(I don’t post consistently, sorry! Writers block and my laziness consume me. Suggested bloggers down below that are better at posting more than me:D)
TF141
Body Positivity
Couples Costumes
Simon 'Ghost' Riley
A Desperate Man: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 16.5, Part 17, Part 18
I’m on my second day of work. they didn’t train me or nothin, and threw me the BIGGEST pallet to stock in 3 hours. like I get I should be able to do it, but I’m on my second shift. and it’s household cleaning/chemicals that IM ALLERGIC TO. So I can’t breathe half the time and I have the WORST migraine. Even after taking three Tylenol. Someone help🫠
When you had finally met Price, it took a week to joke with him over being an old fuck. Traditional man. Stupid old morals he’d subtlety hint at, no matter how much times have changed.
While he respects your abilities on the field, his old traditional brain believes you’d do much better in a kitchen or watching kids. Those old school morals, paired with his compliments being total pervert behavior.
“Those pants of yours make that ass pop.”
“Bloody hips on ya, fucking sinful.”
“You look bloody breedable right now love.”
You hate it. Obviously. Who wouldn’t? Despite the way your cheeks flush and body betrays your mind. You would’ve filed a complaint by now if it really bothered you.
You’re ovulating.. and avoiding him tonight due to the way those stupid comments of his make your cunt weep. Tucked away safely in your quarters as you finish paperwork late at night. Finally finishing the last file and planning to leave it on Prices desk.
Though, when you knock and are allowed entry into the old shits office, you’re met with a sight that is permanently burned into your brain.
Price, sat at his desk, an old playboy spread out in front of him as he fists his cock lazily. Cocky smirk on his face as he takes in your wide eyes.
“You gonna finally put that mouth of yours to work or just stare all night?”
“Playboy? Seriously? You know the internet exists, right? Christ, you are old.”
“f’course I do, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy print.”
He looks over your whole body in a way that makes you squirm and heat pool between your legs. You toss the files on his desk and leave before you do something you’d regret in the morning.
You avoid him the next morning until he corners you in the mess hall at the coffee pot.
“Somethin botherin you, love?”
“No? Why would you say that?”
“You’ve been looking anywhere but me all morning. When all you should look at is me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Hmm. Daft brain of yours too occupied on what you saw last night?”
“What? No—“
“You’ve gone red, love.”
“Shut up. You- are impossible.”
“Because I’ve got a stack of skin mags older than you? Thought you youngsters were hard to embarrass.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed.. just, surprised.”
“By what, exactly?”
“That you use them.”
“Nothing wrong with appreciating a woman’s beauty. Like yours for example.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I prefer the term old fashioned.”
“Right. Thats one word for it.”
“And yet, you havent walked away.”
Which is how you’ve ended up here.
Folded in half until your knees hit your chest and your ankles rest on his shoulders, being split in half by his cock. Poor cunt weeping at the harsh pace he’s set.
Embarrassed by the way you clench over the cocky things he growls in your ear as he ruins your cunt for anyone else.
“Bloody perfect cunt.. made to be filled.”
“That’s it.. whine for me.. goood girll.”
“Gonna breed this cunt proper.. you’ll look best swollen with my kids.”
You’re fucked dumb already, mind too hazy to deny his words because they make your orgasm tip over the edge and crash over you like a tidal wave. Cunt clenching around his cock as his pace stutters and he buried himself deep, pumping load after load into you.
Cocky bastard pulls out but keeps your legs up to keep his cum inside.
Summary: A soldier suffering from a traumatic brain injury will need to relearn everything from locomotion to language to emotional regulation. Fortunately, there's a cute volunteer at his rehab facility who visits every week to read him poems and help him remember why the struggle is worth it.
Read on AO3 here, or navigate to the chapters below:
Prologue
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Week Five
Week Six
Week Seven
Week Eight
Week Nine
Week Ten
Week Eleven
Week Twelve
Week Thirteen
Week Fourteen
Week Fifteen
Week Sixteen
Week Seventeen
Week Eighteen
Week Nineteen
Week Twenty
Week Twenty-One
Week Twenty-Two
Week Twenty-Three
Week Twenty-Four
Week Twenty-Five
Week Twenty-Six
Dedicated to @youarehereyouaresafe, lover of all things Johnny and most beloved of friends.
Note: This is a little slower-paced and angstier than my other fics, plus some people might not like the heavy poetry. Totally understand if some of my usual readers pass on this one - it's not my best work, but I've had it planned since November and I had to get it out of my head. I have the first third of the story done, so you'll see a bunch of chapters go up at once and then probably won't hear from me for a while. Thank you so much for reading <3
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
I fucking HATE NYS right now. First job orientation is tomorrow and I can’t get an ID to bring to them bc I don’t have enough ‘points’ to get myself a non drivers ID
Like yes, I haven’t done shit with my life but ive been taking care of my parents since before I graduated high school😭
I'm evil for this one. I keep taking breaks writing this because I'm breaking my own damn heart.
Here's a lil snippet from the beginning though:3
He blames himself.
If he took your constant headaches more seriously, the drastic mood fluctuations that you never had before, or the way you started to forget little things. If he took it all seriously and didn’t think it was some little quirk of yours, maybe this would’ve been caught sooner.
Maybe things would be different.
The makers of Kinktober 2025 are back again with a brand new list! The graphics are once again created by latte-cucumber. Check out our AO3 collection, or keep reading for more information.
More information
Kinktober is a kinky October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.
If you have any questions, check our FAQs. Unfortunately, due to personal commitments, we won't be opening our askbox for questions this year. We've made it as rules-light as possible, though, so if your question is "Can I do this?", the answer is almost certainly yes!
Kyle Garrick isn't your boyfriend. He's your teammate, your colleague and your friend. But you aren't dating him. He isn't yours.
So there's really no reason for you to feel so fucking jealous right now.
The new recruit is pretty, the kind of girl guys dream of. She's a blonde with blue eyes, tits that are barely contained in her uniform. And she's flirting with Kyle so hard that it hurts. Flicking her hair, fluttering her eyelashes, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm... she clearly wants him. You get it. Kyle is, well, Kyle - handsome, charming and funny. He's perfect.
You stand across the training yard, next to Price and Ghost. They're talking, but you can't hear a word they say. All you can focus on is Kyle and that woman, anger flowing through your veins. If you clench your jaw any harder, it might break.
You could kill her. Okay, maybe that's a little extreme. You could certainly smack her, though. Really hard. She's embarrassing herself, and you. You're ashamed of how you feel for a man who isn't even yours. A man you didn't even realise you wanted to be yours until this moment.
Before you can think twice, your feet are moving, walking you towards the pair of them. What's your plan? You aren't sure. Hopefully you won't hit her. You can't afford another disciplinary action against you…
"Oh, hi love," Kyle says as you reach the two of them, his eyes lighting up like they always do when you're around. "What're you—" you cut off his words with a grunt, cupping his face in your hands and pulling his lips to yours. It's a kiss that's hard and claiming, meant to let this bitch know that he's yours. Even though he technically isn't.
Your tongue plunges in his mouth as his breath catches in his throat. His hands hover in the air for a moment before settling on your waist, gripping you tight enough to almost lift you off the floor. After a minute, you pull away, leaving Kyle panting with darkened eyes, his dick already hard in his pants as you turn your attention to the blonde.
"Hi!" you chirp with mock kindness, your eyes glaring daggers at her. "I'm not sure we've been introduced..."
Rommy, I beg!! The boys!! What weird ways do they court their omega?? Mostly Ghost because I think he’d be the most odd.
Ohhhh ghost courting his omega is....a danger to anyone involved.... <:0
Others give favourite snacks or drinks as courting gifts. Something small to show they can feed you and know you well enough to follow your preferences.
The first courting gift ghost gives you is multiple coolers full of deer meat. That he personally hunted and butchered, of course. The heart, you notice, already has a bite taken from it...
Others try to show-off to gain affection, usually in competition with others. Arm wrestling is popular, but on base sparring is a go-to. That, or drinking games.
Ghost....isn't allowed to do that after he "accidentally" put that one lieutenant trying to court you in the hospital. Now? You get USB drives full of his favourite bodycam clips from ops. Usually of his brutal hand-to-hand combat and guerilla warfare, but he once got you a 13 hour video of him sniping for you to "fall asleep to, lovie."
All that is to say, anytime you express dislike towards someone you need to quietly assure ghost you don't want them hurt in any way.
