MummaBear

30 years old - she/her/they - Mostly reblogs and fangirlie shit but I write and draw!

[tmartin0918]

Credit to my friend Callsign: Fawn on tiktok for giving me permission to take some screengrabs of one of her edits. Ghost has gorgeous eyes. I needed to draw them. Also, secret shout out to Neil Ellice for the kind and encouraging words he said about a drawing I made for him back in January.

Art done in pencil and fine liner and white ink pen.

[peachesofteal]

I already put the first half of this up but there is more now so

It happens at work.

You get a whiff.

At first, you’re not sure what exactly it is you’re smelling. Leather and tobacco soaked in sea spray, mixed with cardamom and honeyed black tea.

What is that?

You sniff the air. It’s barbaric, embarrassing, but you can’t fight the instinct that has your nose lifting, nor can you stop your feet from automatically moving, following the trail.

Your skin prickles as it grows stronger, and there’s a pinch in your stomach, a light twinge that yanks you forward, propels you out of the kitchen and into the dining room, hot on the heels of whoever it is that smells like this.

An unbidden, fully uninhibited omega whine crawls up the back of your throat as the scent rises to it’s full strength and leads you down a row of red pleather booths, to where two alphas sit across from one another.

The whine is loud.

They both turn when you get close, nostrils flaring, eyes widening with surprise, suspicion, and your focus splits right down the middle, the rational, logical part of you trying to stay in control, and the animal, omega part of you trying to bare your throat. Offer yourself up.

Now that you’re here, in front of them, the scent has shifted. It’s still strong, but somehow softer. Warmer.

Safer.

It’s safe.

It’s more than safe, it’s like light. Blinding, baptizing, white light that sinks into your cells and rolls through your shoulders, unclenches your teeth and tightens your core.

It’s holy. The closest you’ll ever get.

Scent matches.

True mates.

It’s kismet. You know in your bones, in your cells, they’re yours. They’re meant to be yours.

Not one, but two.

“Omega.” The one breathes, drawing your attention, your focus. He’s tall, muscled, brown hair cut into a mohawk, bright blue eyes like Caribbean waters. So handsome it hurts, his scent is the warm, honeyed tea, the cardamom in the fall.

You forget yourself. Forget this place, this dead end job, this backwoods town. Forget the little notepad in your hand, the old almost dried out ball point pen between your fingers.

“I…” Speak. Say something, say anything. Your gaze swings to the other alpha, the one who looks too large for the booth, the room even. Where the blue eyed one is handsome, this one is severe, beautiful like a sharp cliff that sheers off into the ocean. Focused brown eyes with a crooked nose, black hoodie pulled up over his head. There’s something dark about him, something dangerous, and it’s his scent that is the burnished leather, tobacco leaf, dried salt of the sea.

Your gaze drifts, and then snags on the sight of a bite. Just barely peeking over the outline of the hood, is a clear as day bite mark. A claiming mark.

A bond.

Your stomach drops.

This alpha is bonded. You glance at the other one, blue eyes, and immediately find his in the same spot, proudly displayed. These are not new, fresh bites. They’re faded, scarred over, commitments, and it all plays out in front of you like a horror movie. Two alphas with two marks, and one omega, standing in front of them, too late.

They are not for you.

The truth is crushing. All this time, all your life, you hoped, you dreamed, and now that dream is sitting in front of you, crumbling to ash.

“I’m…” You’re… what? You’re sorry, maybe. Sorry this happened. Sorry you’re here, sorry you’re their scent match, their true mate, when they obviously already have an omega.

You don’t know. You can’t think, can’t hear over the pounding of your heart, the tight draw of your lungs. The air in the room has gone thin, overhead pendant lights gone dark. You feel sick. Your knees feel weak. Everything is falling apart.

“Two black coffees.” The order snaps like a whip from the dangerous one, the one in the hoodie. So ordinary, so routine.

It’s like a slap to your face.

Blue eyes gives him a look, one you can’t place, while brown eyes keeps his gaze locked on yours.

“Did you hear me?”

“Simon.” Blue eyes says quietly, but it must fall on deaf ears because brown eyes, Simon, cocks his head.

“Two black coffees,” you whisper back to him, the three words scratching the back of your throat. Fated mates, and these are your first words to each other. Two black coffees.

“Make a fresh pot, if it’s not already.” He instructs, and the heat of humiliation rises in your cheeks.

“Simon.” Blue eyes says a little louder this time, a little harsher, and Simon finally drags his eyes away from yours.

“It’s her job Johnny.” He doesn’t spare you another glance as he looks down at his phone. “Isn’t it, omega?”

“Y-yes.” You whisper, knuckles aching from how tight you’re clinging to your pen. “Be right back.”

You get the coffee. Everything is on autopilot, and they barely even look at you. Simon, the mean one, turns his face towards the window as he hands his menu over, and Johnny, the blue eyed one, only glances at you briefly before looking away.

Your already broken heart cracks into a million pieces, shattering inside your chest so violently you swear you can feel it.

They don’t even leave you a tip.

And you should know to leave well enough alone, because you do. Because life has kicked you in your soft spots enough, you’ve been taught lessons a plenty.

But when you see them leave, when they turn their backs on you without so much as goodbye, you can’t stop yourself from running out the back door, gravel flying under your feet, trying to catch up with them as they’re about to get into a truck.

“Wait!” You can’t help it, you have to try, and they both go rigid at the sound of your voice. “Don’t you … don’t you smell it? Smell me?” Your hope is a reckless, desperate thing, a tenacious thing that refuses to die.

No matter how many times it’s been killed.

When they don’t respond, when they meet you head on with grey rocked expressions, you know you should stop.

But you can’t.

“I’m your scent match.” You try to explain. Maybe saying it out loud will make it make sense. “I’m your mate.” Something flickers in Simon’s eyes, something you can’t make sense of, and it’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced by ice. Winter coats his next words.

“You’re nothing to us.”

You’re nothing to us.

Your blood runs cold. The world spins around you.

“Oh.” Johnny moves, takes a small step forward. It’s barely there, more of a lurch than anything, and your eyes start to burn with tears as he looks at you, impossibly blank.

“Go back inside, omega.” You want to cry, you want to scream, you want to beg them to see it, see you.

“I don’t understand.” You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. You’re lost now. Drowning. Rejected.

Scent spikes. Salted leather and honeyed cardamom, they mix together, the once intoxicating, drug like heady cocktail now turning acidic, sour on your tongue. The scent that felt safe, now poison. 

“There’s nothing to understand.” Simon says, sounding bored. Like he’s lecturing a child. “You’re confused, happens all the time.” What?

“It does?” Does it? You’ve never heard this, but then again, you’re not really on the cutting edge of… anything, really. You don't pay attention to the news, or science, or pop culture. You're too busy trying to keep your head above water. 

“Sure.” His mouth twists into a cruel smile. “You’re not the first desperate omega who’s tried to attach herself to us.”

It would have hurt less if he had struck you. 

Johnny sucks in a breath. It’s barely there, but you catch it, and your biology refuses to let go. Your hindbrain digs in its heels.

He’s wrong. He has to be. Maybe he just doesn’t know it.

“No," you protest. “No, I know what I smelled.”

“No ye didn’t.” Johnny says, shaking his head. He's pitying you, you realize in horror. “Ye’re just confused.” Your world is being torn in two. Violent sheared away at the seams, your instinct wails, screams in the back of your mind, your grip on reality slowly pulling away. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

“I’m n-not. Please.” You whimper, but you don’t know what you’re asking for at this point. All you know is it comes out reedy and broken. Simon’s jaw flexes, Johnny looks over your shoulder, a blank, glazed look in his eyes. Shut down.

Your knees hit the gravel. Rocks scrape at your skin, tear at your tights, dig and draw blood. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. You can’t feel anything except for this hole in your chest. This hole where your mates are supposed to be, where bonds are supposed to be.

“Pathetic.” Salt in the wound. Simon practically spits it at you, and your vision glosses over, tears now spilling down your cheeks. “Get up.” It’s not a request, it’s an alpha bark, something you’re biologically subservient to, something your body forces you to obey. You push yourself up, heels of your palms in the gravel, little rocks falling from where they’ve embedded themselves in your knees.

Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket. You wonder, for a split second, if he’s going to pull out a card, or a piece of paper, something, anything, that could connect you to them. A tether.

What’s left of your pride, the very small scrap, withers and dies when he produces two folded up bills, and bile rises in the back of your throat when he chucks them at your feet. 

"Almost forgot. Yer tip." It cuts so casually, like it means nothing, like you're nothing more than trash. A problem he has to throw a few bills at. Worthless.

“Don’t follow us, don’t try to find us, we’re nothing to you.” Simon warns over his shoulder, already walking away.

“An’ ye’re nothin’ to us.” Johnny echoes as you stand frozen in place, watching your alphas climb into the truck, watching as your mates prepare to drive away. The engine roars to life, the headlights sweep across the parking lot as they pull out, leaving you behind. Leaving without another word, leaving destruction in their wake. Not even looking back.

Nothing.

You’re nothing.

Nothing to them.

Nothing to the world.

Just another desperate, confused, lonely omega.

[tmartin0918]

I feel like it would throw any of the 141 guys for a loop to have a little civilian partner who wasnt interested in trying to fix them.

Nightmares? Oh, honey, s'alright. Just come back to bed, I've got you.

Odd habits of double - no, triple - checking locks on doors and windows, even if you were in a flat a few stories off the ground floor? You do whatever you need to do, baby.

Ghost's mask? If you're comfortable, I'm comfortable, sweetie.

The long deployments or the deployments where you dont hear from them for fuck knows how long? Its your job. I knew what I signed up for.

A closeness with each other that someone might raise an eyebrow at, what with the seemingly flirty banter and all? Okay, and? You work in a small team with your life in their hands on any given day.

You're fuckin'... nonchalant about it and they dont fuckin' get it. So they finally ask in varying degrees of "what the fuck?"

So you explain;

"Oh, sweetie. I'm the spoiled baby child of a union man who worked himself to the bone my entire life. Your work is your work. It is what it is. You go out there, I stay here, I keep the house moving so you dont have to worry about it." You pat your partner's cheek with a soft laugh. "You focus on you, I focus on this, everything is peachy."

[tmartin0918]

... I edited this because I realized I fuckin typo'd it and it said damn 142 instead of 141... jezus

[tmartin0918]

I feel like it would throw any of the 141 guys for a loop to have a little civilian partner who wasnt interested in trying to fix them.

Nightmares? Oh, honey, s'alright. Just come back to bed, I've got you.

Odd habits of double - no, triple - checking locks on doors and windows, even if you were in a flat a few stories off the ground floor? You do whatever you need to do, baby.

Ghost's mask? If you're comfortable, I'm comfortable, sweetie.

The long deployments or the deployments where you dont hear from them for fuck knows how long? Its your job. I knew what I signed up for.

A closeness with each other that someone might raise an eyebrow at, what with the seemingly flirty banter and all? Okay, and? You work in a small team with your life in their hands on any given day.

You're fuckin'... nonchalant about it and they dont fuckin' get it. So they finally ask in varying degrees of "what the fuck?"

So you explain;

"Oh, sweetie. I'm the spoiled baby child of a union man who worked himself to the bone my entire life. Your work is your work. It is what it is. You go out there, I stay here, I keep the house moving so you dont have to worry about it." You pat your partner's cheek with a soft laugh. "You focus on you, I focus on this, everything is peachy."

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) Simon Riley masterlist Anthology

Simon Riley / female reader secret baby fic / 18+

Something at first sight Surprise on the street The world looks different Too much and not enough Puzzles Fish and chips Seen Emergency contact Family or not Take your baby to work day Moon and stars Hard truth Liar Come home Daddy Cold Groceries mimosas Dinner Holiday in the sun Skinny dip Home Delayed Mistakes Touch Healing BDU Birthday Bump Constellations costumes Bath voicemail splatter finger wake up Cami dream over a year rocking chair Lyra Epilogue

Bonus: one / two / three

Gildui - Simon + Mama

Alternate Universe: Price/Simon/mama (f!reader) threesome Alternate Universe: Price/mama (Simon's widow) - Fix You

[tmartin0918]

One of the first long series I read when I started to dip my toes into fanfiction of CoD. I even made art for this, it touched my soul so very much. This is exquisite and lovely and I occasionally read it over again 🥰

[tmartin0918]

"Gonna make great ex husband someday Robinavitch." WHOEVER LETS THAT MAN GO IS A FOOL.

[lilskippity]

beef.

Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much. simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words] based off of this request!

Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.

Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.

Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.

Better not miss, Lt.

Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.

Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?

A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.

You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.

“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.

But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.

In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.

“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”

You’re not even wearing any earbuds.

He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.

It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them. You had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.

But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.

Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.

Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.

You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.

He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.

Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.

It’s infuriating.

But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences. 

No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.

No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.

Why?

Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.

It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.

It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.

Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.

Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.

The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.

Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.

He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.

Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.

Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.

He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.

When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,

—getting you in his bed.

Your lieutenant's acting strange.

Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.

It's suspicious as fuck.

You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)

So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.

Exhibit A.

Standing up for you.

The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?

These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.

"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"

The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.

You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.

"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.

"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"

Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.

"Let's see how good you are then."

The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.

Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.

Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?

Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.

(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)

Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.

Exhibit B.

Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?

"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."

An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.

"My bloodline? Not happening."

He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.

There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.

"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"

"Got plenty," he says. The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.

"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.

It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.

If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.

"You volunteerin'?"

Your brain short-circuits.

What?

Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.

Shit hits the fan fast before you can gather your thoughts.

Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.

"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"

You don't need to be told twice.

There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.

And then, Exhibit C.

This is how it culminates.

Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.

You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.

“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.

The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing! It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.

Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.

A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.

You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.

Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.

Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.

You did it.

Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.

It occurs to you then the position you're in.

Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.

He's so warm.

An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.

You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.

A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.

There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.

Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.

"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.

"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."

You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.

Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.

How did you end up here?

Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?

Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?

You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.

It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?

(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)

Knock knock.

The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.

Ghost stands there, towering over you.

"Alright, Sergeant?"

His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.

"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."

The silence that falls between you is unsettling.

“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.

“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.

You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”

He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”

Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”

“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”

Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.

“Yes or no, Sergeant?”

His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“…N-no, I—”

“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”

He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.

Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.

He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.

But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.

You chase him when he pulls back.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.

"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"

He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.

"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."

You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"

Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.

"Arms around me, love," he grunts between kisses.

Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."

You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.

Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!

"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."

He groans into your skin. It's turns you on impossibly more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.

Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.

The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.

Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?

It’s unbearable how turned on you are.

Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.

Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.

Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.

Ghost kisses down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.

When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.

"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."

You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"

He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.

If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls you close and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.

Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.

"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.

But then he stills.

Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.

"W-why'd you stop—,"

"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.

"Huh?"

"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."

Your breath catches in your throat. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“

You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.

"Answer the question, Sergeant."

Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still pinning your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.

"Mmhh—"

The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.

"Please, Lt.—"

"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."

And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?

You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.

"C'mon, pet," Ghost encourages you. "Know y'want it."

Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.

"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."

The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.

"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.

It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.

The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.

Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.

He's smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.

“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.

“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”

He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.

"Jerk— hngh!"

Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he laps you up relentlessly, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it fell.

You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.

(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?

It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)

His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.

It's all too much for you to take.

When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.

"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.

He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.

With the crash comes some of your rationality.

"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.

"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."

You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"

He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.

"Don't you?"

Don't you?

Your breath catches in your throat.

And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?

His name? His face?

Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?

Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.

You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.

"You with me, pet?"

Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.

"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."

You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.

“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"

The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.

"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."

Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.

"—off," you manage to say between breaths.

Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.

His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.

"Scared?" He teases.

You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.

"I've had bigger," you lie.

He tilts his head. "S'that right?"

Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.

Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.

He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.

"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"

You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."

"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.

"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."

Fucking. Asshole!

Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."

You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.

Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.

His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.

“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”

"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.

"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.

"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.

It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.

Simon doesn't stop teasing you.

"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.

"Cock's got your tongue?"

"F-fu-ungh—"

Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.

He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.

"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."

"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.

It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.

He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.

You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.

His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.

"Come f'me, pet."

And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.

Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.

When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.

Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes ballsdeep in your pussy.

“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.

But there’s no real venom in your voice.

Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.

“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”

You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.

Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.

"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"

You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.

His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.

Fucking prick.

a/n: first smut how'd i do

[beebymoonlight]

[tmartin0918]

Brain worm that my hands cannot make it come to life:

Inspired by: City Walls by Twenty One Pilots and the Uglies series by Scott Westerfeld.

Theme: Cyberpunk-y

What my brain sees: Soap and Ghost. But not as /Pretties/ as /Specials/ (because.. ya know... special forces.) Soap specifically has an enhancement where his head wound would be from the last game. There's the reactive tattoos, the teeth filed to a point, super strength, just... I want my hands to do it but they wont do iiiit

[tmartin0918]

Dr Robby holding that sweet sweet baby just did me in. Give me ten. Thanks.

[snoopyetc]

There were no nice men in Montreal?

[meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender]

Summary: Once upon a time, there were four gods. Together, they took turns helping the mortals. But what spirit connects them all, centering their efforts? Of what clear mission banner do they unite under? To whom is the focal point of life’s great mysteries? In other words, smut about diety! 141.

Winter Frost (John X Reader)

When the god of the Winter had needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But the god of the Winter, John Price, had other plans for his devotee.

Spring Comforts (Gaz X Reader)

The winter ice has melted, and the spring blossoms have bloomed. But as the elders continue their tyranny over your village, your gods seemingly disappeared. Or had they?

Summer Scoarch (Soap X Reader)

You had only wanted to petition the god of summer for rain to ease the drought. Locked away for your crimes, the god of summer, Johnny comes to your aid to set all things right.

Autumn (Ghost X Reader)

After a long year staving off the hate of the village, things finally come to an end with your Autumn god, Ghost.

Johnny HCs

Altar HCs

[saintquincy]

help comes from unexpected alphas

ghoap x gn!reader | one-shot | 8K words

tags: sickfic, omegaverse, a/b/o, scentmatching, semi established ghoap, mostly fluff, mild angst

Question: what happens when an omega with covid who has lost their sense of smell crosses paths with their scent match?

AN: welcome to this not fully flushed out sickfic oneshot. not my usual pacing or story telling style. but hey, there is a first time for everything. i tried to keep the reader as gender neutral as possible, but if I missed something feel free to let me know if the comments.

AO3 | Tips | other fics

You weren't exactly new to the building. You had been living here for over six months, squirreled away in your flat, working on articles for the magazine you wrote for. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to offer you your freedom, offer you a place in society that wasn't secondary to some bonded knotheaded alpha.

stop. breathe.

in for 4.

You shook off the dark thoughts that typically followed any thoughts of alphas because that typically led you down the path of one specific alpha. You hadn't admitted to you therapist that you had been holed up in your flat for weeks now, working around the clock on articles, made more difficult by the fact that you wrote lifestyle pieces but hadn't seen the sun in days. Instead you lived vicariously through videos and posts and stories other people posted online.

The problem was that you want to be out there. You want to be visiting cafes with friends, trying the newest overpriced dessert from some trendy place in London that would be replaced by another new trendy place in less than six months. You wanted to be out there with other people.

hold for seven.

You told yourself, and your therapist, that you were fine. Of course you were fine. How could you not be fine?

out for eight.

Since moving to the apartment building you'd fallen into the habit of waiting as long as possible before doing laundry. Once you reached the point of no return, like tonight, you would drag down weeks of laundry and hole up in one of the corners of the dreary laundry room and wash the endless piles of clothes, spending most of the time grumbling to yourself about the fact that you never left the apartment how could you possible have so much dirty laundry.

Tonight was no different. You were probably close to a heat judging by the way you had tore everything off your bed, including the pillows to get a deep clean. Or by the way your nose scrunched up when you entered the dingy laundry room. This wasn't a luxury building, it didn't cater to making omegas feel comfortable, it barely met most of the standards for safety and well being. Then again, you were likely one of three unbonded omegas based on the neighbors you had met. The other two you had met were bonded, older, and perfectly happy with their packs on one of the pack floors. Those flats had in-unit washer dryers.

Once your first load was started you hopped up onto the washer, letting the warmth of the machine bleed into you. It was cold down here, the rickety heating struggled enough on the upper floors, but down here it was always non existent.

Logically, you knew that you should probably pull something of your own out of the dirty pile and throw it on until there was something clean and dry to wear. But logic didn't always win out against omega instincts, especially this close to a heat.

Especially, when you had spotted a particularly comfy looking sweatshirt on top of the lost and found pile.

It should bother you that that specific article of clothing was touching other articles of clothing, all with unknown levels of cleanliness. It did bother you, the logical you that worries about things like scabies, or crusted over mystery messes. But your instincts are going to win out logic because you can't stop thinking about it.

It would look perfect in your nest.

The thought doesn't surprise you, it does disgust you because you don't know who's sweatshirt it is, or where its been, or if it will even smell good. It could stink, but your omega is already so locked on you can't help the way you slip off the machine, taking measured slow steps towards the offending pile of lost clothes.

What if the owner comes back and sees me wearing it?

That is enough to give you pause, hand already reaching out to pick it up. Your gaze flicks to the door, its closed, its been closed, and only once have you ever seen anyone down here when you have done laundry this late at night. John. He was an alpha by the looks of him, but he must have been on scent blockers, even with your keen senses you hadn't picked up a hint of his scent, not from him or the pile of monochrome clothes he had been tossing into the machine.

It wasn't uncommon, many industries relied on industrial strength scent blockers, suppressants, the works in order to work at peak capacity. Doctors, teachers, soldiers. You couldn't imagine the man with his broad shoulders, stack of muscles and carefully shaved mohawk being a teacher or a doctor, but then you didn't like to make assumptions. Enough people made assumptions about you based on your designation.

After that first run in you had never seen him in the laundry room again, but you did see him from time to time, leaving the building, standing in the mail room taking out an obscene amount of envelopes, slinking back into the building late in the night smelling of booze. No matter how rough he looked he always had a bright smile for you.

You can't take it anymore, you snatch up the sweatshirt, bringing it to your nose and taking a sniff.

in for four.

hold.

If you weren't going into a heat before the scent on this sweatshirt was sending you over the edge. You could not do something as embarrassing as slick in the basement laundry room over someone's dirty abandoned sweatshirt.

Fuck.

There was no way you were leaving this behind now that you had gotten a whiff of the scent. It was a surprise you hadn't zeroed in on it the moment you stepped foot in the room, but there were so many conflicting scents here, it had been just one in a million. But now, pressing it to your face, god, nothing has ever smelled better.

You would ignore the obvious implication that whoever's sweatshirt this was was a scent match.

The reality though was that in all the months you had lived here you had not once gotten a whiff of someone who smelled even remotely like this. Like leather, like smoke, like salty sea air. It is hard to ignore the image it creates, a bonfire on a beach, the sun already dropped below the horizon, skin pressed against a warm body, fresh sea air clinging to their skin so heavily you could taste the salt as you lap it from their neck. A purr rumbling in their chest as you nuzzle their scent gland.

a fantasy.

Scent matches were the things of romance novels, soulmates, alphas who fought for omegas and provided and were shitty people and shitty alphas. It didn't work that way in real life, there wasn't some made for you alpha out there who would take one sniff of you and then sweep you off your feet.

You haven't always been this jaded, but you were now and even as you press the worn sweatshirt to your face you know it doesn't matter. Whoever this alpha is they aren't going to change anything about your life, even if you are scent matches. However, you could cling to this stolen piece of clothing and dream a little while you finish the rest of your laundry. Over time, the scent would fade and you would be left with someone's stolen sweatshirt tucked carefully into the corner of your nest.

It's a familiar disappointment. A familiar existence. An existence you tell yourself you are fine with. That you are over what happened with your last alpha. That you don't need anyone else. No alphas, no betas, no omegas. You are fine. This is fine.

stop. breathe.

in for 4.

****************

"They cannae ban me from base," the Scot grumbles from the sofa.

Simon doesn't respond. They've already had this fight, hell, Price has already had this fight and if the fury of their captain had not been enough to shut up Johnny then there was nothing Simon could do.

"They can, and they 'ave. So shut it and get back in the bed," Simon all but growled.

It wasn't uncommon for the two to battle for dominance, an alpha alpha pairing was rarer but not unheard of, neither of them willing to fully submit to the other. The only time Johnny submitted fully was in bed, and that was out of the question in his current state.

"Ah dinnae like the bed," he says with a deep frown, thick brows knit together as he glares up at the other alpha.

"F'r fucks sake why not?"

"Disnae smell right."

Simon fights back another sigh. This thing between them is new, its delicate, a tenuous thing threatened on all ends because of their careers, their designations, society, the lack of claiming bites, the lack of official paperwork. But most importantly, neither of them really know how to go about this properly. An omega would know what Johnny needs, would have scent marked the whole goddamn flat the first time they came here. But Simon wasn't an omega, he rarely felt like a proper alpha, none of those protective instincts he heard people talk about.

maybe he should call price.

"Need me t' scent them?"

Johnny considers the question, twisting his body to look into the darkened bedroom. Simon knows he could better elevate his injured knee if he was in the bed. His sorry excuse for a sofa is barely big enough for the two of them sitting, forget stretched out knee up on pillows.

"It smells stale," he murmurs, not meeting Simon's eyes.

Simon knows he hates this, being injured is bad enough, admitting he needs help, admitting that the stale smell left from months of disuse is messing with his instincts? Instincts typically buried beneath industrial strength suppressants?

Simon doesn't need a bond to know it is killing Johnny.

"I'll do the wash if ye promise t' sleep in the bed tonight."

Johnny nods eagerly, his scent warming. Its a rare moment for Simon to even be able to scent him. Neither of them needed their scent blockers while they were on leave, but typically they were prepared to be called back to the field, most leaves cut short by a late night phone call from Price. But this time Johnny had a minimum of 6 weeks before he could even attempt physio and Price had convinced anyone who mattered that the two of them were a package deal. So begrudgingly, Simon is taking some long overdue leave.

Simon is not used to the domesticity that comes from being with Johnny. Years of circling around each other, attraction and camaraderie keeping them close and than an op gone too long, a supply drop missed and the two had scented each other for the first time.

scent match

The word bounces around Simon's head as he drags Johnny's bedding down to the basement. The building is not the fanciest, a far cry from what either of them could actually afford and yet not surprising to Simon considering they spent very little time off base and Johnny at least had family to go home to even if the lot of them were betas and civilians who struggled to understand Johnny.

Simon had never considered it a possibility that he would have a scent match, for a multitude of reasons, first and foremost being the fact that he had always assumed he would die in the field. Couldn't expect someone like him to meet a scent match when he had spent his whole adult life drowning in scent blockers and suppressants. The odds of finding a match in the military, let alone on his team, was so astronomically small and yet, here he was, doing the laundry of his mate.

The laundry is blessedly empty and while Simon could make the trek back up to the flat but he thinks that maybe he needs some time alone to sort through his own thoughts.

And he is alone for a while, the hum of the washer working over the sheets lulling him into a trance, he muses that it must be what it feels like to mediate. The only time he feels this kind of peace is when he is in a blind, hidden from view with a sniper scope up to his eye, every thought, every feeling focused on the crosshair. Only now, that focus is on the endless spinning of the machine, the clear front of the machine a window into a technicolor of fabric.

The sound of the door opening comes as a surprise, his defenses down as he tries to distract himself from his tumultuous thoughts.

Simon doesn't turn right away, despite years of military training screaming at him to turn, to assess the situation, to make a plan of attack, to protect himself.

But its hard to talk himself off that ledge, the tension bleeding through him, ice in his veins as he wars with himself not to turn around. There's only one set of footsteps, dragging what must be a laundry bag. He can easily handle one assailant. No problem.

He doesn't realize he is holding his breath until he inhales deeply, trying to center himself before turning and trying to act like a normal bloody person.

Had he not already experienced scenting Johnny for the first time he would think he was dying in this moment.

bergamot, a sweet orange cake in the summer, asphalt baked beneath the sun.

Simon never had a happy summer as a child, he doesn't know what it feels like to think back fondly on that time, to feel nostalgia over summers that seemed to last forever, but as the scent invades his senses he believes he knows what it might feel like in this moment. He thinks he might understand the magic of those memories.

The moment is broken though when the footsteps stop and the person, with the second most delectable scent he has every smelled, takes a deep breath and sneezes. The sound is wet, a pathetic whimper follows it, a sound that has him grinding his teeth as he turns to face whoever it is threatening to turn his whole world on its side.

****************

The last thing you want to be doing at this very moment is laundry. The stuffy old alpha doctor at the clinic had barely even looked at you before writing it off as "a summer cold" and letting you know there was not much they could do for you even though you were on day five of thinking your head was going to explode from the pressure. You couldn't even smell how gross and sweaty and likely foul your sheets and clothes were, but the thought of what it might smell like was enough to have you dragging your ass down to the laundry room.

You did feel a bit bad that you are subjecting the rest of the building to your illness, but you had no choice and there is never anyone down there at night anyway.

Your laundry had been packed in a daze. Your feet dragging as you shuffle down the stairs to the basement, luckily not crossing paths with another person.

should have showered, you think, deciding clean pyjamas were not eneough.

Your thoughts come to a halt when you step into the laundry room. There is an alpha, because there is no way the monstrosity of a man is anything but an alpha, standing frozen in place next to the machines you usually use. He's tense and when he finally takes a breath, his fists clench at his sides, back straightening. You can only imagine how terrible you probably smell to him, there's no other logical reason for the response.

You frown, picking up your sweatshirt and giving it a sniff. You don't really feel well enough to worry what the strange giant of a man thinks of you in this moment.

All the sniff does is mess with your sinuses, the breath catching in your throat as you breath, the tickle in your nose hard to ignore. When you sneeze it feels like your brain is rattling around in your head and you can't help the whimper.

You rub the sleeve of the sweatshirt you're wearing beneath your nose, hoping you aren't a snotty mess on top of everything else.

"Sorry," you mumble turning away.

You decide the sweatshirt is probably dirty now too, pulling it off and dumping it into the wash with the rest of the clothes. You try and fail to ignore the way the man is staring. The alpha. You don't recognize him, but then again the building is big enough that you don't know everyone here.

It irks you though, as an omega you usually rely on scents to get you through the world. Sure, its a pain to be attacked by a barrage of what everyone is feeling, but in moments like this, if you could scent him you could get a better read on him. Because right now, as you dump detergent into two of the machines, peering to the side, its hard to tell what he is thinking but its harder to ignore the way he is staring.

maybe he's a germaphobe and that's why he's down here so late.

It's a realistic enough assumption, better than jumping to the worst which is that those glares are menacing in a threatening way and not just in a you were a menace to his peace of mind way.

"Sorry about the sniffling and sneezing, I really thought no one would be down here."

Your words are no more than a whisper that scratch against your raw throat. You really shouldn't be here, you should be in bed, but even the thought of being in the dirty excuse of a nest you had been burrowed into for days makes your skin crawl.

You're not sure if he even hears the words, his body still stiff and now that you have no distraction to hold your attention you turn to him.

Then you take a step back. His honeyed gaze tracking your every move. If you had been well, or in better control of your instincts, you might have reacted differently. You aren't even sure what it is you are doing, but your heart is pounding and something close to fear crawls down your spine.

"I can just—" you start but he cuts you off.

"Not a problem. Can't help it, yeah?"

You nod but you aren't sure what it is you are agreeing to.

"I haven't seen you around before, did you just move in?"

You should just shut up. You should set a timer on your phone and make the exhausting journey back to your flat, back to your empty nest and come back when the wash is done. But you can't look away from this man, this alpha.

"Stayin' with a…friend."

"Oh," you perk up a bit, as much as you can in your condition, "maybe I know them. What's their name?"

You might hide out in your apartment, not quite ready to face the outside. Maybe a bit broken by circumstances and fate and an alpha who had promised you the world. And maybe the obsessive need to know everyone had been a result of that distrust the world had bred into you, but over time it had become something else and now your neighbors, even some from the pack floors were your world, your little sliver of life.

So odds are, if this man is staying with someone here then you know them.

It is hard to not try and guess who it is as he stands there, seeming to digest the question like it isn't the most straightforward thing. It is straightforward to you, even when your head has that distinct stuffy feeling like the only thing between your ears was cotton.

Maybe it's Olive, the omega from 2B. She's a firecracker, a personal trainer at the gym who has on more than one occasion hit on you when you have run into each other in the mail room.

Or maybe Theo, the beta who lives next door to you. He has no shortage of friends who visit. The last time you had chatted with him he had let slip he was being courted by a pack, maybe this was one of them? It had been quiet through the walls since Theo had started getting courted but that didn't mean someone from the pack hadn't been over?

Maybe one of the alphas? There are a handful of unbonded ones in the building.

"Stayin' with John."

"John with the dog or John with the stupid hair?"

The alpha lets out a bark of a laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his scarred face breaks into a grin that is far more feral then you typically saw in polite company.

"Johnny's goin' t'love that."

Johnny.

Johnny.

Johnny.

The name wraps itself up in what is left of your thoughts. It fits him because of course it does.

"He's back?" you ask, you haven't really ever spoken with him, but you have noticed him enough, noticed enough about him to figure out he travels for work, is away for long stretches and when he is here it's sporadic, unpredictable. You have spoken to him enough to know he isn't from the area, the accent hard to miss.

"Aye, on bedrest, fucked up 'is knee."

You try and fail to hold back a cough as you go to answer, instead the sound that comes out is a wheeze, a hacking cough follows.

The alpha all but glares at you as you try to regain control of your body, curling in on yourself as you breathe deeply.

in for four.

The familiar fear that you have done something wrong, something unbecoming of an omega catches you off guard. You can't hold back the whine that slips from your lips.

"Seems like you should be the one in bed though," he says, tense again but making no move to leave. "Got someone who could finish that for you?" he asks, waving a hand at the laundry that continues to spin at your side.

You almost laugh. John, Johnny, has this man, and this man has him. And you have you, yourself, and no one else. And you would laugh if you knew you could have without it feeling like you have swallowed glass.

"Just me," you say, voice rougher than before.

Maybe you should go lay down.

****************

Johnny is restless. He hates being injured, but its worse this time with Simon here, Ghost, his scent match.

The Ghost is his scent match.

his mate.

Johnny hasn't fully come to terms with that reality yet. Price had taken it in stride, hadn't even bothered to pretend to be surprised when it happened. He actually had the audacity to already have the paperwork prepared for them to be an official pack, only thing left was a bonding bite between the two of them.

It is Johnny who is stalling, Johnny who clams up every time the two of them move in a direction that feels anything like intimacy. He can't explain it, even when Gaz poked and prodded for information, wrongly assuming it was Simon who was dragging his feet.

It isn't Simon, it's him. It's him and his stupid secret.

With Simon out of the flat he can spiral about it. The bed hadn't really smelled that bad, it had been an excuse, a gentle encouragement to get Simon out of his hair for a bit. The other alpha had been hovering and Johnny knows he should appreciate, he is so very lucky to be scent matched to someone like Simon, someone who can understand the fucked up mess that is Johnny's mind, Johnny's life.

But there is one small problem, that could have remained a small problem had he not gotten injured.

Johnny is still lost in his thoughts when the door to the flat bangs open, Simon stumbling in, his face a twist of emotions, anger the easiest to read.

Simon has always been hard to read, between the lack of scents in the military, the mask that was firmly in place when they were on base, and the closed off nature of the other alpha. But here, without suppressants coursing through their veins, scent blockers left unpacked, Johnny doesn't even need to see Simon's face to know something was wrong.

Very wrong.

"Are you okay?"

Simon's shoulders heave as he takes in a deep breath.

"Why didn't you tell me," he says accusingly, his stare heavy.

Johnny swallows, the edge of anger turning Simon's scent to wildfire, something untameable. Its almost enough to burn out everything else, but not enough to cover up the slightest tang of oranges.

"Ah dinnae ken, ah mean, ah did, but it dinnae mean anythin'."

"The omega doesn't know?"

"Ah wasnae sure, dropped a scarf runnin' out the building one day. Ah was on the way tae base, picked it up thinkin' ah could return it. Fuck, Simon, ah was at the end of a dose, didnae even ken what it was at first. Never smelled anythin' like that til," he trails off, looking over at Simon who is still at the door, fists clenching and unclenching.

"And you didn't say anythin'? There's leave for this kinda thin'."

"Leave? Tae dae what? Pack up with a random omega who's name ah didnae even ken?"

"'ow long?"

"Aboot six months," Johnny says, the confession almost a whisper.

"Fer fucks sake," Simon growls, stalking across the sparse living room, dropping down to his knees next to the sofa. "Why didn't you say anythin'?"

"Say what? Ah meet a nice omega, a civvie who disnae ken aboot the blood on mah 'ands?"

Simon doesn't respond, instead he reaches out a hand and cups Johnny's face. His skin is warm, fingers and palm calloused and rough. Johnny's hands are no different. These aren't the types of hands that get omegas to come home to, these are the hands of killers.

Johnny and Simon are meant for each other, made for each. But you, an omega with a kind face, and a soft smile every time you crossed paths? You are too good for the likes of them.

"But—"

"Nae, disnae matter that the omega is a scent match. I cannae be what they need, you cannae be what they need."

Simon doesn't respond right away, he studies Johnny, the too intense stare makes Johnny look away. He almost wishes Simon would put the mask back on so he doesn't have to see all of the emotions playing out across his face.

"You are a good man, John MacTavish, and if you wanted that omega down in the basement, you would make them the happiest omega around. And if this is fate, or whatever bullshit people think scent matches are then it won't matter that you and I are gone all the time, or 'ave blood on our 'ands, or are the most boneheaded alphas that omega has ever met because if it is meant to be then it will work out. We can make it work out. Together."

"Who are ye, and what 'ave ye done with my Simon?"

"Your Simon? More like my Johnny," he growls out, leaning forward to capture Johnny's lips in a searing kiss.

It's not their first kiss, their first kiss had been all instinct, the overwhelming coming together of two forces of nature. All the others since, the stolen moments together, the attempts at bonding, Johnny had had this secret, this worry looming over him because he knew that for as strong as he was in the field, how long he spent training, no amount of physical strength would make him enough of an alpha to care for an omega properly. Not the way an omega would deserve.

With Simon at his side in the field the 141 was unstoppable, maybe they could be unstoppable as a pack?

"Keep kissin' me like that and we are goin' to 'ave tae move this tae the bedroom." Johnny's smirk is met with a deep frown.

"The doctor said—"

"Och, ah dinnae care what the doctor said. Ah want ye more than ah can even say."

Simon chuckles, "yer an insatiable slag."

Johnny laughs, yanking Simon back in close. If not for the twinge of pain from his braced knee he would have pulled the alpha down the rest of the way.

"Ah can smell them," he murmurs into Simon's neck.

"Poor 'mega's sick, down there sneezin' an coughin'."

"What?" Johnny sputters, pushing back on Simon until he can see his face again. "Why're ye up 'ere then?" Johnny asks, distress clear on his face.

"'ad to know if you knew. Y'want the 'mega?"

There aren't words to describe the way he wants you. It isn't all instincts either, even though your scent had lingered in his mind for far longer than it had on the scarf, especially after he got his dose of military-grade suppressants. But it didn't matter, in the same way nothing had tamped down Simon's scent, the only thing that had been able to block out the memory of your scent was the shock at smelling Simon for the first time.

"Still dinnae think we're good fer them, but ah havnae stopped thinkin' aboot them."

Simon hums in response, falling back on his ankles. Simon kneeling at his side doing something unholy to the Scot.

"Not sure I'm the best one to approach an omega who didn't realize we were scent matches," says, looking unsure of himself.

"Disnae matter, y' said if it's meant tae be than it'll work oot. Goan and get our omega.

****************

As soon as the door closes behind the alpha you let out a long sigh, body sagging against the machine. When that isn't enough you let your body slide down the machine until you come to a rest on the cold floor. As an omega you are familiar with fevers, even more familiar with dealing with them as you ride out heats alone.

in for 4.

You try to steady your breathing, focusing on the warmth behind you, the rumbling of the machine not too unlike that of a purring alpha or omega. You let your eyes close, a familiar fantasy awaiting you. You imagine its your bonfire alpha wrapping you in his warm embrace, purring as you suffer through this never ending cold.

You should set an alarm. You're not certain you can handle the alpha coming back and finding you sleeping on the grimy basement floor. He probably already thinks that you are a mess of an omega. Can't even keep your nest clean. Can't take care of yourself. A sorry excuse for an omega.

You hear the door open, it feels far too soon for John's alpha to be back to switch out his loads. Great, another neighbor who will see you at your lowest, really just your luck.

You're so caught up in your spiralling thoughts that you don't hear them approaching, you don't realize they are speaking to you until the back of a hand is pressing against your sticky forehead.

"Christ, you're burin' up."

It is John's alpha. Had you dozed off? Maybe more time had passed than you thought.

"Just a cold," you murmur already missing the warmth from his hand when he pulls it away.

The whine that escapes you is embarrassing but has the desired effect when his hand returns, this time cupping the side of your face. You lean into the firm pressure, not at all bothered by the rough skin, or the sharp inhale from the man whose hand you are currently pressing into.

This is arguably a new low for you, so you might as well fully commit to this nightmare.

"You need water, and rest, and maybe a trip to A&E."

"Doc says its nothin'."

He lets out a huff, knees cracking as he bends down next to you. His arms are warm as they wrap around you, hugging you close to his chest as he stands. You nuzzle in close to his neck, cold nose rubbing against where you know his scent glands would be. Its incredibly rude but he doesn't move you. You let out a whine when you can't smell anything, stuffy sinuses keeping his scent from you.

"What flat are you in?" his voice rumbles through his chest.

"The one with the flower pot," you mumble back.

You aren't fully sure this isn't a dream, for a moment you are so sure, so certain you smell the scent from the sweatshirt, but then, that doesn't make sense because John's alpha wasn't here. But he's here now and he's taking you to your flat, and then everything will be fine.

You're certain you've overdone it the next time you can piece together enough words to resemble a thought. You knew you were sick, you knew your own body but you had let that waste of a doctor gaslight you into gaslighting yourself that it wasn't that bad. But it was, it was bad enough that you were having a fever dream, one where you could just make out that people were talking to you, but not what they were saying.

"Back with us, bonnie?"

You peel your eyes open. Its dark in your room, as it should be given the hour, only, it isn't your room because you painted your wall the first chance you got, and your bed has four posts that you carefully hang curtains from to create a nest, with fairy lights threaded through it. Your room also does not have a stupidly handsome alpha with blue eyes and a grown out mohawk.

"John?" your voice is barely a whisper, it hurts more than ever to speak.

"Aye, gave us a bit of a scare."

"Us?" you rasp, but you already know the answer.

"Aye, Simon's grabbin' yer last load from the machine."

You know how you should react, you're an unbonded omega who is beyond sick currently tucked into the bed of an alpha you barely know. The alpha part is an assumption, you faintly remember Simon purring so you had been correct there and while the scarred alpha from the basement has given you a whole new understanding of the meaning brick shithouse, John has always been bigger than the average man.

You close your eyes, pulling the blanket over your face. It's hard enough to think without seeing John, propping himself against the doorway, blue eyes bright with humor, a brace attached to his left leg, holding the knee straight.

"How'd I get here?"

"What was that? Cannae hear ye?"

You peer out from beneath the throw, glaring at John.

"Simon went down tae check on ye, dinnae sit right with us, leavin' ye down there alone. Ye were in a right state."

You think if you laugh the way you want to you'll regret it, but a right state is an understatement. How could you have been so dumb? What if someone else had found you? Someone not so pretty and kind and, fuck are you thinking this or saying it out loud?

The door opening interrupts your thoughts.

"For fuck's sake Johnny, told you to stay on the bloody couch."

The alpha stops in the doorway, dropping the laundry bag you know is yours and with an ease that is surprising despite his size picks up John. John gives out a chirp of surprise, arms scrambling to hold onto the alpha before he is unceremoniously dropped onto the bed next to you.

"Ye great oaf, cannae just be pickin' me up like that. Coulda jostled my knee."

"Tell you t'stay on the couch," he grumbles before turning to you. "How you feelin'? Need anythin'."

"Am I dreaming?"

That would explain the odd calm you felt despite your circumstances, only you typically don't have a pounding headache in your dreams. If it is a dream then it wouldn't be a problem if you rolled over and nuzzled into the alpha next to you.

"If yer dreamin', then ahm dreaming, bonnie," John says, closing the distance between the two of you and breathing in deeply.

"Fuck, ye smell so good bonnie," he says against your skin before he is being pulled away by his mohawk. "Shit!"

"No manners, this one. Sorry about 'im." The other alpha, Simon, holds John for a moment longer before dropping him to the bed.

"You need something warmer t' wear," he adds, moving towards your discarded laundry bag.

Its presumptuous of him. Neither of these alphas seem to know how to properly interact with an omega. His hands rummage through the bag, you fight down a growl that turns into a whine when the item he pulls out in the sweatshirt.

"Mine," the word is out before you can stop yourself.

The alpha looks up shocked, pale face flushing as he holds up the sweatshirt, you scramble out of the bed, legs shaking as you cross the room to snatch the sweatshirt away from the man who is a complete stranger, not that you really know John either.

Your heart is racing, lungs struggling to keep up. You feel lightheaded, but the adrenaline pumping through your body as you glaring up at the alpha like you could actually do something to someone his size.

There is nothing for you to do but pull the sweatshirt on over your head, its oversized, previously belonging to someone much larger than you.

"Bonnie, where did ye get that sweatshirt?"

You don't turn to look at John, instincts driving you hard to not turn your back on the alpha in front of you. Instead, you take a step back and then another until your back is against the wall and you can see both men. Simon with his wide eyes and John with his wide grin, a grin that looks very out of place.

You feel lightheaded, this is too much, you need to be in your flat, in your nest. You should grab your bag and hightail it out of here.

"It's mine," you repeat.

"Nae goin' tae try and take it, just wonderin' if ye ken who's sweatshirt it is."

You don't know, you tried, for weeks after finding it to find the owner. The name on the back was the only clue, but no one in the building shared it. Not first or last name. No one came looking for it and more importantly no one had smelled near as nice as the sweatshirt.

You pull the collar up to your nose and take in a deep breath, still nothing, not even the faint smell left behind from a fresh wash in the building's machines.

"Did ye meet my mate?" John asks, pushing himself up on the bed so that he is resting against the wall.

"Not really."

Fuck, you were tired. So tired.

"Well, bonnie, this is my mate, Simon Riley."

You turned to the giant of a man.

Simon Riley.

Riley.

Riley.

You don't have the energy to fight your instincts, to argue that logically this doesn't make sense, its too convenient, its too much of a coincidence. Instead you stalk forward, pulling up on your tippy toes to try to scent the man that John claims is named Simon Riley. Riley like the name emblazoned on the back of the sweatshirt.

You breathe deeply, desperate to catch even a hint of the scent that has haunted you for months. Instead your left dizzy, legs like jello as you step back. The giant of a man grabbing your arm gently as you sway.

"Let's get you into bed, yeah?"

You don't fight him on it, giving into the instincts that are telling you that you should roll around in the bed and make sure it smells just like you.

"Want me t' kick Johnny out? You need t' rest and you can do it 'ere, but if you want I'll take you to your flat, just wasn't sure what you meant by the one with the flower pot."

You also don't know what you could have meant by that.

"I should go back, I don't want to be a bother."

You force yourself to say the words even though everything in you is screaming that this is the alpha that smells like a bonfire on the beach, that if only you could scent you would be wrapped up in the warm embrace of smoke and salt.

You want to breathe him in and never let it go.

****************

Simon's certain it was only adrenaline holding you up as he guides you into the bed. He gets his confirmation from the droop of your eyes as you burrow down beneath the blankets, fresh from the wash and still a hint of warmth in them. He passes you the bottle of water he had set out earlier, you drink from it lazily before drifting off.

Johnny watches you raptly, fingers twitching at his side as he stops himself from reaching across the bed to touch you. Simon knows John means nothing untoward by it, that his instincts are riding him hard to offer you comfort however he can. Simon knows this because he feels the same way, instinct driving him to bundle you up in his arms, hold you close.

"We should let them rest," he says making no move to leave the side of the bed where he hovers over you.

"Aye," Johnny agrees making no moves of his own.

They stay like that longer than reasonable, long enough that Johnny falls asleep himself, body twisted in a way that Simon knows can't be comfortable and likely to leave him with a crick in his neck.

With a sigh, Simon moves to Johnny's side of the bed, maneuvering him until his knee is properly elevated and tucked beneath his own blanket. Simon considers if it would be odd to continue his vigil over his two mates, but decides that he should make himself useful.

Simon doesn't know what to do to make an omega comfortable in a domestic capacity, he doesn't know from personal experience either, his father had not been the type of alpha to offer comfort or care. The only thing he knew was what he had been trained to do. In their line of work they often crossed paths with omegas in distress, they had to be prepared to assist, to act.

You weren't in distress but you were in need, in need of care, in need of someone else to look out for you while you were ill.

In need of something Simon wasn't sure he knew he could give, despite his words to Johnny earlier.

He'll need to get groceries, Johnny and him had been living off takeaway but if they convinced you to stay they would need more than cheesy toast and chinese. Even if you don't stay, Simon can't live off scraps for six weeks. He's not much of a cook, he's not sure if Johnny is.

Bloody hell, the two of them barely know how to live with each other, how to be mates. And now this?

He expects to feel the usual discomfort at the unknown, he is nothing if not a creature of habit, but the apartment is warm with your scent and Johnny's. Yours' sweet on his tongue, even with the burnt taste of sickness while Johnny's is fresh and tart, a summer breeze through tall grass, tart dark berries on his tongue.

The way he would feast on the two of you.

Johnny has a single tinned soup. Simon warms it for you on the stove, testing the temperature with his finger before waking you up.

You had shifted in your sleep, your body gravitating towards Johnny who needed the rest as well. When he wakes you he watches the moment you come to, eyes wide with confusion before you wake up the rest of the way. He helps you sit, letting you feed yourself even though he has the strongest urge to do it himself, to hold the spoon in his steady hands and watch you as your lips wrap around the spoon.

Instead he busies himself with putting away Johnny's clothes. The Scot is a perfectionist in the field, but at home his space is chaotic. Simon tries not to focus on the way socks are with pants, or that boxers are haphazardly shoved wherever there seems to be free space.

"You don't need to take care of me," you say when he takes the bowl away.

Your eyes are already heavy, he forces you to drink water anyway, not happy with how warm you still feel.

"I don't but I want to."

"Why?" you ask, your eyes already closed, hand already reaching out for where Johnny lays on the bed.

He knows you won't remember asking, you won't remember him answering but he says it anyway, "because you smell like something I never dared to dream of. Because Johnny wants you and I would give him the world. Because I think there is a version of this where we can make you the happiest omega in the world."

Simon thinks its a properly romantic thing to say even if you weren't awake to hear it. He thinks about it more as he putters around Johnny's flat, cleaning and organizing the kitchen. He watches a video on his phone about how to properly stock a pantry. He feels like an idiot looking it up, but the video has thousands of views so he must not be the only one who didn't know.

At some point Johnny wakes up with a gasp of pain. Simon brings him his painkillers, he has days left of the good stuff, its been less than 48 hours since he was discharged and subsequently kicked off base by Price. It feels like a lifetime as Simon watches his mate chug down water before dropping back down into the bed, the pain written across his face in the way his lips twist into a grimace, brow knit together. He doesn't even make a move to get closer to you.

You appear only once. Eyes bleary with sleep, the arms of the sweatshirt dangling further than your finger tips, your feet bare against the wooden floors. You mumble something before disappearing into the bathroom.

It was late when he brought you here, even later now that he can't avoid sleep any longer. He changes into clean shorts, forgoing a shirt. Its already warm in the flat and as he hovers next to the bed he knows it will be warmer once he convinces himself that slipping in next to you is the right move.

"C'mere," you mumble.

He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed you rolling over, pulling the blanket from your side to expose the empty space on the bed created by you curling in next to Johnny. It will be a tight fit, maybe not ideal in the long run, but in this moment Simon doesn't know if there is a long run, in his line of work he never knows if there will even be another day at the end of this one, so he slips in next to you.

You are demanding in your sleep, pulling his arm over your waist, forcing him to press his chest to your back. Close enough now that he can feel the tremor of a purr rattling around your chest. He tucks his face in close to your neck, nuzzling your scent gland, letting his own scent soak into your skin hoping it will be enough to chase away the sickness that clings to you.

Simon lets himself drift, the warm press of your skin against his, your purr, Johnny's heavy breathing, all of it is a comfort he's never known before.

He's not sure if its a dream, or his own last thoughts before sleep pulls him under but he pictures your face, overcome with something he doesn't know how to describe when you finally scent him, scent Johnny. In the dream you don't know about their jobs, about their pasts or their futures, you just know that the three of you were destined for each other.

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[testdrivero7]

My favorite Johns🖤

[lackadaisies]

𖧁୧ one night stand with mean!simon x ballerina!reader

𓋭 ๋  ׅ  cw: themes of manipulation, simon teaches reader how to give head = blowjob with (accidental) teeth + suffocation via deepthroating, pussy slaps, ripping a hole in pantyhose to fuck, raw sex/creampie, spitting in mouth, “mister” as nickname, simon calls reader “starlet” 1x

likes & comments appreciated! let me know your thoughts please, reblogs are SO important ♥︎

18+ only / all characters are 18+. | my previous post. | all my fics.

based on this ask.

note: ty guys sm for the love on the last mean!simon post, hope u enjoy this one. ♥︎ i have such few writings on here (sry for the sporadic posts </3) but this blog is rly growing already! also i find it cute how y'all nicknamed this 'meanie simon' even tho i never called him that lmao

mean!Simon who pretends to be ballerina!readerʼs fan just to get in your pants—even though, truthfully, heʼd merely slipped into the opera house lobby for some privacy to pick up a phone call. The latter is poor judgment on his part; the performance is almost at a close, with an ocean of patrons soon to come spilling out onto the burgundy damask runner. The receding seafoam, the diminuendo to your final grand jeté.

Privacy, tant pis.

Just beyond the foyer, a framed program board lists the evening’s performance: The Sleeping Beauty — Tchaikovsky, Ballet in Three Acts. Past the closed doors, the hall’s orchestra reaches its closing measures, more of a heartbeat than a tune as it susurrates into the lobby. Simon cares for none of it, not until he sees you and your flock meandering out onto the sidewalk with your dance bags on your shoulders. At least, that's how he makes it out to be. Half-star-struck, but tempered by his gravely tone and hands-in-his-pockets demeanor. Simon is by no means a known smooth-talker, but that's exactly why it works, doesn't it? He's no frills, no posh accent like the trust fund babies inside, straight to the point; he wants to drive you home.

Naturally, your fellow dancers in the company don’t approve, especially as one of their younger rising stars—stranger danger and whatnot. The guy barely even takes his disposable face mask off for a minute—but you’ve seen equally, if not more, questionable patrons sponsoring dancers for a favor. Now, youʼd hardly say bad boys are your type, or even goody-two-shoes boys—Simon just seems like a man who doesn't care for either of the two things.

When you're a minute away from the opera house in his Chevy Tahoe, you hear him ask ‘My place or yours?’

My place, you say, because he’s just supposed to drive you home, there’s nothing more to it—right? Except, Simon takes it as an invitation.

The seven-inches (rounded up) more to it is buried in your gullet at present, tears clumping your lashes together as Simon connects your face with his pelvis.

“No teeth,” he chides, for the second time now. You come up for air gasping. “Like a lolly. Don't wanna get your teeth froze, innit?” Simon adds, demonstrating with his fingers sliding back and forth over your tongue.

“Sorry,” you murmur sheepishly when he retracts his fingers, thick ropes of spit rolling down your chin to the neck of your leotard. Bracing your hands on his thighs, you lap up at the length of his cock with the tip of your tongue, trying your own pace, but Simon isn't as patient.

You flash him an incredulous frown when he thrusts past your lips and hits the back of your mouth without warning, teeth scraping the base with a gag. Not your fault—he caught you off guard, is something you no doubt wish to communicate, your annoyance mirroring his like pup and dog before he pinches your nostrils shut. Your system all but malfunctions.

“Get learning, starlet,” the man orders brusquely, glowering while you sputter obscenely on his cock. His method of teaching is ‘swim-or-sink’, you realize, though the implication of sucking dick being as important as breathing doesn't fare well at all.

Your tongue hangs a little past your lips as you take him into the warm cavern of your mouth, your kneeling form shuddering with the effort it takes to stay in place instead of pulling up for air. A low, gravelly hum emits from his chest when the velveteen walls of your mouth envelope him, pleased this time.

“'Bout time.”

Tears prick your eyes as you peer up at him; his silhouette is reduced to blurry blots of color in your vision, his cock jerking instantly when your eyes lock. Your chest hiccups uselessly without pulling in any air and he can feel your throat spasming frantically around the heft of him in protest, milking more precum from him against all reason.

“Look at you,” he coos, almost unthinkingly, as he runs a hand through your tousled ballet bun, pins slipping out of place. “Proper mess. Yer almost getting the hang of it.”

Asshole.

The denim fibers of his jeans catch under your nails as they dig into his thighs, and at this point you've shifted off your knees and onto your haunches to writhe and kick at the tiles while he fills your airways. Every little sensation translates to his throbbing cock, his breathy groans filling the shadowy room as you gag on him.

You can feel the blood flooding your head as your lungs constrict, a throb in your temples mimicking closely the ache between your legs before, finally, all the pressure gives away when Simon lets go off your nose.

It's all spit, tears, and salty precum when you go up for air purely on reflex, strings of saliva stretching out between your lips and his fat cock. You clutch your neck while coughing, staring up at him tearily while his fingers scratch your scalp. His cock is hard and leaking in your face, bobbing with arousal.

As if knowing your language skills are out the door, or more likely not caring, Simon doesn't waste time to speak before he's tugging you up to your feet by one arm and tossing you behind him onto the bed.

“On the bed,” is as much communication as you get.

The look on your face must suggest your hurt with his abrasive treatment, because the corner of his lip turns up slightly and his eyebrows furl upwards sympathetically as he climbs over you, one knee braced on the mattress.

“Scared?” the man asks, to which you chirp wordlessly, throat raw, and screw your face up in a frown as you tuck your head away from the hand that threatens to cup your cheek.

Your skin is hot to the touch with his fingers tracing the slope of your jaw nonetheless, coated with sweat, spit, tears. An annoyed-sounding giggle spills out of you as he covers your face with his palm, your hair falling in front of your face as he musses it all up. He smiles a bit too—maybe. You can't see too well with your hair in your eyes.

“Don’t be. Iʼll bet I can make up for it. Some grown man cock is just what you need, isn't that right?”

Despite the incredulity at his choice of words, sticking your nose up like a proper lady, he doesn't hear a word of complaint from you to stop him from kissing the air out of you, with teeth.

Simon is already rutting his leaking cock against your belly when he reaches down between your bodies, pushing the crotch of your leotard to the side. “Look at you, so wet just from tasting my cock. Y'like dick that badly?”

There's a glint of amusement in his eyes as you huff 'You're a bully' and shut your legs, the corners of his eyes slightly wrinkled, though the rest of his expression remains unflinching. The sound of weaving coming apart splits the air—coupled with your embarrassed squealing—as he tears a hole in your dance tights and guides his cock between your legs.

He only manages to fuck your thighs with the way you're squishing them together, until he finds the collection of moisture pooling at the apex and pushes in.

He groans against your open mouth with the head of his cock seated snug inside your belly, thumbs digging in above your hipbones as he pulls you down the sheets to meet him. Your lips stretch into a small oval, opening and closing with a soft string of moans as he starts to pump inside you feverishly, jaw hanging slack towards your collarbones while you gaze at him through fluttery lashes.

Your ecstasy-addled gaze is all it takes to draw him into another heated kiss, latching onto your bottom lip as you whine and lock your ankles around his back. His short, dirty-blond hair becomes the victim of your restless hands, twining through the short tufts with a mirrored passion to the bruising grip of manly hands on your hips.

A perverse, self indulgent curiosity wins over when he folds your nimble body under him, your toes curling up in a mock pointe as he slams deep inside you, stars behind your eyelids. Your pussy is wringing him hard enough to make him cum if he's not careful, but the slide is simultaneously so smooth it's obscene with how wet you are.

“Si, oh my gosh, too much, I can't anymore,” you squeak, voice catching on a moan, but he just nips your earlobe deliberately, leaving shivers in his wake.

“Y'cant? I don't take kindly to liars, luv,” Simon grumbles in your ear before he pulls away slightly to peer down at you, his voice slipping into a more patronizing register, breathless all the same. “Come on then, tell me you want this. Y'want me to breed this cunt.”

His fingers dig into your cheeks while he awaits an answer, your face sandwiched into a pout between his fingers while you tearfully nod your head without further ado. It is too much and all that you need—only he's far too thick and too deep.

He bows his head over yours, dropping a warm wad of spit onto your puckered mouth, and you swallow before you can think better of it.

“Say it,” the man enunciates gruffly, his rhythm never letting up as you claw at the sheets above your head.

This time, an emphatic shake of your head, your cheeks burning up.

Simon lets your knees splay open around his lap as he sits up between them with a disapproving look, both your wrists caught in one firm grip as his muscled arm lifts above you. His offhand lands dead-center on your cunt with a loud smack, your hips jerking with a startled yelp—and inadvertently, fucking yourself on his length.

“Words.” A tendon in his jaw twitches as he regards you with simmering impatience, a brow raised pointedly. Your toes curl when his palm lifts again, your breath catching before the impact comes blooming as a throbbing heat ebbing through your clit.

“O—ow!” You keen and angle your hips away to no avail, his palm splayed out on the juncture between your leg and your hipbone to hold you open. Your walls spasm like a heartbeat around his dick, drawing a hiss past his teeth as he pumps inside you with shallow, jerky thrusts, palming your puffy cunt before repeating the previous action.

His palm lands against your flesh in quick succession, your juices splattering against your inner thighs like sin as wet slaps resound in your ears. Your abused pussy is practically weeping around his cock, stretched taut around his veiny girth.

“Please—” Your pleas for mercy starts off slurring, pathetic moans and hiccups, before becoming more urgent with each slap—and still, not what he wants. Your walls flutter and clamp around nothing as he pulls his cock out, slapping the flushed head against your oversensitive clit. Briefly, you fear the friction will make you come before it's over.

Your please-please-pleaseʼs for the man to stop very soon turns into “Please, please, I want it,” your quivering lower lip tucked between your teeth when you try to be convincing.

Not good enough? You whimper like a petulant dog, steeling yourself to try again—or rather, swallowing your dignity.

“Please, mister, want more,” you huff finally, feeling the heat burning the tips of your ears and arching up unwittingly as Simon tightens his grasp on your wrists. “Mmph, please, please breed me, mister.”

You squeal when he bottoms out again without warning, thumb and pointer spreading your folds apart to expose your clit to the cool air as he drills inside you. His tongue swipes at your ear and the other hand presses down on your inner thigh, holding you open, his voice a filthy mutter in your ears.

“Thas more like it. Think you're too good, huh? Nah, I knew you were a filthy girl.”

“Bloody hell, she's squeezing me. You love having my cock inside you, don't you? Gonna breed you full, baby.”

“Fuck, Iʼm close.” He hisses in satisfaction when he feels your nails digging into his back, almost beckoning, your little voice begging him to breed you. Simon swaps his hot spit into your waiting mouth and you gulp it down, kitten-licking his mouth adorably, saliva shimmering on your sweet face like pearlescence.

Simon can't hold off any longer when he feels you stiffen and cry out underneath him, fucking you through the tidal waves of your messy climax and groaning in unison into your mouth. The sound of flesh on flesh crowds the confines of your quaint bedroom, ornate wooden headboard brushing floral wallpaper precariously. Simon is awfully out of place here, an imposter in your world of poise and perfection, intent on ruining you like the soiled bedsheets.

“Fuck—just like that, luv. Fucking take it, take it.”

You can feel his warm seed overflowing down the cleft of your ass before he fucks it back in, plugging your hole with his thick cock and grinding his hips into you for good measure—both of you willfully forgetting that you're on the pill, just for now. It's so warm down there, you can't help but squeeze your thighs together at the tingly feeling, each wet squelch as he sinks in making you shiver.

Shortly after he pulls away from your spent, thoroughly-fucked body, you find yourself face-down on your belly before you've even caught your breath—because Simon just can't wait to put your flexible body in other positions.

Admittedly, Simon pays the price for his perverse curiosity early the next morning when he wakes with bleary eyes for the lack of sleep. He's up at 04:00 while your nude body is still tucked under the sheets, cozy despite the clothes strewn haphazardly across the place. Or perhaps merely exhausted. Curiosity killed the cat, some may say—whether in reference to Simon or your... kitty.

The man realizes he's paying for his actions a second time, later, when an envelope slips from the inner pocket of his jacket and skids to his feet, a spare ticket tucked neatly inside. Front row. The next performance. For my biggest fan! :D scrawled across the front in cheery, looping ink—and with it, he sees how his little white lie, as he tells himself, has grown legs right under his nose.

♥︎  gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here ! tysm in advance, petal !

authors note — my writing skills go out the window everytime i have to write smut scenes </3 and do NOT let a man you just met treat you like this 🤦‍♀️

© LACKADAISIES ‘25. | all rights reserved. copying, translation, or ai training not authorized; ask for direct permission before you take inspiration from my posts. iʼll cry if you copy my hard work, please be considerate.

[tensortblr]

i guess i already uploaded this but idc. i'll upload it again bc it's fucking hot. btw they look like they're wearing matching outfits. what a ridiculous game. (actually i logged into cod to save refs but always end up like this.)

[tmartin0918]

Watching Heated Rivalry (episode 5) at my mother's and she comes out of her office.

Mum: "What are you watching? Are you watching The Pitt without me again?"

Me quickly pausing my show: "No, this-"

Mum: Heated Rivalry?

Me: eeeh heh heh, yeaaah, I dont think you'd like it. Its uh.. hockey-

Mum: I like hockey, you know that.

Me: This is... gay hockey. Very gay.

Mum: Oh, this the show you cant watch with you son around.

Me: YUP! TV-MA. So so very MA.

[bluegiragi]

hello hollanov nation, i am opening my store (bluegiragistore.com) on Jan 20th 8:00 AM AEST and will be selling heated rivalry merch!!! This includes a bookend diorama standee + a keychain/lanyard combo that'll both be up for pre-order (as I'm unsure how to gauge current demand). The store will remain open until Jan 27th 5PM AEST, after which the purchasing period will finish and ill lock the store down.

Prices are as follows (all in USD):

HOLLANOV BOOKENDS: $33 each

HOLLANOV KEYCHAIN (WITH LANYARD): $18

A5 PRINTS: $10 each (1 free print for every $65USD spent)

POLAROID PRINTS: $4 each

[tmartin0918]

Ah fuuuck! I already built my shopping list off the CoD stuff! I want the bookends! Pleaseeee keep them available I SWEAR i will purchase them at the next store opening I pinky promise!