The ringing in your ear is deafening, back pressed up against the brick wall, weapon up, and your heart hammering in your throat. The comms are nothing but static. It's enough to make you want to rip the piece out altogether.
A round ricochets off the concrete inches from your skull. Too close for comfort.
"Christ," you hiss, ducking lower to save your brains from painting the graffiti-covered walls.
"Oi, stay focused," Simon mutters, steady beside you. Calm, like he isn't in the eye of the storm.
Johnny, ever so eager to get a word, shouts across the hall: "Focused? The hell's tha supposed t'mean? [y/n]'s nearly had her face shot off!"
"Still might," Ghost replies flatly. "Wouldn't be much of a loss."
Your head snaps toward him. He doesn't so much as flinch when a round grazes his boot.
"Meant tactically." he lies without missing a beat.
Johnny barks out a laugh, even with bullet fragments smashing against the brick. "Bloody hell, L.t., that how you flirt?"
Kyle is just as easily chuffed. "Romantic as sharpnel that one."
Simon's voice cuts in, gravelly and low: "If I were flirtin', you'd be beggin' me to stop."
A grenade lands between you and Simon, but he's quick to scoop it, and lob it to the other side without a blink when he looks in your direction. A short silence amongst them before the shooting begins again.
Price stands up, adjusting his fisher hat, and spitting at that concrete. "If you lot are done speed dating, we've got a building to clear."
You roll your eyes as you fall in behind your Captain. "Yeah, I can really feel the romance."
You end up bringing home a rather easy on the eyes Scottish guy after a night out.
After a whirlwind of an experience that has you hoping he'll stick around late into tomorrow, you're both out of breath and you're laughing as Johnny shuffles towards the shower in the bathroom, trying to be some mix of sexy and silly.
"Gonnae join me hen?" He waggles his brows, adding an exaggerated sway to his hips.
And of course you're going to join him. Not a chance you're going to miss out on more fun in the shower, but you take a moment to just relax and come back into your body as you hear the shower turn on.
You realize too late you forgot to warn him when you suddenly hear the most high-pitched, inhuman screech.
Silly you forgot to mention your hot water took a bit of time to heat up. An old water heater. And Johnny had just stepped right in, still blissed out from the night's previous activities.
Virgin!Simon (Inspired by someone, creds to them but i can't find their tag sigh)
Simon 'Ghost' Riley hunched over his tray in the corner of the military mess hall, mask firmly in place, the skull casting shadows that matched his brooding aura. At 6 feet of solid muscle, scarred and intimidating, he'd been a virgin forever. Women took one look at the looming figure and bolted. No one got close. Until you.
Fuck, she was gorgeous. Soft lips, bright eyes....everything he'd never dared want.
He watched you grab a tray, load it with slop, then hesitate. No empty spots near your mates. His table was isolated, but he straightened, heart thudding. Talk to her. Now. He waved a gloved hand, voice gravelly through the balaclava. "Seat's free. Sit."
You blinked, then smiled...god, that smile...and slid in across from him. "Thanks, Lieutenant Riley. Ghost, right? Heard you're the best sniper we got."
His cock stirred at your voice, sweet and unafraid. No one talked to him like that. "Yeah. Eat." Clumsy, but you laughed, digging in. Conversation flowed...missions, training, your transfer from another base. He grunted responses, but leaned in, mask hiding the flush creeping up his neck. Your scent hit him: clean soap, faint perfume. His hands flexed under the table.
"You always this quiet?" you teased, foot brushing his boot accidentally. Or not. Heat shot straight to his groin.
"Not always." Lie. But he pushed: "Room's empty later. Show you gear. Tactics." Smooth? No. But your eyes lit up.
"I'd like that."
Hours later, his barracks door clicked shut behind you. Sparse room: cot, locker, dim lamp. Mask stayed on...for now. You perched on the bed, uniform top unbuttoned one extra, cleavage teasing. "So, gear?"
He loomed over you, 6 feet of tension. Virgin nerves clawed him. What now? Hands hovered, then cupped your face. Balaclava brushed your lips as he kissed...rough, desperate, so so inexperienced, tongue shoving in. You moaned, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him down.
"Fuck, want you," he rasped, voice muffled. Yanked your top open, bra spilling free, nipples hard. He palmed them, squeezing, thumbs flicking peaks. You arched, gasping.
"Simon...take the mask off. See you."
He froze, then peeled it up, revealing chiseled jaw, stubble, haunted eyes. Scarred cheek. Vulnerable. You kissed him proper—soft lips on his, tongue dancing. His cock throbbed painfully in pants.
Pants shoved down, your hand wrapped his thick shaft, first touch ever. He bucked, groaning. "Shit, I-...don't know... how..."
"Let me," you whispered, stroking slowly. Veins pulsed under your fingers, head leaking pre-cum. You pumped firmer, thumb smearing slick over the tip. He panted, hips jerking. His face contorting in pure pleasure, the rush of never being touched before running through his cock.
"Bed. Now." He pushed you flat, stripping you frantic, pants off, panties yanked aside. Your pussy bare, wet folds glistening. He'd seen porn, but this? Real, hot, dripping for him.
Kneeling between thighs, he stared. "Like this?" Fingers parted lips, clumsy slide inside. Tight heat sucked him in. You nodded, guiding: "Lick it. Suck my clit."
Tongue out, he lapped...broad strokes over your slit, tasting salt and sweetness. Clit swollen; he sucked, teeth grazing. You bucked, fingers in his short hair. "Yes!...fuck, just like that!...mmmph-"
He devoured, two fingers plunging deep, curling. No rhythm at first, but your moans taught him. faster, harder. Pussy clenched, juices flooding his chin as you came, thighs clamping his head. "Simon!" Throat raw from cries.
He lifted his head, covered in sticky juices, his face glowing in pride.
He reared up, cock nudging your entrance. "Gonna... fuck you...please-" Eyes wild.
"F-uck-...yeah." Legs wrapped his waist.
His blunt head pushed in...tight, burning stretch. He grunted, inching deeper, walls gripping like a vice, whimpers escaping his mouth. Halfway, he thrusted messily, balls slapping your ass. "Ng-..gh...s-shit so tight..."
He pounded erratically, hips snapping. The desk lamp rattled. Sweat slicked his chest, muscles flexing as he chased instinct. You clawed his back, tits bouncing with each slam.
"F-fuck so big, mmmph- h-harder." He swelled, rutting deeper, cockhead battering your cervix.
No control left. "C-coming! fffuckkk" He buried deep, cock erupting. Thick spurts painted your insides, pulsing endlessly. You shattered too, gushing around his milky cock... pussy milking every drop.
Collapsed on you, panting. Pulled out slow, cum leaking from your fucked hole.He grinned, hisfirst real smile. "Again? i'm a fast learner"
every time i think of simon, my mind instantly thinks to something soft and delectable, something that seems too soft, like a cloud, or dream but something that is also all consuming at once,
soft open mouth kisses where you don’t know where he ends and you begin. tongues, teeth, lips clashing againts one another without any regard. he weighs you down, literally, you’re crushed on the couch under him. your hands on his neck pulling him impossibly closer. he doesn’t stop, losing himself in the taste of your lips as if to mold himself into you.
you finally break apart after what seems like hours, heavily panting, lips swollen and red, pupils wide and blown, his eyes still trained on your lips. he’s hypnotised. he looks so divine like this, hair disheveled, lips nipped and bloody, breaths coming in short and heavy pants. all ruined, all yours.
the two of you don’t waste anytime before welding your lips again and you let out a whine as he slips his hand under your tank top, fingers fiddling with your tits. he takes this as an opportunity and slips his tongue in your mouth again. such a good girl. so soft and pliant.
your hands find their way to his jeans, undoing his button with practice ease and letting your fingers linger near the waistband of his underwear, he groans in your mouth and you lose your composure, kissing him harder, taking his lower lip between your teeth and giving it a little bite.
uhmm so a little post before my exams start again ‼️
Also if Nikto and Horangi get added to the boyfriends I'd like to think it happens in the most concerning way possible™
"Oooh do you have another printed selfie in the background?"
Streamer!Reader, picking up the photo: Oh that? Two more boyfriends, aren't they cute?
"Is- did you take this in an alleyway 💀"
Reader: Yeah they were on a smoke break and recognized me and asked for a photo. I was gonna say no but one of them works in a bakery and he offered me a muffin so, yk
And the chat is going nuts with "why the fuck would you do that", "don't do that" "don't eat the pasteries"
Reader: But I already ate them!
"Jesus Christ"
Reader: I don't think he's in here Simon
I mean obviously it doesn't have to happen like this but I just think its a funny "what if"
Like bro don't go into a random alleyway cuz someone offered you a muffin 😭
🐿️
pack (begrudgingly according to reader) is ASTOUNDED by how streamer!reader picks up boyfriends like crazy ?!? tbh the amount of polaroids in their bg makes pack think… it’s a bit !!
but the moment all of their boyfriends move the discord plans to irl and show up to their house for a movie night, shit gets real!!
price, nikto, and surprisingly? simon are pretty secure, they were pretty aware and actually, adore being able to share (lowk find solidarity in being the lurkers in chat)
könig, soap, and horangi? jealous to an extent, ESPECIALLY KÖNIG !!! you’re sitting on his lap, soap is beefing with horangi and you’re just melting, happy and content with all of your boyfriends
wait
where’s kyle? oh- he’s brooding. biggest pout on his face cause könig isn’t fucking sharing you!!! kyle hadn’t seen you since twitchcon and he missed you!! SO WHY ISN’T KÖNIG SHARING!!!
the boys adore their little streamer!reader <33 some are more willing to share than others but… you give them kisses and cuddles for being here
you decide to… maybe not stream the next couple of hours with them <3 perhaps, next time !
Fem reader, roommates, fake marriage but it’s only for the gym membership discount
It starts innocently enough with the two of you sharing an apartment together. It’s a small studio apartment, and the two of you share a bed- because it’s cheaper that way bonnie! What do you mean a full sized mattress is too small? Smaller beds are cheaper!!
One night he’s spooning you from behind and murmuring how you first met, the first “date” you went on, the wedding venue you were at, and you thought it was some sort of sleep talking.
But the next day you find out that the local gym has a discount for married couples and he wants that discount.
He even got a matching ring set for the two of you to wear. You thought it was a *little* weird when he coaxed you to try on his sister’s old wedding dress (with his sister’s blessing) and took photos of you in that dress.
What you don’t know is that while on base soap refers to you as the lovely wifey, and the rest of the 141 didn’t believe he had actually managed to find someone.
For now you just accept Johnny as being a goofy little guy, who loved being able to gush about your “wedding day” and how lovely you had looked in your wedding dress.
OK but i need to know if price allows his wife to trim his beard …can you please write a drabble on it to feed my price addiction
Oh, absolutely!! I bet it’s easier for him to have someone he trusts cut his hair for him. His beard, though—I imagine he grooms it himself (too many oh, sir, you should cut it this way—), and he prefers a straight razor over a blade. If he really, really trusts you, he'll let you do it for him, but he's been grooming his beard since he was 28, and so. No one does it better than he does.
His hair, however? He considers it a free cut.
》 WARNINGS: Um. Just some domestic bliss, really. Bantering. Allusions to sexual content, PTSD, and trust issues (not as serious as it sounds; just briefly mentioned). This is basically just gratuitous fluff. This was written with absolutely no discernible characteristics for the Reader—gender-neutral reader
》 WORD COUNT: 1,9k
"Hold still."
"Holdin' as still as I can, love."
His words are thick—little more than a grumble rasped into the collar of his shirt, distorted from the tilt of his head, chin resting on his sternum.
To someone else, his tone might be misconstrued as waspish; a scathing snap sawed between his clenched teeth, and coloured in a thick paint of impatience.
But you know him more than most, and the huffiness of his tone only serves to amuse you.
(Your irascible man.)
Still.
Your fingers snake through the overgrown locks on the top of his hand until you have a fistful trapped tight between each of your digits, and then you tug just so. A warning. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough that it makes him tense—makes him groan.
His voice loses the surly pinch, and sounds decidedly breathless—a fact that makes you stifle a grin.
"Gonna start somethin' you can't finish, you bloody minx."
"Gonna cut your skin if you don't stop wriggling around," you volley back.
He huffs, shoulders slumping down with his sharp exhale. "Just get on with it. Getting stiff sittin' like this."
You ease off the clutch of his hair, but keep the locks between your fingers, eyeing the length, before nodding to yourself, and bringing the scissors close to the tuffs spilling out.
The snipping sound of the shears cutting through his hair fills your small washroom. His shoulders seem to relax, if only slightly, as you work.
You cut the locks between your pinky and ring finger shorter than the rest, and wince.
"You know," you murmur, brows furrowing as you try to gauge whether or not it's passable enough to be overlooked, or if you'll need to cut all of it shorter to match. "You could go to a barber. A professional."
He grunts. You know what he's going to say before he says it, and you wordlessly mimic the words that leave his lips:
"Cheaper this way, ain't it?" He drops his chin when you nudge his head.
Cutting his hair has become a small tradition between you, one that started a few months into your relationship when he showed up at your door, three hours late to a planned date with a bucket hat on his head, and a package of forget-me-nots in his hand (seeds, he said, because flowers will wilt and die in a day but if you plant them in your garden, they'll regrow forever). His hair was longer than usual, curling just under his chin, and the sight of him—so frazzled and unkempt compared to how put together he normally was—made something inside of you ache.
He'd rushed here as soon as he could, complaining that his flight was delayed, and his barber quit on him, and all the while, your fingers itched with the urge to run them through his overgrown locks, to feel the silken hair against your palm.
(To grip tight and not let go.)
The words slipped out with very little conscious thought: I can cut it for you.
He seemed almost caught off-guard, but the obvious discomfort of having his hair tickle the nape of his neck made his acquiescence much easier.
You discovered that night just how much you liked having his hair in your hands, and he seemed to realise that fucking you against the wall, while you tugged on his freshly cut hair, in lieu of payment was much more preferable than dealing with a barber.
"No," he grouses. "They're always goin' on 'bout undercuts, and tryin'a get me to shave my chops, and I ain't dealin' with that when I 'ave you."
"Free labour?"
"Hardly." He scoffs. "Gonna break my damned back one of these days, you bloody—"
"—hold still, love," the stolen endearment makes him shudder, but he quiets when you rest the flat of the blade over the crest of his ear, cutting the overgrown hair around his sideburns. "That's it. Good boy."
"Keep playing with me, love, and I'll show you who's a good—"
Another tug. His scorching words taper off into a growl.
"You don't seem to complain much when you pull me in for another round—ah, ah—" You tug his hair again when he moves, fighting a wide grin. The plastic handles of the scissors slide back until it arches off the back of your hand, thumb brushing the loose hair from behind his ear. "God, you're so stubborn. You want to get cut, don't you?"
"Trust you not to leave me a bloody mess by the end of this."
With his chin dipped so far down into his collar, his words are honey-thick and robust, and the deep cadence alone makes your toes curl in your slippers.
"Trust me that much, hmm?"
Despite the transparent barb, the tease in your slightly breathless tone, he doesn't hesitate. "With my life."
"Aren't you a charmer?"
"Almost done? I'll show you how charming I can be—"
"Nearly. Would've finished an hour ago if you'd keep still."
He grumbles again, but the words are swallowed by the snip of the scissors. An impasse blooms in the scant space between your front, and his broad back. Comfortable, like all silences with him have become. Despite your griping, cutting his hair is soothing—intimate in a way you'd never come to expect it to be.
It might be the explicit trust he places in your hands when you direct him to tilt his chin for you at a mere tap against his jaw, or the crown of his head. Wordlessly following your commands as soon as they're conveyed.
To anyone else, such a display is commonplace, but you've been through the thick of everything to know that exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way to you, and so soon after a mission, is more meaningful than any declaration of trust could ever be. The innate drive to protect his fragile pieces from harm often leads to him flinching away from the sharp end of the shears, but it diminishes just as quickly as it rears, and he sits, docile and accommodating, for you. Allowing you this minuscule power over him.
Maybe that's why he refuses to see a barber, opting to let you chop his hair in whichever style you deem attractive instead. Explaining to someone else why he's so tense, why he sometimes can't stifle the small jerk when cold metal kisses the nape of his neck, seems tiresome. The unneeded opening of a barely healed scab.
It was a battle getting him to open up to you, to let you invade his space, and squeeze through the splinters in his resolve when it became clear that you weren't going anywhere that wasn't with him.
The thought of it alone warms you. The ache in your joints from holding your hands still, cutting through the thick tufts of hair, feels like a small burden in comparison to what he's shown you with this.
It's been barely five hours since he touched down at Heathrow. His duffle bag is still packed. His fatigues are still on. He hadn't even showered off the stench of the mission, or scoured the blood and dirt from between his nails, and yet—
You tap his cheek. His head lifts, and then lists to the side. The smooth curve of his neck is exposed. His exterior vein throbs through his sun-kissed skin.
Affection blossoms in your chest.
"Missed you."
The words are barely a whisper, but his eyes peel open, icy blue finding yours as you lean over him, getting the last patch of hair near his temple.
John says nothing in response, but he doesn't have to. You see it all—feel it. The vein in his neck throbs more intensely as his heart rate picks up, and that alone is more than an echoed sentiment in return. It's enough.
But still:
His hand lifts with a deliberate slowness until the pads of his fingers kiss your wrist. He burns red-hot—skin just as fiery as his temper—and the warmth of his rough skin bleeds into you when he wraps his full palm over your arm, thumb brushing your flesh in a distinct pattern.
When you recognise it, you falter.
It isn't quite Morse code, but it's something he taught you on the eighth date when you asked if the wordless hand signals were accurate in the movie you'd just seen. His hand found yours as he led you out of the theatre, and down the cold, wet streets of Liverpool.
"No," he snorted, derisively. And then spent the three blocks back to your flat showing you the different commands they used in the SAS, and the ones he taught his men. "If you can, skin on skin is better. Less likely to be seen. We save it for hostage situations. Like this—"
Blisteringly intense cerulean never wavers from yours as he lets you feel the words he rasps over your skin.
You try not to tremble with the shears pressed too close to his skin, and quietly pull them away. He watches as you place them on the ledge of the vanity, hand never releasing yours.
You brush the loose hair from his shoulders, trying to hide a smile.
"All done."
John hums, the noise a crackling ember that fills the hush in the room, and notches between your ribs where it sticks against your thudding heart.
"What's the verdict?"
"Why don't you see for yourself?"
Loose hair falls from his shoulders when he stands until it dusts across the tile below his feet. He leans over the sink, shaking his head above the basin, before settling, angling his chin as he takes in your shoddy handiwork.
"Looks good."
You snort. "Sure. I'll have to go over it once you finish showering because someone wouldn't sit still long enough for me to clip around your crown, and—"
He turns to face you, and the playful diatribe is cut off when his warm palms fit against your hips. It's his turn to tug, and he does so with a sharp jerk of his wrists, pulling you taut to his chest.
His eyes bore down into yours, mirthful blue. "Yes, yes," his eyes roll briefly toward the ceiling, lips curling into a soft smirk. "But someone kept tryin'a clip my ears, and pullin' on my hair."
"Someone, eh?" You volley coyly, reaching up, and curling your fingers into the bristles of hair spilling from his cheeks.
At your gentle touch, his expression shifts to contemplative. His chin tilts when your nails graze his skin.
"You like my beard, don't you?"
Your brow lifts in question. "Yes, you know I do. Why? The boys making fun of you for it?"
"Gaz said I looked like an Edwardian lord—" you snort at the comparison. He pinches your side. "Watch it."
"Is that all?"
"Soap said they're grabable."
"Yeah, they are," you purr, taking in as much as you can in your fists. "Very steerable, too. But why is Soap concerned about that?"
"Said someone could grab 'em. Drag me by 'em, and—"
"Like his mohawk?"
He concedes your point with a flash of teeth. "You don't think I need to trim 'em?"
"And lose my handlebars? No way—"
His darken. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?"
"For you? Always."
"Mmm," he tilts his chin down, and presses his mouth to yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip. "Insatiable little minx."
"You love it."
"You know I do." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. When you peer up at him, his pelagic gaze turns turbid with desire. "Now, about your payment…"
Loving Ghost is hard because when his attention is on you in a positive way, it's like the first sun beam hitting you after a hazy grey winter. The rest of the time? Moody silences and indifferent attitudes have you questioning where you stand. Nothing seems to motivate him except following orders from the chain of command. You wish he really saw you. There'a an awareness you carry that while not entirely unattractive or dense, there is always someone better looking or more intelligent than you in the room. Being around him makes you painfully conscious of this. Like you can't breathe because you don't know how to follow orders the way he can, you can only listen to your gut. It's why you consult, why you'd have been a crap soldier. There's an inner part of you that follows its own tide, a refusal to always march to the beat of the captain's drum. Ghost isn't like that, though. He's built differently. To him, it's much more simple, much more hollow. Obey and execute. No questions, only discipline and force. You don't know how you ever thought this thing of yours could work, really. It'll be better for you both in the long run. You're going to break up with him, and he's going to be absolutely fine. Never mind your fractured, aching heart.
