22, pronouns she/her, welcome everyone! My writing is mostly sfw, however my reblogs are definetly not so be ware!
I sometimes write if you wanna check it out <3
This is my first post so here's some things about me/this blog:
All are welcome here, what is not welcome is racism, transphobia, homophobia, sexism, MAGA
We do NOT support trump in this house guys...
Anyway on to the actual content:
The fandoms Im mainly involved in are:
Harry Potter, ATLA, Call Of Duty, The Rookie, OBX
Although I'm not the best writer, if you send me asks I can do my best to write them. I will write blurbs, head cannons, short stories, slice of life, etc. but probably no long fics because it's hard for me to get motivated to write. If you don't see your fandom listed under my interests, feel free to still send an ask but it's up to my discretion to decide which asks to answer.
Besides writing I can and will be doing: moodboards, collages, nail inso, outfit inspo, rants (sorry guys) :(, and more! Plus, Im always open to new ideas!!
Some of my hobbies irl: photography, ink work, sketching, digital and regular collage, nail art (still learning)
I love doing stuff inspired by songs (ex. fics, mood boards, outfit inspo). My favorite artists are: Arctic Monkeys, Malcom Todd, Sza, Lana del ray, Bruno Mars, Sabrina carpenter, Tyler the Creator, Coldplay, abba, and many more. Please I'm always open to song or artists recs guys!
Anyway this post is getting kind of long but I love you all, welcome to my blog!
As Price’s most trusted sergeants, you and Kyle definitely had some sort of a rivalry. Sure, it was friendly and you’d never risk each other's life for it, but it was one nonetheless.
Flu season had come around way too quickly, and whilst you usually didn't get the jab this time Price asked you all to get it due to an upcoming mission. Now usually you’d jump to do anything he asked, except this time you and Kyle both gave each other a nervous look.
“Bet you’re gonna try and book it in before me, huh?” You roll your eyes as you walk up to him after the briefing, filling your mug with the grainy coffee.
“Thought I'd let you have this one first.” He quips back, grabbing his own styrofoam cup to fill.
“No, I insist.” Your jaw is tight as you smile, trying your best not to give away your true thoughts but of course he sees right through you. All the more reason that he gets on your nerves.
“You don't want to get the jab either, do you?”
“Of course I don't! Who the hell wants another needle stabbed in them?!” You groan, drinking a large gulp of the coffee before pulling a disgusted face at the cup. Great, not even that could drown this. You already get checkups way too often that grate on your nerves, and the psych eval is even worse.
“We don't usually have it anyway, we’ll be fine. Besides, the flu passes between people, we’ll be on a mission with just us!” He makes sense of it pretty quickly and you find yourself nodding along too, even if it sounds like the blind leading the blind.
“Wow, sometimes you actually can be smart, Garrick, and here I thought you were just a pretty face.” You pat his back as you dump the rest of the coffee in the nearby bin.
“Is that a compliment or an insult..?”
So you both skipped out on taking the jab in the end, avoiding the infirmary at all costs in the small chance they’d try to book you in for one. You were both just hoping Price would never ask, and just assume you did. Though with both of your dazzling reputations, you’re sure you can sneak out of this one. For the first time in your life, you and Kyle actually worked together to distract him whenever the topic was brought up.
In fact, it worked a little too well..Price was used to the two of you squabbling over something, never serious, and usually a battle of wits or sparring in the gym. So, when he hadn't witnessed one in a whole two weeks, he started to suspect something had gone wrong. He checked on Kyle first, naturally, since he was newer than you were even if you both fell into the same year of birth.
“What do you mean sir? I’m all good.” Kyle briefly lifts his head to flash his usual smile before going back to writing up his reports again. It was the day before they departed for the mission and he was almost suspicious if Price knew anything. He’s seen Kyle head to the rec room for a hot drink far too many times, though it could’ve just been because of the effect of the flu jab. “Your other sergeant looks pretty bad though, coughing and spluttering like a wet rat.”
He sighs at your rivalry before eventually nodding as he makes his way over to the range. Unfortunately for him, he should’ve known it wouldn't be that easy to figure you two out.
“Me? When have I ever had a problem?” You shake your head, smiling at your Captain earnestly in a way that mirrors Kyle way too much. “Though, I think you should check on Garrick, he’s been sneezing like crazy.”
Great, so neither of you will admit you could be a little sick, regardless of the fact he can clearly see the collection of tissues in your bin and lemsip packets in Kyle’s. Though, you’ve both always handled yourselves perfectly fine so maybe he could just leave you to it, right?
—
The mission begins smoothly, and thankfully you two are still playing nice to each other so he decides to turn a blind eye to your strange behaviour. After all, as long as he doesn't have to physically pull you out of your own mistakes he could hardly care less what you two argue about. Soon enough the intel is secured, you’ve got everything under wraps and it’s time to take the truck back and get to the safehouse. Except no one had anticipated the chase that followed, windows splintering into pieces around you and large dents all across the roof of the car. Of course you all get away in one piece, thanks to the heavy onslaught of rain shielding you from their line of view.
You step out of the truck, uniform soaked through from when you climbed out the window to shoot behind, and leave a puddle on the floor where you stand. Thankfully you had some drier attire in your pack, so you strip down and change into that pretty quickly but it doesn't quell the chill seeping beneath the door.
“Good thing we took that jab.. Imagine catching the flu on top of all of this.” Johnny sighs, pulling his sleeping bag right beside Kyle’s like it’ll somehow give him even more warmth.
—
“Sergeant?” You blink wearily at the figure above you, unable to figure out who it could possibly be with your blurry vision. With a small groan, you roll onto your side, pressing your eyes shut to hide from the light before opening them again.
“What..?”
“Sergeant.”
“Captain?” You blink again, realising who is standing before you, and why your body feels like it’s on fire. You’re sick. Very, very sick, and last night definitely tore down your immune system enough to let the nasty flu in. There’s another groan that echoes nearby, and you turn to see Kyle’s squinted eyes on the shitty couch. He looks exhausted, and you can tell that tingle of warmth has started in him as well.
“Both of you up, now.” Price leaves towards the kitchen, and you both sigh, already anticipating the hell of a scolding you’ll get now.
—----------------------
“Neither of you took your flu jab, did you?” Price says as soon as you both shuffle in and awkwardly stare at the floor to avoid his sharp glare. It’s not your fault really, work just got really busy and no one's exactly excited to get stabbed by a needle and sweat all night. Besides, when has a flu ever taken you two down?
“We missed the first batch and then we got busy.” You manage to mumble out and Kyle nods in agreement, like both of you saying that was enough of an excuse to explain the state you’ve been in for the past week.
“So you decided to just skip out on it, lie to your superior officer and run the possibility of compromising a very carefully planned mission?” His voice is deadly stern even if he hadn't raised it and the glare is more than enough to make you both realise just how stupid your logic was. Even if you did work your asses off, it didn't mean he would tolerate putting yourselves or others in danger. “You’re both extremely lucky you only got ill now and not any earlier.”
He steps back to the counter, silently pouring water into the cups and popping out painkillers. You both just stand there, locked in place; surely you’d receive punishment for acting so reckless. A few minutes pass before he finally turns, gaze narrowed as he hands you the remedy. “I’m booking your jabs in on Monday and I'll bloody stick it in your arm myself if you dare to not show up. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.” You both quickly say, before swallowing down the horrible pills and trying to ignore the disgusting taste as it slides down your tongue.
“Good, Riley will give you an update. I need to chat with Kate about something.”
You both leave equally as dejected and exhausted, heading to where the Lieutenant should be looking over the intel gathered. The rest of the day drags on painfully slow, and you feel the sharp scratch against your throat every time you even so speak. It’s the first time you and Kyle have ever been so quiet, even if you’re not the chattiest in the group.
“Not gonna lie, this is sad tae watch.” Johnny mumbles as he stands beside the Lieutenant. This was by far the most dejected he’s seen you two, even if you totally do deserve it.
“Their punishment for not taking the jab, could’ve avoided all of this y’know.” Simon responds before his phone begins to buzz, signaling the arrival of evac after way too many hours waiting for the storm to ease up. “Alright, come on, time to go.”
Somehow, you survive the evac too, the constant thrum of the helicopter allowing you to pass out through the dead of night and escape the sickness creeping up on you. When you land down on base, something is seriously wrong, but there are a million things to do. You and Kyle both glance at each other in shared exhaustion as you walk to the debriefing.
“Dont think I need to ask if you’ll do that again.” Price hums as he enters the rec room that evening, immediately noticing you sprawled on the couch like zombies. The tap runs quietly as he fills up two glasses of water, heading over to check on you two.
“Cap’ i’m boiling..” You sigh as your hands wrap around the cool glass with a grateful nod, his palm coming to rest on your forehead before he frowns. He turns to Kyle, checking the same before noticing the bin placed in front of him despite him practically hanging off the couch— in case he needed to throw up it seems.
“Alright, come on you muppets, clean up time.”
——
You bite back the hiss of the cold air against your skin as you sit on the edge of the bathtub to change into the fresh clothes he grabbed for you. It’s just a t-shirt and loose trousers really, nothing quite life changing but right now your legs feel like jelly and you’re positive you’ll fall over. Goosebumps have already started to sprout across your arms the longer you stay here, and you can't help but think the night ahead will be impossible to deal with.
Frustrated at your own inability, you push yourself up to stand even on your weak legs, only for you to knock over the shampoo bottles onto the floor as you collapse against the radiator. Damnit, how did it manage to suck all of your energy out like this?
“I told you I'd help.” John sighs, pulling your arm over his shoulders as he bears your weight for you. His quarters is practically right beside the rec room thankfully, and so you manage to reach it easily before your energy starts to fall once more. He picks you up properly this time, even as you deny his help and settles you back on the other end of the couch.
“Legs got me aswell..” Kyle huffs as he watches John fluff the cushion against the headrest. A movie is playing quietly, helping to distract him from the nausea creeping up his throat. “Just be glad you haven’t gotten the urge to flip your stomach inside out yet.”
“Looking forward to it.” You grumble, rubbing at your eyes as you adjust to the dimly lit room, your duvet hanging over the back of the couch behind you. You tug it down, pulling the freshly changed sheets over your body as you reluctantly relax a little more. Well it was pretty cold today, almost in the minuses now.
Before you can protest, a towel is in John’s hands as he dries your damp hair, rubbing over the top of your head and ignoring when you frown up at him. Eventually he moves to the ends, scrunching out any other water before gently tying it away from your face. “When’s the last time you took your painkillers?”
“Five hours ago. They kept asking every half hour if they could take more.” Kyle pulls the covers higher to make sure the cold doesn't escape and you roll your eyes, muffling a yawn as you turn to him.
“Yeah, well pretty boy almost threw it up.”
“Shut up— you had to hype yourself up just to get it in your mouth.”
“Acting like fuckin’ children..” John scoffs, lightly smacking the sides of your heads until you both groan and lean back against the pillows. “Right, two pills for you both and catch—“ You practically yelp as he throws the water bottle and pills your way, thankfully grabbing it and Kyle immediately readies himself else it spurts in his face.
Instead of the powdery pills you’ll have to take, you try to focus on the sound of his footsteps as he walks to the kitchenette. The kettles whirrs to life after he fills it halfway, bubbling for a long time whilst he opens the teabag jar. The porcelain mugs clink together as he picks them up, coming to set them down on the coffee table. “Drink up, it’ll help.” A minty smell emanates from Kyle’s mug, filtering into the air whilst all you can smell is honey and lemon before you. Quite good for your hoarse throat, you think.
He steps away again and you both hesitate to grab your mugs, looking back. “ ‘m comin’, relax.” John grumbles, making his way over with his own mug of decaf tea as he sits himself between you two. Kyle finally leans backwards, the nausea starting to ease out with the mint and making you content enough to finally let yourself relax. The hot liquid soothes your aching throat, and the sweet honey makes you want to let your eyes just slip closed.
Really, it’s neither of your faults if you decide to shuffle up a little more— it’s only to place the mug down on the coffee table that’s all. Even if you and Kyle are practically sandwiching him in at this point, centimetres from touching. It’s Kyle who goes first, leaning in slowly until John lifts his arm to wrap around his shoulders. His head sinks into his side, and you watch his hand rub up and down Kyle’s arm.
He doesn't say anything to you, because he knows you’ll come when you want to. It’s a few more minutes and an empty mug that settles on the wood that finally gets you. Their focus is locked on the movie as you let yourself sink into his open side. He’s warm, not the kind that makes you sweat buckets, but the one that makes the illness turn to a dull ache for a moment.
“Y’better not go falling asleep on me now.” John huffs, pinching both your cheeks and making you grumble. It only makes you tuck your legs onto the couch too, pull your duvet higher over your neck like you’re hiding from everything but him and Kyle. Work may have plagued you for weeks, but right now in this moment it was only you and them. Your body sinks, tension slowly dissipating as his hand settles on your head.
John knew it was more than the illness, and that’s why he let it happen, both of you taking comfort in the safety of your Captain. He waits for the sound of breathing to even out and he can only hope the illness will provide you some reprieve tomorrow, though he wouldn't mind making sure you both have a day full of rest anyway.
He silently thanks the investment on the recliner, lifting the bottom half of the couch upwards until your subconscious has you properly snuggling against him. He reaches behind you to grab a pillow for his head, settling back with a soft sigh. The other two will be sure to laugh at the spectacle in the morning, though Johnny would surely be more jealous than anything. Better not encourage it too much else that one skips his flu jab next year too.
“Go to sleep, John.” Kyle mumbles against his side, pulling his blanket over him as well. You two didn't learn your stubborn habits from just anyone after all. He chuckles and pats his back as he turns the tv down low, just to a soft hum in the background. A long breath leaves his chest one more time before he finally closes his eyes, letting the two of you let him sleep in content tonight.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
Ghost didn't usually entertain any stupid pranks, unless he was the one doing it of course— or a really good episode of impractical jokers.
You figured you’d fail this one too, but it was such a wild idea you kept seeing going around and well.. if anything his eyebrow rising would be good enough for you.
“I ran out of heat suppressants.” You sigh over the phone, pretending you’re talking with your friend as you sit on the rec room couch whilst he makes his tea. “Yeah, it’s gonna be a really tough heat this year.”
Ghost doesnt move just yet, carries on with his tea like he hadnt heard anything, but you do notice the slightest movement of his head towards you.
“Your alpha has taken you off it? Damn.. I wish I had one now. Ah.. it’d be so nice to nest properly.”
Now he’s genuinely giving you a strange look, albeit still trying to ignore it. You can see from the way his spoon pauses for a mere second before continuing again.
It’s enough to make you want to drive the knife deeper, really go for it. “My teammates are all on rut suppressants, yeah. Nah should be okay, they wont mind me.”
And then you click the phone off, and he’s genuinely just paused by the sink, slowly lowering his spoon inside as if trying to figure out what the hell you meant by he was on rut suppressants. Was he meant to be? What even was that? Were the others on and he hadn't taken it yet?
You know he wont ask though, so you make a dramatic sign of turning around and getting scared by the fact he’s there. “Ghost?! D-did you hear all of that?”
“I dont have time for your rubbish.” He scoffs, playing it safe and pretending you’re joking. Because you are, right?
“So you didn't hear that i ran out of heat suppressants..?”
“Well now i have— i mean, stop it. I’m busy.” He walks out before you can argue, which is good because you’re snickering anyway.
Quickly, you send the video you had secretly taken, capturing all of his concerned looks, straight to Johnny and Gaz.
“Lass, I want in. Let's drag this out as much as we can.”
“He’s right, what if we tell him we’re on rut suppressants and if he’s run out yet?”
And that’s exactly what they do, casually dropping it into conversation, acting like it’s something that’s just known and well.. for once you actually get Ghost confused. With every new piece of information you drop, sighing as you lecture him about the connections and the different secondary genders and ruts and heats, he looks even more paler. Still, a little part of him is stubborn, wanting to insist he knows its a joke. It has to be, of course it is.
Until he walks past some recruits, one of them rolling his eyes at the other. “Bro, you are not a lone alpha, pack it up.”
That secures it for him— there’s no way you managed to get those recruits to say it too, whatever it means. So now he’s just stuck in a situation of giving in, or holding it out and just ignoring you all. But if it is real, what is he meant to do? He was never taught this growing up.. was that another thing he failed to pick up?
You and the sergeants lay off directly saying it to him for a few days, having thought he had seen right through it.
One last time as a joke, you scold him for not getting enough pillows for the team movie night because “Ghost! You know I'm out of suppressants and I'm a nesting omega! I need this kind of stuff!” Then you snatched the pillow out his hand, sulking whilst Johnny and Gaz did their best to soothe you.
You were just hoping for him to ask, finally ask what the hell a suppressant is, or what omegas are other than a letter in the greek alphabet. This.. is not what you expected.
“Alright, that wraps up all the information. Any questions?”
“Do you take rut suppressants, Captain?”
Price looks at Ghost with genuine horror, having just finished a debriefing with thankfully only the task force; the question had been on his mind the entire mission.
“Ghost, what the fuck are you on about?”
The sergeants and you immediately burst into laughter, watching the realisation in Ghost's eyes before he turns his head to give you all the sharpest glare possible.
Price pinches his nose, and just sighs at the rest of you. “Can we please have one normal day? One?”
I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘
Younger american!reader and older!ghost who battle over cultural barriers everyday😔
The first time you meet ghost hes in full gear and u tell him he looks "cunty as hell". Soap nearly breaks his neck with the way he whipped around to look at you two, silently fearing for ur life bc ghost has that murder look in his eyes.
A week later ur slumped over at the breakfast table, two empty redbulls next to u and still fucking exhausted bc ghost has been killing you in training. Ur in the middle of complaining to gaz about it when ghost passes behind you can gruffs "maybe dont call your lieutenant a cunt if you wanted him to go easy on you."
And ur fuckin baffled bc what? So you turn around like "I never called you a cunt?? What the hell are you on?? Ive only ever been nice to you??". Soap a bit too eagerly quotes ur first words to ghost bc hes *still* thinking abt ur audacity. Suddenly the pieces click into place.
"Oh! Oh- oh my god no! Cunty as hell. As in like, your outfit looks good! Its a good thing, I promise!" Ghost narrows his eyes at you, and after maybe way too long attempting to explain slang to him he just shrugs. "Apology accepted." And moved on as if he didnt watch u throw up on the field yesterday lol.
You were new to the team, only 23, but already having proved yourself to be a very good soldier. You had done so to spite one of your commanding officers who told you over and over you would fail bootcamp and would never be a soldier.
You were a perfect edition to the team, and damn good at what you did. But damn, were you online enough to say things even Kyle didn't understand.
Price gave an order that you didn't agree with during a mission, and the two of you got into a small argument in the humvee back to base. You knew you weren't going to win the argument, so you settled into your seat with an eye roll. "Not very Sigma of you is all I'm saying, Sir."
He was so confused that he didn't even make you run laps. You also had a habit of calling Ghost's outfits "cunty."
"That a new balaclava, sir?" You ask one day, noticing a new skull pattern on the fabric. When he grunted in an agreement, you grinned at him. "You look cunty. Good choice." Kyle choked on his water and gave you a wide-eyed stare. "What? I'm just telling him he looks good."
There was also the time you kept saying "I pick Clark" as you picked enemies off with your sniper. You kept the team feeling both old as hell while keeping them in the loop on the online world.
