dori

20 years old, any pronouns

[laursdomain]

thinking about liam mairi, who, despite being a generic golden retriever boyfriend and friend, is always placing a protective hand on the small of your back, guiding you through large crowds. if an unwanted cadet is trying to get your attention, he's wrapping his relic-clad arm around your waist, making sure the cadet understands that you are his and nobody else's. he may be a golden retriever, but he quickly turns into scary dog privileges when you're in danger.

[x-strwbrry]

18+, simon ghost riley filthy thoughts because i can

simon's obsession with your cunt is the filthiest secret he keeps, the one that makes his hands shake when he thinks about it in the middle of briefings.

he can't fucking help it. ever since that first time - your naked body spread out on his bed, begging for his touch - has been completely, utterly hooked. addicted. he can't get enough of the way your pussy feels clenching around his fingers, his cock. the way you taste when he buries his face between your thighs, the sweet musky smell that drives him insane. especially how you look when you're turned on, swollen and glistening for him.

it's gotten bad. really fucking bad. he'll spend hours just playing with you, watching your face as he works you up, sees the pleasure build until you're writhing and moaning his name. loves feeling your slick coating his fingers, how fucking wet you get for him. and god, when you squirt - when you soak his face and hand because he finally pushed you over the edge - that's his favorite part. that's when he feels like he's won something.

he's even started recording it. little videos of you coming apart on his fingers, your pretty pussy spasming as you cry out his name. watches them when he's away on missions, craving you like the worst kind of addiction. it's the only thing that gets him through those long, lonely nights, knowing he'll be home soon to bury his face between your legs again.

on longer ops, he's gotten even more depraved. he steals your panties before he leaves. tucks them into his pocket, pressing them to his nose when he strokes himself. loves that faint scent of you, a desperate reminder of home, of your body waiting for him.

johnny and gaz have no fucking clue. none of the task force knows that their stoic, professional lieutenant is completely pussy-whipped. they'd never believe it if they found out. but simon doesn't care. as long as he gets to keep indulging in his favorite pastime, he'll keep his shameful little secret to himself.

after all, it's not hurting anyone. 🍑

[meninecanela]

Me at 3 AM, horny as hell, scrolling through my likes looking for that one fanfic i read months ago

[bunnykao]

— WE NEVER DATED !

❝ how come we've never even dated, but i still find myself thinking of you daily ? ❞

pairing ; idol!martin edwards park x idol!reader

synopsis ; You and Martin were inseparable as kids. but ever since he got a girlfriend, you decide to put your feelings aside and cut him off, focusing on your own idol career.

But now that he's also debuted—meaning that you'll be seeing him often everywhere, Martin refuses to stop bugging you he finally finds out why you ghosted him in the first place.

featuring ; NewJeans (all members), CORTIS (all members), TripleS (a handful of members) and even more to be introduced !

tags / warnings ; fem!reader, tall!reader, social media!au (with some written parts), newjeans member!reader, avoidant!reader childhood friends to lovers trope, fluff, toxic relationship aspects, cheating, miscommunication trope, slowburn (?)

taglist status ; open until june 10 !

NEWJEANS ! | CORTIS ! + MARTIN'S GF !

TRACKLIST ♪

PROLOGUE ; where it all fell apart

CH. OO1 ; may zeus himself strike me down—

CH. OO2 ; this gun ain't pink

CH. OO3 ; crazier than usual

CH. OO4 ; just a few skipped meals

CH. OO5 ; (july 19)

©bunnykao. I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WRITING OR PHOTOS BEING MODIFIED, PLAGIARIZED, REPOSTED, TRANSLATED, OR HAVING THEM FED TO AI.

[x-strwbrry]

pathetic little secrets

♡ simon ghost riley x virgin!female reader ♡ 18+

words count: 6k

You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.

You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.

The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.

"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."

Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.

"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."

That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"

The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.

"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."

And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"

The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.

"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.

You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.

"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.

He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.

"You want me to fuck you."

It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.

His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"

The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.

But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.

You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.

His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.

He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.

It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.

Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.

"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"

A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."

Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."

But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."

Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."

The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"

He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"

"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"

The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.

"No."

Your heart plummeted. "What?"

"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"

His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."

"Wait?"

"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."

The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."

You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.

Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.

He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.

"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.

You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.

"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.

"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."

You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"

"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."

He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"

You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.

You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.

"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."

He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.

He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.

He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.

He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."

He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.

While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.

"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."

"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."

His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.

He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.

"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.

The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.

He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.

You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.

You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."

His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."

You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.

"Your turn," he grunted.

You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."

You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.

You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."

You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.

"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."

You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."

"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.

"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."

You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.

He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.

You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.

"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"

His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.

You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.

The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.

You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.

That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.

It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."

He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."

"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.

You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."

His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.

Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.

He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"

"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."

He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.

"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."

You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.

The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.

You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.

"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."

His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."

"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."

That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.

His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."

He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.

"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.

And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.

[paucubarsisimp]

being a girl includes staying up till 3AM bc it’s already past your bedtime to read more “x readers” because you know you’re going to miss your alarm anyway.

[cinnam-0-ngirl]

POV: Author uploading a new part of a story after months

Me who forgot the whole plot but still happy they updated it

[laur3a]

Thinking about TF 141 making fun of the reader's foreign accent

CW: gn!reader, a bit of angst with comfort, slight mention of fetish, fluff, I'm using a translator for this, sorry for any possible errors.

But Gaz doesn't do that.

Every time you speak, he lets out a dreamy sigh, completely in love because your accent is what makes you you.

Usually people ask you to say specific words just to make fun of you and laugh at you, but Gaz likes the way you say certain things because it's very cute and, depending on the situation, it turns him on (new kink unlocked, maybe?).

You may feel a little insecure, even avoiding talking so that people at the base will stop commenting on it.

But when Gaz realizes you're becoming quieter? Oh my God, this guy gets so sad :(

And he keeps trying to talk to you, asking questions that require long answers, not just a nod of the head. He also makes it very clear how much he loves your accent, not in a malicious way, but because he thinks the way you speak is very beautiful <3

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house

Ghoap x f!reader

The safehouse was barebones—four walls, a door that didn’t close properly, and a single narrow bed shoved against the wall like an afterthought. One thin blanket. No heater. Concrete floors so cold they bit through your boots.

Soap stepped in first, glancing around with a sigh. “Right, well. Guess this place was built for one poor bastard, not three.”

Ghost dropped his gear by the wall with a grunt. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Hell no,” you said automatically, slinging your pack down. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m used to it.”

Soap rolled his eyes and gave Ghost a flat look. “You’ve got enough screws loose without adding hypothermia to the list.”

“Then I’ll take the floor,” you offered, already tugging at your jacket zipper. “I’m small enough to crash on my pack.”

Both men gave you the same sharp look.

“No,” Ghost said, voice final.

“You’ll ache for a week,” Soap added. “We’re not doing that.”

You all stood there a moment, silent, stubborn. Then Soap looked at the bed again and shrugged.

“We’re all adults. One bed, three bodies. Head to toe if we have to.”

You arched a brow. “Ever tried sleeping with Ghost’s boots near your face?”

Ghost snorted, the faintest smirk in his voice. “I’m not sleeping in my boots, you know.”

Eventually, an agreement was made: all three of you in the bed, boys facing outward—Ghost on one side, Soap on the other, and you safe in the middle. They’d flank you, keep you warm, no funny business. Just sleep.

That had been the plan, anyway.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.

Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.

Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.

You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.

And God, it felt good.

You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.

Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.

You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.

—————————————————————————

The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.

Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.

Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.

Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.

You stayed still. Testing the moment.

Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.

Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.

Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.

Deliberate. Intentional.

“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”

“Didn’t say stop.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.

“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.

Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.

“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”

The silence stretched.

And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.

Part two Here

[hyperfixiation-station]

Pt.2

Okay okay reader medic. Excuse spelling errors, will fix tmmr but i'm literally writing this as I go to bed. I'm gonna hit post and go to sleep.

The 141 is a team of hybrids, a close knit pack that no one can really get close too. You're the only medic they allow anywhere near them, and no one can understand why.

They don't typically like humans, can't scent them the same way they can other hybrids, but you're different.

A happy-go-lucky medic, too cheerful for the battlefield, in Ghost's opinion. Always treating them with a smile on your face, no matter how brusque they can be.

Disarmed them with your personality, that's what Price thought.

It wasn't until an undercover op went bad, and he had no choice but to drag Gaz to the only safe location he could think of, your house, an address he had memorized 'just in case', that he learned what they actually were sensing.

You threw the door open, eyes wide as Price drags an unconscious Gaz inside. You usher him to the couch, careful to avoid Price's anxiously-flicking tail.

"Lay him down."

"I have a first aid kit in the kitchen, can you get it?" You hear an affirmative grunt and then some rustling in the kitchen. You bend over Gaz, worrying your lips as you study the bullet hole in his side. It looks worse than it is, just a deep gash soaking his feathers with blood.

You hear Price stomp back towards you, and you hold a hand out expectantly for the first aid kit. Instead, you hear it crash to the ground.

You whip around, blood draining from your face as you realize where Price is staring. You had answered the door in your nightclothes, and visible on your back are two long, jagged, raised scars, clear and brutal evidence of where you'd once had wings.

[laur3a]

Thinking about TF 141 knowing that you are afraid of Ghost.

CW: gn!reader, comedy? a bit of angst, no use of 'Y/N', it can be interpreted as platonic or romantic, I'm using a translator for this, so please forgive any mistakes.

Before, it was like a joke, but now that they know you really get scared when you're around him, they love to use it against you.

Every time you annoy Price, he threatens you by saying:

“If you don't stop, I'll call Ghost here.”

And you stop immediately.

Or when you're too lazy to do something, like a report, or when you just woke up and don't want to get out of bed, Johnny and Gaz come right over to bug you, saying you have to do it right away or Ghost will come get you (it's almost like Simon is the bogeyman, except his only goal is to scare you).

And Simon? He gets a little upset when he finds out that you panic when he's around. Seriously, he's never done anything to you, so why are you acting like this? Of course, if it were someone else, he wouldn't care.

But he understands your side, since it's not the first time people have been afraid of him. He just doesn't want to see the person he admires being afraid of him :(

[blueperry123]

@xxrsi lol no 😭

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

It wasn’t supposed to keep happening.

That was the deal, you’d said stop. You’d ended it. Or at least, you thought you had.

But then…

Your flask was always filled, and you knew damn well you hadn’t done it.

His kit was always inspected twice, neat as hell, though he never asked you to.

Your med bag had an extra roll of bandages, slipped in without comment.

His tea was brewed before he asked, exactly how he liked it, like you didn’t even need him to say the words.

It was the little things. Things too ingrained to unlearn. The kind of care you didn’t think twice about until it was too late.

And then the realization would hit, mid-action, mid-sip, mid-glance: I’m still doing this for him. He’s still doing this for me.

Cue the anger. Not at him. At yourself. At the invisible thread between you that refused to snap, no matter how many times you cut it.

One night it boiled over.

You’d just shoved an energy bar into his hand before a briefing, muttering, “You’ll forget to eat otherwise.” Automatic, unthinking.

And he stared at you. Stared like you’d kicked him in the ribs.

“That’s not stop,” he said, voice low, accusing.

Your jaw clenched. “Neither is you checking my kit every night, Simon.”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating. The kind that felt like smoke in your lungs.

You both stood there, glaring, holding onto stubbornness like it could save you. But underneath the sharp edges was something rawer, something that tasted like grief: the knowledge that you couldn’t help yourselves. You’d woven each other into your routines, your survival, your everyday. To rip it out now would be like tearing out a vital organ.

And yet—

You’d both keep trying. Keep breaking your own rules. Keep getting angry at the reflexive domesticity that betrayed you.

Because the truth was worse than any bullet:

You didn’t know how to stop loving each other in the small ways.

[voidsw0rld]

Wait for me How they act just before they leave for deployment TF141 x Reader Headcannons for anon 🐚🧸

a/n: thank you so much for the requests, I'm so glad you enjoy my COD fics!! Keep the requests coming; they give me so much inspo!! Much love, Void <3.

Captain. John Price

John always hated the countdown to a deployment date. The final weeks always seemed to bleed away far too quickly. He did his absolute best to shield you from the impending departure, wanting to protect your heart for as long as he possibly could, but you always knew. You could read the signs perfectly: the embraces that lingered just a fraction too long, the sudden flurry of extra kisses ‘just because,’ and the heavy, intense way he would stare at you.

That last one was the hardest to bear. It felt like he was memorizing you, carving every tiny detail of your feature into his mind as if he were preparing to never see you again. As if this morning might be the last time he ever looked at your face.

“Stop it,” you whispered, cutting through the quiet morning air.

You were both tangled deep in the sheets, but the weight of his gaze had become too heavy to ignore. John had been staring at you since the moment you both woke up. A warm smile was plastered on his rugged face, but his eyes completely gave him away—they were tinged with a deep, aching sadness. He was leaving late tonight. Six months away, maybe longer.

“Can’t a man just admire his beautiful, sexy, amazing wife?” he asked, his voice a playful, teasing rumble. He pulled you flush against his massive frame, nuzzling his face into your hair to hide his expression.

“Hmm, he can,” you retorted, turning over so your back was pressed against his chest. He let out a relaxed, heavy sigh, his large arms locking securely around your waist. You swallowed the lump in your throat before continuing. “…But it’s when you stare at me like you’re never coming back, John. That's what I can't take.”

The air in the bedroom shifted instantly. The playful facade dropped entirely.

He didn't say a word, but you felt his entire body go rigid against yours. Slowly, he pulled you even tighter against him, burying his nose deep into your hair. The familiar, comforting scent of your shampoo filled his senses as he pressed a row of soft, desperate kisses against your crown.

“I know, pet. I know,” he whispered against your skin.

The rough, vulnerable edge in his voice was the final straw. Your heart broke, and the tears you had been fighting so hard to restrain finally spilled over. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying and failing to choke back a quiet sob.

He caught the sound instantly. John shifted, gently but firmly turning you over to face him. His large, calloused palms cupped your cheeks, wiping away the moisture with his thumbs, forcing your tear-filled eyes to meet his.

“Hey, hey, hey… shh,” he cooed softly, his tough exterior melting completely.

He pulled you back into the solid warmth of his chest, burying your face in his shoulder. He rocked you slightly, his large hand tracing soothing, slow circles down your back while you quietly wept into his skin, holding onto his shirt like a lifeline.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours, until the sheer exhaustion of the grief finally took over and you passed out, wrapped securely in his arms.

As the room fell silent again, John lay awake in the dim light, watching you sleep. A bitter, heavy guilt began to fester deep in his chest. He hated the pain he put you through, completely cursing the selfishness that had allowed him to drag you into his dangerous, broken world in the first place. He absolutely hated it.

-

Simon Riley

Simon had been entirely on his own for a massive chunk of his life. He had adapted to a brutal, solitary lifestyle long ago, operating under a strict rule: never say goodbyes. That was the whole point of his existence. He was a ghost in the wind—untraceable, unattached, and free to move across the earth as and when the military needed him to pull a trigger.

That was until you crashed into his life.

Simon doted on you more than life itself. You were the absolute light of his world, a sacred reality he cherished far more than you would ever truly know.

Because of that intense devotion, you always knew when a deployment was looming on the horizon. He would inevitably retreat into himself, his quiet nature turning into a dense, impenetrable wall. He became miles away in his own head, his physical presence nothing but a shell. At the start of your marriage, it had been a deeply painful process to endure; it felt like you were losing your husband before he had even left the house. But as time went on, you realized this was just Simon’s way of preparing himself. He was shifting his mindset into the lethal SAS soldier—a dark, hardened side of him he never, ever wanted you to see. Simon never spoke about his military life with you, fiercely protective of the only pure thing he had left. He refused to let the horrors and dirt of his world taint you.

It was late in the night when you stirred awake, the sudden lack of warmth beside you causing you to open your eyes. You noted the empty space on your husband's side of the bed, a soft, heavy sigh escaping your lips.

Climbing out of the warm sheets, you quieted your footsteps and went to find him.

He was standing out on the balcony of your shared apartment. The glowing ember of a cigarette illuminated his sharp jawline as he stared absentmindedly into the distance, completely lost in the dark expanse of the night.

You stepped out into the bitter midnight air, shivering slightly as you closed the distance between you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms tightly around his waist from behind, nestling your face directly into the broad, solid expanse of his back.

“Go back to bed, dove. It's late,” he murmured. His voice was incredibly gruff, rough with exhaustion and the smoke coating his throat. He didn't turn around, but his body automatically leaned back into your touch.

You cut him off, letting out a soft hum and shushing him gently as you pressed a row of tender kisses right between his shoulder blades. “This might be one of the last times I’ll get to hold you like this for a while. Please, just let me.”

Logically, you knew he was coming home. He always did. But that tiny, intrusive part of your mind that constantly feared the absolute worst wouldn't let you rest until you held him as if it were the last time.

A heavy, defeated sigh escaped his lips. He immediately stubbed out the cigarette, chucking the extinguished bud away before turning around in your embrace to face you. Without a word, he opened his massive arms and wrapped them securely around you, pulling you flush against his chest to shield your smaller form from the biting night air.

“Don't be silly, dove,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register. A faint, rare trace of humour touched his lips. “Won't be that easy to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me for life, whether you like it or not.”

He joked, but the sheer, crushing tightness of his grip betrayed his playful words. He held you with a desperate sort of strength, his muscles locking you against him as if he were trying to force his body to permanently remember exactly how perfectly you fit against him.

Your journey together had never been an easy one. It was plagued by distance, silence, and the constant shadow of war. But as you buried your face in his neck, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart, none of that mattered in the slightest. The bond you shared was so potent, raw, and deep that it felt like far more than a marriage. It was a soul tie—one that not even the ghost of war could break.

-

John Soap MacTavish

Johnny never liked to be serious; that was the exact thing that had drawn you to him in the first place—his innate ability to find the light in absolutely any situation. He could make you laugh no matter how dark things got, possessing a bright, chaotic personality that was honestly more fitting of a teenage boy than a grown soldier. But you loved every single piece of him. Even when the dark loom of his inevitable deployment date rolled around, it never felt like a sad, emotionally heavy day. Instead, Johnny made sure it was a day filled with infectious laughter, cozy cuddles, and love. So much love.

Johnny absolutely hated to see you cry, much less if he was the reason for it. He’d gone as far as to dramatically claim that the mere sight of your tears would be enough to make him desert the force and go completely AWOL just to stay by your side.

It was the night before he was scheduled to leave, and you had spent the vast majority of the day basking in each other's quality time. Johnny had spent hours catering to your every single need, pampering you as though you were the one leaving for months at a time rather than him.

Currently, the two of you were lying tangled together under the sheets, completely bare and locked securely in each other's embrace. His rough, calloused hands slowly traced the contours of your skin, mapping out your body as if marking every curve and slope with his touch.

“Jesus, it baffles me what I ever did to land a beauty like you,” he purred playfully, staring down into your eyes with absolute, unadulterated adoration.

You let out a soft laugh at his remark, playfully rolling your eyes, but Johnny didn't stop there.

“I mean it, lass.” his tone shifted, growing a little more serious as he reached up to gently play with your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “You are the absolute best thing to ever happen to me, and it breaks my heart having to leave you.”

“Then you just make sure you come home to me, mister,” you teased softly, leaning up to place a quick, reassuring kiss right on the tip of his nose. You didn't want your last moments together to be weighed down by sadness, and you knew he didn't either.

A familiar, wicked smirk instantly spread across his handsome face at your challenge. “Aye, that’s right, lass. Someone’s got to come back and save you from your own shite cooking.”

The comment earned an audible gasp from you, and you immediately smacked his broad shoulder. Johnny only laughed—that bright, echoing sound you loved so much—before taking your face tenderly into his large hands. He leaned down and kissed you sweetly, his lips moving against yours with a slow, deliberate pressure, savouring the taste of you for as long as humanly possible.

You stayed locked away from the world like that for the rest of the night. The warm, golden light from the candles surrounding your cosy bed flickered over your bare bodies as the playful banter melted into something deep, raw, and desperate, making love straight into the early hours of the morning. It was a proper send-off—a goodbye kiss like no other.

-

Kyle Gaz Garrick

Kyle hated the thought of being torn away from you, but he knew it was part of the job. In all honesty, he had never cared about the looming departure dates before you were in his life; in fact, he used to look forward to them. He had lived for the military, craving the action and the next mission. But the novelty of the uniform and the deployment cycles completely wore away the second you came into his life and uttered the words ‘I do.’ He was a remarkably rational, level-headed man—qualities that had rightfully taken him far in the SAS—but around you, that cold sense of military clarity completely vanished.

You always knew his next deployment date was right around the corner because your doting husband would suddenly start buying you copious amounts of flowers. Beautiful, vibrant bouquets quickly lined every single vase in the house, accompanied by expensive presents and spontaneous reservations at the most elegant restaurants in the city.

Tonight, you had just come home from a gorgeous sunset dinner at a high-end restaurant. As you walked through the front door, Kyle followed closely behind you, carrying yet another large, breathtaking bouquet in one hand and the boxes for the new designer heels he had gifted you specifically for tonight's occasion in the other.

He set the items down on the entryway table before immediately turning his full attention to you. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as he leaned down to kiss you long and deeply. Your hands instinctively found the back of his neck, fingers tangling into his short hair as you pulled him even deeper into the kiss.

“You really don't have to do all this, Kyle,” you cooed sweetly against his lips once you finally broke apart, your foreheads remaining rested together. “I know you’re leaving soon, and I’ll be okay. I’m a big girl, after all.”

“I know,” he growled out softly, a low rumble against your skin as he ignored your logic entirely, choosing instead to leave a burning trail of kisses right down the sensitive line of your neck. A burst of breathless giggles escaped your lips at the sensation.

“Kyle! Come on, I'm being serious,” you laughed, playfully swatting at his shoulder but keeping your hands firmly anchored on his chest, needing to feel his solid warmth close to you.

He let out a soft sigh, his playful demeanor melting away into something incredibly grounded. He placed a large, warm hand against the side of your face, his deep brown eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“You want to know what gets me through those dark nights out there?” he asked, his voice dropping to a soft, vulnerable register as his thumb sweetly stroked your cheek.

You could only hum in response, biting your lower lip as a tender smile threatened to tug at the corners of your mouth.

“That smile,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. His expression was filled with such complete, unadulterated adoration as his thumb gently swiped over your plump lips, memorising the shape of them.

You froze for a moment, his answer completely taking you aback. There was something about the utter simplicity of it that felt so incredibly surreal and raw; you could tell he meant it from the absolute depths of his soul. The rational, elite soldier was completely at your mercy.

Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his love, you pulled him down into a fierce hug, holding him tightly against you as hot tears began to well up in your eyes. You buried your face in his shoulder, your fingers stroking the back of his neck with ultimate tenderness.

“I love you,” you choked out, the emotion tightening your throat.

Kyle wrapped his strong arms securely around your back, burying his face into your hair as he squeezed you against him. “I love you too, baby.”

-

-

-

-

-

void

[laur3a]

You avoids Johnny because he reminds someone who hurt you in the past

This man was the kind of person who was hard to miss: that goofy personality, the witty smile, and the jokes that came at the right (and wrong) moments. For you, these qualities were a red flag. The silly manner could hid the malice behind the words; the constant jokes could turn into thinly veiled mockery; and those lips curled upward as soon as they realized they had affected you.

Although Johnny resembled the guys who used to bully you, the sergeant never hurt you; in fact, it seemed like he wanted to get close to you with good intentions. Most of the time, when the mohawk-wearing idiot starts talking to you, Simon has to intervene because he knows you're obviously uncomfortable — shoulders hunched, short sentences amid stutters, hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.

Over time, Johnny will realize that all his advances toward the pretty new member of the task force have not resulted in any progress. Maybe Gaz warned him, or maybe he paid more attention to your reactions himself, and he has no idea why you always walk away from him.

Now, whenever he notices you in the same room as him, his mind wanders as he tries to understand why you always seem strange around him. He has seen you talking normally with your other teammates, even with Ghost, who usually scares newbies so much. Don't you like him? Did he do something to hurt you? Or do you just find him a little annoying?

Until he overhears you talking to one of your closest friends at the base. He didn't mean to eavesdrop. Really. He was just walking down the hall when he heard your voice whisper, “I'm afraid of him.”

Johnny hesitated, stopping before turning the corner.

“Really? But Johnny is so silly. I mean, not when he's on a mission, of course, but in everyday life he's completely calm.” Your friend whispered back.

“I know, it's just that... he reminds me of someone who didn't do me much good. Not in the sense of appearance, but in the way he acts...”

The sergeant's world collapsed. You were completely ignoring him because of... someone else? A mixture of anger and understanding built up in his chest. Seriously, the man was not to blame for someone from your past having the same mannerisms as him. Besides, you know very well that he never directed anything particularly malicious at you. However, he understood that it was normal for you to feel afraid. You were not at fault for connecting the person from your past to him.

Coming to his senses, Johnny quickened his pace toward the dormitory before you saw him there.

[ohclaire]

“I hate soap.”

Johnny stops in his tracks. You and the rest of the team are sitting in the rec room, cozy with a show on in the back but still talking. He’s left only briefly to put on a sweatshirt and was on his way to rejoin you.

“Like…I just find soap so annoying.”

His heart is actively shattering. He knew sometimes he could be a lot…or maybe make some jokes when the timing wasn’t right…but he…he thought you loved him? Was that naive? Wrong? Did…did the others feel like this too?

“I guess I understand,” Simon—Simon—says. “It’s a bit odd but we all feel that way sometimes.”

Oh. So they do agree.

Have they just been keeping him around to laugh at? To have new material to talk about as soon as he leaves the room?

“It’s a necessary evil, love.” Kyle chimes in.

Evil? They really hate him that much?

“Oh come on you muppets, is washing your hands causing you this much trouble? Really?”

“I just hate the texture, John! It’s slimey and gross! Obviously I still use it but I’m going to complain!”

Johnny bursts in the door with tears building in his eyes, a giant pout, cheeks red, and throat sore from trying to hold it together.

You look up with a smile, happy he’s back, only to shoot up the moment you see his face.

“Johnny! What happened?”

He sniffles, “I…thought ya were talking about me…” he’s a little embarrassed about how much he misunderstood the situation, but he’s never felt that much distress so quickly before.

“Talking about you?” Your eyebrows furrow, “what do you mean talking about?—oh! Oh. Johnny no!”

You’re panicked now, grabbing his cheeks and pushing away his tears before pulling him over to the couch to shove him in the middle of everyone.

You squeeze into the gap left next to him and burrow into his side, “you really think I could hate you? That any of us could?”

He’s still sniffling and trying to stop crying, “mmm I dunno…I can be annoyin’.”

Simon’s hand goes to his head, ruffling his Mohawk before speaking, “if I have any complaints, it’s that you were stupid enough to think we find you annoying.”

Kyle is smiling fondly at him, “yeah, honey, that’s never happening.”

“Enough of the tears, Johnny boy, you know we love you.” John smacks his hand down on his neck, giving it a loving squeeze.

He’s crying more, “you love me…?” He blubbers out. He already knew that, but hearing it again hits directly in his still-sensitive heart.

“Of course we do, Johnny.” Your chin is squished into his shoulder as you smile up at him.

His heart finally settles, his worst fear was real for a second and it was a second too long. He doesn’t know how’d he’d exist—who’d he be—without all of you.

[impurefawn]

codependency iii // simon “ghost” riley x reader

cw!!! implied past csa if you squint, torture, rape, abuse. rape is not detailed, mostly mentioned.

(part one) (part two)

another operation with you. simon was happy about it, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone. he was sure that it would go well, just like any mission with you did. you were the best partner he’d ever had in all his years in the military.

in one moment everything fell apart.

a week of being held by some big underground organisation had simon wishing his father had left him to die when he was a kid. by that point, he was certain that real torture was seeing you cry for him and beg them to leave him alone. no physical pain could compare to that.

he remembered when his father would force him to kiss a snake. it wasn’t any different than that enemy soldier kissing him before she kicked his ribs. he felt so dirty. disgusting. like he was crawling into mud and becoming the filth that surrounded him. his father had trained him for this. “life isn’t easy, simon. you need to man up.” the words still echoed in his head at times, still made his skin crawl and his heart ache in need. he got used to the pain of the taunting soldiers quicker he had gotten used to his father’s repulsive behaviour back then. reassuring you was one of his priorities each time the door of the cell opened.

please don’t cry for me.

but after that week passed, their sleazy boss didn’t put a gun to his head or a knife to his throat. he didn’t even smack him. he came for you. grabbing your hair and pulling it back until you cried. waterboarding you right after.

“the fuck are ya doing? don’t fucking touch her!” simon thrashed and tried to break free, feeling his heart in his throat. no. no, they couldn’t hurt you. you would never deserve any pain, not in a million years. but unfortunately, as he had realised when his age wasn’t even in the double digits, life fucking sucked and nothing went the way he wanted it to. if anything good happened to him, agony would lurk and then swallow him whole, reminding him that he was born to be miserable.

it was his fate, as father said.

“you are born of me, so you will suffer.”

that was the new routine in that mouldy basement. a different soldier would come in every day, sometimes more than one, and take their frustrations out on you. simon could only watch and scream as they used you like a ragdoll. witnessing your destruction was worse than death itself, he was sure. each time your body was struck, he felt the pain himself. every tear you shed stained his soul, leaving a bitter reminder of the most traumatic thing he’d ever witnessed. the worst day of simon’s life was when multiple soldiers defiled you, one after the other. he had screamed, howled, until his voice gave out, until he started sobbing harder than you. he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, from your eyes. maintaining eye contact was the least he could do. your fear subsided just slightly when you looked at him. he couldn’t take that away from you.

the next time simon felt like he could breathe again was on the second day after the rescue op, when he was watching you sleep on the medical bed next to him. you looked so peaceful, even if you were wrapped with bandages from head to toe. a nurse had come in to check on you two and gave him pain meds, insisting that he shouldn’t deny them any longer. he backed down and let the woman do her job before she went to check on your vitals.

“how did they even survive this?” the nurse muttered, mostly to herself, as she changed your iv drip.

“they’re the toughest o’ us, tha’ one.” simon replied hoarsely, even if the question wasn’t directed at him. “wouldn’t be here without ‘em.”

the nurse looked at him, smiling gently. it was a little pitying, her smile, and if simon was in any better state, he would tell her not to look at him like that ever again. but he couldn’t blame her. the sight of him, lying on a hospital bed with a couple machines hooked on him, was definitely pitiful.

“get some rest, lieutenant. another nurse will be back in a few hours to check on you both.”

a faint sound was heard as the door closed and the man closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. he winced slightly, his ribs bruised from the restrains he had been kept in. fuck, this was pathetic. he was one of the best soldiers, the ghost, and now he’d be stuck on desk duty for however fucking long.

this was all his fault.

the sentiment kept circling around his mind. it wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t let him breathe. every little crevice of his brain was filled with guilt and rage. so intense that it made him numb. nauseous. there was so much blood. your screams. your tears. dust. mould. your sniffles. “it’s okay ghost. i’m okay. it doesn’t hurt. it’s not your fault ghost. i promise, it’s not. no please stop! oh my god. not there! stop, stop, stop.”

“si?”

everything went quiet. simon turned towards you, tilting his head down a little to look at you. “hey, lovie. go back t’sleep.” he muttered and felt you weakly squeeze his hand.

your whispered thank you reached his ears and suddenly the room got a little blurry. he only realised he was crying when you let go of his hand to wipe the tears from his eye. your touch was barely there, but it was enough to make him fall to pieces.

“i’m so sorry.” simon sobbed, curled up on your side with his head pressed on your chest so he could feel the steady beating of your heart.

you bit your lip, blinking back tears, and ran your fingers through his hair with the hand that hadn’t lost its movement. “you have nothing to apologise for. we… we’ll get past this.” you said softly as this huge man clung onto you like a kid clutching a teddy bear to their chest.

he felt like he was a kid again. like those times he hid under the covers and cried until he inevitably fell asleep. or the times he spent begging his father to show him that he cared. it wasn’t something he ever talked about. his past was his and it was no one’s business. simon riley had been buried years ago. he was ghost now. ghost didn’t cry, he didn’t beg, he didn’t need anyone.

“please.” you heard him say, his voice muffled. he sounded so small, so unlike the man whose side you had fought by tens of times. “please, don’t leave, alright? please.” he cried and begged and babbled about how much he needed you.

simon riley wasn’t dead.

he was in your arms, in the cold and sterile room of the base’s infirmary, fragile and vulnerable. so you let him cry until his sobs turned into silent sniffles. you didn’t say anything, didn’t have to, really. you held the pieces together and became his safe place. even when he squeezed too hard or stayed on your beaten body more than you could handle, you let him. and when he was calm enough to control his mind, he whispered apologies in the crook of your neck before straightening up and lying down next to you again. his hand found yours, the action feeling as natural as loading a gun to him, and soon enough you had both fallen back to sleep again.

the sun had yet to rise but something had shifted between you. parts of him had become yours through the tears shed on your skin. just like you gave him pieces of yourself each time you let him hold your hand.

a/n: i’m usually writing with reboot simon in mind but im giving him some of 09ghost’s backstory. mostly the bad father stuff. kind of a way for me to vent and also because i think it’s interesting to analyse how a bad experience can affect you when you already have trauma. please keep in mind that this series will get very sad before it turns good. i want to explore different trauma responses, some in the way i experience them. also this will contain triggering topics so make sure to check the tags please! protect yourself. if you take the time to read this, thank you. i am an overexplainer, my bad.

taglist: @kiinfics, @myrichan, @haipasa, @heyitsniki18, @jajouska, @typing-catastrophe, @spacegirl26, @hangingmooncloud, @tes-conscience, @cacklebot, @chaieanne, @muraaaaaa @bluefans-blog, @brokexintroverted, @little-tiger-man, @tessakate, @simonrileys-wife, @jaluley, @simonghostrileysbalaclava, @spiderfly-tree-rat, @rottensage, @rainbowangel, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @echo9821 <3

[rawme-price]

Reader with daddy issues but in the not fun way, vs price the most emotionally stunted man ever.... :[

You are fine talking with the sergeants, joking and biting back when they tease. Hell, you even talk well with ghost, if not a bit subdued. But price? For some reason he doesnt understand you downright avoid him.

Youre...new. not technically SAS or even 141, but some sort of prodigy in some field that laswell thought relevant enough to bring you on. Ur essential to the mission, which only pisses price off more that you seem hellbent on making any communications impossible.

The last time price tried to talk to you, he had pulled you aside to check some vague points on a file you submitted. It should have been simple! Instead, you answered in clipped responses that proves more useless than the file itself. Price didnt even finished the conversation, snapping the folder closed with a "find me when you feel like being useful." And shouldering past.

Price does not see the way you scrub at ur eyes afterwards, but ghost does.

It goes on like this for weeks, price trying to get shit done only for you to clam up and look like a fool. Its getting on his nerves. The team seemed to pick up on it, gaz or soap offering to talk to you before price got to it. The captain pitied them, because when they returned whatever information was needed has actually been secured. Must've been painful getting you to talk.

Not everything can be avoided, though. As the mission draws closer and price is sorting out the details, he once again needs to find you. The general has been up his ass, and hes trying desperately to organize men with less force than desired. Needless to say, hes not in a good mood.

You seem to sense this instantly when your eyes lock across the lounge, standing up but refusing to step in prices direction. You give mumbled answers and slight nods, not even bothering to meet his eyes. Price, he, well- he snaps, just a bit. Slams the file onto the counter and steps closer, doesnt even register the multiple hurried steps you take back.

"Bloody fuckin' hell kid! Is there anything you can do without me twisting your arm?! Im surprised you've even made it this far, with the way more work for me seems to follow in your wake!"

Hes got more to say, but suddenly a large hand is yanking price by the bicep and out of the room. Ghost pushes price roughly against the wall outside the lounge. He seems pissed, in a way price has never had aimed at him. "You wanna pull yourself together, john?"

John. Not captain. Not price.

"The kids bloody well useless! I swear I dont kno-" price begins, nerves frayed and pissed off.

"The kids scared of you!" Simon cuts in. He yanks his mask off to properly frown at price, eyes narrowed. "The kids scared, and youre fuckin' yellin' is making it worse."

"Why the hell would the kid me scared of me?"

"That..." ghost sighs, steps back. Without the mask, price can see every twitch and furrow in simond face, pained. "...isnt my story to tell. Just- lay off for a bit, yeah? I'll do the talking, get whatever you need. We need this mission to succeed."