dao ⭐️

18 and sporadically active this is basically my horny page

[gazlightmehardergazzy]

There had to be someone out there for him.

He must be off of his rocker again, thinking stupid thoughts like this. Happened every single time he had a spare second, it seemed. His mind would always go back to ruminating thoughts at two AM in the morning, enough to kill any sleep.

Because there had to be. There had to be that special someone, that stranger-no-more who could call him Kyle and do all the things he dreamed of like some lovesick fool. Do all the things he saw others do together, never alone.

God. Sometimes, he daydreamed so much that he thought that someone was real. Like he had their smiling face as the lock screen to his phone, like he had anniversaries scheduled on his calendar, like he had someone to come home to. Like he had that person who knew him for who he really was and told him everything was going to be okay.

Sunshine and rainbows, the same type of whatever that he saw reflected in Kate and her wife. Price and Nikolai. And, of course, the inevitable Soap and Ghost. He wanted that. He wanted someone to call after a mission, someone to laugh with. Someone to giggle with like idiots while running to the shop to buy ice cream and donuts, staying up way too late sharing memes and sugar and thoughts of the future and kisses that could make his heart beat out of his chest.

Someone who could lay beside him and make him tremble when they held his hand under the blankets, smiling at him ever so sweetly. All this money, the house, the cars, all the investments and adrenaline that he swore was fulfilling enough: Maybe he was too late in the game to realize none of that shit really mattered as having someone to bare his soul to.

"You're young," Captain Price said to him one day, speaking without Gaz even uttering a single word at the longing that ate at his attention. "You're still young, Kyle. You'll find that someone.

"Because a person like you is easy to love."

The hell did that even mean? There was more bite in his bullets, more blood under the crunch of his boots since then. Signing up for more deployments was a no-brainer as he fought to understand what his superior said.

Easy? He was easy to love?

Then where the hell were they? Where the hell was this person who apparently would love him so easily? If Kyle was that easy to love, why didn't that special someone love him now? Where were they to text him good morning and goodnight and how they'd miss him when he went to risk his life again and again and again.

If he was so easy to love, then why the fuck was it so hard to find that someone? Why was it so hard to keep these gnawing thoughts away, keep the frustration from pinching his nerves as he deleted every single meaningless hookup from his cell, and now, he couldn't be one to hop into some random's bed, even if he wanted?

Go to therapy. Go do the emotional work. Socialize. Make new friends. Go to events around town. Journal. Meditate. Love yourself first before you—

He did all that! And so what? Where the hell did that get him, damn it? Where the hell did it get him...

Where was this someone he could find so easily?

When would someone make him really feel that he was easy on their heart, as much as he wanted them to be on his?

"Easy. I'm blood easy to love?" was what he could bear to whisper alone in the dark of his living room, waiting again for that special someone like he could bear to foster the hope that beat in his ribcage.

"Easy."

He never felt like that was ever true.

[daostar]

IM RIGHT HERE SHAWTY

[daostar]

solitaire

no rendering bc lazy </3

inspired by rommys little drabble i loved it so much!

[theorist-fox]

Simon makes you cum

18+

CW: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, anorgasmia

Masterlist 🦊

Simon's fingers are thick enough to make it burn at the stretch. 

He rarely uses only one. Just at first, of course. Middle finger testing around before it finds a place to slot in and curl. He waves it inside, dancing back and forth with his wrist but never going in too deep, straying from bruising your cervix—knows it's not there that you like it.

Knows you inside out, actually.

Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.

No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher. 

Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.

Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.

Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.

You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.

You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either. 

Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself. 

When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge. 

Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.

It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.

Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.

Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.

So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you. 

Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots. 

It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes. 

Mathematical. Precise.

And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly. 

You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good. 

Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.

He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.

And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.

He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.

However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.

And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over. 

When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.

"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.

But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.

"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something. 

You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes. 

"But I can't come," you explain slowly. 

His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling. 

"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"

You blink. 

"I mean, yeah—"

"Then let me."

"But I thought—"

"Stop with tha'," he grumbles. 

His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy. 

"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you. 

It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—

"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."

You scoff. "You can see it?"

"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."

"But I won't come—"

"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips. 

He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand. 

Jesus fucking Christ help you.

The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.

"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.

He’s crude and abrasive.

"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"

And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.

It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.

You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat. 

His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.

"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."

He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.

“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh. 

“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”

You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes. 

Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek. 

The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.

You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh. 

The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.

A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.

He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.

You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.

You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing. 

On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet. 

With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand. 

"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.

You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—

"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."

You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak. 

He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.

You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in. 

Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.

"Just try—"

A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation. 

"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."

On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.

This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious. 

God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—

Quit the bloody thinkin' for once. 

You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.

Stay here, focus.

His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.

Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.

Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.

Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.

And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back. 

The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.

You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.

Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.

You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.

It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint. 

Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face. 

You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in. 

You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.

A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness. 

"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.

"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."

You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.

Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.

"Fuck me," you breathe.

Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—

"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—" 

Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—

"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"

A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.

You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own. 

You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.

And feel. 

[daostar]

reblogging this just so i can find it again everytime someone likes it

[gloomwitchwrites]

Thinking about teacher!reader who works in an elementary school who is dating ceo!price but the relationship is private and your coworkers don’t know…until your car breaks down on the way to work and Price sends his driver to come pick you up in the Ferrari—because it’s just his day car—and you arrive in the middle of morning drop-off. Cue the hundreds of questions from students about the super cool car you’ve arrived in, and a hundred more from your coworkers.

Your car goes to the shop. You arrange a pick-up for tomorrow morning with another teacher only to arrive home to find that Price has dropped off a brand-new Porsche—which, surprise, is all yours. Paid off and in your name. And don’t worry about taxes or insurance. Price has it handled.

You insist that it’s too much. That you can’t accept it. Funny. Because it’s not a gift. Not transactional. You have your independence—your own money—but that doesn’t mean Price won’t provide.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[daostar]

being rich doesnt make you instantly attractive, but it sure as hell helps

[theorist-fox]

Simon makes you cum

18+

CW: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, anorgasmia

Masterlist 🦊

Simon's fingers are thick enough to make it burn at the stretch. 

He rarely uses only one. Just at first, of course. Middle finger testing around before it finds a place to slot in and curl. He waves it inside, dancing back and forth with his wrist but never going in too deep, straying from bruising your cervix—knows it's not there that you like it.

Knows you inside out, actually.

Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.

No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher. 

Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.

Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.

Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.

You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.

You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either. 

Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself. 

When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge. 

Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.

It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.

Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.

Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.

So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you. 

Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots. 

It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes. 

Mathematical. Precise.

And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly. 

You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good. 

Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.

He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.

And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.

He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.

However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.

And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over. 

When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.

"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.

But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.

"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something. 

You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes. 

"But I can't come," you explain slowly. 

His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling. 

"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"

You blink. 

"I mean, yeah—"

"Then let me."

"But I thought—"

"Stop with tha'," he grumbles. 

His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy. 

"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you. 

It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—

"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."

You scoff. "You can see it?"

"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."

"But I won't come—"

"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips. 

He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand. 

Jesus fucking Christ help you.

The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.

"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.

He’s crude and abrasive.

"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"

And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.

It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.

You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat. 

His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.

"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."

He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.

“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh. 

“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”

You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes. 

Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek. 

The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.

You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh. 

The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.

A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.

He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.

You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.

You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing. 

On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet. 

With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand. 

"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.

You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—

"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."

You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak. 

He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.

You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in. 

Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.

"Just try—"

A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation. 

"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."

On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.

This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious. 

God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—

Quit the bloody thinkin' for once. 

You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.

Stay here, focus.

His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.

Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.

Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.

Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.

And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back. 

The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.

You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.

Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.

You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.

It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint. 

Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face. 

You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in. 

You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.

A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness. 

"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.

"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."

You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.

Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.

"Fuck me," you breathe.

Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—

"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—" 

Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—

"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"

A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.

You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own. 

You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.

And feel. 

[daostar]

im a puddle. on the floor.

[ladykelsi]

sit still, look pretty [kyle "gaz" garrick]

Summary: Gaz just wants to take care of you.

Pairing: kyle "gaz" garrick x f!reader

Warnings: gaz shaves your pussy, smut (mdni), oral, f!receiving, reader has anxiety, body image issues, body hair, pubic hair.

Notes: repost from [this]

 Gaz doesn't mind a hairy pussy. he's also okay with you shaving. honestly, he's okay with whatever makes you comfortable.

what he does mind, however, is you shaving your damn self.

you've nicked your sensitive skin more times than he can count now. he's not surprised. you've always been a little fidgety and it sometimes translates into clumsiness and shaky hands. but he can't stand it anymore. he can't stand you hurting yourself, even by accident.

your wide eyes stared at him in disbelief when you realized how serious he was. your hand pulling away from his when he reaches for what you're holding. “no, i can— sir, i can do it myself—”

“give me the blade, love.” he calmly commands you. his voice soft, but a deadly stern expression on his face. "don't make me repeat myself.”

lips trapped between your teeth, you quietly concede and obey his order. you sit on the bathroom counter and take a deep breath as he mills around, gathering what's needed for the procedure. two towels and shaving gel.

“all you have to do is sit still and look pretty for me, angel.”

there's no fighting it. no room for argument. you listen to him and do as he says. parting your legs just a bit. not enough for him to see clearly, so he places his hands on your knees and spreads them wider before grabbing the small stool near the tub and sits on it. he rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt then he parts your silk robe.

“stay still for me.” he gently says. your frown deepens and he squeezes your thigh in return. “don't worry. you'll get a reward once we're done, okay?”

still doesn't make you feel better. but you nod, hoping this gets done soon. “yes, sir.”

your skin prickles aggressively as you try to ignore the focus in his eyes. the soft determination as he carefully works the gel over your cunt, dark brows furrowed, a small divot forming between them. he's extremely cautious when he uses the blade. agonisingly slow about it, which makes you feel worse.

you feel the cool metal sliding gently on your mound, the warmth of his breath on your thigh. your hands clench on the counter as the seconds keep ticking. every muscle in your body screaming to shut your thighs so he wouldn't be able to observe every odd flaw.

sure, it's nothing he hasn't seen before. he's buried his face between your legs more times than you can bother to remember, regardless of whether you've trimmed, shaved or let your bush grow. you know he doesn't mind, but…

this is different. this isn't about your pleasure or his. he's never had to spend this much time just… looking at your pussy. just staring at it for far longer than he needs to. what if he thinks it looks weird? what if he stares too long and it starts to look ugly?

the thoughts swirl and make you flinch when the blade kisses your skin again.

“baby, stay still.” his stern voice rings from below. you whimper and look away, closing your eyes and trying not to think the worst. “it’ll be over soon, love. i promise.”

dexterous fingers holding the razor to your skin with extreme caution. you try not to shift out of sheer instinct. it's never been in your nature to sit still without moving. like a rubber ball trapped in a box, bouncing from wall to wall.

it's never been easy for you until you've met Kyle. your nerves always buzzing needlessly, a leg always bouncing when you're seated. hands sometimes trembling. mind racing through every incessant thought. ‘fidgety little thing, aren’t you,’ he’d say when he’s holding you in his arms to keep you in one place. he's always had a way of soothing that restless little creature in you, making her simmer down and curl up in his arms, not unlike a cat soaking up the sun.

“almost done, love. almost done. spread your legs a little wider for me.” he cooed, his soft reassurance doing wonders for your anxious mind. “i know you don't like sitting still for too long and i'm trying to be as quick as i can without cutting your skin.”

“i know.” you bite the inside of your cheek.

you're not a fan of getting waxed. the chemicals don't react well to your skin. if you could've done that instead, you would've. and besides, you think he's enjoying this a lot more than you are.

he loves taking care of you. he wouldn't be doing this if he thought there was a better alternative, but deep down, the very thought of taking matters into his own hands, taking every problem of yours and throwing it out the window gives him enormous satisfaction.

you see it on his face when he finally pulls the blade away and gets up. he wets one of the towels in the sink and wipes down any residue of gel on your pussy. then he dries you with the other towel.

“there.” he kisses your shaven mound and smiles. “all finished.”

finally. “thank you, Kyle.”

when you attempt to get off the counter, he grips your thighs and holds you there. “now, just wait a minute. we’re not quite done yet.”

not quite done, he says. oh, you don’t think you’re ready for what he has in store for you next, if the glint in his eye says anything. you have a feeling you’re about to spend a lot more time in the bathroom than you originally intended.

“yes, we are.” your nose wrinkles. his grin widens. “stop staring at me.”

“is it a crime now to stare at you?” you respond by attempting to close your legs, pouting your lip as you refused to give a verbal answer. he’s quick to jerk your knees apart and clicked his tongue. “ah, ah, no.”

you just wish he’d get to the unravelling rather than prolong the observation part.

he takes his time dragging his hands up and down your thighs. goosebumps flourishing from the sensual touch, the warmth of his palms seeping into your skin.

you don’t know what’s gotten into him today. why he seems particularly interested in having his eyes glued to you for much longer than necessary. you never understood it anyway. you’re really nothing special, but he has a very different opinion about that.

he’s always liked looking at you, watching you. observing every move you make. noting every shift in your bones, your muscles, right down to your nerves. Far too often you debate whether it’s because you don’t know if there’s genuinely something about you that’s extraordinary that you’re not seeing. or if he’s taking in everything about you, to observe, to learn, for the purpose of control.

like the way he does with his enemies. taking in every bit of information about them to use against them. to unravel their system with every flaw like pulling at the loose string of a dress and watching it come apart. to tear them apart from the inside.

like how he always does with you.

not that you mind.

“now…” he spreads your knees wider and presses a kiss on your inner thigh. “time for your reward.”

your heart kicks into your throat. “wh–what’s my reward?”

he drags you further to the edge of the counter and kisses your mound again, swiping his tongue through your folds. “only your favourite.”

a faint sigh leaves you immediately as you sink into the pleasure. he rubs your clit until it swells and your cunt leaks down his chin. your hands gripping the sink and head tipping back when the searing heat starts to ebb and throb so much it made you whimper.

yeah, this– this is a nice reward. this was definitely worth the mortification of being spread open whilst your boyfriend shaved your cunt like you can’t be trusted with sharp objects.

technically, you can’t be but that’s up for debate.

his tongue works slow circles around your nub, weeding out your bliss until it bubbles into a searing heat. a weak plea passes through your lips, your cunt throbbing wildly as he hums into you. he pulls his head back with a smile.

“you don't have to beg, love." this time. "just let me take care of you.”

his fingers spread open your folds. you're still gasping his name out as he tilts his head and rapidly flicks on your swollen clit before sucking it in his mouth. your hand reaching for his head while the other flails around the counter, knocking bottles to the floor as he's taking you apart. your legs slowly close around him on instinct until your plush thighs bracket his head.

“i’m gonna–” you gasp, head tilting back. “sir, y–you’re gonna make me cum–”

he spreads one of your thighs wider and pins it open as his mouth laps at your cunt even harder in retaliation like he can't bear to have you deny him what he wants.

and what he wants is exactly what he gets. your pussy convulsing around his tongue while his nose brushes firmly on your swollen bud and your voice echoing in the bathroom walls when you come. he sucks on your clit while fingers drag in and out of your pussy to ease you down.

your bleary eyes flutter open when he finally stops and stands up with his fingers in his mouth. your ears still roaring as you stare at his tongue gliding between the two digits; middle and ring fingers.

“i think you should let me shave your cunt more often, doll.” he says.

you think you just might agree with him on that.

banners by @cafekitsune and @vase-of-lilies

[main masterlist]

offer a coin to the picklejar

[daostar]

genius. absolute genius. author i offer you 100000000 fresh roses 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

[lightningsg1rl]

Alternative universe of Two of Hearts in which you and Gaz meet under very different circumstances.

gaz x f!reader

Captain Price doesn't do anything half-assed.

In normal circumstances that is, but he makes an exception for this particular assignment. Utilizing the "element of surprise" as he called it. Something Gaz had voiced his concern on over again and again back at base.

"We're practically going in blind, Sir." Gaz tries to dissuade him again, looking over the blueprints scattered on the table. "We don't know for sure if the target is going to be there-"

"It's his birthday party." Price interjects, "Of course he's going to be there."

Gaz looks up to his Captain, "It'll be full of civilians."

Price pauses, furrowing his brow in thought. Gaz thinks he finally might've gotten through to the old man, finally made him see reason.

"Then we'll have to be extra careful where we aim, won't we." Price smiles at him, an attempt to pacify his concerns.

"Captain…"

"You're more than welcome to sit this one out, Sergeant." Price suggests, his smile fading.

"No. No, I'm coming."

Price gives him a curt nod, "We're out of here in 10."

Gaz returns the nod, "Yes, Sir." His eyes trail Price as he walks out the briefing room.

Gaz looks back down at the blueprints, his chest tightening with unease. But he pushes the feeling down, trusting his Captain.

What could possibly go wrong?

…

I need eyes on the target!

Price's voice rings in his ears and mixes with the panicked screams of the club's fleeing patrons, the blaring music and the sound of bullets raining down on them. Gaz is taking cover behind the bar, glass and liquor spraying down at him from above. The bartender lies dead next to him, caught in the crossfire.

He looks over the top of the bar and shoots at the target's men who have positioned themselves further into the club, hiding behind overturned tables and behind the DJ booth. It's pure chaos, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. They didn't even make it all the way into the club before Gaz and Soap were spotted, even in their civilian clothing.

Who's got eyes on the target?! Anyone?!

The colored strobing of the club lights make it hard to get an exact visual on the target. That and the sea of civilians still scurrying to the exits. Gaz moves from behind the bar to an overturned table on his left, careful not to cut himself with the shards of broken glass on the floor.

Can't see a bloody thing. Soap's voice comes through the comms.

Gaz peeks over the side of the table, squinting his eyes to see if he catches a glimpse of the target. He can see how some of the target's men go down instantly when they appear from behind their cover, most likely Ghost's handiwork. He scans the area carefully twice. Three times. Four. Until something catches his eye or rather someone.

Their target army crawling on his belly, a revolver in his hand, towards a dark hallway further back in the club.

"I got a visual." Gaz informs his team. "Headed to the back of the club. Probably an exit."

Get after him, Gaz. His Captain orders.

"Yes, Sir." Gaz replies, "Cover me." He adds

On it. Ghost answers.

Gaz maintains a crouched position as he emerges from the table, using every piece of overturned furniture to his advantage as extra cover. He keeps his eyes on the target as he makes he reaches the dark hallway.

"Fuck." Gaz quickens his pace, finally being able to straighten up when he reaches the hallway himself. To his surprise it doesn't lead to an exit, but rather to what looks to be several doors on each side of the hallway. Three on each side. Most of them are opened except for the one at the very end. Gaz tightens his hold on his pistol as he steps into the hallway, his steps slow and quiet.

As he passes the opened rooms and looks inside, he assumes that these must be dressing rooms. Each room fitted with their own rack of costumes and small vanity. He stops once he reaches the end of the hallway, the barrel of his pistol the first to touch the door. He looks down at the slit under the door and he can see the dim light moving about and the sound of voices.

He steps closer, leaning his head closer to the door. His ears straining to catch anything of what is being said. He can't quite make out what exactly is being discussed thanks to the club's music still blaring from behind him. But, he can tell it seems to be an argument of sorts between the target and someone else. A woman.

He hears a glass shatter and a loud thud followed by the target muttering a string of curses and what sounds like an apology. He can just about make out what exactly the target is saying:

We need to get out of here.

We need to go.

Baby, please.

He sounds desperate, almost on the verge of tears. The woman however is not budging, protesting against the idea. The argument seems to only increase in volume and desperation as the seconds go by. Gaz decides he's heard enough of this little lover's quarrel and he steps back, bracing himself to kick down the door and grab the target-

A single gunshot rings out from inside the room.

Shit.

He wastes no time and kicks open the door and stepping inside the room, pistol raised. The words get caught in his throat at the sight that greets him.

A woman. Pretty. Dressed in a Playboy bunny costume, complete with the ears and fishnet stockings. His eyes scan her up and down. Jesus.

A revolver held tightly in between her shaking hands and the target dead on the floor. A small puddle of blood spreading underneath him. Gaz's eyes bounce from the woman to the target on the floor, his training kicks in and he holds his left hand.

"Easy, easy…" He inches closer into the room, his eyes now focused entirely on the frightened woman just a few feet from him. "Put the gun down-"

"Don't! Don't get any closer!" The woman warns, now pointing the gun at him.

Gaz stops, "Alright, alright." He angles his pistol to point down at her feet. "Just put the gun down, okay?"

The woman shakes her head, "…no. No." She breathes out. "I-I didn't…I didn't mean to-to…he-he just…" Her wide eyes shift down to the man on the floor, watching as his blood continues to spread, touching the front of her heels.

"I know." Gaz replies, inching closer and closer to her. Taking advantage that she's momentarily distracted. He holsters his pistol, his left hand slowly rising up aiming for the barrel of the revolver, "I know. Just put the gun down…"

He curls his fingers around the barrel of the revolver and that gets her attention back to him. Her wide panicked eyes meet his and she tries to jerk the gun away from him.

A struggle ensues. She's trying to twist the gun and point it at him while Gaz is trying to keep the gun pointing up and getting her to calm down. Gaz decides that he isn't getting anywhere by playing nice and trying to reassure her. So he pivots.

In one hand her grabs both her wrists and he puts his other hand on her hip. He herds her and basically—pushes her up against a wall, keeping her arms abover her head. The impact finally gets her to release her hold on the revolver, sending it clattering into the ground. His other hand keeping an iron clad hold on her hip, pushing her into the wall. She winces when her head knocks against the wall, almost knocking her little bunny ears off.

"Calm down." Gaz repeats, his tone firm. "Breathe."

The panicked look in her eyes is now eclipsed by a hard glare. Her breathing now ragged and heavy, there a small curl of her lip.

Cute.

Gaz has to fight all his instincts to look down and watch how her chest expands or keep his hand from caressing the soft material of her costume. She,on the other hand, doesn't fight her instincts and tries to squirm and wiggle her way out of his hold. Muttering insults and obscenities at him, many of which Gaz had never heard before. This just prompts Gaz to squeeze her wrists tighter and use his body to keep her still, positioning his thigh between her legs.

"I told you. I didn't mean to shoot him, okay? Fuck-it was an accident.! He-"

"I understand that, but I can't let you go just yet."

She frowns, "What?! Why not?! I didn't mean to-I swear! It was an accident.!"

They both continue bickering back and forth, with her trying desperately to break from his hold and Gaz not budging. She's gotten so frustrated that mascara streaked tears fall from her cheeks. Gaz resists the urge to wipe them away, his guilt spreading in his chest. He's about to speak when a familiar voice catches his attention.

"Sergeant."

Gaz whips his head towards the open door and he feels the tips of his ears burn instantly.

Price. His Captain. Standing there, arms crossed. His eyes moving between him, the woman he has pinned to the wall and the dead body on the floor.

"Looks like you've got ‘im." Is all Price says as he steps into the room, crouching down next to the target's body.

*a/n: wrote this to try and get me out of my writer’s block. It’s gotten me good 😔, but i promise to try and get something out soon. ty for reading!

[daostar]

im not good at writing but i have an idea that someone should write about me and gaz kissing and cuddling and fucking and and and and and

[total-killer-brainrot]

Pornstar!Reader who is so popular. Tons of fans, constant gigs. But you haven't had a real good fuck in years. Plenty of gorgeous guys, and girls, plenty of huge cocks. But not a single bloody orgasm.

You're an expert at faking it. Your cum face is a staple of your brand. It needs to be perfect.

All these men think they know what they're doing. But its just ego. Not a single one has ever successfully found your clit. But you make good money, and you're semi famous. So at least there's that. Vibrators exist for a reason.

From the outside your latest costar seems like just another dork who's all bark and no bite. He's real pretty. And the smile he gives you when he shakes your hand and introduces himself as 'Kyle' makes your stomach do flips. And when he takes off his pants you have to force yourself not to stare. But he's still a guy. You don't get your hopes up.

But holy shit you had never been more wrong in your life. It was like he knew your body better than you did. When he tugged at your nipples it wasn't too hard like every other guy. It was perfect. His thumb found your clit without even looking. And when he finally slid into your embarrassingly wet cunt he let out the most delicious little moan right in your ear. Too quiet to be picked up on the mics. A moan just for you.

You could sworn your soul left your body. Only minutes in and you were arching your back. Crying in pleasure in a way you'd never before experienced. And he kept going.

An hour in and you were wrecked. Carefully done makeup streaked and smeared down your face. You'd lost count of how many times you'd cum on his cock. Hell, you were pretty sure you had squirted at one point. The sheets were definitely wet enough. You were making noises that you couldn't believe came from your own body.

And when Kyle had you folded in half on the bed. Crying his name for the umpteenth time. He leaned down, nipping at your neck and whispering in your ear. This time loud enough to be picked up on camera.

"Fuckin' knew you were faking it... all those videos of you... not a single real one. Bet you'll never enjoy another cock again... bet you'll always be thinking about me when you touch yourself..."

You were too out of it to even bother denying.

The footage was almost scrapped. You couldn't have your fans knowing you had been lying the whole time. But rewatching the video you got lost in the way Kyle's abs clenched as he fucked you into oblivion. And without thinking you uploaded it. The world had to see this gift to mankind that was Kyle Garrick.

[daostar]

gaz is absolutely a pussy destroyer

[maskedbyghost]

Simon Riley was your biggest enemy.

Not the type of enemy you swore vengeance on, nor the kind of person you were plotting to kill or anything dramatic like that, but the sort of enemy who seemed to exist only to get under your skin, who made every mission twice as difficult just because he had to get the last word in, who acted like he knew everything while you had to grind your teeth just to keep yourself from punching him.

He was smug, he was irritating, he always noticed every tiny mistake you made, and you hated the way he could so easily make you feel small with just a single glance or a muttered comment.

But here was the thing that made you hate him even more... he was also the only person you ever went to when shit really went bad.

For reasons you didn’t understand and definitely didn’t want to admit out loud, whenever you were hurt, whenever the ground felt like it had been ripped out from under you, your brain didn’t even bother to weigh the options. It just sent you to him.

Not because he was kind, not because he was warm, but because Simon had never let you down when it really mattered, no matter how much the two of you claimed you couldn’t stand each other.

So when tonight happened, when fists connected with your face, when the taste of blood filled your mouth, when you staggered away from it all and realized your hands were shaking too badly to do anything useful, you didn’t think, you just walked.

The streets blurred together, and by the time your vision cleared enough to notice where your feet had taken you, you were already standing on his doorstep.

You didn’t even hesitate, you just raised your bruised knuckles and knocked, three times, hard enough to sting.

The door opened quicker than you expected, and there he was, his eyes narrowing the second they landed on your face. And for the briefest moment you saw something in him that you never saw. His eyes went wide, softer, his whole body pausing like he’d just been punched himself. Then it was gone, replaced by that blank mask of his, but you had seen it.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice low, already moving aside. “Get in before I drag you in myself.”

You stepped inside, suddenly aware of how much your head hurt, how much your body ached. The air in his flat smelled like smoke and coffee, and the space was too neat for a man who lived alone, though you’d never tell him that because he’d probably use it to tease you. He shut the door hard behind you and turned to look you over again, his jaw tightening.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asked, already walking into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, because you hated giving him anything.

He came back with a first aid kit in one hand and a wet cloth in the other, giving you that look that said he knew you were lying but wasn’t going to waste his time dragging the truth out of you right now. He just pressed the cloth into your hands and motioned at the chair.

“Sit.”

You wanted to argue, to snap back at him, but your body gave up the fight before your mouth did, so you sank into the chair and let him crouch in front of you, gloved hands steady as he started cleaning your face.

“You’re an idiot,” he said flatly, dabbing at your split lip, “a bloody reckless idiot.”

“And you’re annoying,” you shot back, voice muffled against the sting of the cloth.

His eyes flicked up, meeting yours for a second, and there was the faintest curve of his mouth, like he wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite manage it with the state you were in.

“You come knockin’ on my door in the middle of the night with blood all over your face, and I’m the annoying one?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, and despite everything, his low laugh rumbled in his chest.

It went quiet after that, the only sounds being your uneven breathing and the soft scrape of bandages and antiseptic wrappers. And in that quiet, something loosened inside you. You hated yourself for it, but sitting there while he worked, while his hands touched you with more care than he would ever admit to, you felt safer than you had all night.

By the time he’d finished, exhaustion had taken over completely, and somehow you ended up on his couch. You weren’t sure how it happened, but he sat next to you, and when your body tilted against his shoulder, he didn’t move you away. Instead, he shifted just enough to let you settle in, his arm eventually pulling you closer like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re still an ass,” you mumbled, your voice already filled with sleep.

“Yeah,” he said quietly into your hair, “but I’m your ass, apparently.”

You didn’t reply because sleep claimed you before you could. Somewhere in the dark, he stretched out, pulling you against him, and you let yourself sink into the safety of it, into the comfort you’d never admit you craved.

And in the morning, when Simon woke up, the first thing he did was look at you. He didn’t move for a long time, just watched, as if he wasn’t ready to give up the rare peace of the moment. But eventually he slipped out of bed, tugged his mask back into place, and when you stirred, his voice was back to the same tone you knew so well.

“Alright. We’re back to hating each other, yeah?”

But you both knew better. You always did.

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover

[daostar]

AAAAAAAA YESYESYESYES I LOVE INJURY CUTE FICTION…. IDK WHAT ITS CALLED

[daostar]

if you mentioned getting a pet, price would not be happy. hed grumble about the costs of vet bills, complaining about how youre gonna end up making him take care of it.

then, of course, he ends up loving it. he doesnt act that way around you, but when he thinks hes alone, he’ll smile and pet it soothingly while hes reading a book with his reading glasses—the ones that hang low on his nose bridge and make you horny for some reason. he’ll give it extra treats and blame you if you comment about its weight.

youve caught him a few times acting all soft around the creature—but he immediately brushes it off when you start teasing him.

“it gave me the puppy eyes. im cold, but im not a monster.”

[daostar]

simon not caring but actually really caring. shrugs his shoulders when you go out in a short dress, but he always stays behind you to ensure youre covered. nods along quietly when you mention wanting something and then it magically appears on the dining table. refuses to dance at the club but covers your drink with the palm of his hand. doesnt comment when you ignore him, but pokes your side until you acknowledge him. says “no” when you ask him to do something, and then does it anyway.

all with a straight face! cheeky bastard.

[daostar]

A Good Person (angst w/ comfort)

Gaz was brought up to be independent and a good brother as the second oldest of five. He grew up comfortable, but that didn’t mean he was spoiled. Got his first job at fourteen, first banged-up car at seventeen with his own money, and was off to the police academy before his eighteenth birthday.

He has always been a righteous man, the type to help kittens down from trees, the type to help an elderly man cross the street, the type to carry groceries for a struggling stranger. He loves to help. That’s why he joined Captain Price so eagerly.

He didn’t think the job would wreck him as much as it did—not just physically, although the knee problems didn’t help, but mentally. Believe it or not, being a soldier makes you question a lot of things about justice and the greater good. Surprising, right? But that was part of the job. It was fucked up, but he soon realized that the world wasn’t going to stop to let him process his moral crisis. He has to keep going. Has to keep helping others.

When he’s home, he takes care of you, too. He loves to wash your hair, make you dinner and breakfast, take you out on nice dates. He loves to listen. He loves to hold you.

He was content with caring for others. He liked being a good person and always felt like he was destined to be a helper from the start. He knew he was a good person, no doubt about it. He wasn’t bad, that was for sure.

But that façade of black and white morality shatters fast once he’s holding a gun to the heads of a mother and child.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and when he came home, dropping his luggage at the front door, he didn’t feel as whole as he usually would when you jumped into his arms. He just felt... tired. He couldn't bring himself to talk to you because his throat was being threatened with bile at the memory of what he had just done. He decided to smile at you softly instead. But he knew that you knew. Something was off.

He tried to lose himself in taking care of you like he always did. His intimacy was more desperate than usual. He whispered sweet nothings in your ear like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But when you finally asked him about it, he broke down.

You two sit on the couch as he looks down at his hands. If you darkened the room and held a UV light to his palms, you'd see the splatter that lingers, even with the deepest cleaning, even if he scrubbed his skin for hours. It will always be there.

"I... I don't know if I'm a good person," he admits quietly, his face numb. Your brows furrow and you rest your hands over his, squeezing his fingers gently, causing him to tense up. Your fingers were contaminated now, too. You don't even know it.

"Kyle, what happened?" you ask firmly, urging him to continue. His response was quick.

"I held a gun to a child's face."

Your world tilts. He stares at you, watching your reaction closely.

"All for intel. Stupid fucking intel that would lead the crew to another location where we have to kill people all the same. And for what? For some stupid sense of patriotism?" Kyle shakes his head, now picking at the skin around his fingers. He mutters your name with watery eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. "I'm a fucking cog in a machine that can't be stopped. If I quit this, then that's one less person fighting against a cruel system, but if I continue, that's one more person slaughtering men just like me, for a cruel system disguised as democracy."

You were already holding him by the time he started talking, holding his head against your chest as your other hand rubs his back in slow circles. He sobs in your arms. How could you hold him, knowing who-no, knowing what-he is? In his mind, he has deceived you. He thought he could take care of everyone without needing anything in return, but here he is, whining in your arms like a baby. But in your mind, though you were heartbroken, a part of you was relieved. Relieved that he was finally letting you in and showing you this vulnerability.

"You're a good person," you state definitively, and he shakes his head in reply. You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye. "No, I mean it. You are. You've got a heart of gold, Kyle. But sometimes, even gold gets scratched. Not because it wants to be, but because it has to be. You didn't want any of that. I know you didn't."

His face scrunches up in anguish as he nods along, voice broken.

"I didn't. I didn't want to."

There's a long stretch of silence as you hold each other, now both crying and rocking back and forth with an ache that can only be soothed by one another. When you finally pull away, you wipe his tears with your thumbs and try for a smile. "Let's take a bath. I'll wash your hair and then I can order us some takeout while we watch a movie, okay?"

He melts like putty in your hands.

Sitting down in the tub and closing his eyes, he smiles as your hands massage at his scalp.

If an angel like you could love and care for him, he must be doing something right. Maybe, eventually, he could find it in him to forgive himself.

---

chat we are so back!! sorry if this is a bit of a mess... i tried to condense it without making it a long read! hope yall liked it :)

[machveil]

where’s Johnny when you need him

[daostar]

being horny and on ur period is the worst :(

[skyrigel]

Simon not having access to food during his childhood because his father was a downright asshole who liked controlling every aspect of his life.

So he just watches, standing behind you, while you grate cheddar for mac n cheese recipe.

You turn over your shoulder, blinking at the look of fascination and something unspoken on his face, and finally taking a handful of grated cheese, then without saying anything taking it to his lips that part open at your soft nudging smile.

Simon gives your fingertips a closed mouth kiss as he swallows down slowly.

His eyes getting brighter.

Just like that, he built a home with you.

Masterlist

[daostar]

cooking up the angstiest angst you may ever angst

[daostar]

The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them.

yall should read DWSU!!! this lil drawing was sparked because of that story <3 i love it so much

also check out the creator who makes many other wonderful stories! @ilium-ilia