Youre an odd little thing. A worker on base, some kind of maintenance around the archival building, Ghost thinks.
He barely sees you, but sometimes while hes driving recruits around the obstacle course with sharply barked commands, he sees you laying in the grass seemingly focused on the ground, legs kicking slowly in the air.
Only on good weather days of course. Sometimes he watches you fall asleep on soft sunny days right there in the grass.
One day he finally decides to satiate his curiousity and wanders over to where youre currently focused on the grass.
"Wot're you lookin at?"
You flinch a little, not having heard him approach. It takes you a second to stop staring up at him and reply
"Weevil"
Ghost tilts his head before crouching down and staring at the same patch of grass. You in turn also keep looking. Ghost thanks himself for his sniper abilities to spot even the tiniest movements through a scope, since he spots the tiny blue weevil in less than a second as it pitterpatters across grass stalks.
"Proper weevil"
He grunts out and you nod fixated on the scampering bug.
"Proper weevil"
Ghost raises an eyebrow under his mask as you mimic his accents. No one did that, too scared of the Ghost. Hes a little puzzled, either you hadnt heard the rumors or didnt care. Either way it was refreshing.
The next time he spots you staring at the grass he just walks up and asks what youre seeing. It becomes a little routine, a daily little thing he quite enjoys.
cw: kidnapping; wife stealing/claiming; violence; dub/non–con; primal possessiveness; size kink; degradation; Game of Thrones AU
Your lip trembles.
The blade stays pressed just under your chin, cool and sharp against your skin, forcing your face up ever so slightly. The man—no, beast—kneeling in front of you is a wall of muscle and scar and heat. His eyes—one slightly lighter than the other—drip with something ancient and hungry, framed by dirt-smeared lashes and a jagged brow that twitches as he examines you.
He looks like he's deciding whether to eat you or keep you.
Maybe both.
"Mine now," he repeats, rougher this time, as if speaking slower and louder might help you understand. His accent is strange. Northern. Harsh and clipped. Something wild clings to it, untamed like the storm still howling outside the heavy furs of his tent.
You finally manage to open your eyes, just barely. Just enough to look at him.
And Gods above, he is not even trying to hide the way his dark gaze eats you alive.
You're soft, he notices—softer than any woman he's ever seen. Plump thighs squeezed together in fear, trembling arms pressed to your sides. Breasts heavy under your torn shift. Cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, all round and supple and so fucking sweet looking.
His cock twitches despite its weight.
You feel and smell the heat of it—his arousal like a second presence in the room, thick and impossible to ignore, even without looking down.
He reeks like blood, cold mountain air, sweat, and something darker. Earthy. Masculine.
"Y'scared?" he asks next, still crouched in front of you, voice dropping to something deeper, almost amused.
You nod—barely—but he hums low in his throat like a wolf who has cornered a rabbit. There's satisfaction in it. Not cruelty—blunt possession.
"You should be."
His massive hand, rough with calluses and healing splits, replaces the blade. He curls two fingers gently under your jaw and forces your face up all the way. You're not sure what you expect—maybe for him to strike you. Bite you. Take you like some savage creature from the fairy stories.
Instead, he observes.
And what he sees makes something shift behind those dark eyes.
His thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and almost reverent, even as you flinch.
"Pretty," he mutters, low to himself. "Soft as they said. Thought they were exaggeratin'." He grunts in approval. "They weren't."
His voice is thick now, arousal and obsession twining together like roots around your ribs. Still, you flinch away again, trying to scoot back. Your ass barely leaves the fur before a growl rips from his chest.
It's not human. Can't be.
He lunges forward—not to hurt you, but to cage you, his huge arms planted on either side of your body. His face presses close, breath hot and sharp with his snarl.
"No."
You freeze, blinking up at him in shock, fear coiling in your belly like a pit viper.
"You run, I chase," he grits out. "You scream, I cover yer mouth. You fight me, I take anyway."
His cock is obscenely hard now, thick and flushed and resting heavy against your thigh like a threat. Or a promise.
"But..." he says, breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he pants and sniffs like an animal, his nose brushing along your neck, cheek, ear. "...you be good f'me, I'll treat ya nice. Feed ya. Keep y'warm. Give you my bed."
You swallow thickly. He notices. Always notices.
"I'm not like your other women," you whisper, voice cracking with fear. "I'm not... strong. I'm not a fighter."
Ghost stills above you at that. Then, with surprising gentleness, he leans in until his forehead rests against yours. You feel his breath, warm and steady now, ghosting over your skin.
"Don’t want another bloody fighter," he mutters, rough and hoarse. "Want a wife."
You inhale sharply.
"Wanna rut ya full. Fuck you full of my seed. Watch that pretty body get rounder with what I give ya. Carryin’ my pups. Mine."
Your stomach flips. Heat pulses low. Shame bubbles and burns up your spine like a lit torch.
His mouth finds your neck and he noses against it like a beast scenting his mate. His tongue swipes once, hot and wet. You gasp deep in your throat. He growls in return.
And then he pulls back just far enough to look you dead in the eyes and say, more low and sure as ever:
Firefighter!Simon who meets you when your apartment goes up in flames, breaking down the crumbling excuse of a door to make sure that everyone had been evacuated from the building. Gaz was having a laugh about how someone ‘could sleep through that shit’ as Simon had to wake up this poor girl who just wanted to sleep after her stressful day.
Firefighter!Simon who answers all your questions with a gruff tone, navigating through the burning building. On one hand, he’s glad you aren’t screaming and crying about the building but on the other hand he wasn’t used to people asking him questions. You ask him things like his favorite color, his favorite food, how many times he had punched people in the face, and about his opinion on everything under the sun. He was on his seventh ‘you need to stop talkin’, ma’am, yer wastin’ air’ when you started coughing.
When you got to the ambulance, Firefighter!Simon didn’t say no when you asked him to go with you to the hospital. Johnny raised an eyebrow at Simon as he maneauvered his hulking body onto the seat next to you. For some unknown reason, Firefighter!Simon didn’t want you- nosy and kind and pretty you- to be hacking up a lung by yourself in the presence of someone like Johnny. And when your breathing started slowing and you weren’t looking around with bright eyes, Simon let you slide your hand into his gloved one.
Firefighter!Simon who, miraculously, has the night off. He decides to stay in the hospital until you wake: thinking it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure your friends or family were made aware of the devastating fire. But when you finally blink awake and Simon asks all his questions, he’s stumped when you hit him with a ‘I don’t have any family’. Simon can’t stop himself from blurting out ‘You c’n stay with me. If you want.’
It takes a full day for you to be cleared before Firefighter!Simon picks you up from the hospital to take you to his (more than) humble abode. He finds that you quickly find happiness in the kitchen, but are more than disappointed to see he has barely anything to cook or bake with. “A damn shame” you say. With the remaining daylight hours, Simon finds himself driving you to a little supermarket in the corner of the city he hadn’t had the time to be explore. You insist on buying everything, telling Simon (a man who you really knew nothing about) it was the least you could do since he saved you from homelessness. And dying.
The rest of your first day in your temporary home with Firefighter!Simon is spent cooking. You whip up a marvelous pasta dish with hearty meatballs that almost make drool seep from Simon’s lips. He sits at the island watching you move around his space like you’d been there millions of times, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his gut similar to fondness. Since picking you up some new clothes, Simon had learned a little bit more about you than Simon thought healthy. It was unfortunate enough for him to have been unable to get laid in over three months, but it was even more unfortunate that he had such a pretty bird in his apartment making him food and insisting on being near him when he sure as hell couldn’t make a move on her.
Firefighter!Simon who gets comfortable in his routine with you. On the days he’s not at work at assfuck 0200, he’s up making a simple breakfast for you and him before rhe day starts. You’ll eat and concerse a little awkwardly but that wont stop you from asking all about how he slept and if his buddies wanted more of those monster cookies you’d made to thank them for saving you and your fellow tenants. Simon had to relay many praises of your work in the kitchen, only ommiting the details and sly jokes about how ‘Simon’s girl’ was already taking care of the family. You’d go to work by bus or train- depending on how you felt- and then come home and make dinner or reheat leftovers. If Simon was at work, you’d laze on the couch in the main room and watch television and read. If Simon wasn’t at work, you’d bring the softest blanket from the room Simon had placed you in and watch a movie. More often than not, you would scoot closer and closer to Simon before falling asleep against him. When you woke up, you were in your bed- undoubtedly carried by Simon. Oh well. Its what friends do.
Firefighter!Simon who sees you as a friend. It’s basing your third week in his home and he feel comfortable around you. You’re good at reading his silence- the set of his shoulders and the future of his brow say enough- and he can’t be more thankful of that. For someone so new to his life, you seem to know exactly when to let a comfortable silence fall between you and when to start chattering about them things that come to your mind. But when you are the silent, short-tempered, and fatigued one, Simon is more than scared to get in your way. “Needa talk?” He offers, sliding you a cup of steaming coffee when you level a glare at the mug that had irritated you at such an inconveniently early hour. You heave a sigh and your head crumbles down into your arms. “I’m a mess, Si,” you tell him. Though your voice is muffled, Simon hears the shakiness in your throat trying to escape. He rounds the corner of island and places a large palm on your back in his attempt to comfort you. You are wrapping your arms around his neck and buring your face into the frail fabric of Simon’s shirt before he even knows what’s happening. And- as avoidant as Simon is to physical touch that doesn’t occur during work hours or when you fall asleep on him or when you slid your hand in his gloved hand during The Ambulance Ride- Simon didn’t mind your arms and warmth around him. When you started shaking in his arms was when Simon had to clench his jaw. It pained him that it pained you- and he didn’t even know what was ailing you! Simon tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that he was giving you the best comfort he could offer.
A day later you wake up to a crime scene in your underwear in the middle of the night so you decide to take a midnight trip to the convenience store a literal block away without letting Firefighter!Simon know. I mean, hey, he needs sleep and you were not going to wake him up to let him know you would be gone for a total of five minutes! But when you were on your way back to his house, you noticed someone following you. As you turned right for the third consecutive block, you finally fumbled for your phone.
Hearing you say ‘hey baby’ at 0146 had Firefighter!Simon’s head spinning. He was a little dazed because of the abrupt awakening but your casual greeting was wnough to jolt him awake. “Y/n? Whadda ya- what-?” He couldn’t finish his question before you interrupt him. “Hey do you think you could pick me up? I think I got a little lost.” Simon shoots out of bed, hitting the speaker button as he goes to slip a shirt on. “Where are you? Do I need a knife? Are you okay, dove?” He slips his shoes on and is out of the door faster than he is when he gets a work call. “Yeah, I’d bring the knife, babe,” you answer on the other line, more than loud enough for the man who is following you to hear. “I’m about four blocks away, by the Casey’s. You have my location.” Simon peels out of his driveway and immediately clicks on your profile to find the map with your smiling face. “Talk to me, y/n. I’m almost there.” Your breath is shaking on the other end and Simon doesn’t want you to be scared. “I think I could go for some Italian, Simon,” you say truthfully. “A minute away” Simon tells you, tires squealing as he turns down the streets you were hightailing down. Simon steps out of the truck after shifting it to park and the guy scatters. You’re running into Simon’s open arms before he could take a third step toward you. “I’m sorry,” you murmur “I kinda… started my period and didn’t want to wake you but then-“ Simon just shushes you, running a large hand down your back. “Let’s go home, love.” Simon scooped you up easily, tucking the obnoxiously loud crinkling plastic bag into your lap as he easily carried you to the passenger seat. Home. Yeah, Simon and his place had become your home.
Single Dad!Simon Riley whose daughter is so sweet.
You, a sweet and humble hairdresser in your salon which you’ve bought and built from the ground yourself, having a walk-in appointment with a 6’4” hulking man, and his most precious angel. A black surgical mask covering his jaw, mouth and nose.
His little angel, who you learn to be Amelia, climbs into your chair with the cutest grunts of struggle and eventually a triumphant sigh. Her dad, in his effortlessly silky, gruff voice, explains that her hair is now down to her knees practically and he needs help. Her mother left when she was young and he’s only ever had one brother.
You chuckle softly and nod, and his daughter looks up at you after you explain that you’ll be trimming her gorgeous hair and demonstrating some simple braiding techniques to her father, and in the tiniest, cutest little Londoner accent:
“Thank you for helping my Daddy.” You nearly burst into tears at her shining hazel eyes and her big, toothy smile. You nod and begin sectioning her hair after placing a pink apron over her front. She beams to her Dad, “Look! She gave me pink!” He laughs and his eyes shine with pride. She’s so good at communicating, even though she barely looks five. She’s so adorably tiny, too.
At the end of the appointment, Simon has learned three different braid styles. He’s a natural, you assure him. You curl his daughter’s hair just before she leaves, and she does a little dance around the place in her princess dress. Her dad picks her up, and he smiles at you. Thanking you in that knee-weakening voice of his. He promises he’ll be back with any hair concerns, and he even tips you extra.
Before he leaves, his daughter points at you and asks if he can take you home. He responds, without missing a damn beat:
“Mm, only if she wants to come home with us.” He winks at you for good measure.
Men, it really took me a long time to draw his face, it always came out awful. I've been working on this drawing for a month and I only finished it yesterday, haha
Thinking about teacher!reader who works in an elementary school who is dating ceo!price but the relationship is private and your coworkers don’t know…until your car breaks down on the way to work and Price sends his driver to come pick you up in the Ferrari—because it’s just his day car—and you arrive in the middle of morning drop-off. Cue the hundreds of questions from students about the super cool car you’ve arrived in, and a hundred more from your coworkers.
Your car goes to the shop. You arrange a pick-up for tomorrow morning with another teacher only to arrive home to find that Price has dropped off a brand-new Porsche—which, surprise, is all yours. Paid off and in your name. And don’t worry about taxes or insurance. Price has it handled.
You insist that it’s too much. That you can’t accept it. Funny. Because it’s not a gift. Not transactional. You have your independence—your own money—but that doesn’t mean Price won’t provide.
