Not the messy, desperate kisses like shown in movies, the ones that always lead to more -though he'll never complain if it happens- but the sweet intimate kisses that are shared between the two of you, those make life worth living.
The privilege of being able to press a gentle kiss to your lips, forehead, or cheek is unlike the usually brutal things he does when he's away and it gives him a feeling he never thought he'd find.
To love you is a privilege in itself and he's never been so grateful to have something before. He takes every opportunity to kiss you no matter what you're doing his lips will find their way to you.
Currently, his chest is pressed tightly to your back and his arms are wrapped like a viper around your torso while you cook breakfast. Simon's face presses against the side of your head nuzzling into your hair like a cat.
A smile graces your face at the feeling, "You alright, my love?" He grunts into your hair and nods before pressing what must be the twentieth kiss to your head that morning. You can only laugh- never did you think after meeting this man, this keep-to-himself man- that he would be the type to never want to let you go.
Simon's voice is still husky when he finally speaks, "I love you." He's quiet still hesitant to voice his feelings.
You twist in his hold and wrap your arms around his neck fingers lacing through the short hair at the base of his neck.
You place a quick peck on his lips, then one on each cheek, and one more on his forehead and it's all he needs to know that you love him too.
Halloween Countdown 2025|Info|Masterlist| — Day 2: Pumpkin Carvings
Pairing: Simon Riley x GN!Reader
Word Count: 749
Synopsis: Simon takes the holidays off to spend time with his civilian partner
TW: None!
“Watch your fingers, love.” A large scarred hand tugs yours down a tad as you drive the large serrated knife into the top of the pumpkin.
“I got it, I got it..” Simon could only raise a brow at your dismissiveness. Each sawing motion only made him focus more on your hands more.
You are too eager to continue this shared activity to stop now. It’s not often that Simon is able to take time off- especially during the holidays. To make the most of this time together was and is your goal. The goal for both of you. The two of you had been planning this break for months, wanting to spend the spooky season side by side.
To commemorate the occasion, you insisted that the two of you do all of the fun halloween activities. Outside on the lawn, the home was already decorated nicely with lights, streamers, props, and even inflatable ghosts and skeletons- ones you specifically picked out for no particular reason at all. Simon didn’t believe that it was a simply convenient choice, of course, but who was he to complain? He missed you and your antics.
Some of your antics. Right now, your stubbornness left him a little.. alert, for a lack of better word. Each shift of your hand to hold the pumpkin still and the force you were using to drive the knife in and out of the pumpkin makes him beyond worried you’ll accidentally cut yourself trying to get the top off the large vegetable.
A beat of silence passes.
“At least hold it a little lower,” Simon urges with a little less than amused tone to his voice, placing his own knife onto the tray his own pumpkin sat upon. He had already finished cutting the top off his. The stem and its base sat on the left side of his tray, the edges neat with only mildly concerning precision.
A grunt of strained effort fell from your lips with another downward force of the knife, having to lean your body weight down into it. A huff left your lips as you sat up. Each flex of your fingers left a slight ache in them upon releasing the handle of the knife, the pain aching in the joints. You hiss softly in response, “How’d you cut yours so easily?”
You are met with silence. “..What?” you question at the sight of his raised brow. Silence lingers once more, though a bit longer than the first time.
Simon’s shoulders drop. A breath of amusement blows through his nose and he comes around to your side of the counter.
“What?!” Your hands fly to your hips with an accusatory look. Narrowed eyes follow him until he places himself behind you.
Large arms move to gently cage you against his chest, his hands guiding yours back to the pumpkin. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack trying to cut the damn thing..” His voice was gruff towards your left. One hand covers yours over the knife’s handle and the other is securely behind the knife.
Simon’s grip is strong as he pulls the knife back up and carefully angles it before driving it back into the pumpkin. “Do it more like this, yeah?”
The proximity tugs at your heartstrings. The natural warmth he emanates spreads along your back, bringing you a flustered sense of comfort. It was familiar yet foreign all at once. The time away did quite the number on you. It makes you crave being in his arms the instant they had wrapped around you and even more so the second they leave.
“Are you listenin’?”
Amusement laces his tone and it's followed by a soft chuckle at the way you tense up under him. He loves seeing the way you blush from embarrassment. The way you stumble out an apology was too cute.
“We’ll have plenty of time to cuddle as much as you once you finish, love.” Simon moves his hands to your hips and gives them a firm squeeze. He presses a rough lipped kiss on your cheek before pulling away and making his way back to his side of the counter.
“R-right..right,” You quip back in return, quickly nodding before going back to sawing at the pumpkin with slight urgency now that there is a secondary goal burning at the back of your mind. Simon could only chortle at your rushing, fishing a large spoon out the drawer nearby to begin scooping out the seeds.
synopsis: two weeks into your uneasy truce, simon gets introspective.
wc: 811
cw: afab!reader, angst, banter that becomes arguing, hurt and the tiniest bit of comfort, language, trust issues, simon's pov, no gendered language. no use of y/n ever.
author’s note: well, we back at it, the second last installment of this verse. i'll still take requests/thots for it of course, but soon we'll get closure for these two. for now, simon's thoughts on their situation.
new to baby blue? start here.
It’s disarming.
And Simon Riley doesn’t like being disarmed. He doesn’t like being caught off guard, off kilter, unstable.
It’s been happening more and more often though.
When you and Tommy look at him in perfect unison, he is struck stupid by your eyes, like you copy and pasted them onto your son. His son. His kid. His perfect, funny kid. Unmuddied by everything bad in the world. His life is pancakes and dinosaurs and that horrible fucking tv show that he’s sure rots his little mind. His life is you. Your smiles, your laugh, your cooking, your hugs. Things Simon cheated himself of when he walked out on you, choked with fear and bleeding misery.
Simon is disarmed, totally fucking helpless, a veritable babe in the woods when you let him hold you. When for the first time, in a long ass time, he gets to watch your lids flutter closed and slip into unconsciousness, in that quick, carefree way he’s always envied.
He barely sleeps, even less so lately.
After all, no sleeping meant no nightmares. No cloying, choking smoke-like fears reaching for the frayed edges of his subconscious. No sleeping meant he couldn’t play on your kindness, your goodness, and guilt you into holding him back when he woke up screaming, sweating, no matter how bad he wanted it.
It’s two weeks later. Two weeks after sleeping together but not sleeping together. After breakfast and an uneasy truce. Two weeks after kissing you and touching you and holding you like you both had all the time in the world.
You’re not in a good mood. And he knows that. But he pushes you anyway, pokes and prods you even as you slam through your kitchen, noisily pulling out a pot and a huge bag of pasta shells.
“Let’s talk.” He approaches, arms crossed, full kit traded in for a skull emblazoned cloth mask, jeans and a threadbare black t-shirt, one he’d found in your bedroom days ago, stashed in the back your drawer, crumpled in a wrinkled ball, like you didn’t want to see it, but you didn’t want to trash it either. He’s been doing that lately, staying over for days and rifling through your shit, finding old relics and artifacts from a time neither of you can let go of. An old mask, a hat, t-shirts.
So many goddamn t-shirts.
“Talk?” you snort derisively, filling the pot with water. He watches you test the water with your fingertips and curse under your breath, mumbling something about shit pipes. When the pot is full, you turn to face him, lips curled, sneering. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of that. Thought you just communicated in grunts.”
“You’re funny. That's new.” He jabs, advancing in the conversation much faster than he should have, comforted in familiar territory, finding solace in what used to be commonplace for you, banter, barbs, teasing. The tense set of your shoulders should’ve warned him off it, should’ve told him you’d take it as well as a bullet in the back. But God help him, he’ll take whatever you give.
“Mm.” Your tone is casual but your answering nod is jerky, too fast, “Yeah, I developed a sense of humour when I realized our relationship had been a joke.” You slam the pot onto a burner, giving him your back.
The air is suddenly devoid of mirth, utterly obliterated where it had been floating between you before. Now the living room and kitchen are a smoking crater, an oil rig on fire, a disaster site.
He’s never been more grateful for his son’s propensity to nap like he’s dead.
Neither of you say anything. Simon is waiting for you to say something, to dress him down, but when you lower your head and sigh, heavy and deep with pain and exhaustion he planted within you, Simon withers. He slinks back to the living room and drops himself onto your couch.
You wait, he’s not sure what for. He used to be so good at preempting your actions, your thoughts, your words, now he handles you like you’re a venomous reptile, looking for exposed, vulnerable flesh to strike, to bite.
You set down the glass you’d been drinking from hard. And he’s surprised you didn’t crack it.
“What do you want, Simon?” Question of the goddamn century, it is. And you’ve asked it of him plenty of times. But he never has an answer, can never really deduce just what the fuck he’s doing here, with you. With Tommy. Playing a game? Playing a role? Punishing you? Himself? All of it could be true, but none of it seems right.
“I want to try.”
All he knows is that before this, four years seemed like a short time, nothing really. But now?
It’s an eternity. Reflected back to him in broken glass, in half full drawers, in his son’s eyes.
makarov hunting an/a (enemy? long assassin?) reader who doesn’t really want to work with him- reader knows their stuff, erasing tracks, setting up traps, etc- its a game
призрак
Cw: canon-typical death, murder, assassination, mercenary, blood, tell me if I missed any.
You were a ghost —призрак in his mother-tongue. Appearing whenever you wanted and disappearing before anyone could find you, a phantom in the business of assassination, a killer without too high of a price. He’s watched the aftermath of your handiwork, the shows you played and the kills you made, they were a masterpiece he wanted to witness, to utilise for his goals. Even from the darkness of his solitary cell, locked away in the Gulag - the Zorgaya prison complex - he kept hearing about your endeavours.
You interest him, your brought out a certain excitement, made adrenaline pump in his blood, when you were first brought up. You were the a ghost - a wraith - that haunted the world, killing off men and women for the right number. You were a killer for hire, one of the best in the industry that even he - Vladimir Makarov - had attempted to recruit, to tie you down to his name and fame, to have you work for his purpose. Permanently.
But you were a slippery one, escaping whatever trap he carefully laid out for you, falling through his fingers, finding the smallest crack - mistake - in his plan that he once thought was full-proof. You were smart, feisty and skillful, able to see through his carefully crafted words for a hire, pushing past the firewall of his mind and planting a virus, corrupting his original purpose, rooting yourself into his sick mind. This feeling, the way his heart rammed against his rib when you sent a warning shot, or when you escaped from his grasp, this wasn’t love —no, he was a being detached from such frivolous affairs. He didn’t love. He couldn’t with his cold, dead heart. This was an obsession, Makarov obsessed over things, he knit picked, he stole and took apart.
Makarov was a being whose conscious transcended the likes of capitalist westerners who’ve corrupted his motherland, small-minded and parasitic politician who made the Soviet Union crumble to dust; whose forgone the primal needs that made humanity weak —vulnerable; Vladimir Makarov was better than any man.
That’s where stemmed his obsession with you, the need to hunt you down. You portrayed yourself as a being higher than him. A better strategist and killer than him. It went from word of mouth to ear, Makarov heard from the other guards and new inmate speak of you, you achievements, the spike in your demands and the people who were ready to give you an arm and leg to pay for your service. Powerful men and women routing you an undisclosed amount of money to kill of someone, to have them assassinated in their own bedroom, to be drowned in their own bathtub or to be poisoned by their own wine.
He had Konni keep a track on your work while he waited for the right time to be freed, jumping back to work once he landed in Russia. He took it on himself to follow your steps, he had a hand in every sector of the underworld, dabbing in everything to keep his hold over the world. He couldn’t find anything about you, neither your past nor your character, you were nameless and faceless, the hooded mask obscuring your face from the world. Makarov’s best couldn’t even track you through cameras and find your deposit account, it seemed as though you had a team of your own, working in the dark to keep your and their livelihood going.
You evaded his traps, able to figure out which deals were made by him as a ploy to catch you, to find the ghost that haunted his mind. You were a disease, a parasite that unknowingly clung to him. You knew him, the messages he received through the grapevines, taunting remarks and threats that made him see red. You were too skillful, erasing your steps, making it seem as if you were never there in the first place, uninvolved with it, but the world knew who committed the crime. This was a game - or so he liked to think - of cat and mouse, he preferred being the cat, the dangerous and cunning feline who stalked the small mouse, he had to swallow his pride and confess that he played the mouse as often as he played the cat, being hunted and narrowly escaping because you let him.
But this, this meeting was a surprise, to see his призрак stand before him, tempted by the proposition he had to offer you —without any underlying meaning or hidden thoughts.
“мы наконец встретились, Призрак.” (We finally meet, ghost.)
Summary: You've been stressed out and working like crazy lately. John finally has enough and devises a plan to take care of you and make you forget all about your work.
Pairing: John Price x f!reader (no use of y/n)
Word Count: 2.9k
Rating: Explicit (18+ only, minors do not interact)
Warnings: stressed reader, kissing, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v sex (you know the drill, wrap it y'all), orgasm denial, praise
A/N: This one goes out to all my stressed and busy babes out there! This is 100% self indulgent since I've been working day and night recently. We all need us some Price to take that stress away
You knew that you had been distant for a while. Work had been piling up on you, responsibilities pressing in from all sides. It seemed like all you did was work, work, work these days.
Your husband, John Price, was as supportive as he always was. He, of all people, understood that sometimes you just had to put your head down and get work done. When he was home with you, he always made sure that you ate and stayed hydrated. He limited your caffeine intake. He made sure you took breaks. In all, he was the most supportive, understanding man on the planet.
…which was why his reaction now was so surprising.
You saw him approach the makeshift office that you had set up at your kitchen table from over your laptop screen. In a soft, even voice he ordered, “Close the computer, love.”
Continuing to type, you spared him a questioning glance as you shook your head. “I just took a break like… an hour ago.”
“Three,” he corrected. “It’s almost eleven at night.”
You whipped your head up to look at the clock that hung on the wall behind him. Sure enough, he was right. Dread spread through you, your brain already kicking into crisis mode. “Shit. God, I’ve got to get this done.”
“It’ll be there tomorrow,” he countered. “You’ve been workin’ like mad all weekend long. I’m not gonna let you run yourself into the ground. So. Shut. The. Laptop.”
He stressed each word, and suddenly you felt what it must’ve been like to have John as a Captain, calm but commanding. Your eyes met his, your mouth open to fight him on the matter, but you found him ready for it, a testing eyebrow raised. It was rare that he would ever tell you what to do, but it always came when he was worried about you and trying to take care of you. Any time you had gotten a significant injury, he had made sure that you stuck to every word of the doctor’s orders.
You huffed and leaned back, already sensing defeat. Instead, you tried to plead with him, “John, I won’t be able to sleep unless I get this done. I’ll just keep thinking about it.”
He put one hand on the table, leaned toward you, and pushed the laptop closed with the other hand. With his face barely a breath from yours and his eyes darkening, he rumbled, “I can fix that.”
Your body reacted to his sultry insinuation immediately, your heart rate jumping in an instant. You couldn’t help but drop your gaze to his lips for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “And how’s that?”
“I’ll make it so that you can barely even think anymore. I’ll wear you out so much you’ll fall asleep without even a thought about this,” he said, tapping the closed lid of your laptop.
At times like this, you hated how easy it was for him to get you riled up. He knew exactly how to play you, exactly how to make his gravelly voice even more enticing, exactly what to say to get you squirming in your seat for him like you were now.
You pressed your lips together, thinking for a moment. You couldn’t pretend that you didn’t want this. You were so tired of all the work and John knew exactly how to play you. But if he was going to have some fun, then so were you. With a provocative flit to your voice, you challenged, “Then prove it, Captain.”
For a moment, all he did was let a sultry smile pull at his lips. Then he was on you, his hands guiding you up from your chair and his lips finding yours. It was all fire and passion, but yet not too rushed. No, John never rushed this early. He loved to work you up slowly and leave you begging for him to just touch you already. He followed that playbook now, walking you backwards to press you up against the wall, his hand guarding your head from hitting it.
As he tilted your head to give his lips access to your neck, he rasped against your burning skin, “Never too stressed to tease me, are you?”
Your breath hitched as he found the sensitive part of your neck, your hands clawing at his back and tangling in his short hair. After a moment, he moved back up to kiss you, his tongue dancing with yours for a long while.
Eventually, his hands on your hips guided you to walk with him towards your shared bedroom. You took turns pulling at the other’s clothes, leaving a trail haphazardly in your wake. By the time you both passed through the doorway, John was only in his boxers and you in your plain black bra and panties. As he laid you back onto the bed, he eyed you as hungrily as he did when you wore lingerie for him.
“D’ya know how fuckin’ sexy you are, love?” His hands pressed against your stomach before roaming up, up, up as slowly as possible. Your eyes fluttered shut as he ghosted his hands over your bra, arching shamelessly into his touch. Still drinking the sight of you in, he rasped, “Gotta take care of you. Gotta make sure I get rid of all that stress, all those worries.”
“John…” you whined, already needy and falling for his plan. One side of his mustache raised in a smile, clearly understanding that he already had you right how he wanted you. “Just touch me, please.”
John chuckled, giving your breasts a quick squeeze before placing a kiss just over your heart. “I am touchin’ you, baby.”
“Fuck, John, you know what I mean.”
He pressed the faintest of kisses up your chest and to your neck. Against the skin of your neck, he teased, “Maybe I don’t. Tell me. Use your words, love.”
Despite his insistence, he gave you no time to answer. Instead, his lips found the sensitive column of your neck, the touch no longer feather-light like it had been before. Now, he kissed and nipped with a passion that had you gasping beneath him.
“Hhm? I didn’t catch that. Gotta speak up,” he mumbled next to your ear, the heavy timber of it sending shivers down your spine. But you could feel the curve of his lips against your soft skin, his beard prickling you as he did.
“Don’t be a tease,” you grumbled halfheartedly. Even now, though, you couldn’t resist him. Giving in, you begged, “God, just fuck me, John.”
He made a sound of appreciation, deep and reverberating, the kind you could feel in your own chest. Leaning up over you, his icy blue eyes came to meet yours. “Now, was that really that hard?”
You rolled your eyes, suppressing your own smile as you grabbed his neck and leaned up to give him a bruising kiss. Returning the heat immediately, he dropped the act for a moment. Lips moving in tandem with yours, urgency lacing every movement, you felt him get lost in it. Surely enough, as he adjusted over top of you, you felt his hard-on graze your lower stomach. You chased him, hooking a leg over his hip to roll your hips against him. He groaned into your mouth, eyes squeezed shut.
“So impatient today,” John chided. He pulled away and sat up, his hands coming to unhook and discard your bra on the floor. As he went to do the same with your underwear, you breathed a sigh of relief thinking that the torture of his teasing was finally over.
Settling between your thighs, a man in heaven, he brought his mouth close to where you needed him. However, at the last second, his breath dusting your sensitive skin, he turned and brought his lips to the inside of your thigh instead. He still couldn’t hide his smile when you groaned in frustration.
You were in for a hell of a ride. When he got in a teasing mood like this, there was no stopping him.
Beard and mustache picking deliciously against you, he kissed up one thigh. Then, when he almost reached your center again, your breath hitching, he switched to the other thigh. There were some days when he did this that it felt like heaven — days when you were already losing yourself to the feel of him before he even got going. While you tried to conjure up that more present, more patient version of yourself, it didn’t seem possible now. You needed him so badly it ached.
When your fingers found their way into his hair and gave him a light tug in the direction you needed him, he finally let you have your way. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, a small chuckle shaking the broad plane of his back. As he lowered his head, his hooded eyes meeting yours, he purred, “If tha’s really what you want, love. Have it your way.”
With that, he finally brought his tongue to you. Ever so slowly, he licked into you, drawing a gasp from your chest. Sliding his hands up from your hips to hold the sides of your stomach, his tongue made a twin journey up to your clit. He flicked his tongue a few times, slowly testing you.
Though it was all too slow for your liking, he steadily built up the pace. The scrape of his beard. The flick of his tongue. The reverb of his moan as you tugged on his strands. It was a delicious cycle, speeding up each time through.
You let your head tip back into the pillow as you finally felt that tension in your stomach — a coil winding tighter and tighter. Your breath was ragged now, your legs already bracing around John’s head.
“Yes,” you panted, eyes squeezed shut. “Just like that. I’m so- I’m so clo-”
Right as you were about to crest that hill, John pulled away all at once. Your orgasm dissipated like a wave against the beach — there one moment and gone the next.
You whipped your head up to look at him, disbelief and righteous fury in your eyes. You were met only with a hungry, conniving smirk from the infuriatingly sexy man between your thighs. In this moment, even with his beard and the signs of age on his face, he didn’t seem a day older than the first time you had seen this smirk. The John Price that smirked in triumph at you now was the same as the John Price who had done it for the first time nearly a decade earlier. Had you not just had euphoria ripped away from you, you probably would’ve been more sentimental about this revelation.
“Jonathan Price, I swear to god-”
You were cut off by another one of his chuckles. He licked his lips slowly, making sure you watched as he tasted you. “Still too stressed, love. Don’t think you’re ready yet.”
“You teasing asshole,” you huffed, but the edge was lost to it.
It only made him smirk even more. “Fine,” he acquiesced, leaning back down. “Let’s try this again.”
At the same time that his mouth found your clit again, one of his hands traveled down to slip a finger into your dripping entrance. A small moan escaped you at the new sensation. As he started to build you back up again, his mouth and finger moving in tandem, you couldn’t help but forget his past transgressions. All that mattered now was the buildup leading to the big drop, the wonder that John could work between your thighs.
Suddenly, he slipped a second finger into you, drawing a surprised whine from your lips. “Ohh… oh, fuck…”
He groaned in approval, the vibrations of his mouth against you only upping the unbearable pleasure.
You were there again, so close to the edge that you could practically see it. Your body tensed in anticipation of the drop like a rollercoaster. It was just-
John pulled away again, shattering the buildup to your orgasm for the second time.
You let out a pained hybrid of a groan and a whine. Now, rather than annoyance coursing its way through you, all you had was desperation. “Fuck! John, please!”
“Hmmm, there we go,” he mused. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”
“Please let me come, baby,” you pleaded. “I need it so bad.”
Pushing himself up, your heart sunk at the thought that he might keep teasing you and leave you hanging. Though he was never, ever one to leave you wanting, you were too far out of it to think straight anymore. All you knew was that you needed him and he was holding that just out of reach.
Instead, he climbed up to lean over you. With a gentle hand, he cradled your jaw, making you look at him. Your slick glistened on his chin and beard. His pupils were blown wide, the icy blue of them nearly lost to it. With how much self control he had, his eyes and the tent in his boxers were the only indications that he was as affected by this as you were.
“D’ya think you’re ready for me, beautiful? Think you can take me?”
You nodded immediately, still breathless. “Need you so bad, baby. Please. I can take it.”
He searched your eyes for a moment before nodding. “That’s my girl.”
Finally, he stripped off his boxers, revealing his red, leaking cock. You couldn’t stop the small whine you made at the sight, your need for him overriding any coherent thought.
John pushed into you in one swift stroke, drawing your nails to scrape across his back. The stretch was delicious, tearing you apart and soothing the insatiable ache in your core at the same time.
“Feel so fuckin’ perfect. So fuckin’ perfect for me,” he praised. If the feeling of him seated inside you wasn’t already enough to set you ablaze, his praise was. It always was.
His arms came to rest by either side of your head as he leaned down and stole a heated kiss from your lips. Then, he drew himself slowly out of you before sharply driving back into you again. Your body shook with the force of it, forcing you to break from his lips as you let out the most lewd moan of the night.
But, of course, that was just the beginning. John continued like that, fucking you harder with every quick snap of his hips until the only sound in your bedroom was the slap of skin on skin and both of your grunts and moans of pleasure.
“This what you needed, baby?” John asked, voice gravelly and breathy. “You needed to get fucked this good?”
Your voice caught in your throat, a strangled sound coming out in place of an affirmation.
He sped up his pace, his cock hitting so deep within you that you had to squeeze your eyes shut. He groaned, “My good girl. Always workin’ so bloody hard. You deserve this — deserve to just let me take care of you.”
Your pussy clenched around him at his praise, drawing groans from you both. You clawed at his back, searching for some sort of tether in the tidal wave of pleasure you were trapped in now. For the third time tonight, you could see the salvation of your orgasm on the horizon. Having been denied it so many times, its immensity and force was almost alarming.
Though you were too lost in John to think clearly, you were able to gasp out one plea. “Don’t stop! Baby, don’t- don’t stop!”
Rhythm growing sloppy, John assured, “Not gonna stop this time. Been so fuckin’ good for me. Come for me, love.”
That’s all it took to have you falling apart on his cock, the tension in your stomach snapping in an overwhelming flood of euphoria. Breath catching in your chest as you rode out the high, John continued to fuck you through it, murmuring deep praises all the while.
Just as you were coming back down to earth, your body finally feeling like it was yours again, John was nearing his high.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He groaned, head lowered by your ear. With a few more sloppy thrusts, he was burying himself to the hilt in you, his warm cum coating your walls. You gasped at the feeling as he ground his hips into yours a little.
Still propped on his arms, he sagged down over you, his breath ragged like yours. You dragged a hand up from his shoulder blade and into his hair, letting your fingers card through the soft strands as John came back to you and pulled out. Then, he lifted up enough to meet your gaze again. He took you in for a moment before leaning down and giving you one last heated kiss.
The two of you clearly spent, he leaned his forehead against yours after he broke away. He brought a large, calloused hand to brush against your cheek.
“You’re so bloody gorgeous,” he mused. “I love you.”
You smiled, leaning into his touch. “I love you.”
“Feelin’ better?”
“So much better,” you answered. The stress and pressure you had felt for days was gone now, replaced only with the feeling of John. For the first time in a long time, you truly felt relaxed.
“I told you I could fix it,” he said triumphantly, wiggling an eyebrow at you.
After taking a moment to clean you both up, John crawled back into bed and shifted to spoon you from behind. With his strong arm over your stomach and your legs intertwined, you let him envelop you. As sleep slowly pulled you under, the only thought on your mind was him.
Random little thought here but reboot! Yuri Volkov seems like the kind of man who is fazed by very little and who has an incredible control over his emotions and expressive things that could reveal his true feelings toward something.
Except for when he takes his significant other to meet or visit his mother and she starts pulling old photographs of him out of storage. Somehow, this crumbles his resolve and control down to nothing more than smithereens within literal seconds of him spotting the photographs held between her fingers as she approaches his partner. Those unreadable expressions and that stiff appearance which have long since been drilled into him thanks to the armed forces are overpowered by a sudden tidal wave of almost childlike embarrassment. His pale cheeks become dusted with an ever deepening and spreading blush that he cannot seem to stop in spite of how hard he tries. His gaze flickers back and forth between the wall and the ceiling as if they hold the most impressive patterns he has ever seen. His slim fingers rise and fall in repeated taps atop his knee through his trousers.
All of this is nothing more than a reaction to and a distraction from the fact that his significant other is in the midst of looking at an abundance of old photographs that depict him with hair and a total baby face right in front of him and right beside his mother - who is so elated to be showing you them.
Yuri will attempt to act like he is so unbothered and so unfazed when you begin to tease him about how cute he was but the pink flush on his cheeks tells you all that you need to know. It does not help that I feel like his significant other will have never seen him with hair before seeing the old photographs. He has been all shaved for so long now that the idea of himself having hair seems quite foreign and unfamiliar. He cannot imagine it whatsoever. He has forgotten what he even looked like with hair for the most part.
It is a guarantee that Yuri will be heading out into the cold for a quick smoke after having to watch you flip through the old photographs with a beautiful little grin on your face. You are more than free to come out and stand beside him. He will not hesitate to wrap an arm around you and pull you into his side to keep you warm against the chilled breeze that blows past. But he will chuckle before murmuring something deep and unintelligible in his mother tongue around his cigarette and shake his head with an almost invisible little smirk the second you murmur a teasing question about if he “still has that awful leather coat” that he was wearing in multiple photographs from his teenhood.
He might grumble a bit like a big winter bear who dislikes being poked and teased but Yuri loves it deep down and it shows rather clear. He loves that you feel secure enough to tease him and poke innocent fun at him in a way that no one else ever often does. It is such a refreshing and grounding thing for him and does nothing more than prove to him that you are the one - not that he ever had any doubts about that.
When I had been called in to work with Ghost, I knew it wasn't good. He had gotten bitten trying to save people. What was his higher-ups response to this? Break his jaw and keep him confined until a cure could be found. I knew this was going to require a lot of time and patience, fixing his broken jaw and figuring out how sentient he was. Most zombies were mindless and out of control, but Ghost... Ghost seemed aware and scared. So I made it my goal to be the only person he had contact with until he was better than the way I first got to him. I knew what I was doing was working because there were signs. His graying cold skin started to gain color and a bit of warmth. His pale blue cloudy eyes began regaining their brown. Each progression was little, but I noticed them and made sure to take pictures of him every day, marking and labeling the pictures.
Ghost seemed nervous, for lack of a better word, when it came to relearning to eat and drink. So I took the lead, showing him and letting him touch me as I did. Before I gently aided him in eating and drinking, making sure to reassure him that it would take time and that I would still be here to help him. Most days were like that, helping him readjust to simple things, but one big thing remained that I felt needed to be done. Bathing him. He still smelled of blood and death, the dried blood and filth still clinging to his skin and clothing. So I went into his old room, gathered up a pair of underwear, sweatpants, and a shirt. They were clean compared to the ruined gear and uniform he was still wearing. I grabbed a soft wash cloth and gentle body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. Once it was all set up in the private bathroom, I went to enter Ghost's room. His pale brown eyes looked up at me as I stepped in. My (h/l) (h/c) softly pulled away from my face and my (e/c) eyes locking with his.
"I've got something different planned today, okay?" I said softly, watching as Ghost tilted his head curiously.
"I wanna give you a shower, help clean away some of the dried blood and grime. Don't worry, I'll be right there, okay?" I reassured him softly as I offered my hand. Ghost was slow in taking my hand before letting me lead him to the private bathroom. I took the time to slowly remove his ruined gear, setting it all in the corner before softly speaking to him.
"I need to remove your mask, okay? I made sure to grab one of your clean balaclavas from your room." He shook his head at my words and stepped back. It broke my heart. He already felt safe with his mask before he was turned, but having people you trust break your jaw and say such crude things probably made him feel even more nervous to take it off.
"Hey, Simon, it's just me with you. There are no cameras, no one else but you and I. It's okay... you're safe with me." I reassured softly as I gently took his hand and gently touched it to my heart. It was small, but the action told him I was honest. I did it to show him I was honest. Every time I said something like that, I touched his hand to my heart. He was slow to give in, but eventually, he let me pull the ruined mask off. I gently sat it on the sink counter before gently working on his ruined clothes. I made sure to set them all aside before I turned to start the water. I kept it a bit lower than room temp to make sure it wasn't too hot or too cold. I looked back at him and softly turned the water so it wouldn't hit his skin directly.
"Okay, big guy, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" I asked with a small loving smile. Ghost gently tugged my shirt before looking at his ruined clothes. It took me a minute to understand what he was asking, but after a bit, it clicked. He wanted me to join him, to guide him like I had been doing for everything else. Smiling, I gently stripped my clothes before softly leading him to the large walk-in shower. The water was a bit colder than my normal temperature, so it was a bit of a shock when I touched it with my arm. Ghost, ever the vigilant one, noticed my shuttered breath and tilted his head.
"I made sure it was perfect for you, so it's a bit cooler than my body's temperature. Don't worry, it's okay, see?" I gently stepped my body under the water to show him I didn't mind too much. Ghost stepped forward and tugged me close to him as though he wanted to keep me warm. I smiled softly and took the time to gently wet the wash cloth and softly wipe his face. I smiled more at the sight of how much he had actually healed. Of course, there was scaring, but there was no longer decaying flesh. I softly wet his dirty blonde hair, taking special care to not pull his hair. All in all, my heart warmed at the progression of his healing. Sticking to our usual form of relearning, I washed myself first before washing him. I started with his hair and face before moving down his neck and chest. With each rinse of the blood and grime, he looked more and more human again.
I gently moved lower as I washed him, kneeling to wash his waist. I did my best not to stare or let my hand linger when I gently began washing his dick. I gently held his length and balls as I continued my work of washing him up. My mind wondered as I absent-mindedly washed his legs. Could he still get hard? Could he still feel desires or needs? Or would that take longer and more healing? I stood to rinse the cloth and ready more soap but froze as Ghost leaned his chin on my shoulder. I softly reached back and gently carded my fingers through his wet hair. I jumped as his hand softly cupped my vulva, his middle finger slipping between my labia majora. I let out a shuttering breath as his middle finger gently pressed against my entrance.
"Ghost -" I started but stopped at the feeling of his hardening dick touching me. I glanced up at him to see his pale brown eyes watching me. "Ghost, do you know what you're doing right now?"
Ghost nodded softly, a low, rumbling purr bubbling up from his throat. I wouldn't lie. It had been years since I've had such intimacy or contact like this. I whined softly when he pulled back a bit before pressing me to bend over. Following his instructions, I bent at the hips, letting him do as he pleased. I gasped at the coolness of his tongue, lapping at my outer lips. His slightly rough tongue reminded me that Ghost wasn't fully human. He still very much could kill me, bite me, and turn me as well. But as quickly as the anxiety rose, it washed away. Ghost pressed his tongue between my labia majora, letting it rub at my clit before trailing to my entrance. His saliva was shockingly warm as it created a contrast to his cool skin. Whining I reached a hand to hold Ghost's rough hand gently squeezing as he ate me out like a starved man.
Ghost stood, his erect dick rubbing against me as he pressed his hips forward. My mind foggy with arousal and my body aching to be fucked, I moved to help him. I softly pressed the tip to my opening and let him press his hips forward again. His thick shaft stretched my walls beautifully, each inch making me feel fuller and fuller. I moaned out as he finally bottomed out, his hips flush against mine. His rough, firm hands gripped my hips as he pulled out before thrusting forward. I gasped loudly and moaned out at the rough pace he was setting instantly. His grip was firm enough to bruise as he kept thrusting into me quickly. I brought my arms up to brace on the wall as I soaked up each time he bottomed out. Ghost brought one hand up to grip the back of my neck as he pinned me to the wall. Growls and groans leaving him as he fucked me so deeply.
Each thrust filled me so perfectly as his balls slapped my clit just enough to add extra stimulation. I could feel my muscles quivering and tensing as my orgasm approached. His tip kissing my cervix each time he sank all the way in. Ghost leaned in mouthing at my shoulder like he was going to bite me. I knew I should've been alarmed, but I my mind was too foggy with the need to cum that it blew caution to the wind. His hot drool gently trailed down my body only to get rinsed away by the water. His disfigured hand covered my mouth a bit as I grew louder with each thrust. My knees began shaking as my walls pulsed around his shaft. I mewled out loudly, the sound muffled by his hand as I began cumming. My hand desperately grasped at his arm as euphoria flooded my body and mind.
A heavy growl filled my muffled hearing as Ghost also began spilling his seed inside me. The fluid was hot as it squirted deep inside me, some of it seeping out past his thick shaft and began running down my legs. My body felt so tired and yet so satisfied as Ghost pulled away. I could feel his eyes take in the sight of the mess he made of me before a pleased rumble filled the quiet. I felt oddly content and relaxed at what happened. It took me a few minutes to regain my strength before I turned the water off and exited the shower. Ghost following closely behind, I took time to grab his towel and dry him off before helping him get dressed. Once I fixed his mask, I began drying and dressing myself. Ghost's cool fingers softly scooped his leaking seed before lifting it to my lips. Without hesitation, I licked his cum off his finger drawing another pleased rumble from him.
"This better not mess with my body, mister." I lightly scold him. Ghost merely rumbled and held me close a bit. I smiled and led him back to his room before laying on his bed with a soft sigh as my legs felt weak from him fucking me in the shower. Ghost climbed next to me, where he softly held me close. A sense of safety and warmth washed over me, letting my tired body subconsciously lure me to sleep. I knew no one, and nothing could touch me as long as I had Ghost with me. No matter if he was human or not, I knew I was safe with him.
"I love you, Simon..." I whispered as I fought to keep my eyes open. My mind drifted between reality and the dream world as I fought to stay awake. His cool hand gently moved to play with my hair as he watched me.
"Love... you..." His words were deeper and more gravelly, more so than his usual. Smiling sleepily, I snuggled closer to him, letting my body give in to tiredness.
— Paring; Sgt. John “Soap” MacTavish x male reader. Fandom; Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III
Anomia: (n.) the inability to recall the names of people or things.
Quote; “John MacTavish.”
Description; When someone is gone for so long, you can only remember so much. Disclaimer; SPOILERS TO THE NEW COD:MW3!! Angst, grief, major character death, sad, established relationship, forgetfulness, loneliness.
Word Count: 0.7k
Masterlist
A/N: No, I haven’t watched anything on the lore part of Modern Warfare III, however I have had plenty of spoilers and I’ve seen the specific cutscene of both Soap and Graves (was it Graves?) and TF141 being all sad and pouty.
It’s been months. Months and yet still grief resonates in Y/N. It feels like just yesterday he was embracing such the warm presence of his now dead lover. Y/N can’t sleep. His tired, exhausted demeanor was evident to everyone, but no one dared to ask what was wrong. They too grieved, but not as hard as Y/N did.
Everything feels so dull. So dull and cold. Y/N lies wide awake in his once shared bed. He doesn’t dare lay on John’s side. Even when gone, Y/N couldn’t bring himself to mess with John’s things. The bed felt so much bigger. He never notices when John was deployed, but the sudden immortality of it left Y/N no choice but to realize it.
Y/N doesn’t talk about John and no one asked about him. Y/N finds himself forgetting how to say the man’s name, or maybe it’s just because the name has become so foreign to him. He’s forgotten the sound of John’s voice, desperately searching his camera roll for any recording to remind him. He’s forgotten what it felt like to hold him.
Y/N hates he can’t remember now, but it’s become so hard. The only thing he can’t seem to shake is when he found out.
Y/N stares at the ceiling. His hand wrapped around the metal slabs with numbers in the name “John MacTavish” indented onto it. He plays with the dog tags, looking at them, his thumb running over his boyfriend's name. He doesn’t cry. Not this time at least.
Y/N holds the tag up, so the moonlight from the curtain makes the words more visible. He ignores the rest, his focus just on that name. The room was dead silent except for the sound of a dog breathing.
“John MacTavish.” He whispered. Y/N’s nose scrunched up, cringing. It doesn’t sound right anymore.
Y/N kissed it. He then rolls over and puts the dog tags back in the nightstand drawer. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. This catched the dog’s attention. Y/N stands up and puts his shoes on. He clicks his tongue at Angel. “Come on, girl. Get up.”
She happily gets up, excited for a new adventure as she follows Y/N downstairs. Y/N grabs a jacket, quickly putting it on. He puts Angel’s harness and leash on, grabs his wallet, and out he goes.
Y/N has completely convinced himself he’s just getting fresh air. Getting fresh air and buying flowers at a gas station with a light up sign that says “OPEN 24/7”. Getting fresh air and walking a mile away from home. Getting fresh air and standing in front of a rock with that same damn name.
Y/N’s shaky hands lace the flowers in front of the grave. He knows John’s not really buried there, but he can pretend. He sat down on the damp grass, Angel using this as a chance to try and lick his face to which Y/N quickly pushed her away.
He stared at the name. He nudged Angel and gestured to the gravestone as if she could understand. “Say hi to him. I bet he misses you so much.” He then chuckled. “Probably mad you have to sleep on the floor now. He’s not around to convince me to let you in the bed anymore.” He teased.
Y/N ruffled the dog’s fur. He then kissed Angel’s head. “I bet you miss him too, huh? Upset you have to live with me instead of him?” He asked. “Well, I miss him too, girl.”
