he thinks of the sweet girl from St John Ogilvie Church.

[a-writing-bear]

your rolan porn has made me realise I too have a "competent to pathetic man" kink 😔

You're welcome for the diagnosis. Its okay. Listen, the hate sex kink is a side effect of being nice all the time, you'll get used to it. 🫡🙂‍↕️

[a-writing-bear]

A Sudden Tryst (Oneshot)

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Rolan/Female Reader (Rolan/Tav) Important Tags/Warnings: Smut, Explicit Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Rolan POV, Female Reader, Very little plot! Word Count: 1,302 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Link to my COMPLETE Tumblr Masterlist Story Summary: Rolan tries not to overthink how desperately horny he is as Tav is handsy after saving the Tieflings from Moonrise Towers. The cellar of The Last Light Inn happens to be unoccupied.

It’s rather unbecoming of his character, with how you’ve cornered him like this.

The humiliation of being slightly buzzed and sloppy with his kisses will accompany his hangover tomorrow, yet Rolan finds your touch much too electrifying to worry about all that, as you’ve pressed him against a barrel in the darkened, hidden cellar of Last Light Inn. He’s not sure who grabbed at who first, but a part of him knows there’s no sense in trying to figure it out; he can’t win this game at all- this strange competition of teeth that nibble at each other, the fight to see who can make less noise as the rest of your travelling party continue upstairs without the two of you. You're too good at having him come undone, and as his tail tries to whip itself to grab onto your waist and steady you in his hold, he can’t help but groan when you simply grind harder into his frame.

“Hells. Get on with it-”

“Patience. The world isn’t ending yet.” You nip at him in response, cutting off his protest with a bite on his exposed shoulder- his robe had slipped to expose some of the unblemished red skin. You two had been dancing around each other’s subtle infatuations since the grove, testing the line between bitchy and bratty every moment you’ve gone toe-to-toe. It’s all culminated into this- the sudden eruption of want and desire after being thrown into various near-death experiences and boons of gratitude.

“I’d prefer not to be caught like this in the middle of a crisis, you know.” He nearly complains.

You scoff right before sucking at the spot, creating a hickey that has him rolling up a bit more just to chase the sensation of your skin contact. He knows he’s being mouthy. He also knows you enjoy it, what with your eyebrows raising and the glint in your eye as you continue your frantic assault. He supposes you’re somewhat correct- you’ve managed to sidestep disaster and save his family (And practically everyone else!) once again. You’ve delayed the apocalypse for now. You’re at a checkpoint in your adventure, and he is simply another reward you’ve claimed between each near-unbelievable feat you’ve accomplished. With the way you keep touching him, he can’t find the nerve to be upset at how you’re using and objectifying him. He will gladly be a temporary trophy if it means getting to feel this good.

And fuck does it feel really good. Magic almost. The way your skin feels so soft against his and the smell of you making him dizzy with desire as you murmur sweet words of praise against his pointy ears. He tries desperately not to blush at how you poke and prod at his ego, calling him all wonderful things as if you know how narcissistically perverse he is for this kind of attention. His hands drag across your warmth, pulling you closer so he can lick his tongue further into your mouth and shut you up from teasing him anymore. The silencing works with the hypnotising side effect of getting to watch how plump your lips get from all the kissing when he pulls away to breathe.

He hardly gets time to admire it when you start shucking off your own tunic, armour already long put aside. He’s not used to seeing you so exposed- rarely not covered in grime or some sort of defensive garb, so now, as your pretty tits are put on display before him, he can’t help but stall. His fingers press sharply into the soft, tender flesh, fondling them as he pushes you back, attempting to regain some sort of control over the frenzied battle of wicked wills.

“You’re a blasted being, torturous temptress…a right danger to deal with,” he mutters, every word coming out heavier with lust- the bite in his tone simmering with more arousal as he crowds you in your state of undress. It’s as if he’s trying to recite some wicked spell under his breath just for you. He shrugs off his robes as if they burn his red skin, needing to be rid of them as soon as possible, to match your exposure. Shameless and daring, Rolan finds the urgency to wrangle you so he can press his body against you more fervently. The two of you, in your desperate rendezvous, resort to lying on the floor of the hidden room, thanking the blessed tailor who lined your cape with fur that's plush enough to soften the stone floor- using it as a makeshift duvet of sorts. His bulge throbs hard against your thigh as he ruts, crawling above you, possessed by the need to have more, feel more, be more. As your lips continue to clash and a sliver of saliva from each other's mouths starts drooling against your chins, the tiefling manages to nudge his tip against your wet and needy cunt.

“F--fuck-” He groans, head lulling in the crook of your shoulder, “Gods, let me in…please” the last plea coming out almost as a dreadfully turned on croak. Rolan can’t help himself from pushing deeper the second you mutter approval. His length pulses and fills you up with an agonisingly slow stretch. The slight tinge of pain from his actions has your fingers rush to scratch at his lean back, scrambling to find purchase as you get overwhelmed by the fullness of it all. It’s so much. So much. Rolan, sensing your slight struggle through the way you gasp and keen, helps you adjust- shifting his weight and pausing the invasion of your wetness with kisses against your chest as respite.

“You alright, darling?” The whisper breaks the immense gurgles of the last few moments as he checks in. With a nod and a heady ‘yes’ from your throat, Rolan begins his pace. Measured yet firm, on the edge of depravity as the thrusts get more careless and bold. He hums and moans, the only noise filling the private room being your shared pants and whines. Gentleman be damned, he thinks to himself as his mind gets hyperfixated on the way you sound as he hits that perfect mind-numbing spot. He grinds harder after each push, giving you more pressure on your clit as he tries to make you follow him off to what feels like rapture. He muses that after this, he won’t be able to look you in the face and pretend he wasn’t so depraved for your attention; not when he knows just how you look as you fluster and open your mouth agape in sinful satisfaction.

A jerky thrust has you topple past the point, your orgasm making him almost flinch from the sudden perfect way your walls push and milk his cock. Rolan can’t help but tumble and topple, following right after you. His cum spills out like a shock to the system, the long overdue sensation making his legs feel weak and his head swim. He needed this. Needed to know what you felt like, wrapped around him as he soaked you both in the primal madness of post-danger sex. When he slips out of the messy dribble site of your body and goes to lie his tired body next to yours, he can’t help but blush. He’s not the type to stoop so low as dirty basement trysts (especially not when his siblings who just survived are nearby!), but you- you always seem to drag the very strangest parts of his soul up to the surface, make him commit to plans and impulses he’d not easily indulge.

After you hum out a contented thank you as well as a tease about doing this again, Rolan thinks that maybe getting to Baldur’s Gate as quickly as possible isn’t such a big deal.

[a-writing-bear]

Ink it up (Oneshot)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Suggestive but no explicit sex, Slight possession and innocence kink, Minor mention of Needles, Tattoos, Established relationship Word count: 1,327 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Story Summary: Simon's not the best at hiding his flicker of interest when you passively mention the idea of getting a tattoo. You surprise him.

Story under 'Keep Reading’

In his eyes, you’re such a quaint little pretty thing. Your skin is unblemished and smooth without nasty things like the scars that trail across his back or the blemishes that have bloomed on his arms.  Unlike Simon, you are untainted, a pure sight that he gets to ravage and touch and press into when you’re alone and exposed for his eyes and his eyes alone. You, in turn, have a fascination with his tattoo sleeve and the dramatic details he’s willingly gotten etched into his skin; always kissing every bit when you can, despite his breathy protests that they were nothing.

With a cheeky murmur and a passive comment, you had mentioned matching with him; the idea of getting a token of his choice permanently engraved somewhere on your body was tempting. The only thing stopping you from doing so was the intimidating nature of the tattoo pen. With how nauseatingly frightful you seemed to be at the idea of being put under an artist’s needle, Simon had simply muttered into your ear about how he wouldn’t want to have anything ruin your perfect skin. Not at the cost of any of your precious tears and whimpered sounds. He wouldn’t want you to suffer from such an unnecessary process to fulfil a foolish idea he may have once had. No aesthetic was worth your discomfort, not when you were already so beautiful to him. In any case, he could always carnally defile his pure treasure in other ways and satisfy his need to ruin you without the permanency.

​But you saw it. Saw the way his eyes would linger on you, felt it in the way his fingers would press against your back and smooth every inch like he was plotting the art himself. The way he’d stop and stare as if caught in glue when you’d run your fingers over and over again on his inky lines. You could practically see the cogs turning behind his steely gaze every time you mentioned pretty little symbols you liked. He was so obviously intrigued by your own curiosity towards his ink, unable to hide the subtle interest he had lurking underneath the surface every time you made conversation about the art on his body. He wouldn’t so easily admit that the idea of you being decorated with inky designs lingered in his thoughts often.

It was devious, if not almost downright cunning, when you finally found the perfect artist to complete your best idea yet. A strategic move that would finally put to rest the tension Simon held every time he inspected your body. With months of mental turmoil and fighting the instinct to squirm away or turn tail, tucked between legs, you bring yourself to the threshold of a tattoo parlour your friend had recommended. It wasn’t an overly impressive tattoo- you still weren’t quite sure if you were patient enough to lie any longer than the short session. It wasn’t big- but it would be meaningful. Simple. Enough to make Simon’s grip scramble onto you.

It was hard keeping it a secret, even with Simon off on deployment and to ofar way to see your wrap. Your lack of willingness to send him pictures had him concerned that you had hurt yourself in his absence. He thought maybe it was clumsiness making you too shy to show off the way you’d usually do in those rare late-night communications. It had been even more difficult when the ever observant menace that was your boyfriend saw you all covered up, barely willing to prance around in your bra like usual when he got home. Instead, to his dismay, you were hiding your figure with baggy shirts (Not that he would ever truly complain about witnessing you draped in his possessions). At one point, you had to grab at his wrist, shooting out your small hand to slap his touch away as he was trailing too close to your waist when he had settled himself behind you as you typed away at something.

“What's on with you then, Love?” he had grumbled with displeasure as you shooed him from your proximity. Ever the gentleman, he didn’t pry, not even when your excuse was so flimsy it had his brows furrow in suspicion. His nosiness was evident in the way his fingers flexed at the side when you turned to talk to him, all while avoiding his slight clinginess like you were some sort of sick and infectious creature. What were you hiding? Were you sick of him? His mind raced, trying to reason why you were suddenly closing yourself off from his touch.

When it finally healed up, you tried not to be obvious in your excitement to have a night in. You planned it down to the outfit you intended to wear- a skimpy little scrap of lingerie that was hidden and tucked away by one of your favourite stolen shirts of his. Your sudden turn back into a touchy lover had Simon almost dizzy with anticipation. You were definitely hiding something, and fuck, he could be patient. He’s willing to play into your traps if the outcome is as soft and eager as you were being. The movie you had put on in the background barely entertained as the two of you cuddled, pressed shoulder to shoulder with hands roaming. His palms were on a tour of your thighs as he tried to shift you closer and closer to be near him.

“Just tell me already, Love, what’s on with ya?” He nearly purred into your ear when you dragged him to the bedroom to rest. In between all your fleeting kisses and the giggles you tried suppressing, Simon was getting more and more riled up at the surprise you had promised would be coming. You had requested he didn’t laugh- that he be kind about it; your face blushing as you told him to sit with his back against the headrest of your shared bed. You’ve stripped for him plenty, and during the countless nights of each other's pleasure, he has never once said a mean thing about your grace. Simon could not fathom your embarrassment and nervousness, so he simply nodded and hummed, eyes trained on watching your body move before him. You had positioned yourself to sit between his legs as they stretched out across your plush comforter. With your back to him, you try not to blush as you lean forward away from him and proceed to gently and slowly shuck off his old t-shirt. The fabric had barely left your frame when you felt his grip immediately hold you still- Simon had growled out your name the moment he saw it.

Thereupon, your lower back in elegant font, dancing right above your tailbone, was his name marked. Permanently stamped on your shape.

“Fuck me,” he groaned.

He gently but firmly pushed your back further down into the mattress as he went to trace his fingers upon the tattoo. Hypnotised by the way you had practically labelled yourself as his property. As you bent over on display, His voice was a low timber of approval, barely saying a word as he admired how possessively perfect you looked with nothing but his name on you.

​“Yer tryna kill me, Love. Hiding this from me was dead cruel,” he whispers. You can hear the guttural desire that invades him when you ask him if he thinks it’s pretty. He drowns you in compliments, and he is quick to press you down and clamber on top of you to kiss your neck in reassurance. He desperately wants to fuck you and mark your perfect skin with more than just his name- cover you in his mess and blemish you with hickies that won’t go away after a day of rest.

Besides, if you’re going to mark yourself so willingly like this, then there's no reason not to continue his possession over your perfect skin, right?

[a-writing-bear]

What did you expect? (Oneshot - Fuck-buddy Series)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Friends with Benefits, Getting Together, FWB to Lovers, Drunk Sex, Drunken confessions, Post Break-up Sex Word count: 5,645 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) “Not Quite - (Ghost Fuck Buddy AU)” Series Link Story Summary: You've been dumped by the boyfriend you were using to get over your FWB-gone wrong relationship with Ghost. You get drunk and find out Ghost is also still hung up on the 'what-if' between you two. So why not indulge? Note: This is a continuation of THIS fic but can be read standalone.

Story under 'Keep Reading'

It had been roughly over a year since your messy friends-with-benefits arrangement with Ghost had come to an end, and you were too prideful to admit that you had been coasting on desperate yearning rather than a genuine connection with your current new lover. The techie who had tried to sweep you off your feet was emotionally attentive, a kind-hearted soul who did not understand that your anxiety towards being officially together stemmed from more than just shyness; instead, it had been a buildup of frustration from all the frenzied sex-focused, meaningless connections you had with Ghost just before him. It felt ridiculous, really, to be hung up mourning the death of a relationship that never truly existed, so when you had relented to the techie’s wish to call you his girlfriend, you tried desperately to shove your insecurities aside and be the charming, easy-going, picture-perfect partner possible.

As perfect as an active member of TF141 could be, you suppose. It was starting to prove difficult. The upkeep of communication between you and your partner was too irregular to feel secure, and the constant confidentiality of what you were up to made discussions of your day too awkwardly one-sided. At first, the techie had taken it in his stride, having been privy to your elite work due to his own work on specialist weapons. It felt full-circle that he got to date one of your types. He seemed ecstatic, almost honoured to be able to brag to his other specialist coworkers that the tech they were maintaining was being used by his girlfriend. You almost wanted to cringe when he said it. His words always put your rank and position on a pedestal when all you wanted was to be loved without the conditionality of how interesting you were. God knows you were sick of only being enjoyed for one thing. It had originally felt refreshing for a partner of yours to applaud your personality, but now it felt like he had misunderstood the actual person simmering underneath your tough, capable exterior. You almost wished how simple it was to be used by Ghost. At least sex with him didn’t require faux compliments of how interested you were in his work. 

You wanted to slap yourself out of your thinking. You felt a sliver of guilt and shame, constantly comparing your rather boring boyfriend to Ghost; comparing any reasonably normal man to Ghost was unfair. Ghost was a whole different type of person- the way he handled himself in the field and in his social circle was so calculated and carefully managed that trying to even reason it was tedious, mind-numbing. You’d hate to admit how used you felt when you were beneath Ghost and his strong arms, but you’d hate to admit even more how you almost prefer it to having to fake so much interest in your current partner. And it irked you how nonchalant and unbothered Ghost had been, not a single sign of agitation when you had started mentioning your new love life. The most you got was a sarcastic comment here and there, but never did he seem to be hurt that you were somewhat happily taken. 

Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew that you weren’t being satisfied, or worse- maybe he didn’t care at all what you were up to. That made you feel pathetic. Ghost probably did not give a flying fuck, his disconnect after the reversal of your arrangement proved he simply did not struggle without you. Nonetheless, the only comfort you had was the fact that, in between missions where the little sparks of your old feelings for your coworker would flare up, you could try and smother them with the affection you’d receive when you got back to the arms of the poor techie you’d fooled into a shallow and inconsistent relationship.

Inconsistent was definitely the word that embodied your connection with your techie. While the first month of dating had been bliss, your relationship with the tech specialist started to deteriorate. Unfortunately, your deployments lent very little to the maintenance of communication; even trying to send text messages was a finicky task, and you could tell the lack of your physical presence was starting to affect your love life. When you did get back on base, the techie would try to solve this. Poorly planned dates and lovebombing became minor salves to the damaged connection you had to him, but you knew it was starting to wear him down when you’d excuse yourself by being too tired or too busy to do much.

He just didn’t get it. It wasn’t as simple for you to relax- relaxation was much too difficult when you’re constantly near death and unable to even share what nearly got you killed the other day. How could you possibly care about how his new haircut looked or what he did on his day off when just yesterday you and Ghost had been interrogating terrorists? How could you care about what joke was made in the canteen when just a few hours ago, Ghost and you had been discussing the intricacies and ethics of biochemical warfare? Your boyfriend simply wouldn’t get it. And fuck it made it so hard to play nice and domestic when you saw him. You cringe at yourself. The techie didn’t like it when you’d mention how often you still hung out with Ghost. Now you find yourself dreading every call and text that summons you, each plea for attention starting to feel like some sort of leash being tugged from the other side of the world. 

“...even listening right now?” His voice drones a little.

“Huh? Sorry- um, signals are iffy out here. Could you repeat?” The lie slips off a bit too easily.

“I said we could go off base once you’re back. Thinking you could stay over at mine? A whole month together with my family, like last time.” Your partner’s voice dips, you can hear the smile in it, but it makes you grimace.

“Shit, I mean… Captain Price said there's gonna be a lot of paperwork and im not going to be very fun-” 

“You say this every time! Fucks sake whats the point of recuperation time if you aren't gonna spend it recuperating?”

“My idea of recuperating is doing fuck all-”

“So do fuck all with me! Thats what I want!” Your boyfriend’s voice rings out loudly and exasperated through the little brick device. And you can’t help it anymore, your mind racing with frustration at his frustration.

“No- what you want is to drag me to your house again and play wifey for your family!”

“Drag, huh?”

Oh fuck. You've screwed up, your inner conflicts come seeping out at the worst time as you can hear the huffs of the man on the other end of the line. You try to backpedal quick but it's pitifully clear that your words were soaked in true aggravation. You slump as the dial tone buzzes in your ear, as your boyfriend leaves you to stir in your own guilt. You didn't mean it like that- at least somewhere in your heart of hearts, you didn't mind playing devoted girlfriend! It was just so overwhelming being put on the spot like that. His sickly sweet family demanded so much commitment to a future you weren't sure you even wanted with him. The last time you'd followed him home, you had been quickly bombarded with questions of marriage, moving, settling down and quitting. Quitting 141. Quitting and retiring to a life of being the techie’s darling wife. You shudder, for all the guts and little glory the job gives you, it has provided purpose and a sense of place

“Trouble with the techie, lass?” Soap looks over, glare full of curious worry.

“More like I’m in trouble, I suppose.” You murmur, and you carelessly toss the shitty temp phone aside. The drab safehouse living room felt cramped and stifling, but amidst your cranky reaction, there was nowhere private to sulk about your failing relationship. Not unless you wanted to do a walk of shame to your room. Soap shot you a concerned look, but before he could say something to soothe your bother, Ghost’s grizzled voice shot out, mocking you- the cheek of it all even more hurtful coming from him:

“Thought you liked being in trouble.” He says it passively, not even shifting to look up from the paperwork he’s hunched over. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t like being stonewalled. Bad past experiences.” You bite out, it's a cheap shot, and you know it. Your pointed bitterness must be evident enough because you spot Ghost’s head tilt, and his back straightens a bit. If Soap or Gaz notice anything further, they don’t point it out. 

Ghost bites the inside of his cheek at that comment. Stonewalled? The accusation tumbles around in his head, clanging on every memory he has of you and your interactions with him like an incessant wardrum. He's resigned and less than cuddly, but he wouldn't call that stubbornly cold. Your misjudgement of his character and the way you sound embittered by his (albeit thorny) joke has his brows furrow; He hadn’t intended to hit you at your lowest like that. His thumb twiddles with the sides of a crinkly paper, but the words on the mission report blur as he tries to regain focus. He’s trying helplessly to ignore the shitty aura you're exuding as you pout and slump further into your chair away from him.

A part of him celebrates your misery, almost revels in your despair. Serves you right for being so annoyingly peppy when you started dating the prick. He knew the techie was of little impression, nothing noteworthy about the man he had seen sitting next to you, the few times he’d run into you in downtime. Simon lingers on the fact that the man was so different to him- Techie’s height was closer to yours, build much more generic and humour even more so, and the way he’d babble on about random nonsense. Did you prefer that? Did you want someone so plain? Christ. Simon curses internally. He’s caught himself once again comparing and what-iffing over you. In the rare and short moments that Simon is faced with the truth of his feelings for you, he feels embarrassingly foolish. He knows he’s jealous, made peace with the fact he let you slip from out his grasp with such a callous idiocy; so fuck it, he’s allowed to take some tiny pleasure that it’s miserable dating that sod.

But he’s not glad that you’re miserable. Not really. It tastes sour in his mouth, and while the words “Are you okay?” dance on the tip of his tongue, he can’t find the nerve to actually say it. Instead, he turns to look at you, expecting you to shrink under his gaze in disgust or worse- indifference. Instead, you stare back, and there's a tenseness that almost makes him shiver. As if Gaz and Soap are trying to throw him to the pit monster, they get up, mindlessly chatting about training routines as they leave the common room empty with nothing but the dead air between him and your ever beautiful figure. Does he say something? What does he say? How do you- Fuck it.

“M’ Sorry.”

“What?” he winces when your reply is more annoyed confusion. Maybe he should have just excused himself, you were pretty riled up after your nightmare phone call…

“Uh- Sorry, sounds like Techie’s not working out for you.” Why is he still talking?! He coughs it up like a cat struggling with a hairball. His legs spread a bit more as he leans to toss the mission file onto the crappy make-do coffee table and instead pick up scrap pieces of the file that were to be binned.

“I don’t need your mockery.” Your hostility towards him comes out with cynicism, a scrunched-up nose and a sour tone. Despite being all polite with him at work, your disgruntlement with him comes out into the open the second you’re truly alone and reminded of the catastrophe between you two.

“I’m not-”

“In fact, it’s pretty fucking horrendous, cruel even-” Continuing your vent, you sound frustrated, antagonising almost.

“Sweetheart-”

“And you don’t get to call me that, especially not when I’m not yours- not even your friend Simon.” Something in him snaps, the careful treading over his words stumble and zap into electric fizzles of feisty retorts the second you use his real name. The way you use it is almost testing and demanding; it’s so close to how you’d start every messed-up makeout. God, such a brat. Like when you wanted to rile him up.

“Jesus wept, fucking sort yourself out, soldier. I was being genuine for once.” He sits up, scrunches some scrap paper into a ball and throws it into your lap. He needs out of this fast, he’s bordering on turned on and annoyed just watching you seeth. You’re on edge, and the telltale signs of your bouncing leg and puffs alert him that you, too, may be a little pent up with more than just bare frustration. Ghost strides out of the room as quickly as he can. Thank fuck his room was only a few steps away. He needs to let this go before he caves into touching you. Next time, maybe he’ll make sure you know he’s not stonewalling you.

You’re stuck in a bad mood and perhaps some sort of pseudo rut of emotional turmoil, the entire rest of the week. Captain Price nearly benches you for the prickliness of your comm responses and the testiness of the way you talk to the rest of the crew. Eventually, it comes to a head when a ping on your phone near base sends you into a complete silent brood. Gaz looks almost terrified to ask what on your phone has possibly made you speechless and indignant; it would worry the rest, except for the fact that after reading the mystery text, you seem to regain a deadlier sense of your focus. Every shot you aim, every move you make is precise and fueled by some undercurrent of deep-seated frustration. Ghost would be in awe if he weren’t so unnerved by how not-you you’re acting. He doesn’t make a comment when you spit on some poor idiot tango who got in your way.

You clear rooms faster than necessary, and as the mission comes to a close, you have very little banter to add. The Scot shoots Ghost a questioning gaze as you enter the heli, and instead of taking a seat beside Johnny, you beeline to buckle up next to Ghost. Your old position. A brief ruin of where you belonged before you two royally fucked up your friendship. 

Simon’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. He merely shifts, legs moving to manspread less as you settle beside him. Whatever has happened, you’ve become something unpredictable again. He narrows his eyes and avoids looking at you. Thank god for his mask. He almost gets the wind knocked out of him when you touch his shoulder, pulling yourself up using him. You’ve been so distant as of late that he almost feels whiplash from the familiarity of the movement.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

Regardless of your mood, Price always asks the quartermaster and logistics officers to sneak a few bottles into the supply order to celebrate and wind down after particularly arduous missions. You are thankful that surviving dangerous missions gives you an excuse to drink away your sorrows. You can look a little tough, pretend that you’re drinking away the guilt of killing the enemy rather than the guilt of killing a relationship.

You got dumped.

The alcoholic beverage in hand does not soothe the heartbreak thumping through you. Ironically, you’re not clear if you’re heartbroken over the techie or the fact that he dumped you with a plain text. Your only long-term commitment in the last few years is gone and put down like a sick dog and a bullet. Would you be whimpering over it? You feel even more pathetic than when you had to flee from Ghsot and his painful words after your last hookup. Drink after drink, shot after shot, it’s relentless. 

“Bonnie- I dun think ya need that much in ya right now.” Soap's usual grin is mired with antsy-ness; he’s all for egging you to loosen up but this took the piss. Before Gaz can pull the tumbler out of your hand, you raise your middle finger and whine something about deserving a pissup. This does nothing to quell your upset; instead simply rallies the boys to catch up to the endless rows of empty bottles and tin cans strewn about the room. Watching Ghost barely touch a drop, sipping slower than ever, irritates you more.  When Gaz finds himself struggling to get up as he leans on the captain whose already dozing off, Soap calls an end to your hopeless attempt at blacking them all out. You pout but try to play it off- merely grumbling as the rest of the crew conk out and leave the common room with very little fanfare. It’s while you’re reaching for one more pour of a shitty, cheap off-brand whiskey that Ghost demands your attention, as if a parent catching a child with their hand in the cookie jar. He hovers over you before sitting next to you, closer than the rest would, now that no one else is around.

“Not a good idea.”

“Could say that about a lot of things,” you say, hand dusting over the rim of your empty glass. You don’t pour another. You dislike how easy it is to follow his wants. instead you slowly set your eyes upon him, unabashedly ogling him now. Curse him.

“Yeah? Care to elaborate?”

“Don’t need to explain anything to you, Lieutenant. Sir.” you try to sound mean. It’s not convincing.

“Easy there. Could leave you here. Not give a shite,” he warns, brutal command as if talking down at you, knowing how in the past you’d push even more with the attitude. Fuck it you’ll push it now. Just for the thrill.

“Go on then. You’re good at that,” his eyes narrow, and he stiffens. Bingo. You hit a nerve.

“Thought that's what you wanted. You’re not mine to care bout.” You're no longer talking about this evening.

“Don’t know what I want,” you sniffle. There’s an awful silence that breaks out between the two of you, and you can tell he’s focusing on the words that leave your mouth so pointed. You try to give a small, half-baked, half-amused smile as if you’re not that fussed as you admit your most recent humiliation “Techies ditched me.” You don’t know whether to feel insulted or intrigued when Ghost seems to perk up at that, his interest in your flares like some mutt sniffing something tempting. “He said I couldn’t commit,” you continue.

“...Not exactly in the right line of work for it,” the man beside you points out the obvious so blatantly it almost makes you snort.

“Yeah, well. Loneliness isn’t a workplace hazard I can get insured for.” You know what you’re doing is desperate. You inch closer to him, Anymore, and you’d be climbing on top of him. You know the way he’s watching you that there is still some sort of attraction, and you are needling him for any sort of pitiful traction you can pull from the masked man. You bite your lip and drowsily let a finger go to poke at his covered cheek, then dance lightly over where you know his lips would be.

“Wanna fuck?” You say it lazily, almost as if you’re asking for a smoke or for the time. It’s probably the most blunt you’ve been propositioning him, and Simon would assume you’re fucking with him if it wasn’t for the way you immediately go to bury your head into his chest, knocking against him as if you need to collapse into his arms like some sort of sacrifice. You expect to be shoved off, maybe some clever retort or painfully mean insult, but instead you hear a near breathy sigh and a hand cradling your head like some delicate prize.

“Not sure that’s the brightest idea, sweetheart.” Your heart lurches at his slip-up, the endearment stressing the very brokenhearted strings inside you. 

“Don’t give a shit anymore.”

“Will do when you decide to quit this again.”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” You mouth against his chest, and you move to straddle his lap like a cat crawling into position. He’s sturdy, firm, a huge hulking wall of mass that makes you feel sheltered just by the arms that quickly go to wrap around you as he fumbles over your body. He tuts, and you can feel the judgment in his eyes burn into your frame, but the fact that his hands grasp at you suggests he’s not denying your advance. It’s tactical warfare at this point, a planned strategy as you shuffle your hips to rub straight onto his length through his sweatpants. Your advancement up his body with your hips is followed by a counter-offensive to his defences, characterised by steady hands smoothing up his chest. Your target grunts, breath heavy and heady- mesmerised and left stunned by the sheer audacity of your frame above him. You need him again, wanting to win this imaginary cold war that broke out, the petty battle of your most recent relationship exacerbating you want to start fighting with Ghost all over again. Somewhere deep down, you know dating the Techie had just been a proxy to whatever the fuck you really wanted.

“Doing alright there, LT?” You tease- your words melting into a pleasant hum against his ear as you lean into him. “I think-”

“You’re not thinking. That's the issue.” He grabs at you, stills you forcefully, but you can feel him tent in his pants beneath your core. You give him a coy smile, all slurred from the drinks that warm your face and ease your tempered heartache. You purse your lips, but he beats you with another retort before you can even process his complaint: “What do you want?”

“I want a good fuck.”

A good soldier knows when to take orders without question, and just like the very first time you two had tumbled into the shared mistake of touching each other, it is out of sheer want to not disappoint you- to absolve you of unsatisfied feelings. He wants to please you. If only to soothe some broken ego, or stroke the pleasurable idea that you’ve come crawling back to him once more. His large hands roam your body before firmly pulling you closer against him, forcibly grinding up against you. When you hiccup a drunken and pleased whimper, Simon smirks and does something that makes you think you must have blacked out or be in some drunkenly induced hallucination. He shoves off his mask before going to bite at your tender neck, marking you up like a beast ravaging into a meal he’s been begging for.

It’s all so unruly. Nothing like the tastelessly bland, gentle moments the techie had goaded you into the last few months. With Ghost, it’s all clashing and gripping, his hips humping into you as if trying to prove a point against your eager heat. And yet, there’s something different. The fact that he’s laying bare his face for you to witness, his eyelids drooping in focused and determined pleasure, his lips slightly parted as if having you in his lap fascinates him much more than just the friendly fuck he’s provided for you before. He’s gruff with a hoarse voice as he shudders when you moan a bit too melodically into the abandoned room:

“F-fuck. Feels good, sweetheart. So good- so so good.” He’s stuttering, and when your eyes flicker open in between the wonderful pressure of the grind, you notice the way his scarred cheeks are lightly tinged with pink- as if a blushing schoolboy. You want to tease him, but he rumbles out something strangely needy but mean: “Did ya miss this? Need this?”

Did you miss me? Need me? That’s what he really means. His unspoken desire seeps into his brain. He’s asking not for your sake, not to tease, but instead to check that what he’s doing is the right thing. To know he’s won against the likes of the techie. The stakes of getting this wrong a second time round worse, knowing he’ll truly be fucked if you say you don’t need him again, that even when the techies lost, so has he. When you nod, and you let out the lightest little yes, Simon jerks, hands rush to lift you quickly, shoving your clothes down and trying to shove his own sweatpants and boxers down rushedly, exposing both of you in a scandalous heap of want. A part of you flusters, embarrassed at how wet you already are, but that shame disappears completely when you see his aching member, hard and thick, all twitchy to be in you. 

“Gho-” Your pur of his callsign is rushed and devolved into a gasp and frantic whine as he manhandles you to sink quickly onto his aching dick. He fills you up so well and full that you feel the pressure in your belly; you near hiss when he starts to move, and it only takes two shaky pumps before the man decides that he’s not content with the method he’s chosen. He pulls out, the squelching noise making you shudder, and the emptiness feeling so wrong, but your teammate simply yanks at you, lying you down on the couch, bullying his way between your legs again, but this time looking down at you like some coveted item he’s been searching for.

“‘M gonna fuck you, make you feel all better- don’t need ‘im.” The northern accent dribbles out as he mutters quietly, as if speaking more to himself than to you. When he goes to press his lips against the skin of your thighs, he almost acts as if he’s worshipping you. He goes to lift your legs, finding just the right angle to return into your wet cunt, and his eyes glisten all wide when he hears your breathless mewl when he pushes back into it. “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ll fuck you…fuck the techie and his whingy ass-”

You fizzle with guilt, your tipsy brain having some sort of sick joy at the fact that Ghost is cussing out your ex as he uses you. Is he using you? Or are you using him? Both? You no longer give it much thought, the disapproving taunt of your ex being buried deep in the recesses of your mind when Ghost hits the spot that has your toes curling and hands grappling at the fabric of the couch. You’re not aware of your own voice as you hear it begging for more, and Ghost complies- his length prodding and hitting deeper and deeper as he groans and keeps murmuring words you can’t really make out. It’s all snippets; some of it a mixture of swears like shite and fuck, a bit of it endlessly cycling through praises and complaints about how much you tease him.  You’re so so so close…

“Always want you back in my bed- filthy fucking thing, driving me mad…” He’s definitely fucking his frustrations now, “Acting so godamn awful- need to…” He stumbles over his own words, and when he feels your wet walls clench around it drags a broken sound out of him.

“T-take it. You have m-me.” The momentum of his thrusts has you stuttering, and the phrase that leaves your lips stuns even you; you know secretly you mean it, you want to give him your wholeness, body and heart as of right that moment and pretend that this isn’t just a convenience for him. With the words he’s spilling, you can almost fool yourself, so you let yourself play along. When he hears it, he hears you say that he can take whatever he wants from you in this moment. He pulls out and goes to tug up your pants and his before getting up and practically throwing you onto his shoulder. You’re wriggling, desperately dripping and needing to cum, all surprised as he manhandles you out of the room as if on a chase. He’s bringing you to the privacy of his quarters. Fuck. Fuck, this is definitely going to break your heart tomorrow. You let your achy and warm body flop against him, simply giggling from the nervous thoughts as he single-mindedly flings you into his bed. The flimsy door to his private quarters slams. Simon stalks over to you, this time kicking off his clothes as if they hurt to keep on, and he’s quick to pin you down.

“Lemme fuck you like he did.”

“W-what?”

“Please.”

“Ghost what the fuc-”

“Simon. Call me Simon.” Your eyes widen, he’s already revealed so much of himself to you tonight with his chocolate brown eyes and his chapped lips on unashamed display. You find yourself unable to tear away from his expression- it's a mix of that usual dominating presence, but his eyes seem to search yours too deeply. You gulp and wrangle with your clothes as if to agree.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure, Simon.”

He returns to you, kissing you on all the exposed parts of your body. It’s soft, he’s urgent but not fleeting. It’s definitely not rough- it's firm, as if a lover of longtime rediscovering his partner’s nooks and crannies to resculpt them in his own hands. You think he’s going to fuck into you again, but instead he leans to lick at your clit, tongue diving deep into your gushing heat. His hands are doing nothing but hold your body down so you can’t squirm away; you don’t miss how his right hand goes to jerk himself as he licks into you like a man starved. With every plea of his name, and the way your voice tightens, Simon shakes. When he finally pulls off your weeping mess that is your needy pussy, he declares with a growl. “Not gunna fuck you out there anymore. Can’t do it.”

He tumbles back onto you clumsily- not like the animalistic Ghost who’d mount you and force you into all sorts of positions for his pleasure; when he returns to your aching heat, he stays focused on every noise you make, the whimpers and the cries. He’s rutting and thrusting into you more like a careful boyfriend; steady, as if wanting to keep you on him like waves crash on the side of a familiar shore. He desperately doesn’t want to cum, knows that he’s so close to making a mess in you if he’s not careful and that you’ve only spoken of a desire to fuck for the sake of not thinking of the other guy. Fuck that guy. Fuck, how could he give this up?

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him in more, and he groans as your nails scratch at him. You’re both caught up in the hedonistic pleasure of what is the shambles of relationship what-ifs. The moment Simon and his stupidly addictive fucking dick hit that spot again, you can’t help but reveal your greatest and most dreadful affection:

“Oh God, Simon- I l-love you-” You whine it, orgasm messing up the vowels. It’s broken, barely audible between your garbles of pleasure. But it makes Simon fall into you suddenly, losing his grip on your hips as he stutters and comes much too fast and too pent up into your warmth. So fucking much. He can’t help it. The confession, so sickly shocking, brings him to an edge he can’t help but topple full force over. It’s a fucking mess. He damn fucking chokes. You’re leaking his cum when he rolls over and tries to bury his head into the one partially flat pillow that you’re currently sharing.

You've been lying with each other for an hour after coming, not moving an inch except running your finger on his arms and humming- a slow stagger to sober as he holds you.

“...I can’t do this,” he says suddenly and miserably before turning over. It’s so out of character, and you're still a bit tipsy, so your brain struggles to parse the emotion in his voice- it’s so unlike him.

“Do what?” You avoid looking at him; instead, you focus on the fuzzy corners of your vision as you yawn from the exhaustion of what just occurred. His ceiling is blurring as you feel worn out in the most satisfied sense.

“Go back to fucking you like before.” He mumbles while you flush out of sudden realisation; you’ve both broken the unspoken arrangement to leave each other alone. You two had fucked once more. This time with a newfound energy of want and need and affection as an undercurrent.

“Not like before. Wasn’t planning this.” You mumble out in despairing agreement. 

“What were you expecting me to do?” He groans, joining you in staring up at the ceiling. Now your guilt in your throat is tainted with worries that he’s definitely, truly and utterly sick of you. You hadn’t wanted to confront your feelings like this. What did you expect? What did you want? You can’t be friends, you can’t stay less than fuckbuddies, you can’t even look at him without a nagging sense that you’ve picked the wrong horse to back half the time. You don’t utter a word for a solid minute.

“Want to try dating?”

Simon lets out a wheezing little laugh. He smacks you with a pillow.

[a-writing-bear]

Toxic!TF141 Drabbles/Imagines - inspired by Arctic Monkeys Songs

Important Tags/Warnings: Manipulation, Jealousy, Cheating, Abuse of Power, Suggestive Content AO3 Link

SaviourComplex!Ghost x Manipulative!Reader 'Crying Lightning'

The fact you knew I was approaching your throne With folded arms you occupied the bench like toothache Stood and puffed your chest out like you'd never lost a war And though I tried so not to suffer the indignity of reaction There was no cracks to grasp or gaps to claw

You know you can get whatever you want when you pout and use alligator tears on the likes of him. He’s never this easily swayed or moved, but the way your eyelids flicker, and you manage to make your chest heave in a certain way when you start crying on command, has him grappled. It worries him how attracted he is when you do it. Sometimes you cry, and he plays hero as if fooling himself he’s doing good; other times he’s the creature that’s broken your day, picking at the very worry that he’s just as bad as his father. There’s something hypnotically infuriating and familiar about how it sounds- your gasping breaths and your shrill half-scream cries when you two argue, the way your pissy little protests devolve into whimpers and moans when he’s pinned you down just like you’ve plotted. He hates it.  He swore he would never let himself get into shitty war games of a relationship. Hates how much it reminds him of bad family memories, and civilians he’s hurt who are much more genuine than you. He wishes he were more in love with someone who didn’t need simmering anger or frustration from him just to get turned on.  He knows you get a kick out of watching him snap at you, or worse, when he cracks and comforts you over something that was clearly your own doing. Yet, when your eyeliner streaks down your cheeks and you accuse him of being a monster of a thing, Ghost can’t help but chase the feeling of trying to tame your wild act of discontent. He knows you’re using him, playing him- and he can’t help but let you.

HopelessRomantic!Soap x Situationship!Reader 'Suck it and See'

Be cruel to me 'cause I am a fool for you I poured my aching heart into a pop song I couldn't get the hang of poetry That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun And I can only hope you've got it aimed at me

Johnny knows whatever relationship you have with him is never going to last. You have not hidden the fact that you see him as temporary- a filler when convenient. Deep down, he curses himself for thinking of all the sweet words he wants to mumble into your ear when you’ve allowed him to cosy up in your sheets and between your legs. He knows you get dolled up to go out, and that the pics you post aren’t just for him, that every little sneaky thing you do that teases his senses is just for fun. He doesn’t want fun, he wants someone who’ll love him back and who wouldn’t just blink and shrug when he says he’s off on deployment. Every time he’s back in town, you have him desperate to touch, and you play willing with your batted eyelashes so easily. You fuck with his heart, and despite how many times he says he won’t pick up your DMs, you’re the first thing he checks when he’s back from base. The nights when he gets 3 am nudes of you sat in front of a mirror have him storm out into the street quicker than he’s proud to admit, and by the time he’s banging on your door, you’ve planned out exactly how you want him. It’s like walking through the gates of hell when he hears your phone pinging with notifications he knows are from other gullible men who drool.  It’s not romantic, it’s dirty and depraved, and he knows you don’t care for any of the messages he sends unless they are the four words “Can I come over?”. He’s only got eyes for you- and he knows those eyes don’t look back at him at all. 

JealousBadBF!Gaz x BitchyEx!Reader 'Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts'

And you just can't measure up, though You don't have a prayer Wishing that you'd made the most of her When she was there

You’ve known each other for years, but you were hardly friends when you and Gaz had dated. you had doted on his every word, swooned over him in a way that made him feel ten times the man he usually is. He took advantage of it, never really reciprocating in front of your friends lest he look less manly. Call it posturing or whatever, but he knew you were fit and having you on his arm was more of a showoff than affection for him- for once, he had someone desperately trying to vie for his attention, and he soaked it all up. He’d barely give you the time of day, even playing up your pathetic interest in front of the lads and laughing off your pouts. He's ashamed at how fucking satisfying it was to have you beg to touch him and how you'd look all doe-eyed when he used to bend you over- just excited he wanted you. So call it surprise or call it pure bitterness when you dumped him quickly and played the stranger the moment another lad tore your interest. The worst bit of it all is he knows deep down he’s the one getting hung up on a crappy relationship he fucked up. You don’t give him the time of day now, and you even laugh in his face when he tries to say hello. He tries not to show his bitterness when he sees you wrapped around some other man, and he detests the fact that you rub it in his face, purposely wearing all the pretty outfits you once wore for him. He knows you must be doing it on purpose- he knows it must be true when you stare directly at him with the most unimpressed expression and click your tongue before going to kiss your new lover right in front of him.

DivorcedPowerAbuse!Price x MarriedCheater!Reader 'The Bad Thing'

Do the bad thing Take off your wedding ring But it won't make it that much easier It might make it worse Oh, the night's like a whirlwind Somebody's girlfriend's talking to me, but it's alright

You’re the wife of a military friend. The man who is stuck up in some shitty mission right about now, and Price knows the only reason you’re alone is that your husband’s taken up his spot while he’s on leave.  So yeah, he knows without a doubt that you’re taken. He’d assumed it was very happily taken with the amount of pretty wedding photos and cheerful smiles displayed in photo frames around your house. But the fact that you’re letting him, a man whose very much not your husband, claw at your shirt and tug up the hem suggests that the initial belief in your happy marriage was wrong. Funny, he’s yet to see one that works. He wonders whether or not your mind is racing with the same thoughts his was when he cheated on his ex-wife. He wonders what might happen if your husband came busting through the door to see you writhe and listen to you moan against the sheets of your marital bed as John fucks into you. It doesn’t matter; he knows that it wouldn’t happen- he’d sign off on that man’s paperwork himself; Your poor, unassuming, devoted husband wasn’t going to be home for the entirety that John plans to parasitically leech off your lonely moods. His guilt for having you on your knees for him becomes meaningless pleasantries in his mind, trying to convince him he’s a good man despite the fact he’s ruining another person's relationship. He can’t bring himself to care very much when you moan his name so easily.

[a-writing-bear]

Lines Between Us - Chapter 12

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Childhood Friend AU, Anxiety, Slight Disassociation, Minor Commitment Issues For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) Tumblr Version Masterlink (Split into Chapters) Chapter Summary: The chapter in which formalities are defined, and that life cannot be as simple as two halves separated.

Story under ‘Keep Reading’

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Books are a comfort, and you know they hold a special place for both you and Simon. Your mind focuses on the words and the feeling of the off-white pages of the book you’re browsing through, too distracted by the awkward phrasing and tumbling scenes of an imaginary setting. The morning had been such a relaxing arrangement, and having Simon nearby as a playing partner felt so nourishing to your budding relationship. You’re about to turn to show him some nonsense cover art that you’re certain is AI slop, when you feel the warmth of Simon’s palm through the leather gloves on your hip- pressing insistently as if trying to garner attention. You are about to say something, but your words get caught in your throat as if a cobweb is clogging it up; Simon is staring daggers into the floor, his shoulders much too tense, and his brow furrowed as if struggling to discern you.

“...Simon?” Mumbled, your words make no effect on his demenour and you note how his chest seems to heave a little as his hands continue pressing into you. 

Simon is no stranger to anxiety, although years of abusing his adrenaline and ruining his nerves to be desensitised to fear and panic have made it an uncommon visitor. With a long CV of missions in the field keeping him busy and the copious pamphlets on staying mentally fit being mandatory in between deployments, He’s simply not had the same rising discomfort of an anxious fit since his forced discharge after Iran and Roba. He knows how to deal with his own tremors of trauma. So this bout of slight nerve paralsyis confuse shim more than concerns. Thankfully, despite the numbness in his chest and the stress induced twitching of his eye, Simon can tell that this moment that’s overcoming his senses now is not as bad as the stomach-churning, blood-pumping paranoia of those long-gone years.

Nonetheless, there’s a shakiness in his voice- one that clearly puts you on edge when your bright eyes soften with concern as he mutters your name quietly. The way he says it sounds almost childlike; pained and sullen like a creature unable to echo out and alert you to its wound. His hands ripple against your clothes, and as quickly as this sudden vulnerability comes, it dissipates. It’s as if he is unsure of what is making him so nervous; the crowds around them are nothing like the usual haunts of his work, nor is it as dangerous as the nightmarish missions he’s thrown into. He looks down at you, your own hands going to press gently onto his chest, the palms soothing as they press firmly, as if to ground him.

“Si? Hey- woah, Simon, you okay?” Your voice trembles, and you give him a look that makes him feel guilty for being so weak.

“Fine.” his voice, uncannily calm, only makes your brows furrow more as you search his expression for some sort of window to his state of mind. 

“...Should we-” He immediately grabs your shoulder, the grip tight and sharp, and it has you stumble a little. Another hand goes to touch your cheek and then pinch a lock of your hair, twisting the bit of your fringe as if twirling it like a wire in need of untangling.

“Dun wanna ruin your day love…” His mind buries itself in more guilt, the grave heavier and deeper as his inner-self piles on more self-deprecation; he should be better, there's no danger, and yet here he is unable to do something as simple as accompany you. 

“Not ruining it. Need you in one piece.” You murmur as you lean into his touch. Simon gulps, the back of his neck itches, and his heart is all too antsy as you say it; He would give you anything, everything of himself, and if you commanded him to come back in one piece, he would dedicate every second to reassure you that he was capable and alive. He would stay out here even if the world were falling apart around him. You don’t seem to want him to make that choice.

After a few stolen moments of just letting him zone back in, you lead him to the till, buying a random book you had grabbed and tried to disengage with the shopkeeper's polite smalltalk as quickly as possible. You grip his hand in yours, but before you can walk side by side back to your car, Simon instead lets go of your hand and presses against the small of your back as if asking you to lead the way. You position yourself in front of him, and your puzzled look is ignored as you just nod and trust the man. You walk ahead slightly and know he’s right behind you, as always, acting like an obedient dog who trails behind you. It brings him a huge comfort. To be able to watch you walk ahead, right in arm's reach. He keeps his trained thoughts focused on where you are and every little bit of scenery surrounding you. It’s like some strange sense of control; the perception that with him here, acting like some pseudo shadow, he’s able to remind himself that someone he cares about is safe. Present. 

Alive.

That must have been it. The more he watches each of your steps, his internal investigation of his emotions digs up the fact that he has not been out in such a domestic setting since the time he accompanied Tommy and his wife Beth to shop for baby goods. He never goes this far out into central Manchester. That day is a fuzzy memory now- all he remembers is standing in the self-help section, listening to the umming and erring of his baby brother as they tried to find a book on parenthood post abuse. Simon had been useless that day, only acting as a sort of chauffeur for his pregnant sister-in-law and his jittery, nervous little brother. Perhaps it was the softness of your shape, the calmness of the morning and the normality of living that set him off. When the two of you get to the car, Simon immediately buckles in and twiddles with a side mirror. You get in, shoving the paper bag of goodies under the seat, and you hum a silly ditty one might hear in a lift. He can tell in the way you’re also fidgeting to get seated that you, too, are testing the waters of what he can and cannot cope with right now. 

“You okay…?”

“I said I’m fine.” You hesitate when he replies slightly grouchy, but Simon feels too focused to really ease his tone. He is about to huff and apologise when he feels your touch on his thigh. Your fingers set themselves steadily on his jeans, and you don’t look at him- as if you know any eye contact would simply make him feel even worse. Your moments of unknowing mercyhave him settled enough to pull himself together and drive back to your little home. You don’t refrain from your bit of singing as the car radio plays. The afternoon is spent with mutters, and Simon feels bad that he’s arranged himself to loiter on your couch as if out of commission. You sit nearby, trying to seem unbothered as you read your book, an idle companion doting in the background. You’re not good at hiding your concern, but god its so endearing. He's no longer debilitated by the strange memories that fester in him, not when he can study your shy attempts to give him more of this subtle sanctuary.

“...Used to have anger issues.”

You peak up from your book, trying to not to look hyperaware of how desperate you are to hear from him. He feels like he’s in one of those psych evaluations when you shift and try to prod him to continue.

“Was really messed up after…” His eyes flicker to the ceiling, and his words stall, “after their deaths.” You leave the book in your lap haphazardly, all silent as you focus on every word he says like it's a hymn. “Needed guidance. Was becoming too jilted. Did things that would have broken yer heart to hear.” At this, his gaze snaps onto you, hand reaching out to touch the side of your neck. They trace the marks he had originally left.

“Read a lot. Thought of you a lot. Wondered a lot.” He thinks to himself how coincidental it is that years from then, he has you before him. Listening to him parrot on about his pain, soothing it like how the imaginary you had done just previously. “Had to change routine, switch my thoughts over. When 141 picked me up, I was near feral.” At that confession, you pull a face, lips pouting and eyes frantic as they try to focus on his own bark-brown and thunderous eyes. 

“Simon…You’re not feral whatsoever.” He scoffs with minute amusement, and he sees a glimmer of relief wash over your look when you get a break in his down mood. 

“Not ‘more. The captain and the lot had me work. Got me out of it.” You nod, and it's as if Simon can see some cogs turning in your little head. He’s about to change the topic when you blurt out an idea.

“You should introduce them to me.”

Ghost stirs. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t think-”

“They can come for dinner-” You’ve started shuffling closer to him, “I won't ask any questions about work, we can even just go to the pub, and I can excuse myself if you need it-” you’re already jittery and overplanning as you lean closer to him. “I think it would be great to-”

“Not yet.” You shrink. Your shoulders look tense, and your body rocks back and forth a little while biting your tongue. Simon once again is the villain who has seemingly robbed your rays of sunshine, the moments of genuine cheer that you seem to produce out of thin air. He cringes at how pathetically nihilistic he can be- You’re trying to bond with him like some animal in need of rehabilitation, be a part of his life beyond this thin veil of domestic bliss you’ve set up for him. You’ve set up a metaphorical trap, fed him and coaxed him all ready for release. But he’s not taking it.

It’s a lot so fast. Too fast. 

As you try to shirk off the idea and go back to reading your book, the concept of you being intermingled with his colleagues plays out in his mind. They were close enough to you when they had driven him to your house; he’s thankful that you were too distracted by his need to see you that you had not spotted the large vehicle hosting the lot of them. The very image of your petite stature between the likes of Soap and Gaz has irked Simon. As he has said before, they are tough, rough and callous, their unrefined lifestyles much too jarring compared to the sickly tender storybook existence you reside in. He knows that despite your aptitude with teenage boys, the antics of his comrades go beyond generic lad behaviour, but instead veer into military filth and cynicism. 

You would be mortified if they started telling their tales. Or worse tales of him.

It spins him into minor distress, and his fears of what you think of him start simmering like a pot of tar sticky and thick in the bottom of his stomach. God forbid you see him as Ghost. That singular concern has him in deep thought about the implications of his alter ego. The idea of that version of him getting to court you with his gruffness and debased dignity has him on edge. That version of him belongs locked away behind mental bars, chained up and left to fester for when he’s required to save the world from the inconceivable sins you never think of. It is not meant to be remotely near you, to touch you or to taint you. Ghost is not for you. It should never be for you. The ‘not yet’ he had lorded over you, had used as a compromise and settlement, is pure fiction. God, he fucking hates lying to you. Hates having to hide this much from you. Coward. A coward chained to his own misery-

“Would you ever want to meet my friends?” You halt his spiral before he can even catch that he’s in his own head. The words gnaw at him, the request packing more punch than any other demand you’ve ever really put before him. He stalls. Photographs he remembers seeing in your hallway hung up all proper- A frame of a younger you, one that is slightly recognisable, surrounded by classmates he only vaguely remembers. He immediately detests the idea of reopening himself up to the critics of his past.

“What, like, Charlie and the lot?” Despite his mask, you can see his nose crinkle, in response You pull a face and cheeky eye roll, but it doesn’t soothe Simon.

“No, silly. My adult-y friends. Coworkers and people from the book club, I guess.” Your neck cranes upwards as you um over the idea. Simon still struggles to not stare at the nearly faded hickeys he’s left- the concept of you introducing him to that part of your life, all littered with bits of him on you bring a new gnashing set of insecurities.

“Would you want that Dove?” His voice is low and nervous, rumbling with a deep sense of uncertainty.

“I mean, yeah, I already talk about you, would kinda be strange to not introduce my boyfriend to them…” You’re off rambling names of people you intend to put forth in your social experiment, but Simon is not taking them in.

Boyfriend.

It sounds so juvenile, so childish and immature. A title that he can never imagine himself using. It’s a term of endearment he only really associates with the likes of Charlie and other poster boys of youthful indictment. Not Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley. Lord knows he can already hear the snickering he’d get if you used the phrase in front of any of TF141. And somehow, it pricks and needles at his skin, chokes up his chest like some sort of addicting constricting thing- as if the tingly sensation that your term has pricked him with is a shot of pure adrenaline.

“Simon? What-. What is it?”

“Huh?”

“You’re glaring at me like I’ve said something stupid.” You purse your lips and twiddle your fingers in your lap, suddenly feeling small and judged for your minor tangent.

“No uh..Right well..” He coughs out and finds himself bouncing his leg against your couch as he leans forward on his elbows, trying to regain control over his senses. “Jus uh-Christ.” He can hear the letters in his accent drop in his stuttering, and he feels so self-conscious as he knows he’s being insanely deranged for putting so much weight on your innocence. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Bright red. Your cheeks are splattered with it as if a ruby was shining off your face and sparkling just for him. It’s almost hilarious how he’s managed to drag you into the same shyness he is exhibiting. The two of you are a pair of hopeless romantics, struggling to define the fuzziness of the relationship you’ve carved out. It’s near embarrassingly cuddly how the idea sets you both off. 

“S-sure I, um, I mean I assumed-” You’re fumbling, and Simon leans back into the couch, legs spreading out in a cocky display of pride at the way you’re trying to backpedal something so clearly obvious. “We talked about being- I mean..…-” You shoot him an irritated glare, but it's attached to an upbeat giggle as you see his brows go up and can tell from the way his patterned mask crinkles that he is enjoying the struggle. “...I…I can be yours… if that’s fine. Okay. or…whatever.” Your words die as you struggle to focus and say it eloquently. Instead, you simply melt further into the pillow, the side of your head hitting his shoulder as you close your eyes, too embarrassed to make eye contact anymore. If Simon wasn’t already strung up from the conflicted feelings from earlier, your words do not ease the flurry of thoughts that are piling up within him. 

His. His. His.

Just like how you had promised not to let anyone else touch you, the ugly possessive thing inside him stretches and celebrates the naive way you’ve accepted this. You’ve unknowingly agreed to letting him so selfishly have you, and the idea that you want to label yourself as his and only his has his mind racing. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to him? And then it crashes slightly. Boyfriend. Lover. Partner. All three titles are unfitting in his life. Never once has he truly played these roles; the few attempts had imploded in a great flurry of arrogance, disappointment and commitment issues. 

You must dream of a populated home, weekends out and date nights more fulfilling than pubs where he’s got you pressed against his greedy figure. As much as the thrill of being labelled such a certain thing, it starts to freak him out a little.

“Or whatever.” He responds. You nod dumbly, and Simon joins you in fully sinking into the cushy pillows of your couch. His hands go to pull you in closer. He is trying desperately to ignore how breathless he feels, and when you lay your head on his chest, humming another silly tune as you move on, he swallows down the inkling of terror nibbling in the back of his brain.

[a-writing-bear]

Coping Strategy (Oneshot - Fuck-buddy Series)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader Important Tags/Warnings: Friends with Benefits, Masturbation, Jealousy, Commitment issues Word count: 2,261 For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link. BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3! Ao3 Link (Whole Story) “Not Quite - (Ghost Fuck Buddy AU)” Series Link Story Summary: You've tried to move on after abruptly ending your FWB arrangement with Ghost. You've been seeing a guy on base and are getting ready to go on a date. Ghost realises he might have underestimated how much this would bother him. Author’s Note: This is a continuation of THIS fic but can be read standalone.

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Story under 'Keep Reading'

It had happened so swiftly that Ghost almost found himself swept up in the confusion of it all. You had recently decided to cut clean from your arrangement despite the tremendously pleasurable experiences that were fucking him on the low. Cold turkey, with very little warning, you’ve been leaving him out to dry. That last hook-up in the gym had ended abruptly, and Ghost was too prideful to admit he wasn’t exactly clear on what had caused you to rush away so quickly. So what if he said you weren’t friends? Last he checked, friends didn’t exactly perform oral sex on each other, nor did they rip off each other’s clothes and get tangled up in each other’s bedsheets. Friends talked about their hobbies and got caught up in banter, showing each other that they were invested in others’ time- that simply wasn’t what you did together. Therefore, you weren’t friends. So he’s harsh. What gives? He knows he’s a blunt bastard, but that’s never stopped you from going along with it all. It’s clear after three more failed attempts to get you naked beneath him again that you’ve withdrawn any interest in entertaining him, and fuck it- who cares? He was fine getting laid before you; he’ll be fine getting laid after you. Even though his dick is a tad disappointed at the sudden neglect, He will respect your sudden change of desire.  It was never meant to last anyway. It’s fine.

Until it isn’t. 

In the typical format of his dire spiralling thoughts, he pretends to be focused on the maintenance work on the bench in front of him as he’s examining you from afar, his eyes drifting to the corner where you’re texting someone. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. He first noticed it when you perked up, hands rushing to dig into your pocket when the buzz interrupted a group discussion. It had only been a month after his gym confrontation (Not that he’s counting the days). He had noticed simply because, despite his various attempts to get your attention, you had barely reacted to any flirtatious or cheeky comments made by anyone on the team the whole time… not until your stupid little brick of a device would ping. That device seemed to have your sole interest as of late- always a giggle or frantic tap away from looking like an overly pleased pet.  Your bouts of mysterious cheeriness and distractability that bubbled up now and again were getting on his nerves. It only worsened the longer it went on. Your attempts to completely avoid personal chat with Ghost had simmered down, your companionship slowly reverting to what it had looked like pre-hallway incident, all while this newfound peppiness of yours would reveal itself. Seemingly growing every time the team managed to settle down on base in between missions.

He can hear you murmur under your breath, grinning as your fingers move lightning fast across your phone’s keyboard. He doesn’t understand why he’s focused on it, but he counts the average amount of time you spend replying to whoever it is that has your attention hostage. 10 seconds turns into 2 minutes; you seem to be stuck in a never-ending volley of replies.

“Christ, he can’t leave the bird alone, can he?” Price’s voice rips Ghost out of his calculation, the captain moving to briefly look over Ghost’s handiwork but commenting on the view Ghost had been caught watching. Nearby, Gaz chimes in with a low whistle and a slight chuckle:

“The techie’s promised to take her out after debrief; Bird’s been chirping bout it all morning to me.”

“Ah, right. Fucking, would do my head in.” Price mutters as he goes to readjust something on the table. Gaz wastes no time in defending your liveliness, even if he, too, was just a bit sick of it.

“Can’t blame her, Young love and all that crap, captain- sure you’ve been there before.” His boss grunts a generic agreement to the statement, and Gaz just nods. They change topics; instead more focused on the map they’ve had to update after yesterday’s rush to mission points. Ghost tries to transfer his focus back to what’s in front of him.

Who the fuck is the techie?

It doesn’t take long after that to find out who the techie is. After that brief but insightful commentary from Gaz and Price, Ghost puts two and two together and realises you’ve been mingling with some lame ass specialist on base. He scowls to himself, annoyed at the fact that you didn’t just come right out and explain that you had met someone and that was the reason you discontinued the sneaky hookups with him. Alas, he reckons you were too petty and perhaps even too awkward to just say it. It’s fine. What’s not fine is the fact that now that he’s figured out who the techie is, he can’t stop catching on to every little second you openly pine for the guy. The humming, the subtle use of the endearments when you answer your phone and god forbid he mentions the lip-biting. You are so pathetically enamoured by whoever this loser is that you walk around like you’ve won the bloody lottery. Ghost finds himself making cheap shots about how cringy you’re being, and it's only when Soap points out how peculiar his fixation on your relationship status is that Ghost realises he needs to check himself for any head injuries or mental illness.

“Aye, LT. starting to sound awfy green an’ jealous, dun matter if she’s all gooey- so long as she’s shooting right in the field.” Johnny reckons, Eyes darting between Ghost and you in the distance. Soap continues his usual jokes, “Only shame is it means I cannae flirt no more. Dun wanna piss off the guy in charge of our stuff,” Ghost snaps his head back to his work. He’s not jealous.

Who’d be jealous of the piss poor techie anyway?

A part of you felt extremely guilty for dragging a stranger into your minor crisis. After the gym incident, you had been reeling and recovering from one-sided affection and had decided to pack it in and find an actual soul who was willing to give you a shot. Ghost would never return the genuine sentiments you had, so why waste anymore time pretending what you two were doing meant more than just quick bouts of impulse? It had been challenging turning Ghost down- the flashes of your memory of what he was like in bed did not make weaning off the stress relief easy, but you felt your heart couldn’t take any of the physicality without the emotion anymore. 

The tech engineer you had met at base a few days later just happened to be at the right place at the right time. Easy on the eyes, Kind, straightforward and attentive. He was a definite romantic- the sort that sent good morning and good evening texts all punctuated with hearts and smileys, who would tell you about his hopes and dreams. The man who was stationed at the base was an engineering specialist who was keen on pursuing a relationship with you. Why turn down someone who was so openly soft on you? His company was slowly patching up the loneliness that had been nibbling at you. You deserved a chance at something real. It wouldn’t matter that the sex was subpar, or the fact that sometimes you’d find yourself thinking about those damn brown eyes when you’ve got another man staring down at you; for once, at least someone would love you more than you loved them. 

The satin of the silky dress you slipped on felt so smooth against your legs as you tried to shamble past the common room as quickly as possible, as if getting caught going on your way to a respectable date was some sort of sin. Unfortunately, you still hadn’t gotten used to wearing the new heels you had bought for the occasion. You sighed and rushed into the common room to quickly stop and readjust the straps on the footwear. As you did so, the boys who had been chatting made no effort to hide their amusement at your new look. Enthusiasm tumbled out of Soap’s voice, along with a slight cheer from Gaz as they watched you come through the doorway all dressed up. Ghost didn’t look up.

“Aye, Gorgeous lass! Gie it laldy- Make the techie drool lest I steal you away for myself!” Soap hollered, eyeing you up and shooting you a wink as he waved you off. 

“Can it, Mactavish. I’ll be back by 2300h.” Your voice dripped with amusement as you rolled your eyes, trying to quickly avoid the masked man who was clearly uninterested in your look. Your broken heart was disappointed by that. 

“Bloody hell, make it sound like a mission, why don’t you?” Gaz shot back. “You don’t need a self-imposed curfew.”

“I will if it goes south, might as well call for reinforcements” You joke carelessly, your purse now clutched nervously as you fix some last few strands of your hair. 

“Yeah, well dun worry, love, if you need it, we’ll send Ghost on your scent if you mysteriously disappear.” Gaz snorts, purely just making a joke about the Lieutenant's skill at tracking. However, the mention of your secret former fuck buddy had you pause and fluster; you try to laugh it off as you head off. You shot Gaz another look of fake annoyance before saying a quieter goodbye. You didn’t notice how Ghost had looked up and kept his eyes on your body as you exited.

The techie will do you some good. Had to.

Ghost had to escape the common room as soon as you left. It was like you had sucked all the air out of the room the moment you stepped out of it, and Ghost could no longer stand the bright lights and the static noise of the ventilation and his friend’s idle chatter. He excused himself with not much but a nod and a grunt, pushing past the others. He tried to outpace his own racing heartbeat, speedwalking his way to his private quarters with every intention of spending the hours staring at bad pornos he’d stash from some random tuck shop. 

Since when did you dress like such a slut?

In all the months he’s known you, you’ve never once made yourself so dolled up. It felt like he was going insane- as if you had presented him with a completely different version of yourself- a version which would infect his brain with so many new ideas of pretty ways he could stuff you up and decorate your skin. He was horny, and fuck it- it’s your bloody fault; Had you not called quits on your arrangement, he could have grabbed you the next second you were free and release all the perverted ideas he had, drain it out of his system into your needy, tight hole and go back to being the efficient soldier he’s always been.

When he manages to quickly shut the flimsy door and throw his back on the bed, his mind is drowning in endless thoughts of what you were planning on doing with the damn techie. Not that he cared. He didn’t. Besides, you were always so fussy about how Ghost would ruffle up your clothes, and you always complained when he had smudged your makeup the few times you wore it. Anything you did tonight was bound to be bad for you. Not that it mattered. No- it wouldn't matter whether or not you were going to make the same sweet noises for the techie that Ghost had managed to drag out of you whenever he got to pull on your hair or rut against your thighs. And who’d even be interested in the way your smile split into a seductive gasp and your head lulled when you were about to cum? You didn’t even like soft sex. You always asked for it harder, faster; you always whined in that melodic voice for more than you could handle, so what on earth could some pathetic techie give you that he couldn’t?

Ghost had a hand wrapped around his length.

It was as if possessed. It had been impossible, inevitable that he’d end up gasping your name and cussing himself out for being so useless over you. You were hot, and fuck, he can only be immune to so much before he has to submit to his own obsessions. You were an obsession; The withdrawal of your attention and your sweet wetness had him desperate for some sort of miracle remedy. He hated how delectable you could look for someone else and how eager you were to throw yourself on whichever man came after him. The grip of his own hands was nothing compared to what your hands had felt like, and wanking himself off lacked the same level of satisfying pressure that your perfect cunt had given him. What he’d do to fuck you again, to have you again, to kiss you again, to-

Fuck.

Embarrassingly, Simon sat up, nerves shot to hell as he scrambled to look for something to clean up the cum that had sputtered out of him so quickly. The shame of being unable to keep himself at bay gnawed at him. He stares at the clock on his bedside. It was only 8 pm. You were going to be out for at least 3 hours.

He’s so screwed.

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