simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film you’re watching together and sighs out a dreamy little “that’s us” and then just doesn’t elaborate at all
Your hotel's being swatted. It's three in the morning and you're being fucking swatted.
Was it that asshole on Facebook last night? The guy that tried getting nudes on the MMO?? Some unknown force you've somehow scorned without your knowledge???
There's no other explanation in your mind when you see no less than five armored vehicles pull into the lot from the sanctuary of the back office and its security camera feed. The cars move like they're magnetized, never deviating more than an inch from bumper to bumper, pulling under the awning in a neat little line.
No one storms the lobby. There's no wailing sirens or shouting, no "GO GO GO!" like in the movies. Just a single man, pulling off sunglasses it was way too late to be wearing, looking at the front of the hotel like it spat in his coffee.
He takes a single step towards the doors and you're gone, rushing to the front desk as if you'd been there for hours like a dutiful little night auditor instead of watching Netflix in the back room. The sound of your keyboard is like the rattatattat of a gun as you wait for that chunky slide of gears as the front doors part for him.
"Evenin'. Got any rooms?"
He sounds as thrilled to be here as you are. He casts a sweeping glance around the lobby like it's shit on his boot, even though every chair and table and ottoman is immaculately placed and the floors clean enough to eat off of. Not that you would. The mop water after you'd finished up earlier gave you enough reason not to.
"Sure do," you answer, quiet enough for the late hour but still polite enough not to come off as a mumble. "Just for the night?"
He glances at you with the bluest eyes you've seen since outside a movie screen, but you're too distracted by the tense set of his shoulders, the slight wrinkle of his left nostril. This man is grumpy. Pissed, even. You hope he doesn't make it your problem and plaster the kindest, most innocent smile you can muster to encourage whatever sliver of patience he might still have.
"Depends on what you've got for me," he drawls, all Southern American accent you can't quite pin. "Got a big team with me and nowhere to put 'em. You know what's goin' on? All the hotels in the past hundred miles have been booked up."
All the nice ones, he says without words. Your homey little back road inn was clearly not on his itinerary. You think it's a nice enough place, but don't say anything.
"'tis the season," you say for the umpteenth time that day. Plenty of walk ins have asked and it's the vaguest answer you've managed to put together. "We've got a few music festivals in the city, weddings, I think there's some big home game out in the capital--"
He clearly doesn't give two shits about any of that.
"Um... How many rooms do you need?" You cast a wary glance at the literal military convoy just outside your front doors. "I've got a handful left--"
"Done."
Huh.
"We... don't have any king rooms," you quickly add. "Just some double queens and suites with pull-out couches--"
"Yup yup," he says without looking at you, already pulling out his wallet. "You got breakfast?"
You're still a little shocked over this man talking about making a massive walk-in reservation like it's a coffee order. "Oh-- uh, yeah, it's um... standard fare. Waffle irons, cereal, toast and bagels--"
He inhales through his nose like every word you speak is a knife in his gut. "That it?"
"...yeah..." Why do you feel like this is your fault? "Had to cut down when we lost our chef. We make little biscuit breakfast sandwiches, but they're for microwaving--"
"Fine. It's fine, just..." He inhales sharply. "Phil Graves. Military discount. I want the rest of you available rooms."
He waves a credit card you feel like you'd go into a lifetime of debt just from existing near.
The check-in process is easy enough. His name really is Phil Graves, he really has some fancy military discount you didn't even know you had coded in, and he really bought all of the rooms not already spoken for by late arrivals. You've never seen a four digit reservation cost before. You're not sure you ever will again.
"Better make sure you've got backup for breakfast," he smirks as he takes the stack of key cards. "My boys are like bottomless pits after a job."
You think maybe he's trying to make light of buying out the building until the convoy starts unloading. You're not sure if you've booked a SWAT team, a small army, or some weird cosplaying sports team. Maybe all three? Your lobby sounds like a mall during Christmas. You can't hear yourself think. You're pretty sure a handful of them are limping and were actively bleeding at some point.
You pray the cranky old biddy in 114 doesn't call you about the noise. A prayer that lands at the feet of a spiteful god, clearly, as the phone lights up with her number.
Phillip Graves leans against the counter as he hands out key cards, his head tilted just so towards you as you prattle on to the old woman and assure her the noise will stop soon and, "yes, yes, of course, Mrs. Wilson, I'll make a note for my boss to get you a refund, I'm so sorry--"
When he whistles, the lobby goes silent. You don't realize you're gawping until 114 hangs up and the line is beeping in your ear and Graves reaches over to gently guide it back down to its cradle. You're too shocked to even snap at him about touching you. You can't even really be mad: he does it with the tips of his fingers, firm enough to guide but gentle enough for you to pull away if you wanted to, almost respectful if it weren't for that smirk on his face.
"Settle down, Shadows, we won't want to make more work for 'em." He talks like a football coach. The mob of men listen like every word is gospel. "Buddy up, least four in a room. Get real comfy with each other, okay? We're rollin' out at 0800 sharp!"
The off-beat chorus of "yup yup"s make your head spin. It's like an echo chamber. You can't bring yourself to tell him you have occupancy rules and you're pretty sure he'd just laugh at you if you tried. You're still looking over everyone, trying to see a team name or organization, counting heads as you go so you have an approximate number when you tell the morning crew the fuckery you checked in.
There's some hand waves, shoulders clapped, soft whispers and laughter. All it took was a whistle and a firm instruction, and over 70 men and women tromp off to their rooms while a few others go to park the cars. In less than ten minutes, your quiet little inn's been overrun like a small country.
A cult. It has to be a cult, right? You catch "Shadow Company" written on someone's sleeve and wonder if you'e got the cajones to try googling it.
The crisp bills Graves hands over to you as a tip "for all the trouble" doesn't help your curiosity, but it sure as hell sends you into another tizzy over how he can drop all this money without batting an eye. You almost don't take it, sputtering over "just my job"s and "it's really no trouble"s, while your mind runs off with the ideas of secret militias and mafias and blood money as if you have any idea what any of those words mean--
He all but makes you take it. You swear his smirk only grows as you squirm, as he lays another hundred down just to watch your eyes bug out. "You keep turnin' down my charity, I'll just keep addin' more," he chuckles, leaning into your space just enough to make your cheeks heat up and your stomach flip, but not enough to encroach and make you feel like you're in danger...
Well, more than you already do. You're pretty sure this is actually hush money. Or a kink, considering how much tension has eased from his stance and how he watches you like he's waiting for you to break.
You accept the tip once it starts looking like a week's paycheck, even though it makes your skin itch when he almost looks disappointed. It's not like you're not allowed to accept tips, you've just never seen someone handle that much money all at once.
Fucking rich people.
...
The "Shadow Company" leaves just shy of 0800, the front desk's shitty printer taking its sweet time printing out every invoice Graves needs to collect for reimbursement. You're not entirely sure he needs it. He shrugs his shoulders when you say as much, shooting you that dangerous smirk. "Gotta keep track of the paper trail," he explains, vague as the rest of his stay.
True to his word, his "Shadows", his "boys", eat the inn out of house and home. The breakfast attendant looks like she fought a war and the kitchen is plundered from the battle. You'd managed to dig out the old hot well to warm up the sausage patties and bacon strips, something better than microwaved frittatas and half-frozen biscuits, and even that lasted less than an hour before the kitchen just... ran out of what usually took over a week to burn through. Yogurt, bagels, toast, condiments... You were pretty sure your lungs were half waffle flour with how many times you had to remake the batter before the attendant came in.
Graves tries to tip you again for the efforts. You accept before he can play his little game, disappointing as it is for him, but you can feel his eyes on you when you sneak away from the desk to give some of the money to the attendant who looks like a grizzled apocalypse survivor not even an hour into her own shift. Honestly, with how she's got things rationed out for the rest of the weekend, it doesn't feel that far off.
8:05, they're gone like the shadows they're named after. Housekeeping starts a silent war when someone realizes they tipped just as generously as Graves. You're halfway out the door when the morning shift calls out about your breakfast...
You sure as hell didn't have time to order delivery but, sure enough, there's a coffee and pastry from the local shop, your name scrawled in a familiar script and a little black business card emblazoned with a rook and spade logo you saw on every Shadow last night.
unstable, that’s what they called him. unpredictable. a flight risk. john mactavish, one of the brightest minds and purest souls of his time, a would-be legend, reduced to no more than couple callous words on a page. unfit to serve.
he fought for his nation, gave it everything he had, everything he was made of, yet all he has to show for it is this. medals collecting dust on a shelf. pill bottles in the medicine cabinet. a clogged voicemail box. a chunk of hair missing at his temple, where the skin puckers and folds. this ceaseless ringing in his ears and a voice in his head that does not sound like his own.
that’s what they don’t tell you about recovery. it’s lonely. his brothers, his team, are long gone, having been called pack to the line of duty as soon as they were sure he was out of the woods. they call, or, at least, simon does, but he rarely answers. his parents haven’t spoken to him in years, not since he enlisted, and not even his brush with death was enough to belly their pride. his sisters don’t have the time to waste on him, what with their husbands and wives and bairns. it’s only him and the voice, and the doctors he sees thrice every week, who don’t seem to know just what to do with him.
and you, of course. the sweet young thing who waits on him anytime he stops by the diner down the road, which he does after every single appointment. the coffee’s shit, always burnt, but the pancakes aren’t half bad, and he drains his mug anyways, only so that you come back around to fill it. you’re the only one who looks him in the eye as of late — you talk to him, laugh with him, tease him like you aren’t afraid that he’ll fly off the handle. you remember his name, and you smile warmly at him, and you fumble so prettily when he flirts.
you talk too much, really. you tell him things that make him think too hard, plant ideas in his head that tend to take root before he can stop them. you tell him about your dilapidated flat, and your sleazy, greedy landlord, and your lackluster paychecks, and your absent family. how cruel this world can be, he muses, to such lovely, deserving creatures like you. it’s unfair.
one day, on his way out the door, he notices that the camera out front is dangling by its wires. broken, probably for decades now. useless. it explains why half the cars in the lot are sporting keyed doors or taped up windows. you truly have nothing to protect you, do you? he would scold you for it, but, well, it won’t matter. soon, none of it will. you will never have to worry about anything so trivial, ever again.
the week he spends away from the diner, away from you, nearly kills him. he’s soothed, only, by the knowledge that, soon, you’ll never be apart again. there are preparations to be made, precautions he must take. everything has to be perfect. you’ll forgive him for his absence, once you see all that he’s done for you. he’s sure of it. you’re too kind not to. you’re not the type to hold a grudge.
you don’t recognize the truck. of course you wouldn’t. it’s new, he got it from some old man two towns over, paid in cash and didn’t give his name. and, as far as you know, johnny doesn’t drive. he takes a taxi to and from the diner, every time, because they’d invalidated his license after his brain injury. as if he’s incapable. like he’s any less the man he was before. bastards.
no, you don’t recognize the truck. you don’t even bat an eye at it, not when you lock the diner’s doors behind you, or as you cross the wide parking lot to begin your journey to the bus stop. it’s naive of you. it’s plain stupid, really. you should know better. but, for tonight, he’s glad you don’t.
he’s glad you’re foolish enough to shove your earbuds in your ears as you walk, drowning out the opening of his door and his unsteady gait on the damp pavement. he’s glad you’re oblivious enough to not even notice him approaching until it’s much too late, until he’s got a strong arm wrapped around your neck and his free hand, clutching a wet rag that smells like dread, pressed to your mouth. you try to scream, kick your legs and flail about, but it’s useless. he’s bigger, stronger, and no one’s coming to save you. there’s no one around, no one but him. not that you need anyone else.
he doesn’t struggle with your deadweight when you go limp, doesn’t falter for even a moment as he sweeps you clean off of your feet and into his arms. he carries you swiftly back to the truck, where warmth chases off the chill of the rain and evaporates the moisture that wets your hair, pressing a kiss to your brow so tender it could mistaken for something familiar. “just rest f’now, sweet’eart. we’ll be home soon.”
home. the little cabin in the woods that nikolai signed off to him. a gift of sorts. he’ll thank him properly, eventually, once you’ve settled. he’d never have been able to pull this off without nikolai’s encouragement.
“loneliness is a cancer, boy. don’t let it get the better of you, not yet.”
he begins the long, long drive with one eye on the road and the other on you, strewn across his back seat with your face turned to him. the soft, steady rythm of your breathing drowns out that voice, if only for a while.
“we’ll be home soon.” he repeats. your lashes flutter in your slumber, and he smiles, thinking that maybe you can hear him. maybe you do know what’s good for you, after all.
stuttering around Soap would be sooooo dangerous, I think he'd like it just a bit too much. his baseline intensity is already so high, and then if you were to accidentally misspeak or stutter around him, his attention would just fully laser in on you like a shark smelling blood in the water. just a little too interested in hearing you do that again, preferably with less clothes on.
𑇓࿐۫ gangster! john price x his tipsy sweetheart ⋆.˚
͏ summary :- a dare sends you stumbling towards john price, the towns most feared gangster. what began as harmless fun soon becomes something far more dangerous
friday nights had become a bit of a tradition.
every week, you and your friends would pile into the same pub after work, claiming the little table near the bar and spending the evening drinking, gossiping and laughing until closing time.
and every friday, without fail, john and his lads would already be there, settled around their own usual table, deep in conversation with glasses of whiskey scattered across the table.
over time, you'd become familiar with one another in that strange way regulars did. you knew their faces, they knew yours. well matter of fact everyone knew john price and his men, part of the underworld in your not so small town.
they would occasionally nod in your groups direction when you walked in, and you'd give them a little smile still wary of the fact those five men could end anyone in a matter of seconds.
tonight, however, your group had a few more drinks than usual, celebrating the long weekend ahead.
"I'm not drinking anymore" you huffed, already noticing the your head was slightly spinning as your friend slid another shot glass towards you
"oh, come on, you lightweight," she teased, bumping her shoulder against yours. "let's celebrate!"
she picked up both shot glasses with a grin, practically singing the last word.
you narrowed your eyes, shaking your head dramatically "shut up, no more"
she only laughed, setting the glasses back down before her gaze wandered towards the corner of the pub.
john was sitting with his lads as usual, one arm resting against the back of the booth, he wore a simple dark shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, a few buttons left undone at the collar. a cigar rested between his fingers as he listened to one of his men speak, occasionally taking a slow sip from his whiskey.
your friend leaned closer, setting the shot glasses back down with a mischievous grin.
"l've got a better idea."
you raised a brow, following her gaze towards john's table.
"absolutely not" you whispered, eyes widening.
"you don't even know what I'm going to say." she groaned dramatically, rolling her head back.
"I know that look." you narrowed your eyes at her, already suspicious.
"go over there and make john price smile." she wiggled her eyebrows, chuckling to herself.
you glanced towards him again, watching the way his features had hardened with concentration as he listened intently to whatever business they were discussing.
"have you gone insane?" you hushed, shaking your head.
"oh, come on. It won't be that bad." she pleaded, trying not to laugh.
you looked between them in disbelief considering your options. surely he wouldn't murder you..right? and with the fifty pounds you could get yourself the dior lipgloss you wanted...
"oh fuck it, I'm getting my fifty quid."
you pushed yourself out of your seat and knocked back the shot, letting the burn settle your nerves. you straightened your skirt, smoothed down your blouse before your brain had the chance to remind you what a terrible idea this was and started making your way towards their table.
john noticed you approaching, his eyes lifted from his glass as he looked at the way your hips swayed. ghost followed his gaze, his conversation trailing off as the lads gawked at you with amusement.
you stopped beside their table, placing both hands against the edge to steady yourself. john took a slow drag from his cigar, smoke curling lazily around his face as your heart hammered against your chest.
"evening, gents" you giggled, looking across the five men before your hazy gaze eventually settled on john. you blinked a few times, trying to get him into focus.
"evening, sweetheart" he gruffed, tapping the ash from his cigar into the tray. "you alright?"
"perfect" you replied sweetly.
you leaned against the edge of the table, your tipsy confidence making you blissfully unaware of the attention you'd drawn from the men around you. john's eyes briefly flickered down to your cleavage before returning to your flushed, slightly dazed face, his jaw tightening as he tried to keep his composure.
"l've got something to tell you." you stated, grinning ear to ear.
"go on then sweets" john put his cigar down in the ashtray, leaning back on his seat.
"you know what your problem is?" you pointed your finger at him.
soap snorted loudly, clearly amused how a sweet thing like you, pointing your finger to the most dangerous man around.
"what's that?" john's mouth twitched as his eyes gleamed with amusement
"you have a very nice face" you giggled, standing straight up again.
gaz coughed into his drink as john stared at you in disbelief for a few moments. slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted making you gasp loudlv, stomping your heels in victory.
"you smiled!" you cheered, clapping your hands together
"I did not." he immediately tried to straighten his expression. but the way your whole face lifted made his heart flutter.
"you did!" you protested, looking at the others for confirmation.
"she got you, boss." ghost stated matter of fact, takin a sip of his drink.
"Ol!" you spun around towards your friends across the floor, the pub quieten down due to your outburst.
"I WANT MY FIFTY QUID!" you pointed dramatically at your friend.
you friend burst into laughter cheering loudly. you turned back towards john, far too pleased with yourself.
you stared at him for a moment, the realisation of exactly who you were standing in front of finally sinking in. the smile slowly fell from your face, a flicker of panic washing over your features as your eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights.
“wait” you mumbled, your brain suddenly running a mile a minute as you glanced nervously between john and the lads.
“am i gonna get killed?” you whispered, your clammy hands immediately coming up to cover your face.
oh, fuck. i said that out loud. stupid. stupid. stupid.
the table erupted into laughter, only making your cheeks burn hotter as you peeked at them through your fingers.
“nah, you’re safe, doll” he smirked watching how genuinely frightened his sweetheart suddenly looked. you slowly lowered your hands, still looking at him warily.
“for now” soap muttered under his breath. you heard him, making your eyes widen all over again.
“mactavish” john rumbled, giving him a sharp side eye. soap immediately lifted his hands in surrender, still grinning.
“promise?” you squeaked, looking back at john.
john’s expression softened slightly, the amusement fading just enough for you to see he was serious.
“promise, love. no one’s touching ya. you have my word” you nodded, relief washing over you.
"thank you for the fifty quid" you squealed, taking a step backwards to rejoin your friends. however, your heel caught awkwardly against the floor causing you to lose your balance.
"woah -" you stumbled.
john reacted instantly. his hand shot out, catching your waist before you could fall, but your momentum sent you stumbling straight towards him, landing straight onto his lap. john's arm remained firmly around your waist, keeping you steady.
"easy, sweetheart." he muttered as your hands landed against his shoulders. your eyes landed on the table, widen in shock as your smile disappeared. you started blinking rapidly to get your eyes to focus again as you clutched onto him for dear life.
beneath john's hand sat a folded photograph, its edges worn but you still managed to change a glimpse, a man's face circled in red ink with a name scrawled beneath it. to the side lay a couple of pistols, half concealed by newspapers and other letters, easy to miss unless you were at the table.
his hand tightened around your waist, keeping you steady as his other hand gently brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. he moved slightly, positioning you away from where your eyes had eyes landed making goosebumps crawl over your spine as you frowned. he leaned closer, his warm breath of whiskey and smoke fanning your ear.
"forget what you seen, alright, love?" he murmured, his thumb brushing behind your ear as his blue eyes darkened, piercing directly at yours.
you swallowed, too out of it to fully register what you saw, meeting his gaze and giving him a quick nod.
"good girl" his hand remained at your waist for another moment, before you got up, instinctively making sure you were steady before he carefully helped you back onto your feet.
"go on" he murmured. "back to your friends before you fall over again." you smoothed your skirt back down, tossing your hair over your shoulder, coming back to your senses.
"goodnight." you grinned, giving a small wave to the group.
"night, sweetheart." john smirked, watching you made your way back towards your table, where your friends were absolutely losing their minds.
"cheeky little thing" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head whilst looking at you highfiving your girls.
"you reckon she knows, boss?" soap glanced towards you, then back at john.
john took another slow drag of his cigar, his eyes still fixed on you.
"nah" he muttered. "she's had too much to drink."
"you sure?" ghost added, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"she won't remember half of bloody tonight by morning." john finally looked away sighing and reaching for his whiskey and downing it completely.
an hour passed and the alcohol finally began to wear off, leaving you more aware of your surroundings. you couldn't help but remember the feeling of something hard beneath you when you fell onto his lap. your face burning as the realisation hit, a small smile playing on your lips, leaving you suddenly far too shy to look back at him.
but then your heart lurched as you also remembered the photograph, a familiar face making your smile wipe away.
the face of the man you recognised so well. the man who looked exactly like your ex boyfriend.
you looked back at john, but he was already watching you.
Knight with a house crest carved into their backs. An order where all members have their tongues pierced with a jewel that burns should they lie. Body modifications that are not even possible outside of fantasy.
How will tf141 react if you stole their shirts/hoodies
Okay now imagine this but with dragon!reader....
You've never really had a proper hoard, what with going through the military. Constantly changing bases, moving locations for ops, having your bunk torn to shreds by drill instructors...yeah. bad times for your hoard instincts.
Sure, you kept a small bag of trinkets and momentos that kept you sane, but nothing like the sprawling hoard your ma had back home.
Not until captain price pulls you onto his team.
Now, you've got a relatively stable base you work from. More than that, you're starting to feel those hoard-pack instincts with your teammates....
You know you shouldn't. You know humans find it weird, but asking them outright is somehow worse. No soldier talks about feelings unless they're bleeding out or blackout drunk.
So...you maybe grab a few items here and there.
Ghosts hoodie that he left in the lockers while he showered, prices jacket he left in the humvee that one time. Snagging a pair of gazs sweatpants when they go through the wash, and one of soaps old band-tees from the same load.
They all go into your hoard, a comfortable pile on your bed that smells like pack.
You don't wear them around base, of course not. But on weekends or nights out enjoying yourself, you do. It's comforting, like your packmates have claimed you though they don't know it yet. Sometimes you like to just pop up to the local shop wearing one of their things for the sole purpose of being seen by others in it.
You...massively miscalculated exactly how hidden you've been until you see a notification pop up on soaps phone.
Lizard shots
Gaz: got this one last night at the park, I think thats johns beanie [image]
The photo attached was a blurry shot of you.
You, at the part, wings spread mid take-off. You scroll up a bit, and find photo after photo of you in their clothes. Some hastily taken, some clear and seemingly hidden behind corners and doors.
Those assholes knew the whole time, and turned it into a game.
Are we still doing that weird fandom thing where we pretend crack ships can’t exist anymore because I want to talk about Starfire who is always willing to feed everyone her weird tamaranean food and Ghost who’s down to eat anything
"Stop moving, dovie." Your husband murmers. "Don't wanna cut you."
"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to see how it looks."
You feel an amused puff of air against your upper thigh. "Looks the same as it does any time you do it. Now hold still."
You huff but obey his command. It's not that you don't trust Simon to do it right. In fact, the man has the keenest eye for detail you've ever seen. What's bothering you is quite how large your belly has swollen as you enter your final trimester. It's one thing to know your belly will eclipse the sight of your lower extremities, and another to experience it.
As he carefully drags the razor over the fuzz of your bush, Simon senses the discomfort swirling within you. He presses a brief kiss to the swell of your belly before cracking a joke to distract you "If Johnny knew I was doing this, he'd be scratching and howling at our bloody door. Worse'n a dog."
"Good thing I'm not Johnny's, then." You say with a coy giggle.
Simon pauses, wiping your skin with a damp cloth as he finishes shaving for you. He groans as he stands, callused hands trailing against your legs. Finally, he fixes you with a dangerous smirk.
"Don't mean he's not drooling at the thought of you when he thinks I'm not looking."
You flush. "Simon, I-"
Your behemoth of a husband leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear as the small of bar soap and shaving cream wash over you soothingly. "Especially since I put this baby in you. Poor bastard can't handle the jealousy."
You squirm, but say silent. It's no secret that your husband's friend is desperate for a taste of you. Simon's made it clear he's open to sharing, but you still don't know what to think. You've never done anything outside of the strict bounds of monogamy. And yet, there's no denying that Johnny is attractive.
Simon breaks through your thoughts. "Maybe you throw a dog a bone, let him put the next one in you."
"Simon." Your tone is scandalized as your face turns scarlet. Simon gives you a sly grin, dodging your attempt to swat at him. "Let's get you to bed, dove."
"Stop moving, dovie." Your husband murmers. "Don't wanna cut you."
"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to see how it looks."
You feel an amused puff of air against your upper thigh. "Looks the same as it does any time you do it. Now hold still."
You huff but obey his command. It's not that you don't trust Simon to do it right. In fact, the man has the keenest eye for detail you've ever seen. What's bothering you is quite how large your belly has swollen as you enter your final trimester. It's one thing to know your belly will eclipse the sight of your lower extremities, and another to experience it.
As he carefully drags the razor over the fuzz of your bush, Simon senses the discomfort swirling within you. He presses a brief kiss to the swell of your belly before cracking a joke to distract you "If Johnny knew I was doing this, he'd be scratching and howling at our bloody door. Worse'n a dog."
"Good thing I'm not Johnny's, then." You say with a coy giggle.
Simon pauses, wiping your skin with a damp cloth as he finishes shaving for you. He groans as he stands, callused hands trailing against your legs. Finally, he fixes you with a dangerous smirk.
"Don't mean he's not drooling at the thought of you when he thinks I'm not looking."
You flush. "Simon, I-"
Your behemoth of a husband leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear as the small of bar soap and shaving cream wash over you soothingly. "Especially since I put this baby in you. Poor bastard can't handle the jealousy."
You squirm, but say silent. It's no secret that your husband's friend is desperate for a taste of you. Simon's made it clear he's open to sharing, but you still don't know what to think. You've never done anything outside of the strict bounds of monogamy. And yet, there's no denying that Johnny is attractive.
Simon breaks through your thoughts. "Maybe you throw a dog a bone, let him put the next one in you."
"Simon." Your tone is scandalized as your face turns scarlet. Simon gives you a sly grin, dodging your attempt to swat at him. "Let's get you to bed, dove."
john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.
though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.
price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.
you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.
he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.
so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.
you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.
in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.
the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.
in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.
he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.
and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.
you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.
he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.
whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.
so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.
today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.
you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.
that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.
in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.
nobody knows a thing.
in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.
john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.
there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.
back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.
the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.
john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.
you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.
that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.
he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?
the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.
and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?
no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.
and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.
Every single day, ghost brings a little beetle terrarium onto base. He carries it instead of a coffee like price, and keeps it on his desk while he does paperwork. It houses a single scarab that he talks to constantly, mumbling on and on with it and pausing like it can talk.
Soap genuinely petitions for a psyche eval after ghost claims "that's my promised, johnny. Don't touch 'em."
For a solid few months people believe ghost is honest to god in a relationship with his beetle. Technically, he is, he just never tells anyone that you're a beetle shifter until he brings you to prices place for team dinner.
Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Riley’s problems
It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.
Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.
Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.
Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.
His cock, apparently, had decided not to.
He’d noticed it gradually.
Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.
Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.
Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble
He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.
Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.
He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.
He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.
Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.
So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.
Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.
He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.
It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.
Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.
Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.
New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.
Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.
You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.
The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”
“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.
“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”
He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.
Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.
Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.
By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.
Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.
Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.
Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.
One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.
“Use another one.”
“Wanted this one.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Been told.”
You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.”
Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.
The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.
You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.
Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.
“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.
“Not putting that in an official report.”
“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”
“I am an asshole.”
“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”
You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.
He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.
You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.
Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.
“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “
Simon stopped listening.
His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.
For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.
Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.
He was hard.
Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.
Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.
You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.
He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”
Simon said nothing.
“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”
His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.
If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.
“No,” he finally said.
“Then say something.”
There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”
Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”
You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.
He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.
The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.
Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”
By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.
After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.
So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.
You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”
“Comfy.”
Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”
“Plenty elsewhere.”
“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”
“Sounds inconvenient.”
You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.
Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.
Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”
His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.
There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.
You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.
“Nothin’.”
“You look weird.”
“Always look like this.”
“No, you’re acting weird.”
Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.
Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.
He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.
There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.
Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.
“Riley.”
Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.
“Riley.”
Nothing.
“Simon.”
There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.
“Wot?” he asked.
“I’ve been talking to you.”
“Have you?”
Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.
Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.
Three times constituted a pattern.
After that, his behavior became indefensible.
He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.
He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.
A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.
The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”
His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.
Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”
Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.
Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.
Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.
Simon turned his head very slowly.
Gaz’s eyebrows rose.
“Wot?”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”
Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.
It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.
He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.
Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.
Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.
Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.
But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.
It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.
Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.
But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.
Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.
Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.
The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.
You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”
Simon remained where he was, arms folded.
“Riley.”
“Hm?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”
“Small corridor.”
“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”
“Skill.”
You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.
“Are you twelve?”
“Could ask you the same.”
“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”
Heat tightened beneath his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.
Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”
You went very still.
There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.
Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.
The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.
Simon looked down at them.
You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.
Silence settled between you.
Simon felt the exact moment you understood.
Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.
“No.”
He said nothing.
Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”
“No.”
The denial came far too quickly.
Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”
Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”
“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”
“Have not.”
“You moved my boots yesterday.”
“Safety hazard.”
“They were under my bed.”
“Could’ve tripped.”
“In my sleep?”
“Dangerous business.”
You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.
“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.
“Was hungry.”
“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”
“Liked yours.”
“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”
Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.
“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”
“Wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
He had nothing.
Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.
“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“That do it too?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.
“Let go.”
His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.
Your eyes narrowed.
Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Simon released your wrists.
You didn’t move back.
Neither did he.
The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Bullshit.”
You tugged him half an inch closer.
His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.
That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.
Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.
His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.
He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.
You gave a small, experimental squeeze.
Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.
“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.
You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.
You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.
“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”
Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.
“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”
“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”
“Tha’s not what’s happening.”
“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”
“Coincidence.”
“I can test that.”
“You fuckin’ will not.”
Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.
Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “
Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.
Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.
“Aye,” Soap said slowly.
Nobody answered.
He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”
Soap turned around.
“MacTavish.”
His pace increased.
“Johnny.”
“Didnae see anything, LT.”
“You didn’t.”
“Exactly.”
He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.
You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.
This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.
The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.
His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.
That one. You need to fuck that one.
The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.
Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.
There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.
“Move, Riley.”
His cock twitched again.
Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”
Simon Riley is afraid of commitment, but something about you being the same doesn't sit right with him
cw: yandere Ghost, suggestive content, implied kidnapping at the end
Ghost doesn't do relationships, a hook-up here and there sure, but the thought of being vulnerable enough to let someone else close to him is just too much. Maybe that's why he's always a little meaner than necessary when breaking things off, he calls himself honest because he doesn't want to tangle himself into promises he won't be able to keep. Not that there are people lining up to be in a relationship with him. The mask and his overall attitude manages to make everyone keep their distance and the sight of his barely furnished apartment with the matress on the floor and the sign of water damage on the walls ensures that nobody wants to come to his flat a second time.
He likes it that way, the moment the person he's sleeping with starts asking for breakfast in bed or coffee dates instead of hook ups in the pub's bathroom or in the back alley, he's out of their sight. So when he meets you things just seem so easy, the two of you being on the same page about everything. It should be the ideal layout for him and it works well in the begining, but somewhere along the line things changed.
Ghost doesn't understand what happened, but at some point the moments of pleasure and grunts, sweat coating both your bodies aren't enough anymore. It almost infuriates him the way he has you panting between the sheets (new ones he bought especially for you along with a bed frame because you made a displeased expression at the old beer stained ones), cum coating your inner thighs just for you to regain your breathing after everything is over and get out of bed on shaky legs. He sees you going to the bathroom and waits a few more minutes intent on maybe having another round in the shower only for you to come out with damp hair, already putting your clothes back on and thanking him for a good time.
Simon is not used to being on the other side of the phone watching the hours pass by as he waits for a reply to his last text. When the phone pings with a notification, he almost trips on his own legs to open it just to be dissapointed by Soap drunkenly spamming the groupchat. It's hard to admit just how much the "Kind of busy now, maybe another time." reply really affects him, but the recruits he has running laps until they throw up the next morning will suffer the consequences.
Ghost knows he has no right to dictate who you're seeing besides him, but the trail of hickeys that peek from underneath the too large t-shirt that is definitely not yours has him seeing red. That night he fucks you with the clear intent of you not being able to get out of the bed for the next few days, bringing your knees to your ears, biting and sucking on the skin on your chest, covering the old marks with his own.
He thinks he finally lost his mind when he "accidentally" breaks your phone and somehow the SIM card gets damaged too and now you need a new phone that he happily pays for. It's easy to hide a tracking app thrown with other useless ones that you won't ever check, monitoring the activity on your phone and taking note of which contacts bother you too much to his liking. Ghost starts showing up to the same places you are, staging accidental meetings, maybe crashing a date or two, desperately trying to insert himself into your life.
Even while on deployments he keeps at it, going through your wishlists and search history. When the two of you see each other again he tries casually dropping into conversations the names of the shows you watched or books you have read, feeling like a small victory every time your eyes light up and start rambling excitedly about it.
His obsession culminates with Ghost breaking into your apartment while you're out and messing with the plumbing, knowing full well that your landlord won't give a shit until you're flooding a neighbour. So a few days later while you're complaining on the phone about the situation, he nonchalantly offers you to stay with him for a few days until the problem gets fixed. Sure, his place is a little cramped, but you don't mind right? It's only temporary until the little cottage he bought in the countryside is ready to move in.
