there’s something almost sinister about how Shadow Lord handles Maul… and I don’t mean in-universe. I mean what it does to us as the audience.
because tell me why I caught myself multiple times leaning forward like, "oh… this might actually work." "oh, i would like to see what happens," like I was considering it. like I was ready to watch Devon fall and go, "yeah, okay, I get it, I support it."
and that’s the trap.
this whole time, we knew who Maul is. manipulator, survivor, (at one point) a victim, walking vendetta wrapped in charisma, Sam Witwer voice, and cool tattoos. him technically not being a Sith anymore doesn’t cleanse anything. it just makes him more unpredictable. he’s not serving Sidious anymore, he’s serving himself.
and still… the show makes you feel for him.
that last episode especially felt like emotional whiplash in the best, most unsettling way. one moment you’re watching him inch closer to getting what he wants; Devon as an apprentice, and there’s this creeping tension where you think, "is it really gonna happen?" and then the next moment he’s practically delivering Master Daki to Vader like a calculated sacrifice.
and it snaps back into place.
oh. right. he’s awful.
but it doesn’t stick, does it? because then Daki dies, Devon is angry and shattering the way Maul wants.
and Maul... Maul has that moment. that barely-contained smile. that flicker of satisfaction he tries to hide while feeding her anger, sharpening it. "we will have our revenge." and suddenly you realize something deeply uncomfortable:
he’s not just manipulating her.
he’s been manipulating us the entire time.
because why are we feeling anything close to hope when he speaks? why does his pain feel compelling enough to blur the lines? why did I, even for a second, forget that wanting Devon to follow him is wanting her destruction?
it’s not just character writing at that point. it’s narrative sleight of hand.
and honestly? I have to give it to the writers. because making Maul likable isn’t new. making him tragic isn’t new. but making the audience complicit in his manipulation? making us feel the pull of the dark side alongside the characters?
that’s something else entirely.
it’s unsettling. and it works a little too well for my liking.
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.
you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”
“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”
you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
“i do not know his entire workout routine.”
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”
his brow lifted higher.
“…and arms on thursdays.”
silence.
“right.”
“shut up.”
you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”
“i use it,” you protested.
“you walk through it.”
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.
the bar didn’t budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—
"y’need a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.
"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.
but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."
and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”
you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.
“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”
“drop it.”
“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”
“drop it.”
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
it’s unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”
you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”
he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”
his eye twitches. “just drink it.”
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and then— "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."
simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approving—
"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”
“please.”
the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”
you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"s’not fair," you mumble.
"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."
but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but you’re already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."
will is so fucking intelligent its actually insane. i never realized that he suspected seizure after his first case of sleep walking. immediately after that he's in hannibal kitchen theorizing about physical disease. its so heart breaking to see the way he feels so sure of the problem from the start but lacks the confidence to take action when his support system doesn't see eye to eye with him. how many times in his life has he known something with aching clarity, only to be denied by those around him that doubt, dislike, or infantilize him? 
uhhhh who wants simon ghost riley normal/relationship headcanons? anyone???
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✧ i think that: ghost has the softest hands known to man kind. he gets self conscious about it because he’s been a soldier for years and wishes his hands were more roughed up and reflected his gritty persona and job (i want his hands to be calloused too but c'mon and imagine soft handed simon…)
✧ i think that: ghost is sensitive to fragrant smells. ex: flowers or specific expensive perfumes, it just gives him a huge headache and makes his mood sour (he’s deathly allergic to pollen, not dust though).
✧ i think that: his ribs are sensitive (obviously iykyk) so he tends to guard them more whenever sparring or out in the field (like keeping his arms tucked close to his sides). but he lets you touch them lovingly after gaining his trust, just remember to be gentle, yeah?
✧ i think that: ghost runs extremely cold or hot, there’s no in between. if you're lounging with him, you'll either be practically one with him or on the opposite end of the furniture.
✧ i think that: he probably gets migraines a lot. with all the gunfire and flashing lights of his profession, he's prone to the horrible ache in his skulls we all know and hate. show up with some medicine and tea for him and he's smitten.
✧ i think that: he sleeps with the thinnest blanket ever and doesn’t have a duvet on his bed (he thinks it’s too soft of a luxury for him).
✧ i think that: this man can and will fall asleep anywhere and at any time to make up for the lack of it he gets. back from a rough op? nap for a couple minutes. on the heli to a new base? he says he's just resting his eyes, but everyone knows he fell asleep for real.
✧ i think that: ghost prefers sour and salty foods and doesn't have the biggest sweet tooth (as much as i want him to). though, he does like dark chocolate and gets mad when you say that doesn't really count. he can handle SOME spice but avoids it if optional.
✧ i think that: ghost's favorite animal has to be a wolf (stereotypical much?), snake, or another kind of lizard. maybe something like a kimodo dragon? if you take him to the zoo he beelines for the reptile and fish exhibits. aquarium date anyone?
✧ i think that: he hates when people mock his accent, he can't help it so whats the problem? maybe hate is a strong word but he definitely doesn't care for it. if you're close to him relationship wise he'll just scoff and pretend to be annoyed, but the accent on you does sound cute....
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omg whats up guys... its been a sec im sorry college is a bitch and a half. uhh im slowly getting back into cod after a few other phases have died down. if you liked this check out my menu to request a short fic! thank you!!!! - emile :3
the masses wanted it and now you receive! part two to my little ghost and fucked up hybrid!reader is here!!!
here's part one!
a/n: reader is a german shepard hybrid! and will now be presented as fem! i hope thats okay!!!
cw: little bit of violence but idk if i'd even be considered that
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"I'll take her."
Did you hear him right? You think that's what you heard the man say... How odd, he had only gotten not even a look at your battered form, not even seen how you fight, and yet he's going to take you. You slowly turn once more to peer over your shoulder at the man on the other side of the bars; Ghost- you heard the workers call him.
With narrowed eyes you know what's about to happen, it happens every time you're chosen for a job and must be transferred. Gas starts to come up from holes in your cell, making your vision grow hazy and slowly start to fall asleep.
Ghost watches from the other side of your cell, watching in discomfort as your gassed to sleep, your now lifeless body being manhandled by the workers that entered your cell the second you were down. Ghost shifts in his spot as he sees your wrists and ankles chained together in pair with a muzzle around your mouth that sits over your lower face and wraps around tightly to the back of your head.
"Is this necessary..?"
Ghost speaks up and glares at one of the workers bringing you to your feet and dragging you out the doors of the facility and towards the chopper. The worker that he got a hold of nods his head and makes a gesture for Ghost to follow him as they walk to the chopper.
"Yes sir- she's... Not always privy to being assigned to a new handler- this is just for insurance that she won't lash out."
Ghost just grunts in response, this was going to be a pain in his ass. You were going to be a pain in his ass. The Lieutenant watches as you're forcefully shoved into a cage in the back of the chopper, his dark eyes beneath his mask narrowing as you're locked in and your chains are secured to the hull of the chopper. With one last glance at the facility, Ghost climbs into the back of the chopper, choosing to take one of the seats near where you're caged.
When the chopper lifts off the tarmac, Ghost notices you flinch as you sit with your knees to your chest- the same position you were in back in your old cell. Trauma response? Maybe. Ghost thinks to himself as his eyes glaze over you, noticing every nick, bruise, and scar on your body that's obvious. After a few boring seconds of silence the Lieutenant finally speaks up, addressing you for the first time.
"My name's-"
"Simon."
Ghost all but flinches as the sound of your voice, the man steeling himself instantly. The hell did he jump for? You're just some mutt. Though, his eyes darken and narrow into sharp slits beneath his mask when he realizes you said his name; not his callsign or last name, his first name.
"Workers liked to chat about things on the down low away from us. Wrong thing to do around creatures with enhanced hearing."
To practically prove your point, one of your ears flick atop your head before flattening back down against your skull. Ghost honestly didn't know how to feel; he wanted to throttle the blabber mouths that even dared utter his name, while also basking in the sound of your voice. It was muffled from the muzzle around your mouth, but despite that Ghost notices the pitch is strained and scratchy as you speak in a quiet whisper that's barely audible above the whirring of the chopper's blades, while also holding some semblance of softness under all the grit and gore of your very being.
"Right. It should just be Ghost to you though, I don't really do familiarity."
Ghost hears your sigh and simply stares at you, giving you an expectant look conveyed through just his dark eyes. When you catch on to what he wants you give him your name, muttering it into the air quietly so that Ghost almost doesn't catch it. The Lieutenant registers your name, grumbling it out with his gravelly voice and accent before nodding stiffly and looking you up and down, staring at your tail wrapped around your thigh and ears atop your head.
"The hell are you anyways?"
The man before you questions. Probably not the best tone of voice in his approach, but Ghost didn't think you wanted to be babied, you don't look the type to him. Your eyes slowly trail up to Ghost's, simply keeping eye contact with the man before you murmur your species, German Shepard.
Ghost hums, breaking eye contact with you and looking down at his boots for a fleeting second before looking out one of the small circular windows in the chopper. Guess that was typical, it's the average breed of hybrid that enlisted into the forces.
Simon always did like German Shepards...
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hi guys i'm alive!!! college got a little rough and i've started working out so.. my hands are full and all that. hope you guys are staying safe and i love you all :3
Could I please get a RED Spy x Female BLU Medic Reader frappuccino with a side of cheesecake, and some shortbread and chocolate chip cookies? Could I also place an order for something you don't seem to have in stock?
(What I’d like is for this to take place during the robot wars. Reader was trying to help everyone regardless of what team they were on originally but Spy keeps pushing her away because their relationship was very antagonistic back when RED and BLU were fighting. But something happens and Reader goes MIA forcing Spy to admit that he actually loves her. Reader comes back just in time to hear him confess. Feel free to ignore this if it's too much. 😙)
order up for @faal-verotiik ! wanna order something for yourself? here's the menu!
- frappuccino: "Can we skip the fight this time, please?" + cheesecake: enemies to lovers + shortbread cookie: angst + chocolate chip cookie: fluff
a/n: i love this request so much! also this is a perfect representation for what i thought out of stock requests to be described as, thank you so much :3
word count: 1,432
cw: little bits of angst and fluff
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Spy wasn't known for feelings; at least sentimental ones. None of the mercs were, but you just had to be different. In the very beginning, Spy didn't give two shits about you, simply thinking of you as the Blu Medic's foolish apprentice and would merely go on to take his chance whenever he had the opportunity to backstab you. Something that did intrigue him ever so slightly was how you would react to him when and after he killed you.
You weren't like the others. You sometimes stood there and let it happen, usually not putting up a fight and just accepting your fate of being caught of guard. Even weirder? You weren't sour after it after. Sure, he would find you with a small frown on your face coming back from the respawn room, but you weren't out for his blood for the rest of the match like the rest of your Blu teammates were whenever they got backstabbed by him.
"You must be a stupid little thing, mon chaton. This business isn't for the passive."
The Frenchman had you in a sharp chokehold during a specific match, growling into your ear with his silky smooth voice as he holds his butterfly knife to your back, just above where your heart rests. Without getting a word in he thrusts his knife into your back, grimacing as your blood gets on his suit and blends in with the red of the fabric. Spy lets your lifeless body go and watches it crumple to the ground, frowning as he turns to start walking and cloaks himself. That should get you mad, a little rough teasing would make any human turn sour. He just knows it.
And his method worked, you were mad, falling for his little trap and dying to him a couple more times during that match from your rage-clouded vision. Though, it wore off quicker than he's seen in your team members, and even his own. Spy would be lying if he said he wasn't interested, and dare he say it, a little impressed at how easily you can recover from provocation. His little hatred-like infatuation lasted for long, and it still has, though its digressed now, and the fact that he's been working along side you has honestly made it worse.
The unlikely partnership of the Red and Blue team's when the machines came to attack was already on thin ice, but in all honesty, Spy didn't care all that much. Sure, it irked him that he had to ally with the same miserable bastards that he's been killing for years, but he got through it with his usual poise and class. Though, that tranquil mindset was destroyed when he kept running into you in the field during a fight, internally cursing you when you would run to his aid and heal him with your medigun and sweet words.
"You have better things to do, stop playing nurse and actually fight like the rest of us."
Spy would hiss those words at you when you even tried to get close to him to heal him, metaphorically (and sometimes literally) pushing you away from him. Even with Spy's brash behavior, you still stayed close, giving him extra care than the other mercs that you took care of on the field. Spy hated it; and after a particularly grueling fight against the machines, you rush to his side when you see he has a solid bullet wound shot through his shoulder. You bring your medigun up to fix the wound but stumble back as Spy slaps away the machinery, the sound of it clattering to the floor making you flinch.
"Chose inutile. When will you learn to get away from me? I don't need your damned help."
Even after Spy had said those words he knew that was wrong, his integrity crumbling inside of him as he registers what he had said. The Frenchman watched with sharply narrowed eyes as you retreated back a few steps, looking at him like he was a monster sent from hell. And maybe at that point to you, he was.
You walk off without a word, simply picking up your medigun and not looking back as you walk away to tend to the other members of the team. Good riddance- is what Spy wanted to say, but he'd be damned if he would admit to feeling just a little bit guilty about yelling at you and acting so rudely.
Spy's feelings only started to increasingly become worse for the next few battles due to you not even looking at him, or him not even seeing you once on the battle field. It made him angry, the way you avoided him. Sure, it was hypocritical but he missed you. Badly.
It all went to shit immediately, the waves of robots wouldn't stop coming, and everyone on the field was in a frenzy to stay alive, the Frenchman included. Spy ducked and covered behind a dilapidated wall of a building that had been blown to hell, turning his cloaking on and running out into the field to get a vantage point on the enemy. When he got to a high enough spot, Spy overlooked the battlefield, gauging where each of his teammates were and where the numerous numbers of enemies were coming from.
From the vantage spot, Spy saw you- for the first time in days, he saw you. Spy couldn't believe the way his heart skipped a beat, making him take a double take and look back at you, watching with bated breath as you fought off a machine variant of yourself to get to the Red Heavy as he was being onslaught with gunfire. Spy could only watch in a state of shock as a bullet ripped through your shoulder, your blood painting the ground of the battlefield. Without even realizing it, Spy started to make his way back down from his high ground to run and help you, but when he gets back to the ground all he sees is a trail of blood leading around the corner.
Spy follows the trail, a large explosion racking the nearby building and causing large pieces of scrap metal and concrete to fly through the air. As Spy turns the corner all he's faced with is rubble, your medigun broken and dented on the floor next to the smoldering rubble.
The trail of blood ran under the rubble.. Your trail of blood. That means-
"Merde! No- No!"
Spy sprints to the rubble, sliding to his knees and starting to haphazardly dig into the rubble, shifting away a large piece with all of his strength. After shifting a large piece Spy's breath hitches in his throat as he sees a piece of ruined fabric sticking up from under the cement and ash. Spy grabs the fabric, tugging it up at feeling a sour taste fill his mouth. It's your coat, your class insignia sewn into the sleeve reddened with blood.
"No- Mon chaton! S'il te plaît! Please!
Spy grips the fabric and tugs it close to his chest, cursing to himself as he feels tears prick the corners of his eyes. How pathetic, crying over the girl he hated and pushed away.
"Je suis désolé. Je suis vraiment désolé. I-I-"
Spy chokes on his words, letting his tears drip onto the tattered scraps of your coat.
"Spy..?"
The Frenchman freezes, furrowing his eyebrows and whipping around to follow the sound of.. Your voice? There you were, without your coat, leaving you with just your undershirt and a crude bandaged wrapped around your shoulder.
"Spy what're you- Wait are you cryi-"
Your sentence doesn't even get past your lips as your wrapped into a tight hug by Spy, the Frenchman squeezing you for all you're worth. Spy pulls back from the brisk hug, keeping his hands resting on your waist as he looks down at you.
"Mon ange, I'm so sorry. What I said- it wasn't right."
Spy's grip on your waist tightens, almost afraid of you disappearing in front of him despite his hold. You thrash against his grip when you come to your senses, frowning and taking a step back from him while giving him the sharpest glare possible,
"Let's skip the fight this time, s'il te plaît."
Spy gives you the sorriest look he can muster, and damn if you couldn't resist when he gives you a look like that. With a sigh you walk back towards the man, slowly bringing your hand up and placing it on Spy's chest, his racing heartbeat thumping against your palm. You smile up at Spy, the sight after so long of not seeing it making his heart feel as if it was going to explode.
"You'll forgive me, won't you?"
Spy brings his hand up to cup your cheek, his gloved thumb brushing against you bottom lip before he pulls you in for a sweet kiss, the connection of your lips akin to electricity. How could you say no when he says it so sweetly?
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uhh here it is i hope you like it!! i struggled so hard with this request but i think its okay in the end (plus it was good practice)!!
Can I get f!Reader x sniper tf2 who ordered Irish coded with a side of black forest gateau ?
order up for anon! wanna order something for yourself? here's the menu!
- irish coffee: "Fuck, that's a good girl." + black forest gateau: cockwarming
cw: poor attempt at an australian accent through writing
word count: 1,957
(MDNI below the cut!!)
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The climb to Sniper's nest was always a difficult one, and it always led you to be weak in the knees and out of breath. Gasping for air, you ascend to the last rung, your boots thudding against the creaking wooden flooring of the nest. At the sound, Sniper's head whips around and stares at you from behind his dark aviator shades, making you freeze in place as his sharp eyes always seem to put you off and cause your heart to stutter.
"Let's get to it, there's an extra rifle over there."
Right- The reason you were up here in the first place. Your class was, for a less of a better term, a jack of-all trades. You've spent time with all the other mercs and learned their skills, able to replicate their duties to a t. Now it was Sniper's turn to teach you, and honestly, you were more excited to spend time with him than the others. Sure, you didn't really spend the most time with him since you joined the team, but that didn't mean you haven't acknowledged each other. A few shared packs of ammunition during battles here and leftover coffee from the pot for the other there, the two of you really just helped each other through the courtesy of being teammates. At least that's what you chalked it up to.
You grab the spare rifle off of one of the crates nearby, fidgeting with it in your hands and inspecting the weapon before walking over to Sniper and sitting down on the stool next to his. You glance at at the man next to you expectantly, nervously glancing at the him before you see him nod to your hold on the rifle. Lifting up the rifle you hold it steady, peering down the scope and looking out of the large opening where a window used to be, noticing the various targets scattered around the grounds below. Your body jerks when you feel Sniper place his hand on your back, and you swear you could hear him let out a quiet huff of a laugh, but chalk it up to your nerves, letting your teammate adjust your posture into a straight one.
"You want a straight back and squared shoulders, otherwise the kick will make ya' hurt.
You nod your head, immediately taking a brief note in your head at his instruction, and pull back from your view down the scope and glance at Sniper before noticing that he's bringing his other had up and adjusting your hold on the rifle. Fighting the urge to squirm as you watch his much larger hand and long fingers curl over yours, you watch intently, somewhat paying attention to how he changes where your grip stays on the rifle. Sniper stares at your hold around the gun with narrowed eyes behind his shades before he grunts and nods his head to the targets out the opening below.
"Alrigh', try to take a shot."
Sniper mumbles next to you, moving his gaze out towards the targets as you peer down the scope and pick a one. It isn't like you haven't shot a gun before, but for some reason the pressure to make this shot felt especially intense. With a quick inhale and a slow exhale you squeeze the trigger, feeling the rifle kick back into your shoulder while watching the bullet fly out towards the target, missing it by a hair and running into the dirt while kicking up dust around it. Embarrassment floods through your veins and you don't even dare look at Sniper. Sure, you didn't think you'd be perfect right away- but completely missing the target? Fuck.
"S'alright roo, wasn't much of a shot either when I started out."
And there it was, that little nickname he gave you after your time of being on the team. Sure, it was probably just a friendly term of endearment between friends, but damn did it make you flustered. You swallow nervously and nod your head, sending him a small glance before reloading quickly and picking another target. Following your same routine of breathing in and out, you squeeze the trigger again, flinching at the kickback while watching the bullet whizz through the air and hit the target straight on. Headshot.
"There she is- nice shot roo."
Sniper places a hand on your shoulder and jostles you, a small rare smirk tugging at his lips as he looks down at you. You give the man a lopsided smile back, glancing back forwards and scoping in once more, picking a farther target and swiftly reloading before pulling the trigger. Once more, the shot whiffs and drills into the dirt, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. You scowl and curse under your breath and actually hear Sniper chuckle audibly at your response to missing, keeping his hand on your shoulder and squeezing it.
"You got it. Again."
And that's how it went for a few solid hours, missing and successfully hitting headshots along with Sniper's guidance. After another solid headshot on one of the farthest targets, Sniper glances down at you, simply watching the focused triumphant look that spreads across your face when you aim for the kill. The man clears his throat and looks away from you, tipping the brim of his hat up with his thumb and adjusting his aviators before breaking your concentrating silence.
"You're gettin' good roo. But can you handle distractions?"
Sniper questions, making you furrow your eyebrows and glance up at him. Distractions? Like gunfire and explosions, teammates screaming for a medic?- you ask him. Sniper makes a 'kinda' gesture with his hand before moving it to your shoulder once more before trailing it down to the small of your back. Oh. Those kinds of distractions. You swallow shakily and shake your head; no, you haven't had these kinds of distractions before, but who said they were unwanted? Sniper smirks softly and moves his hand to shift underneath your shirt, the man chuckling to himself as he sees and feels the goosebumps spreading across your skin immediately from his touch. Sniper snakes his hand around to your stomach, thumbing the fabric of your pants and underwear before pushing his hand down beneath them, brushing his calloused fingers over your clit. When you jerk and stifle your moan, Sniper tsks at you and grabs your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes forwards.
"Uh-uh I still need to see you firin', love. Get to it."
With a pathetic groan you oblige, trying to still your shaking hands as Sniper moves his fingers through your wet folds, praying to whoever resides above that your face isn't visible burning right now while you hold back your sounds from escaping your lips. You right your position, squaring your shoulders and straightening your back as you prepare to take a shot at one of the farther targets in the distance, aligning your shot with shaky arms and exhaling as you squeeze the trigger. At the last second of your movement, Sniper pushes one of his fingers into you, making you gasp and twitch which causes your grip to falter and your arms to shift. The bullet you fired misses by a long shot, making you grit your teeth and turn to glare at Sniper who just looks at you with a raised eyebrow.
"Better adapt, roo. We can't have you gettin' distracted out there."
With a groan you reload shakily, letting the faintest of whimpers escape past your lips as Sniper pushed another finger into you. You feel your body twitch and squeeze around him as he starts to move his fingers, his long digits pressing into your sweet spot that makes you keen. You whimper as you look down the scope of the rifle once more, trying to slow your breathing in an attempt to soothe your beating heart as you pick a target in the distance, desperately trying to ignore the way Sniper's fingers reach every sensitive nook and cranny inside of you.
When you squeeze the trigger to shoot, Sniper thrusts his fingers into you, making sure to drag his fingertips across the sweet spongy spot in your cunt. While the action does make you jerk, you bite your bottom lip and steel your hold on the rifle in your hands, ensuring that the bullet keeps forwards. With the sound of a sharp crack in the distance, you're able see through the cloud of dust where you see that your shot went straight through the target's head; headshot.
"Looks like we're adjusted to that already. C'mere then, love."
Sniper whistles lowly as he looks at your shot in the distance, withdrawing his fingers from your dripping pussy and licking them before he starts to undo his belt haphazardly and undo his pants as well. He takes his weeping cock from out of his pants, smirking and chuckling lightly at the look on your face- like you want to devour him. Sniper grabs your wrist and forces you to stand up in front of him, his deft fingers making quick work of your pants and panties before he tugs you into his lap so you face the same way he does.
Sniper rests his chin on your shoulder, his warm breath ghosting the back of your ear as he guides himself into you slowly. You feel him go all the way to the hilt, your legs twitching as he fills you completely and then some. As your cunt twitches around Sniper, he groans into your neck, moving his hands up to rest over yours as you continue to hold the rifle in your grasp.
"Let's keep at it, yeah roo? Get some good shots in and I'll move f' ya."
With that incentive, you inhale and exhale shakily while reloading with shaky hands, watching how Sniper's hands go along with your movements as he rests his hands above yours. You attempt to straighten your back but squirm as you feel the new angle Sniper's cock hits you at from the change, causing a low whimper to emit from your throat as you look down the scope of the rifle in your hands to pick a target to shoot at. With a sharp gasp, you hastily pull the trigger after aiming correctly. Despite Sniper suddenly bucking his hips up into yours, thinking you'd crack under his pressure of movements, you stay (somewhat) collected and keep your arms steady. A sharp crack sounding through the air as the bullet flies toward the target, hitting it dead on the targets head.
"Fuck, that's a good girl. excellent shot."
Sniper purrs deep into your ear, the praise making your limbs feel like jello as he lazily thrusts his hips up into yours, giving you the stimulation you craved as you sit wrapped around his cock. Your teammate nuzzles into your neck, giving your throat a soft nip while he squeezes your wrist.
"How about two more, yeah?"
Sniper smirks into your neck and grumbles out his words, only allowing you to nod your head in response as you reload once more. Just as you exhale to take your shot, Sniper snakes one of his hands down to brush over your clit in tandem with short thrusts. the new movements make your arms grow weak, your grip on the rifle loosening as you pull the trigger. The bullet flies far away from your intended target, burying itself into the rocky ground in a cloud of dirt and dust. You hear Sniper chuckle into your neck as his fingers continue to draw lazy circles on your clit, making your body twitch and convulse with each brush.
"Too bad roo. Gimme four more now."
You're not gonna last like this if he keeps playing this game. Though, you think he won't really either.
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sorry for the blueballs ahh cutoff, i have more requests that i wanna get out tonight. ps: i love sniper he is my favorite despite the pee jar situation
hii !! i saw ur medic fic and fell in loveeee !!! i love their work. could i order a transmasc reader x spy tequila espresso with a side of black forest gateau and vanilla macarons ? :3€
order up for anon! Wanna order something for yourself? here's the menu!
- tequila espresso: "I didn't think you'd be so responsive." + black forest gateau: cockwarming + vanilla macaron: gentle sex
(MDNI under the cut!)
cw: drinking/slight inebriation, smoking
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You liked Spy. And you believed he liked you too. Honestly, in the beginning he was rude, overly cocky, and just a flat out asshole, but damn did his charms overrule the cons of his personality. Now after a few years of being a member of the Red team, you grew to be the closest with Spy. Sure, you liked your other teammates, but there was just something different about the Frenchman that made you swoon.
You almost felt bad about your feelings at first. You wanted to chalk it up to the suave nonchalance that Spy exuded, but overtime you wanted to believe that he treated you differently because he liked you. So now here you are, walking down the eccentrically decorated hallway to Spy's study, wringing your hands together nervously at just the mere prospect of spending time with him, as if you haven't done it hundreds of times before. It was a common occurrence, where you would meet in his study, drink, smoke, maybe even share a dinner that he himself prepared instead of what the others cooked.
Wen you approach the door to the study, it creaks open and there stands Spy, looking down at you with his usual sly smirk.
"On time as always, mon ami."
He opens the large wooden door to his study, letting you slip past him before he lets it close shut with a heavy thunk. Spy's study was by far (in your opinion) the most beautiful thing in the whole base. The whole room is decorated extravagantly, expensive paintings hanging from the walls, elegant furniture placed throughout the room, and the roaring fireplace that bathes the study in a soft orange glow. You make yourself comfortable on one of the large couches close to the fireplace, basking in the warmth that the smoldering wood emits. Spy sends you a small glance over his shoulder before walking over to a nearby cabinet that holds his alcohol, laughing to himself gently at the sight of you sitting on the plush couch, remembering that only a couple of months ago you were more timid than a mouse to even sit on one of the elegant pieces of furniture.
Spy opens the cabinet, running the tips of his fingers along the tops of the various bottles of alcohol before selecting a vintage wine. He takes the cork off and pours two glasses fluidly, turning back around with the glasses in his hands and walking to where you sit in the couch. Spy extends the glass out to you, smirking as his gloved fingers brush against yours when you gingerly grasp the glass of wine and take a tentative sip.
"Je boirais lentement, ce vin est plus vieux que toi."
The man purrs, turning and sitting down in a lavish chair in front of the couch you chose to sit on. Spy reaches into his suit and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, a premium brand- you notice, and lights one swiftly with a small lighter before bringing the stick of tobacco to his lips and letting the smoke linger on his tongue before exhaling.
The two of you talk for hours, simply conversing on simple topics or delving into more intimate ones- it's what close friends do, right? You're two glasses deep into the wine bottle when you stand up for another refill, Spy smiling up at you from his seated spot and beckoning you over to him with a small flick of his gloved fingers.
"Come have mine, mon couer."
You oblige and walk over to him, taking his half drank glass of wine, and slowly sipping the rest of the contents while maintaining eye contact with the Frenchman. You swear you see his eyes darken as he looks up at you, his gaze flicking to your lips before he reaches out and intertwines his fingers with yours, making your eyebrows cinch together in confusion before he tugs you forwards, making you stumble and fall into his lap.
You feel your face burn from the embarrassment of the forced position, your heart stuttering in your chest as you straddle your teammate, your thighs pressing into his hips. Spy looks up at you with lidded eyelids, brushing his gloved thumb over your knuckles and bringing your hand up to press gentle kisses to your fingers.
"This is okay, right? I want confirmation."
You nod your head more eagerly than you thought, making the man beneath you chuckle and bring his cigarette up to his lips, taking a long drag and putting the butt of it out before grabbing the back of your head and connecting your lips in an electric kiss. Spy pushes the smoke into your mouth, the heady tobacco making your senses burn along with the passion of your teammates kiss. Spy pulls back first, making you whine lowly and send him a small glare before it softens as he moves his hand down your body, caressing your waist before pushing his hand under the hem of your shirt, the cool leather of his gloves contrasting with your heated skin.
Spy moves his hand up your body slowly, letting his fingers explore every inch of your skin before he stops as his fingers brush against your top surgery scars, gently caressing the scar tissue before he teases your nipple with his thumb, smirking to himself as you keen and whine beneath his touch.
"I didn't think you'd be so responsive, mon couer. I haven't even done anything yet."
He mumbles softly as he rolls his hips up into yours, the audible sound of his breath catching in the back of his throat making your blood run even hotter. Spy continues to tease your nipple, bringing his other hand down and unbuttoning your pants, giving him easier access to your underwear. He snakes his hand down your underwear, brushing his fingers through your slick and smirking up at you from the sound the elicits from your throat. The Frenchman glances to the side, staring into the fireplace in contemplation before a small wicked smile tugs at his lips, withdrawing his hands from you and making you stand up as he does. Grabbing a nearby book and opening it to a folded page, his other hand swiftly undoing his belt as he sits back down on the expensive chair, the apparent tent in his pants calling out to you. When you take a step forwards Spy raises his hand, looking you up and down with hooded eyelids.
"Strip for me, won't you?"
Spy purrs, laughing softly at your flustered expression before watching you start to undress with hungry eyes. After you've shed all your clothes Spy beckons you towards him, gently grabbing your wrist and guiding you to straddle his lap once more, relishing in the moan that escapes past your lips as his clothed cock brushes against your dripping mound. Spy reaches down, steadily pulling his underwear down to free his aching cock, hissing through his teeth as he guides himself into you slowly, sighing happily as you sink your tight heat onto him.
The subtle burn of Spy's cock inside of you is delicious, making your hips stutter and jerk as you acclimate to his size. Spy's hand grasps onto your waist, squeezing your hip and giving you a serious look as he smirks.
"I need you to stay still for a bit, surely you can do that?"
The request makes you squirm, causing Spy to grip your hip tighter to keep you in place. The man simply opens his book to his saved page, shifting his hips to get comfortable as he starts to read. After a few grueling minutes of silence and the occasional glance Spy gives you, you start to shift your hips impatiently, making the man beneath you tut at you and squeeze your hip.
"So impatient."
The Frenchman tsks at you, snapping his book shut and setting it down on the nearby end table and giving you a feigned look of annoyance before he bucks his hips up into yours, reveling in the broken moan that falls from your parted lips. Spy chuckles to himself as you start to move your hips, the sound followed by a rumbling moan from deep in his throat as he matches your rhythm as he moves his gloved hands to rest on your waist before moving them up your back to pull you close to him so your face rests in the crook of his neck, his rich cologne clogging your senses.
Spy's soft moans flit past your ears, his hot breath ghosting over your skin as he continues to roll his hips, snaking one of his hands down to brush over your perked bundle of nerves. At the stimulation, you keen, arching into Spy as he quickens his pace and starts to pepper quick kisses along your throat and jaw, connecting your lips once again for a heated kiss. Spy parts from your lips to let out a hitched groan, quickening his fingers beneath you to match his level of pleasure as he slowly careens towards his release.
Spy tilts his hips, smirking when he feels your body turn to mush at the different angle, his cock brushing the sweetest spot in you. With just a mere flick of his gloved fingers brushing over your clit the pleasurable band that was growing taut in your stomach snaps, heavy whimpers and gasps tumbling past your lips as you cum around Spy. The tightening of your heat around Spy forces him over the edge, the Frenchman nipping at your ear and jaw as he groans softly, painting your insides with all he has while his thrusts falter and turn to lazy twitching movements. Spy chuckles as you whine into his neck, moving one of his hands to gently grasp the back of your neck and pull your head back to make you look at him, grabbing another cigarette from nearby and lighting it before bringing it up to your lips to let you have the first drag.
"Let's stay like this for a bit, shall we?"
how could you refuse when he says it like that?
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would you guys believe me if i said i was a spy disliker for a long time (he was too hot i didnt wanna admit it)
Hi! Could I have a medic x fem! Reader Italian espresso with a side of chocolate macaron and chocolate cake?
order up for anon! wanna order something for yourself? here's the menu!
- italian espresso: "Try to stay quiet, understand?" + chocolate cake: forced proximity + chocolate macaroon: rough sex
(MDNI UNDER THE CUT!)
cw: technically cnc (reader wants it but theres no explicit permission given), a little bloodplay but its barely there so??, unprotected sex
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Honestly, you thought Medic hated you. Really, most of the team did when you first showed up, mainly because you were a new face (and also a woman but you reprimanded them swiftly and proved yourself overtime), but Medic always seemed to be the one that would ignore you the most. Even Spy treated you like you existed, which is saying a lot in reference to the Frenchman and his closed off put together personality.
Medic ignored you so much that you haven't even gotten your surgery to have the ability to be Übercharged. Which, in retrospective makes the situation worse for him and you. Ultimately more him than you, since without the ability to Übercharge, you were a prime target for the other duplicate team, constantly being the main focus of their ire. With this, Medic had to follow you around more, pushing himself away from the group and heal you with his medigun before walking away with a scoff and grumbling under his breath.
That particular incident was even happening now, Medic having to strafe away from the group and running behind you to heal you as you outran and skillfully shot at the Blue Scout that wouldn't leave you the fuck alone. Though just as you turn the corner with medic in tow, the enemy Heavy and his own Medic appear, causing you to skid to a stop and turn around, your shoulder crashing into Medic's, making you to trip and catch yourself before running in the opposite direction, barely avoiding the rain of bullets that whir from the Blue Heavy's gun. Running on pure adrenaline and the fear of feeling the pain of being killed (You bitched about that for weeks when you began- how do these people have the ability to literally undo death, but not be able to prevent the pain that comes from it?).
You feverishly turn another corner, entering one of the spacious rooms of the Teufort location and scrambling towards one of the nearby doors, opening it wide and grabbing onto Medic's arm to pull him through with you. Sure, the man probably hated your guts and didn't give two shits about how you ended up, but that doesn't mean you would leave him behind, he is your teammate after all.
Though when you expect to run into a different room, you slam into the wall of... A closet? Fuck. Medic crashes in after you, his medigun clattering to the floor as the door is shut behind the two of you. The closet is smaller than it appears to be, forcing you to squirm against the doctor as your heart pounds in your chest from the combination of fear and adrenaline, making your chest rise and fall quickly, your lungs screaming for the air that was stripped from you during the chase. All of the sudden you feel your heart drop as Medic's large hand wraps around your mouth, silencing your frantic breathing. The smell of latex and blood making your head feel fuzzy.
"Try to stay quiet, understand der Schatz?"
His voice is silken but with a twist, the tone he uses holding a sort of rumbling growl in its depths. You feel Medic's other hand snake around your waist, tugging you towards him to press your back against his chest, and you can feel that he too is panting, his warm breaths ghosting against the back of your ear. You turn your head to the side slightly, making eye contact with him and letting your expression get away from you as your eyes go wide from the shock of him being so close and willingly touching you. The way your eyes must've been bugging out of your head makes Medic smirk down at you, the man chuckling darkly. It isn't the first time you've heard the sound, but when he's so close you feel the rumble and baritone of the sound, causing goosebumps to erupt across your skin.
Footsteps pound against the flooring outside the door to the closet and you swear you feel Medic pull you closer to him, his hand still staying pressed against your mouth to keep you quiet. Your eyes stay wide as you hear the enemy Medic and Heavy talk, praying to whatever god that they wouldn't find you and your own Medic and shoot the two of you dead. As the footsteps of the enemy fades, you imagined crying from the relief. Thinking that Medic would let go, you try to move forward and reach for the doorhandle until you feel Medic tighten his grip on you and keep you in place, making you cinch your eyebrows together and crane your neck to look up at him behind you.
"We should wait. They could be lingering..."
He murmurs against the shell of your ear, immediately feeling your face burn from the close proximity. You suppose he was right, and this position didn't really hurt, in fact- you really liked this position. Medics hand splays across your stomach, his gloved fingers practically teasing the edge of the shirt of your uniform, threatening to slip the cool latex under the fabric and tease your skin. You in turn arch you back into him, the chill of his gloves making you squirm, causing Medic to tighten his hold on you even more.
"Careful Schatz, you're not trying to provoke me, are you?"
He teases, sliding his gloved hand under your shirt and letting his fingers roam across your stomach, slowly inching his fingers up to your ribs and feeling him shudder as he touches the bottom of your ribcage. His deft fingers prodded at your ribs before sliding his hand up further and cupping your breast through your bra, giving the sensitive mound of flesh a rough squeeze that elicits a hiss from you. Once again, Medic chuckles against your ear, lowering his face to nuzzle the side of you neck before biting onto the curve where you neck meets your shoulder, sinking his teeth deep into your skin and pulling away when you whimper to lick at the blood that pools at the marks.
You murmur his name, and you feel the twitch in his pants start to grow behind you, his hand around your breast tightening once more for a rough squeeze before trailing back down to your pants, sliding his gloved fingers beneath the fabric and pushing aside your panties before swiping a finger across your slickening folds. The wet sounds that echo off the closet walls make you whine, embarrassment and pleasure flooding through your veins at the sound of your arousal.
"Don't be shy Liebe, I've wanted this too."
Medic growls against the skin of your throat, his gloved fingers rubbing slow circles on your clit while relishing in the small noises that escape you and the quivers of your body. You swallow shakily, letting a particularly large moan tumble past your lips when Medic pushes two fingers into the depths of your wet heat, the texture of his gloves and thickness of his fingers making your brain short circuit. He curls his fingers deep inside you and keeps his thumb on your clit, the stimulation making your knees grow weak and pathetic whines exude from your throat. At a particular brush against your sweet spot, a loud moan escapes past your lips. Medic curves his fingers deeper into you, thrust his fingers knuckle deep into you and eliciting a louder moan from your lips. When you part your lips to make more noise, Medics hand around your jaw shifts, the doctor forcefully shoving his fingers into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue.
"Ich hätte nicht erwartet, dass du so laut bist."
He murmurs into your ear, withdrawing his fingers from your cunt and grinning wickedly when you whine from the loss of stimulation. Bastard. Though your whining comes to an end when you feel him yank down your pants and undoing his just as swiftly, shuddering as you feel his cock brush against your skin. Medic shoves his fingers deeper into your mouth, causing you to gag on the latex of his gloves while he pushes your head back against his shoulder. The doctor loops his other arm under your knee, forcing your thigh to press against your chest to give him easy access to your weeping core. He guides his cock to align with you dripping cunt, rubbing himself through your folds to create a makeshift lube before plunging deep into you, ignoring the gagged moan that drips from your lips at the burn and stretch of him within you.
Medic doesn't let you adjust, needlessly and roughly thrusting up into you and letting out faint pleasurable grunts while pressing down harder on your tongue with his fingers, not caring that some of the blood from his gloves is smearing onto your lips and your tongue, the copperish-iron taste making you gag further. Your body convulses beneath the doctor as he doesn't relent in his pace, the piston of his hips making you hiccup and stutter over your already barely formed words. Medic bites down on your neck again, sucking what you know is going to be a deep hickey later into your skin. At the sound of your muffled moans, Medic chuckles his usual dark chuckle into the skin of your throat, his grunts morphing into deep moans.
"So tight Schatz, I should've done this sooner."
The man grunts, a piece of his usually slicked back hair falling from its hold and brushing against the lens of his glasses. His thrusts start to stutter, turning his body and pushing you up against the wall of the closet to pound into you harder without abandon. The new pace and angle makes you weak in the knees, bracing yourself up against the wall as you moan and whimper while drooling over his fingers. Through the flutter of your walls, he knows your close, shifting his hold under your knee to position his fingers perfectly over your clit, rubbing harsh circles onto the sensitive bundle of nerves.
With the stimulation you feel the heated band growing in your belly snap, your hold against the wall becoming weak as you cum and squeeze him like a vice, the pressure pushing him over the edge too, making him paint the inside of your cunt with all he has. Medic thrusts harshly a few more times while nipping at you neck as the two of you come down from your highs.
Medic pulls out of you with a strangled grunt, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth and patting your cheek with a small chuckle as he helps you back into your pants, the sentiment coming off as odd but endearing all the same.
"You failed!"
Fuck. The Administrators voice rings out through the whole area of Teufort, signalling your loss against your mirror team. You turn to Medic and grimace, the two do you are definitely getting interrogated on where you were instead of helping. Surely you can come up with something convincing, right?
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first request!!! i hope i did medic justice he was my og crush when my brother introduced me to tf2
don't boo me but i like the hybrid au's for cod, maybe even a little a/b/o in the midst (though that's not what this one is about)
so now i'm just thinking about a hybrid! reader who's all sorts of fucked and gets picked up by ghost for the 141
cw: kinda angsty with descriptions of abuse, dog(hybrid?) fighting, and scars
heres part 2!!
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It isn't like Ghost hates hybrids; he's worked with them on missions before and dismissed them as any other soldier, everyone was just doing their job after all. As long as the objective was complete, that's what mattered. Though when Price told him he was being sent to a location to 'pick out" a hybrid from a facility (Laswell thought it'd be good for their team, a new set of hands and efficiency to the group and all that), he couldn't help the disagreeing grumbles that escaped past his mouth as he begrudgingly went on his way to the helipad, cursing to himself the whole way and glaring at his boots.
After the nearly agonizing chopper ride, the wheels touch down on the tarmac of the facility, a worker immediately stumbling towards Ghost as he steps out of the chopper. He didn't catch the guy's name, didn't care either. He was here for some furball soldier that could help his team, that's all that matters. The worker guides the Lieutenant through the stone walls of the facility, the smell of mold and mildew making him wrinkle his nose beneath his mask.
In the distance of the long hallways, he can hear the yells and barks of hybrids, cringing internally as the worker turns a corner and leads him to a large room of kennels and cells. Each step Ghost takes causes a hybrid to look up, many starting to growl or hide within their cells while others lay against the cold cell floor, bodies barely moving with the only sign of life being a rising and falling chest.
He's seen a lot over his years as a soldier, and he's not so easily rattled, but this was a whole new experience of discomfort and pity for him. The conditions were bad, worse than any kind of kennel he remembers when he was young, and that was for full bred animals. Ghost eyes each hybrid slowly, taking in the diverse appearances of breeds and species of hybrid. Though each is a pathetic sort, the one true hybrid that caught Ghosts eye was one that was in the corner, the cell seemingly reinforced with different metal. In the middle of the cage there you sit, back facing the door and simply staring at the wall as multiple chains hand from your ankles and wrists, a prong collar tightly pressing against your throat. Ghost wonders why you were needed to be so heavily contained, your crooked tail wrapped around your leg as your torn and notched ears that press flat against your head making you seem like a harmless broken ittle thing.
"I wouldn't recommend that one, Lieutenant."
The worker speakers quickly, warily eyeing you behind the bars of your cell. Ghost's eyes stay on you, catching onto the small twitch of your ear. You know they're talking about you.
"Why, she broken?"
Ghost says roughly, keeping his dark unblinking stare on your battered form noticing the small twitch of your tail, probably annoyance, he clues, due to his words.
"Not exactly but.."
The worker pauses, causing Ghost to maneuver his unblinking gaze to him, making the worker freeze and fumble over his words.
"But-But she has a history of recklessness, a lack of respect for authority and horrible at responding to orders. Not something you need on a team like yours."
At the workers words you slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder, revealing the dullness in your eyes and prominent scars across your face. Scratches, bites, lacerations; Ghost can identify easily each one. The worker grimaces beneath your steely gaze and takes a step back from the cell, practically shaking in his boots. To say that Ghost was intrigued would be an understatement. He knows that look in your eyes; the coldness of someone who's killed and has started to become numb, with emotions raging within just waiting to be unleashed and ruin your very being. He's seen it before, he's seen it in him.
Goddamnit, he want to know more about you.
"How long's she been here?"
The lieutenant questions, maintaining eye contact with you and frowning beneath his mask when you look away, the tiny spark in your eye at his question not being lost to him before you turn your head away.
"Couple of months maybe? She was handed over to us after being used for cage fighting and served for a couple of PMC's- so I suppose she does have some experience in the field if you were really inclined.."
The Lieutenant couldn't help the small frown that is invisible beneath his mask, the words 'handed over' causing a foul taste to coat his tongue. He knew many hybrids were considered lesser than humans, and it never bothered him before, but when in relation to you it ground his gears just that little bit. Ghost clicks his tongue and sends the worker a small glare before returning his flat gaze back to you, narrowing his eyes and watching as you scratch at the stone floor, the movement revealing the numerous scars and burns along your arms. Sure, Ghost had known you (not even really known yet) for a couple of minutes, but he was sold. And when he speaks, he stares straight into the workers eyes and speaks in the flattest most straight forward tone possible, there was no mistaking it-
"I'll take her."
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hey guys!!
uhh tell me if you see this becoming a little story or just want a few parts to it, i love the feedback and it makes me happy seeing everyone like my little works of fleeting words
screw my college work, all i can think about is ghost being clingy after a tough mission..
cw: tiny bits of angst, fluff
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Ghost swore his ears were still ringing, the high-pitched noise still ever present in the back of his head amidst the large chopping of the helicopter blades. The mission had gone to shit, most of them have recently after losing Soap. The dynamic of the team was fucked without the boisterous Scotsman, and everyone knew it. Simon appeared to be clingier as of late, definitely a method of subconsciously drowning out his emotions by staying closer to you.
"Five more minutes, yeah?"
Simon grumbles into the skin of your neck when you mention getting up get something to eat as you lay on top of him in his barracks, both of you fresh out of the shower and free from the blood and grit of the outside world. His grip is almost suffocating around you, completely negating his strength and just holding you close, almost as if he's afraid you'll disappear. He took off his gloves a while ago, simply moving his cold fingers underneath the hem of your shirt and brushing them over your skin, memorizing every scar and indent of your very being.
He couldn't lose you. Not you too... You notice his breathing become shallow as he gets lost in his own thoughts. You noticed everything about him at this point. What the small flick of his eyes or hands meant, what mood he was in by just the way he stood, etcetera and all that. You lift your head up to make eye contact with him and come face to face with his hooded eyelids, his eyeblack already starting to rub off and reveal the pale skin of his eyelids and blonde eyelashes as dark brown eyes peer almost lovingly up at you. The look makes you falter, the pure emotion exuding from your usually stoic Lieutenant's eyes throwing you for a loop. As you try to climb off him while muttering excuses to get up, he locks his arms tighter around your back, pulling you back down onto him and practically crushing you against his chest.
"Just stay."
You grumble in turn, starting to protest his clinginess but stop when he pushes his masked face into the crook of your neck and lowering his voice to the gentlest octave you've ever heard it go to.
"Please."
You suppose the mess hall could wait a little longer.
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hi guys omg the feedback has been great and i appreciate every note and reblog, college is starting to get a little rough but i'll tough it out! thank you all so much and don't forget you can go to my menu and order a small fic of your choosing :3
kms. just thinking about Ghost coming home to (roommate! reader) after months of deployment..
cw: fluff :3
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Ghost's boots felt heavier than usual as he treks up the stairs to your shared flat in the middle of the night, heavy duffel bag strung over his shoulder seemingly weighing heavier than normal as he pulls out the keys of his jeans to unlock the door. Good girl, he idly thinks, you had a habit of keeping it unlocked until he came along and started to live with you, so he couldn't deny the metaphorical praise he gave to you in his mind for heeding his warnings and remembering to lock the goddamn door.
The lieutenant cracks open the door and walks inside, frowning beneath his mask as the dirt on the bottom of his boots flake off onto the hardwood flooring of the foyer hallway. Ghost keeps his movements light despite his fatigue, the aforementioned action being deceivingly easy for a man of his stature. He decides to kick off his boots, the pressure alleviating from his ankles and the slightly lessened weight makes him groan softly before padding deeper into to the apartment before stopping in his tracks, weighing the idea of calling for you and possibly waking you up.
Before he even registers it, Ghost calls out your name softly into the darkness apartment, loud enough for you to hear if you were awake, but quiet enough that it would wake you up out of your usual sound sleeps. After a few quiet seconds with nothing but the ticking of a clock nearby he moves to take another step but stops when he hears the sound of padded footsteps racing down the hall. Ghost spins around just in time to see you emerge from the nearby hallway, watching as you turn on one of the lamps on a small end table and revealing his shadowy form to your eyes.
Seeing him after countless months, wondering if he was okay, how he was holding up, ate at you. You really hadn't expected to grow so fond of this emotionally distant and aloof masked man that decided to room with you after he realized there was no point in him owning a whole goddamn house or apartment. Against the dead quiet air in the room you murmur his name, and it stabs Ghost in the heart. The sound of your voice after so long causing a high to hit him that's better than any drag of a cigarette or sip of alcohol could provide him.
"Yeah, it's me lov-"
Before the endearing pet name escapes his lips he's cut off by the warmest hug you could offer, your arms wrapping around his wide torso while your hands grip the back of his hoodie in a death grip. Fuck, you really missed him that much, didn't you? Ghost stands still, his heart and mind stuttering before he wraps his arms around you as well, cradling the back of your head with one gloved hand and resting the other on the middle of your back. The two of you just stand there in the dim lighting of the room, the only sound now filling the apartment is the sound of slowed breathing coming from both of you, simply embracing each others presence. Surely there was nothing else to it, right? You just missed your good friend, Simon.
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hii guys... i'm so scared rn babies first tumblr post. please have mercy on my soul and tell me what you guys think! also, check out my pinned post to request a fic from my menu :3
