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MDNI I'm not really a writer but I love supporting everyone's else's writing🫶

[fries-pls]

🍟‼️Masterlist‼️🍟

(I figure I’ll make a small master list just in case I end up posting more fics, and so the couple that I have posted are easy to find!!!)

Call of Duty

Run and hide…or don’t

Wolf stuck in a bear trap

Illegal bars

Illegal Bars Pt. 2

[07x1x4x1]

cw: post MW3; angst; hurt/comfort | fem!Reader × S. Riley

Simon has been watching you for the past weeks since the world has tilted on its axis a second time in his life.

Johnny is dead. Price is gone. Kyle is trying to keep things running. The 141 is no more as it once was.

And then, there is you.

Shattered. The light once beaming in your eyes now gone. Buried with Johnny. Extinguished by Price's abandonment.

You're nothing but a shell of your former self; of the woman who could give all of them a run for their money with her banter, her discipline, and fierce loyalty.

And Simon has been observing the decline in real time while refusing to deal with his own grief, like watching a wild animal deteriorate in a zoo cage.

The base at night is a different kind of quiet.

Not the quiet of the field, that loaded silence where every snapped twig is a countdown. This is the quiet of fluorescent lights and linoleum and men who don't know what to do with their hands when there's no mission brief on the table.

Simon knows it well by now. Decades of it.

He finds you at 0247 hrs by the eastern wall of the compound, sitting on an equipment crate in the cold with your jacket somewhere that isn't on your body. Not crying. Not staring at anything in particular. Just present in the way that means absent.

He's seen it before. In the mirror.

He doesn't announce himself. You'd only straighten up, roll your shoulders back, manufacture something that looks like fine. You're good at fine. Good enough to fool the man with the clipboard and the psychology degree who'd nodded along and signed your clearance form three weeks ago.

Simon had read the report. Sergeant displays healthy coping mechanisms and strong unit cohesion.

He'd thought about what healthy coping mechanisms looked like on you in the months before. The way you'd drag Soap into the worst film you could find on a Friday, just to hear him complain. The way you'd argue tactics with Price over terrible coffee like it was sport. The way your laugh carried down the hall and somehow made the hall feel shorter.

Simon hasn't heard it since Verdansk.

He crosses the yard without a word and sits on the crate beside you. Not close. Just present. The cold doesn't bother him. He's a sniper. He can wait.

You don't tell him to leave, and that's something.

The silence between them stretches long enough that Simon starts counting his own breaths. An old habit. Something to do when there's nothing to do.

Eventually, you speak first.

"Couldn't sleep."

It isn't a question and it isn't an explanation. Just words to fill the air, thin as the excuse they are. He doesn't call you out on it.

"No," he replies.

Another stretch of quiet. Somewhere across the compound a door opens and closes. Neither of you moves.

He watches you from his periphery the way he watches everything—without appearing to. You've pulled your knees up slightly, arms loose over them. Relaxed posture. Practiced relaxed posture. There's a difference and you've never known that he knows it.

Your eyes are doing that thing again. Open but somewhere else entirely. Not quite a thousand yard-stare, but close.

Verdansk. Or before it. Or the specific seventeen seconds he suspects you replay on a loop because he has his own seventeen seconds and he knows what they do to a person's face in the dark.

"Soap used to hate the cold," you remark somberly.

It comes out almost conversational. Like a grenade with the pin already pulled, lobbed gently into the space between you.

Simon lets it land.

"Aye," he agrees. "Complained about it enough."

The corner of your mouth moves. Not quite a smile. The ghost of the muscle memory of one. It's the closest he's seen in weeks and it costs you something—he watches you pay it.

"He complained about everything." Your voice stays even. Careful. "Terrible sleeper. Ate like a bloody labrador. Couldn't fold a map to save his life."

Could save yours, though. Simon doesn't say it. Neither do you. It sits between you anyway.

He waits.

"I keep—" you start, and stop. Your jaw tightens. He watches you decide whether to finish, watches you weigh the cost of it. "I keep forgetting. For a second. In the morning. Before I'm fully—" A shaky breath. "And then I fucking remember."

Simon says nothing.

Because there is nothing. Because he does it too, that horrible half-second of grace before the weight of it crashes back down, and he knows that anything he says about it will be either a lie or a uselessness. So he says nothing, and he stays, and after a moment his broad shoulder finds yours in the dark. Gentle.

Not too close, not a press. Just contact. Proof of another person.

You don't pull away.

"Price should have told us," you say, quieter now. Something harder underneath it. "He should have. We fucking deserved to know. We deserved the choice."

"Aye," Simon agrees again. "We did."

It's all he can give you on that. It's all he has. The anger about Price lives in him too, in a room he hasn't opened yet, and he suspects when he finally does, it'll take a wall down with it.

But not tonight.

The cold finally wins. You shift, and the movement seems to drag you back into your body, into the practical fact of being a person sitting on a freezing metal crate at three in the morning.

"My arse has gone numb," you announce.

Simon huffs through his nose. The closest thing to a laugh he's got in stock these days.

"That's what the jacket's for," he says.

"Didn't ask for commentary, Lieutenant."

"Wasn't commentary. Was a fact. You're sat out here freezing yer tits off out of spite."

You turn to look at him properly for the first time all night—actually look, eyebrow up, something sharp flickering behind your eyes that he hasn't seen since before everything went to hell.

"Out of spite," you repeat.

"Aye."

"That's rich, coming from the man who once stood watch for nine hours in monsoon season because Price suggested he take a break."

"Different."

"How."

"I'm not the one with a numb arse."

It surprises a sound out of you—short, ugly, real. A guffaw. An actual one, dragged up from somewhere you'd buried it, and it shocks you both. Your hand comes up like you can catch it and put it back, eyes going wide for half a second like you've done something wrong.

Simon watches you sit with the fact that you're still capable of it.

"Soap would've had something to say about your arse, Lt.," you mutter, recovering.

"Soap had something to say about everything."

"He'd have offered to warm it up. Cheeky bastard."

"He'd have gotten decked for it."

"He'd have deserved it." You wipe your face with the heel of your hand, quick, businesslike, pretending it's the cold. "God. He was so fucking annoying."

"Worst man I ever served with," Simon agrees.

It's a lie and it's the truest eulogy either of you has managed in weeks, and you both know it, and that's exactly why it works.

He stays beside you in the cold until your breathing evens out, until the rigid set of your shoulders drops two degrees, until you're no longer somewhere else entirely but here, on a crate, in the dark, next to him.

It isn't healing. It isn't fine.

But you're still here.

And for Simon Riley, who has learned not to ask for more than what he's given, that is enough.

For now.

[ghostedink]

The room built for you.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Simon Riley had never been good with women. He knew how to clear rooms, how to disappear, how to make threats stop breathing. But.. flirting, charming.. even talking to someone soft and smiling who brought him his lunch with a shy “here you go, love.” was another battlefield entirely.

Then there was you.

New café on the corner, stuck between a florist and a bookstore. The first time he saw you, you’d laughed at something a customer said and your eyes lit up. Simon’s chest did something strange.. he started going every morning just to watch the way your hands moved, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking…

He learned your schedule. Learned your likes, learned your habits.. learned the name of the useless boy who sometimes would be waiting for you after your shift—the one who never held the door, who barely looked up from his phone.

Simon decided that boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t treat you the way you deserved.

But Simon would.

He planned for three weeks. Watched the cameras he’d installed along your usual route home, waited until your boyfriend was out of town. The cloth over your mouth was quick, clinical—military training made it efficient. No screams, no mess, just the soft weight of you in his arms as he carried you out to the waiting vehicle.

You woke up in his basement, except.. It didn’t look like a basement.

The walls were painted a soft sage green you’d once mentioned was your favorite color. String lights hung in careful loops across the ceiling. A nice bed with the quilt he’d seen you admire in a shop window. Bookshelves he’d stocked with the authors and novels you’d sneak on your break to read. A small kitchenette with your favorite tea and snacks fully stocked. A locked door at the top of the stairs, of course, but the room itself smelled like vanilla and fresh paint.

Simon sat in the armchair across from the bed, mask off, watching you stir. His hands flexed on his knees—nervous, almost boyish.

“You’re safe..” he said quietly when he noticed the fear when your eyes first fluttered open. “No one’s gonna hurt you here. Not him. Not anyone.” His voice was rough, unused to softness. “I know this ain’t… normal. I ain’t good at asking. But I’ll give you everything he never could. The world you deserve. You just… you gotta stay a while. Let me show you.”

He stood slowly, making sure to not scare you as he set a tray on the bedside table—tea, the exact kind you liked, a blueberry muffin, and a small vase with a single daisy. His eyes were dark, hungry, but trying to be gentle.

“I’ll be back in the morning. Door’s locked, but there’s a bell if you need anything. I’m not a monster, love. I just… finally found something I want to keep.”

He turned the lights down, casting soft warmth across the room before pausing at the door.

“Rest. You’re home now.”

The lock clicked.

Upstairs, Simon leaned against the wall, heart hammering like it never had before.

Downstairs, the room waited—pretty, quiet, inescapable. And somewhere in the middle of it, you, still blinking awake, trying to understand how the man who used to order flat whites had decided you were his to save.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just people wincing in sympathy when they see pregnant!reader and konig together because he's...well....Giant.

Larger than life, the sheer size of him only more exaggerated by the fact you've always been on the short size. You hear almost everyday how difficult it will be, your supposedly giant baby. Honestly, you're worried too, though you suspect konig is the most stressed.

"I broke the record in my hospital, schatzi. Fifteen pounds. Schatzi, Do you hear me." Which. As one would predict, only served to make you more nervous.

Then the day comes and....they're...small.

Tiny, little babies. Twins, how the hell it was missed it beyond you. Your husband is well over six feet, weighs a solid three hundred and some pounds, and his two new babies can easily be held in one hand each.

As the shock of everything settles in, you both learn that your babies will absolutely scream and wail if konig attempts to hold them normally, only settling properly when curled up in his hands. He's practically crying all the time from how fragile they are compared to him.

Seeing the tiny pairs of socks he sews for them has you crying, too. He loves them so so much.

Your favorite memory is watching the little ones, now a bit older but still so small, snuggling together on konigs back while he naps, enough space they can't easily roll off.

You can't imagine it any other way. It just...feels right.

[cruxhing]

part one: here

Teaching Simon how to properly drive a vehicle was harder said than done. You’d think a man in his mid-thirties would know by now. Well, you’d be wrong.

Simon didn’t take lightly to people giving him advice. He’d consider himself perfect (which he is). So whose to tell him what to do?

Apparently, you.

He figured you were sick and tired of his driving abilities and truth be told, you were. You’ve been in too many accidents as him in the drivers seat, mission or not. 

The empty parking lot of a Tesco was a good choice, you’d think. It was late, the sun was dipping and casting a beautiful orange hue in the sky. The parking lot had only one other car in the corner of the lot.

Everyone warned you not to teach Simon how to drive. John said that your car may be totaled by the end of the night. Kyle said that he’ll prepare your funeral. And Johnny, hilarious-Johnny said that he’ll be watching the live cams from the nearest street cameras to see the drivers-ed go down.

“Unlock the door,” you call out to Simon from the passenger side. Your hand rested loosely on the door handle as you stared from Simon from above your coupe. He stared back at you and lifts the key up.

“It’s not unlocking,” Simon replies bluntly.

Your expression drops as you stared between Simon and your keys. “Lieutenant, I swear to—“

Big sigh! You got this!

Inhaling deeply, you shut your eyes for a moment before opening them again, “do you see a button on the key fob?” you ask evenly. Or as even as you can.

Simon glances over at the key fob and shrugs, “figured all vehicles have an automatic unlocking system,” he says and glances at your car window.

Yes— because your 2007 Toyota Solara would have a button. “Does it look like it has buttons?” you ask flatly. This was the only key the dealership had given to you; the spare that was tucked away in someone’s drawer until they sold it off. You’re not the kind to spend your money on flashy cars and will ride this coupe until it stops working in the middle of the road.

Simon unlocks the car with the key and opens the door, “no,” he sassily replies before shutting the door. You watched him through your fishbowl window, deciding not to lash out.

Yet.

Simon stares at you through the passenger window, giving you a raised brow behind his balaclava. “What’re you doing?” he asks from inside the car. He’s already gotten the car started up— meanwhile, you’re still outside, your right eye twitching.

“Doors still locked, lieutenant,” you say loud enough for him to hear. Simon doesn’t respond but gives you a little nod of awkwardness before clicking the lock buttons on the side. A soft click was heard before you swung the door open and stepped into the passenger side. “Okay— start driving,” you instructed the older man, putting on your seatbelt.

“Where to?”

“Wherever you’d like as long as it’s in the parking lot.”

“… Okay, do I turn or?”

You threw your hands up a bit and turn to look at him, “I don’t know— just drive,” you responded with a huff.

Simon huffs back in rebuttal before shifting the car in ‘drive’. Not even a second later, the car jumps from zero to fifteen. Your hand reaches up for the handle as he slams on the brake just before he hits the only vehicle in the parking lot.

Your vehicles engine softly hummed as the two of you stared at the red Audi R8 (which definitely cost more than your salary, let’s be honest). Your front bumper was about an inch away from the rear end of the sports car and your heart felt like it had fallen to your ass just by witnessing it.

“Lieutenant…” you manage to whisper out, still staring out of the windshield.

Simon stays silent for a second. A second too long to tell you that he knew he was in trouble. “… Yes?”

“Get out.”

Without another word, the male nods and opens the car. He swung one of his legs out, about to step out until the seatbelt (still protecting him and attached), locked him in. “Eueugh,” Simon choked out, the seatbelt colliding with his neck.

All you could do was sit there in silence and let out a shaky breath.

[nottsnymph]

Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.

You did your best to fill it.

Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.

Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.

A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.

Your whole body went rigid.

Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.

Someone was breaking in. Shit.

You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.

The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.

The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.

For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.

Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."

Your soul left your body.

“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.

He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.

“Are you okay?!” you gasped.

“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.

“You were supposed to be back in a week!”

“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”

You stared at him.

Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.

"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."

He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”

"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."

He huffed "rude."

“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.

"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"

"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.

You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.

“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.

“Never said it was.”

“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”

He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”

“I was trying out a new greeting method.”

He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”

You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”

“You hit me.”

“I thought you were breaking in!”

“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”

You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.

Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.

“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”

[anobodycalledlynn]

D'aww. 🥺 The best welcome home there is. Nothing will ever top it (except, maybe, a pan 👀).

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

The voices wake you.

Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.

You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.

“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.

“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”

They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.

Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.

You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.

“We’ll stay here for the night.”

“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.

“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”

You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.

Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.

Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.

So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.

Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.

You instinctively press back against the wall.

It’s quiet, and then… your name.

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.

More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.

It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.

Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.

Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.

You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.

The closet door swings open, and there he is.

Johnny.

He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,

“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.

When you don’t move, he sighs.

“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.

“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.

“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.

“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.

“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.

Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.

These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.

So you move.

The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.

Simon.

He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.

Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.

Your meds.

Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.

Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”

“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.

“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.

“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.

“Why?” You croak.

“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”

“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?”  Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.

“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”

“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”

“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.

“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.

“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.

“Who you are?” Johnny nods.

“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”

“So… that’s like… the military?”

“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.

“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.

“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.

“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.

“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.

“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.

“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.

“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.

“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.

“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.

“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”

“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.

“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”

“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.

“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”

“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.

“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.

“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.

“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.

“N-no your… your marks…”

“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.

It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.

“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?

Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.

“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.

“Yeah that’s… that’s alright.”

[peachesofteal]

masterlist - next

It happens at work.

You get a whiff.

At first, you’re not sure what exactly it is you’re smelling. Leather and tobacco soaked in sea spray, mixed with cardamom and honeyed black tea.

What is that?

You sniff the air. It’s barbaric, embarrassing, but you can’t fight the instinct that has your nose lifting, nor can you stop your feet from automatically moving, following the trail.

Your skin prickles as it grows stronger, and there’s a pinch in your stomach, a light twinge that yanks you forward, propels you out of the kitchen and into the dining room, hot on the heels of whoever it is that smells like this.

An unbidden, fully uninhibited omega whine crawls up the back of your throat as the scent rises to it’s full strength and leads you down a row of red pleather booths, to where two alphas sit across from one another.

The whine is loud.

They both turn when you get close, nostrils flaring, eyes widening with surprise, suspicion, and your focus splits right down the middle, the rational, logical part of you trying to stay in control, and the animal, omega part of you trying to bare your throat. Offer yourself up.

Now that you’re here, in front of them, the scent has shifted. It’s still strong, but somehow softer. Warmer.

Safer.

It’s safe.

It’s more than safe, it’s like light. Blinding, baptizing, white light that sinks into your cells and rolls through your shoulders, unclenches your teeth and tightens your core.

It’s holy. The closest you’ll ever get.

Scent matches.

True mates.

It’s kismet. You know in your bones, in your cells, they’re yours. They’re meant to be yours.

Not one, but two.

“Omega.” The one breathes, drawing your attention, your focus. He’s tall, muscled, brown hair cut into a mohawk, bright blue eyes like Caribbean waters. So handsome it hurts, his scent is the warm, honeyed tea, the cardamom in the fall.

You forget yourself. Forget this place, this dead end job, this backwoods town. Forget the little notepad in your hand, the old almost dried out ball point pen between your fingers.

“I…” Speak. Say something, say anything. Your gaze swings to the other alpha, the one who looks too large for the booth, the room even. Where the blue eyed one is handsome, this one is severe, beautiful like a sharp cliff that sheers off into the ocean. Focused brown eyes with a crooked nose, black hoodie pulled up over his head. There’s something dark about him, something dangerous, and it’s his scent that is the burnished leather, tobacco leaf, dried salt of the sea.

Your gaze drifts, and then snags on the sight of a bite. Just barely peeking over the outline of the hood, is a clear as day bite mark. A claiming mark.

A bond.

Your stomach drops.

This alpha is bonded. You glance at the other one, blue eyes, and immediately find his in the same spot, proudly displayed. These are not new, fresh bites. They’re faded, scarred over, commitments, and it all plays out in front of you like a horror movie. Two alphas with two marks, and one omega, standing in front of them, too late.

They are not for you.

The truth is crushing. All this time, all your life, you hoped, you dreamed, and now that dream is sitting in front of you, crumbling to ash.

“I’m…” You’re… what? You’re sorry, maybe. Sorry this happened. Sorry you’re here, sorry you’re their scent match, their true mate, when they obviously already have an omega.

You don’t know. You can’t think, can’t hear over the pounding of your heart, the tight draw of your lungs. The air in the room has gone thin, overhead pendant lights gone dark. You feel sick. Your knees feel weak. Everything is falling apart.

“Two black coffees.” The order snaps like a whip from the dangerous one, the one in the hoodie. So ordinary, so routine.

It’s like a slap to your face.

Blue eyes gives him a look, one you can’t place, while brown eyes keeps his gaze locked on yours.

“Did you hear me?”

“Simon.” Blue eyes says quietly, but it must fall on deaf ears because brown eyes, Simon, cocks his head.

“Two black coffees,” you whisper back to him, the three words scratching the back of your throat. Fated mates, and these are your first words to each other. Two black coffees.

“Make a fresh pot, if it’s not already.” He instructs, and the heat of humiliation rises in your cheeks.

“Simon.” Blue eyes says a little louder this time, a little harsher, and Simon finally drags his eyes away from yours.

“It’s her job Johnny.” He doesn’t spare you another glance as he looks down at his phone. “Isn’t it, omega?”

“Y-yes.” You whisper, knuckles aching from how tight you’re clinging to your pen. “Be right back.”

You get the coffee. Everything is on autopilot, and they barely even look at you. Simon, the mean one, turns his face towards the window as he hands his menu over, and Johnny, the blue eyed one, only glances at you briefly before looking away.

Your already broken heart cracks into a million pieces, shattering inside your chest so violently you swear you can feel it.

They don’t even leave you a tip.

And you should know to leave well enough alone, because you do. Because life has kicked you in your soft spots enough, you’ve been taught lessons a plenty.

But when you see them leave, when they turn their backs on you without so much as goodbye, you can’t stop yourself from running out the back door, gravel flying under your feet, trying to catch up with them as they’re about to get into a truck.

“Wait!” You can’t help it, you have to try, and they both go rigid at the sound of your voice. “Don’t you … don’t you smell it? Smell me?” Your hope is a reckless, desperate thing, a tenacious thing that refuses to die.

No matter how many times it’s been killed.

When they don’t respond, when they meet you head on with grey rocked expressions, you know you should stop.

But you can’t.

“I’m your scent match.” You try to explain. Maybe saying it out loud will make it make sense. “I’m your mate.” Something flickers in Simon’s eyes, something you can’t make sense of, and it’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced by ice. Winter coats his next words.

“You’re nothing to us.”

You’re nothing to us.

Your blood runs cold. The world spins around you.

“Oh.” Johnny moves, takes a small step forward. It’s barely there, more of a lurch than anything, and your eyes start to burn with tears as he looks at you, impossibly blank.

“Go back inside, omega.” You want to cry, you want to scream, you want to beg them to see it, see you.

“I don’t understand.” You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. You’re lost now. Drowning. Rejected.

Scent spikes. Salted leather and honeyed cardamom, they mix together, the once intoxicating, drug like heady cocktail now turning acidic, sour on your tongue. The scent that felt safe, now poison. 

“There’s nothing to understand.” Simon says, sounding bored. Like he’s lecturing a child. “You’re confused, happens all the time.” What?

“It does?” Does it? You’ve never heard this, but then again, you’re not really on the cutting edge of… anything, really. You don't pay attention to the news, or science, or pop culture. You're too busy trying to keep your head above water. 

“Sure.” His mouth twists into a cruel smile. “You’re not the first desperate omega who’s tried to attach herself to us.”

It would have hurt less if he had struck you. 

Johnny sucks in a breath. It’s barely there, but you catch it, and your biology refuses to let go. Your hindbrain digs in its heels.

He’s wrong. He has to be. Maybe he just doesn’t know it.

“No," you protest. “No, I know what I smelled.”

“No ye didn’t.” Johnny says, shaking his head. He's pitying you, you realize in horror. “Ye’re just confused.” Your world is being torn in two. Violent sheared away at the seams, your instinct wails, screams in the back of your mind, your grip on reality slowly pulling away. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

“I’m n-not. Please.” You whimper, but you don’t know what you’re asking for at this point. All you know is it comes out reedy and broken. Simon’s jaw flexes, Johnny looks over your shoulder, a blank, glazed look in his eyes. Shut down.

Your knees hit the gravel. Rocks scrape at your skin, tear at your tights, dig and draw blood. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. You can’t feel anything except for this hole in your chest. This hole where your mates are supposed to be, where bonds are supposed to be.

“Pathetic.” Salt in the wound. Simon practically spits it at you, and your vision glosses over, tears now spilling down your cheeks. “Get up.” It’s not a request, it’s an alpha bark, something you’re biologically subservient to, something your body forces you to obey. You push yourself up, heels of your palms in the gravel, little rocks falling from where they’ve embedded themselves in your knees.

Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket. You wonder, for a split second, if he’s going to pull out a card, or a piece of paper, something, anything, that could connect you to them. A tether.

What’s left of your pride, the very small scrap, withers and dies when he produces two folded up bills, and bile rises in the back of your throat when he chucks them at your feet. 

"Almost forgot. Yer tip." It cuts so casually, like it means nothing, like you're nothing more than trash. A problem he has to throw a few bills at. Worthless.

“Don’t follow us, don’t try to find us, we’re nothing to you.” Simon warns over his shoulder, already walking away.

“An’ ye’re nothin’ to us.” Johnny echoes as you stand frozen in place, watching your alphas climb into the truck, watching as your mates prepare to drive away. The engine roars to life, the headlights sweep across the parking lot as they pull out, leaving you behind. Leaving without another word, leaving destruction in their wake. Not even looking back.

Nothing.

You’re nothing.

Nothing to them.

Nothing to the world.

Just another desperate, confused, lonely omega.

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

Your phone is missing.

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.

Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.

[prettybird-ie]

dating the 141 means break-ins hardly phase you.

i imagine the live camera feed goes off one night while youre lying in bed. new sheets still hugging you warm after the dryer. the boys are off doing their personal night routines, heavy guard dogs lay at your feet.

with the chime of your phone, a notification alerts you of outside movement. you consider it to be a waving branch or passing car, yet check it nonetheless. something about inner intuition.

youre glad you did.

watching silently as someones shadow skirts along the darker parts of around your house. passing the kitchen windows with a ducked head, then round the back.

"fuck," you bite your lip. sighing quietly as you toss your phone. "johnathan!" four heads from the bathroom peek around the doorframe slow, eyes open with the use of a full name. johnny fights a grin, ready to watch his captain get chewed out by their lady.

"..ye' love?"

"theres some weird guy wandering 'round the house outside," you inform dryly. plucking your phone back up and leaving it there. you reach for your wine glass on the bedside table, sipping as their hearts fall to their ass.

sure, anxiety stirs low in your gut. nipping at your reason and concious. but you also are keen of what your boys have lived through, the dirtest negotiations and most horrific actions.

alway do they come back home into your arms.

you could blame it on pure lack of sleep, but its nicer to blame it on the assumption youre probably the safest person in town. perhaps city if you dare.

so you continue with scrolling through ao3.

paying a half mind as military tense rounds over their bodies. simon whistles for the dogs and grabs his pistol. grunting and rolling his bare shoulders in atonished anger at somones sheer audacity. i mean for fuck sakes the mans tired. 

johnnys sneaking grin falls, replaced by a flat face as hes quick to grab a flashlight and gun. moving out the door on simons heels. big dogs herding around them.

"stay 'ere yeah love? dont open the fuckin' door," johns voice is a low growl. grabbing a hunters knife ( anniversary gift from you, his names carved in the wood ) and moving to the window. room lights flipped off when johnny left. scanning the open grass with an annoyed brow twitch. "kyle, wi' me."

kyle nods, glancing back three times to make sure youre content. careful to lock the bedroom door and leave a weapon with you, which he drills in not to touch less you hear the burglar. with a final glance, hes gone with the rest of them.

your ears perk for movement outside. glass shatters and a door kicks open. youre pretty sure you hear the guy shriek — most definitely simons doing, weird fucker was waiting in the dark — a brisk struggle before the house falls silent, words they dont want you hearing are exchanged then hes thrown out onto the grass.

hes quick to jump up and scurry off, wet pants uncomfortable and now stinking.

you sigh with annoyance, replacing windows was the biggest bitch. but whatever, sukuna is realizing his love for Y/N.

[acotar-girly]

⋆·˚ ༘ * Simon kidnapping reader- but being nice about it. ⋆·˚ ༘ *

Masterlist

The engine hums, and that is the first thing you hear. Next, the air conditioning—soft and steady, almost comforting. It’s the kind of sound that could lull someone to sleep in a different life. You blink against a dim light glowing near your feet. The air carries a faint scent of citrus and warm fabric. Your hands- you realise faintly- are tied behind your back. Zip ties, the harsh plastic loose enough to not dig into your skin, tight enough that there's no way you're escaping them. Especially not when your body feels like it's wading through fog and your mind feels wrapped in wool.

A blanket is tucked over your knees. A paper cup of water rests in the cupholder beside you. The space resembles the back of a pickup that someone has turned into a tiny mobile room—clean carpet and a small reading lamp show a kind of care that feels intentional. Too intentional. The window is dark, but streaks of light occasionally pass over it as they drive by something on the road—signs, headlights, or maybe distant towns. Each one fades before you can read it with your hazy eyes and clouded mind. The man- big, bulky- in the driver’s seat doesn’t immediately turn around. His hands grip the wheel, and his posture is relaxed.

He wears all black gear- tactical, maybe? and has trimmed blonde hair, appearing middle-aged in a way that screams control. When he finally looks back, he does so through the rearview mirror. All you catch is faint scarring on the side of his forehead. “Morning,” he says pleasantly. “You were out for a while.” Your voice sounds rough, shaky. “Where am I?”

“On the road,” he replies simply, but his eyes betray his amusement at your confusion, your fear. “You’ve been sleeping for a few hours. I figured you’d want something warm to eat soon.” His tone feels so normal that it takes you a moment to truly grasp the words. On the road. Like you’re just traveling together. You lean back, the seat soft beneath you. There’s nothing to see outside but darkness. No lights or signs of a town—just the endless stretch of night. Your heartbeat quickens, and you count them like seconds. He seems unaware, or maybe he notices, and just couldn't care less. The radio quietly hums with static between songs. “You picked a good day for it,” he says. conversationally. “The sky was clear earlier. Stars like you wouldn’t believe.” You stare at him through the mirror, dread coiling up your spin every time his dark eyes- too dangerous- meet yours. “Picked… a good day for what?”

“For traveling,” he answers. Then he pauses and adds, “You’ll see. There’s a diner coming up. You’ll like it.” You don’t reply. Your mouth feels dry again, but you don’t reach for the water, even if it sloshes temptingly in the cup. Instead, you watch the outline of his shoulders as he drives, calm and steady, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

The road hums beneath you for what feels like hours. Your sense of time blends with the sound of tires on asphalt. Occasionally, he hums a tuneless melody under his breath—low, oddly comforting. You hate that it’s comforting, that it's lulling your heartbeat to calm down and eyes to flutter closed before you force them open again.

Outside, the world has become static. The moon hangs low and bright, watching them. When the truck finally slows, you feel it in your stomach first—the pull forward, the small lurch as speed gives way to stillness. A faint glow appears ahead. Neon red, flickering: OPEN 24 HOURS.

The diner resembles something from a forgotten movie—metal siding, a cracked parking lot, and a few scattered cars. The man parks neatly, turns off the engine, and looks at you. “Come on,” he says, mouth twitching with a slight smile like it's all a joke to him, but his eyes are predatory, telling you that if you bolt, he will catch you. And it won't be pretty. “You should eat.” He steps out first. When he opens the door, the cool night air seeps in, smelling faintly of oil and sagebrush. He doesn’t touch you or rush you. He simply waits, patient. It's more unnerving than you thought- you almost wish he would drag you inside and be cruel. It would, at least, explain this humiliating lump in your throat and the constant burn of tears.

His hands reach for your back as soon as you stumble out, clumsy without the use of your arms, steadying you and the quick swish of a knife has the zip ties falling to the ground with a quiet little sound. You didn't even see the knife, and he's already pulling away.

You don't see the second man picking up the zip ties and tossing them into the bonfire behind the diner either.

Inside, the diner hums with the soft sounds of a television above the counter and dishes clattering from the kitchen. A waitress in her fifties looks up and greets the man as if she knows him. “Evening Simon,” she says. “The usual booth?” He nods, smirking at her. “Thanks, Marlene.” He gestures for you to follow. You do, because what else can you do? The vinyl seat squeaks when she sits.

The laminated menu feels sticky, edges frayed. You stare at the list of breakfast items offered at midnight, the words blurring together. Your stomach is growling, cramping with emptiness, but you'll be damned if you give into this. The waitress brings water, sets down salt and pepper shakers, along with a small sticky plastic pot of honey that looks like it's half water.

“I got kidnapped,” You blurt out before you can stop herself. Voice desperate, eyes imploring, a slightly shaking hand on the waitress'- Marlene's- hand as she sets down the honey pot. She doesn’t blink, looking at the man sitting opposite you with a deadpan face instead. The man- Simon?- sighs. Stupid girl, he thinks.

Marlene pulls away, rolling her eyes faintly. “You want pancakes or the waffle, sweetheart?”

Your throat tightens. “I—what?” Simon looks up, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “She’ll have pancakes,” he says. “Maple syrup, not honey.”

“I don’t—” You start, but he's already talking, smirk set in place. “She does. Trust me.” He turns to the waitress again. “And two coffees, please Lena.” The waitress nods, scribbles on her pad, and walks back to the counter. You feel the tremor in your hands now, a faint vibration against the edge of the table. The diner is quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent light above them. “You can’t just—” You start. voice breaking pathetically. “You can’t do this.” He stirs sugar into his coffee with slow, careful motions. “I already did,” he replies mildly, eyes on her like he's waiting for you to start screaming and crying. “You’re handling it better than I expected.” You stay silent, pushing down the lump forming in your throat. It feels like a rock wedged in there. The panic in your chest feels strange, heavy, and muted. He takes a sip, watching you with something that isn’t quite fondness and isn’t quite cruelty.

“The park was nice, wasn’t it?” Simon says after a moment. Maybe it's to be cruel. Maybe he just wants to see your face fall, break any hope of escape. “The one with the new lake view? You liked that spot, didn't you? No cameras there. Most people don’t notice things like that anymore.” Your breath catches, heart plummeting into your stomach. No. He continues as if he’s talking about the weather. “It took weeks to take care of that. And your friends—well, they’re easy to guide if you know how to talk online. A comment here, a post there. You’d be surprised what people do when they think it’s their own idea. Worth it, though, wouldn't you say? It all worked out quite nicely.”

You feel like you can't breathe, chest tightening and anxiety coiling sharp as a whip in your stomach. No. No no no- nononono. Tears spring up, hot and sudden. Simon just smirks again, clicking his tongue once. "None of that, honey. Don't ruin your pretty face with tears." He chides, hand reaching out to wipe a stray wet line down your face, grin widening when you don't flinch or pull away.

The waitress returns with their food—two steaming mugs and a plate of pancakes that smell faintly of butter. “Enjoy, hon,” she says, sliding the plate toward You. You don’t move. “He—he took me,” she says, eyes darting between them, voice trembling now. “You understand that, right?” The waitress looks at you for a long moment, then at him.

Her expression doesn’t change. “Yep. Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.” She walks away, but you could've sworn you saw her lips twitching upwards. It fills you with overwhelming frustration, the kind that makes your eyes prickle with hot tears.

Simon sighs, as if you've just said something naïve. He reaches out, and before you can even think of flinching away, he lightly rests his hand on your shoulder, rubbing comfortingly. The gesture would be almost tender- if he wasn't hiding a smirk of amusement underneath. “They’re all in on it, honey,” he says gently. “You really think I wouldn’t think this through?” He speaks gently, almost condescendingly. Your hazy brain doesn't understand the difference. Outside, the neon sign flickers again. OPEN 24 HOURS. The hum presses against the glass. Inside, the coffee steams between them, and you realise that, somehow, this is worse than cruelty—this quiet certainty, this perfect, careful politeness.

"Shhh baby," He coos, wiping away her tears with the pad of his thumb. "I'll take good care of you."

[sweet-honey-tears]

I love the creepy undertone so much

[broodmotherophie]

Okay, okay. Hear me out...

Simon gets dosed with a truth serum, and Johnny is absolutely taking the piss.

Pairing: Simon×Fem!Y/N | Mild Sexual Content | Truth Serum

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"Would you fuck y/n?" Soap asked Ghost, grinning ferally.

Ghost's head snapped toward him with a speed that would have been intimidating if his throat wasn't darkening to a vibrant maroon at the hem of his balaclava. For a single, long moment, the room held its breath—Gaz frozen with his coffee halfway to his lips, Price watching from the doorway with the resignation of a man who had seen too much warfare to be surprised by interpersonal chaos.

Then, the serum kicked in.

"Yes," Ghost said, and the word came out so fast and so forcefully that it actually made Soap jump.

"Absolutely. Without hesitation. In a—" He stopped. Swallowed. The serum pushed. "—in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat. In a negative amount of time. I would go back in time an' do it yesterday if that was an option. S'not an option—time travel doesn't exist—but if it did, I'd—"

"Christ alive," Soap breathed, almost awed.

"—I'd do it so fast," Ghost continued helplessly, the words pouring out of him like water through a breached dam. "I'd do it so—y'don't even understand, Johnny. Y'don't understan' what y've just asked me. Y've opened a door that can't be closed now. M'gonna be thinkin' about that question for weeks. Months. Forever. M'gonna be on my deathbed thinkin' about that question because yes. Yes, I bloody would. Have y'seen her?"

"We've all seen her, Lt.," Gaz wheezed, practically crying with laughter now. "She's standin' right there."

"Right there," Ghost agreed, gesturing at y/n with his cuffed hands as if Soap had just made an excellent point. "Right there. Bein' pretty. Bein' the prettiest person I've ever—I already said that, didn't I? I already said that twice. S'still true. S'more true now. S'been—" He glanced at the clock on the wall. "—four minutes. S'been four minutes an' s'even more true than it was when I first said it. How is that possible? How is she gettin' prettier?"

"She's nae gettin' prettier," Soap wheezed. "She's jus' standin' there."

"Exactly. Exactly. She's just standin' there, an' she's gettin' prettier. That's the problem, Johnny. That's the whole bloody problem."

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a/n: i am so obsessed. the mental image of big, strong, silent Ghost suddenly word-vomiting an obsession is both hysterical and adorable to me.

[amaranthinespirit]

neighbor!simon riley who can't say no to you asking him for help (and still does things without you having to). pt.1

ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.

you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.

so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.

and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.

first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.

it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.

with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.

until you notice something odd.

coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.

what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?

yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.

so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.

except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.

his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.

"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."

planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.

but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.

but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.

he can't wait to help you again.

[generationalcrow]

INTERN GOSSIP

your ex uses his favorite intern to get back in your good graces

warnings; language. mild suggestiveness(just eluding to the activity) texts to fumikage in keigo’s pov. keigo being a down bad menace 💔

© generationalcrow . please do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my works to ai .

[targetedknowledge]

[astrwww]

𝜗ৎ Sucking simon's soul through his sweet cock :p

cw. mature content.

Simon never thought he'd love someone's mouth on his cock, ever. Just the thought of being so intimate with someone has him shuddering, sure he doesn't hate it. His past hookups were decent enough, he never went down on them because that wasn't really his thing and he never forced them to do the same either but when a few of them insisted, he gave in. But ofcourse it didn't really get him going.

So when you came along and sink down on your knees for the first time, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes, simon can't help but caress your hair. You unbuckled his cargo, pulling down the zipper as you stared at the prominent bulge straining against his boxers. You eagerly pulled them down, just enough to reveal his massive throbbing cock, "woah.. it's big" you whispered in awe. Your hands gently took the bulge in your palm, feeling it twitch to life in your hold.

He bit back a groan as you rubbed your small thumb on his swollen tip, the bead of precum smearing on your fingers as you let out a giggle and pulled away, bringing the finger to your mouth as you licked it clean, making simon grunt, "Fuck, don' do that luv." But you couldn't help but smirk as you looked up at him and while maintaining eye contact, you pushed his cock down your throat in one go.

Simon couldn't stop the groan that slipped as his large hand gripped your hair tightly, "Fuckin' hell", you choked around him, your spit dribbling past your mouth as you tried to hollow your cheeks but just the sheer girth of it has the inside of your cheeks stretched wide as you gagged. You could barely breath as he quite literally had blocked your windpipe, your hands fisted into simon's jeans as tears burned in your eyes. You pulled back before trying to take more of him but you just couldn't! He was just too big!!

You fully pulled back now, sputtering as you tried to catch your breath but simon groaned in frustration, "Bloody hell!" His hips bucked, chasing your warm mouth, "can't sii, you're so biiig!" You coughed as his tip poked your cheek but simon's hazel eyes looked down at you, wide with new found obsession, "ya can take it." He muttered before gripping your hair and thrusting his cock in.

He let out a grunt, pushing your head deeper onto his cock, not caring if you gagged or cried. Would it be sadistic if he happened to like the sounds you made as you struggled to take his cock down your throat, it did hurt him seeing your poor jaw slacked open as you tried your best to take him but he's make sure to kiss your face better, his poor dovie. Your cheeks sucked on his girthy length while your hands travelled to his heavy balls, squeezing them as he bucked his hips in sudden excessive pleasure.

"Jesus!" Simon's hand gripped your hair as his stomach scrunched and he came right down your throat, making you gag as you pulled back. His cum flowing down the side of your mouth as you coughed, sniffling as tears and snot ran down your face. It was such a mess and honestly as simon stared down at you, there was just hearts missing in his eyes, this had just become his new favourite view. "Ya were amazin', luv."

@masterlist

[lesserthan-3]

reader who is, unfortunately, a “too honest for their own good” kind of drunk who gets dragged to the bar with tf141.

“kyyyle,” you slur, leaning over the table to which Gaz cracks a smile. “so pretty…anyone ever tell you you’re pretty? like ‘men should be buying you dinner’ pretty.”

soap snorts, an amused smile on his lips. “Ya don’ even get a handsome, just fuckin’ pretty.”

“oi, piss off, soap,” replies gaz with no real heat behind it. “and you,” he starts, bringing his attention backed to your slumped form, “are a shitty drinker.”

you giggle, barely lifting up your head from the table.

price shakes his head, taking a large swing from the pint. “kids these days.”

the laughter dies down, everyone enjoying the relaxing ambiance that’s been so hard to enjoy with missions on end these days. that is until-

“ugh- I’m so horny.”

the table stills, all eyes landing on your slumped form before soap bursts into uncontrollable laughter. his fist slams the table as gaz tries to still the man who’s slightly tipsy and leaning back in his chair.

“bloody hell,” ghost mumbles, crossing his arms. “you’re one them, huh? those honest-to-god-drunks.”

“you shouldn’t be saying those things out loud,” advises price, knowing full well that it’s going to go unheard seeing as you’re shit-faced drunk right now.

you groan, forehead connected with the table again. “you don’t get it. you’re old- probably have the sex drive of a tumble weed.”

gaz and soap have a poor attempt at stifling a laugh and even ghost cracks a small and an unseen smirk at your comment. price doesn’t bother with a retort, knowing you’ll have your regrets when they tell you about this conversation in the morning.

soap puts an encouraging pat on your back. “aye, cmon lass, if ya wanted to get laid, all ye gotta do is ask.” it’s clearly a joke but your head perks up anyways.

“don’t tempt me, cause I’ve thought about it.”

“you don’t say…” his eyes light up with interest.

ghost interrupts with a warning tone. “don’t encourage her, Johnny.”

“too late, LT.” soap stalks around your chair, sliding his arms ‘round back. he leans in close till you pick up the scent of beer on his lips. “tell me, what d’ya think of?”

you match his lean with one of your own, eyes blown wide and curious. “are you rough in bed? tell me you’re rough in bed.”

soap smirks, flashing a charming wink. “aye, lass. why? want my handprint on your ass?” ghost flashes him a stern look but soap merely shrugs unapologetically.

you groan at his answer, “god, I hope I remember that in the morning.”

“we get it. we get it. you’re horny for soap. let’s stop before I hurl.” gaz puts his hand on your shoulders, urging you to drink more water.

“dont be jealous, gaz. you’re in there too.”

and suddenly, the angel on his shoulder disappears. “oh yeah?”

“god, you have no idea how hard it is to work with hot men all day long. takes everything in me to not just give up on the mats and let you just pin me down.”

by now, soap has his phone out, recording this for evidence when you’re inevitably going to try to walk back on your words in the morning.

“would love to be bent over a desk, don’t even care who’s behind me. or who’s the biggest? LT? probably not you then- at least not first.”

you ramble on and on… about how you could get off to the gruff sound of your captains voice alone, or how sometimes you’d be soaking wet through your panties if they praised you enough.

and it’s not until you go into an explicit and ultra-specific scenario that involves all four men, some rope, vibrators, and a blindfold, going to ultra-specific detail about soap in your pussy, price in your mouth, and how maybe you’d even let someone in your ass, does someone do the sensible thing of slapping a hand around your mouth.

“I’m gonna take my hand off’ya, and you’re gon’ be quiet, yeah?”

your eyes glance up to a stone cold stare behind a mask, meeting his gaze before you nod. “good girl.”

his hand slowly withdraws and you’re silent. it stays that was for a moment, everyone unsure how to break the tension left in the air after your revelation…that is until-

“aye, what’s that LT?”

and that, would be the stiffy that’s hardly concealed behind his jeans- perhaps he needs to buy baggier clothes from now on.

you stare at it. then you stare at him. “god, I knew you were big.”