Morgan Myst

you start to figure out who has the controller from the way that they play with the settings. johnny likes to keep you guessing, never one to stick with a consistent hum of intensity because he's too enraptured with the way that your body goes taut in anticipation only to fall for the faux security of thinking that you've got him figured out. simon likes you squeezing your thighs close and doubled over in your pleasure, unable to even pretend that you're not close to cumming when the toy's pressing on your most sensitive spots. kyle? kyle likes it slow. teasing. torturous. he'd make you go through the whole day feeling the thrum so softly that there are times that you'd forget that you're stuffed, only for kyle to crank it up to the highest setting just before the day ends and when your guard is at its weakest, unable to stop the weak squirt that is forced out of you.

Soap: *holding up a device having just home alone’d that situation* Relax Cap, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. This is just the base vacuum cleaner hose mounted to a Fortnite nerf sponsored nerf gun. With a lot of LED lights.

Simon: *so done with life who banged his knees clotheslining the offender* I’m just here because I was promised tea.

Soap: *shrugging and hangry* Like hell it’s not, I sold Ghost out last week for stealing my McNugget.. don’t test me PeePaw.

In his line of work, where hypermasculinity is the norm and he can go months at a time without so much as speaking to another woman, (excepting Laswell, of course), gestures of affection are expectedly rare.

As a result, he’s gotten himself a reputation that’s weirded out more than a few soldiers in his years of service.

“MacTavish is…touchy,” one would whisper under his breath, looking around to make sure he was out of earshot.

“Yeah….Don’t get me wrong; nice bloke. But he’s always pulling me in for hugs or sitting real close. A tad weird if you ask me,” another would reason, fidgeting with his hands.

“You don’t think he’s…?” at third would ask, nervous to say the word.

“Definitely not; have you seen him at the clubs around base? He’s into women, mate, trust me,” a fourth would chime in, chuckling.

“So…what? He’s just, like, lonely?” the first would ask.

“Aren’t we all?” the second would sigh and all four would nod wistfully.

The third time Ghost holds you at gunpoint, you don’t even see him. 

You’re working an op, climbing onto the roof to get a better shot when a red sight laser hits your chest. All it takes is one glance down at the dot circling your breast, watching it zero in on your nipple hidden beneath your black bodysuit with impressive marksman skills, for you to instantly know who it is. 

You raise your eyes to the rooftop across from yours. There he is, bone mask glinting in the moonlight, sprawled on his belly with his barrel aimed straight at you. 

With a sigh, you crouch at the edge of the brick building and peer through your scope into the alleyway below. 

It’s still empty. No sign of your target yet. 

“How’s the leg?” you call without looking up from your sights, remembering the little bullet wound you gave him to remember you by. “Slowing you down?”

“Hardly,” he grunts.

Heat pools in your belly, sharp and instant. Suddenly, you realize you’ve never actually heard the man they call ‘Ghost’ speak before. 

Your gun lowers just a fraction. “Wait. Say something else.”

“Talk again and I shoot you.”

“You’re British?” Your lashes brush the scope as you blink heavily. “God, I’m a sucker for an accent.”

“Quiet,” he warns.

“No, really, you should’ve told me that!” A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth as you glimpse your target coming out of the alley, your finger hovering over the trigger. “We could’ve ended this game of cat and mouse a long time ago.”

The next time Ghost held you at gunpoint, your barrel was already there, leveled at him a split second first.

You stood like that, safeties off, eyes wide. Neither of you moved.

Then, suddenly, your gun just…lowered.

“Nice draw,” you said, stepping forward before he could react and giving his gloved hand a firm shake. “Solid work. Tip, though? Be a little quicker next time.”

You brushed past him and this time, you didn’t even bother to make a run for it. Just sauntered off, gun holstered lazily at your hip, until you slipped back into the darkness.

And he watched your ass the entire way.

Price's personal grooming habits start and stop with his beard. Keeps the thing in tip-top shape with reglar trims and a bit of mousse (MW4 trailer who). He doesn't give a shit about body hair because it's completely natural to have. Plus, he's been compared to a bear so often he might as well lean into it and be the hot hairy man the others seem to see him as. This lack of preference extends to his partners. He doesn't care if/when you shave. You have a bush you're proud of and legs that keep warm? Amazing. Smooth as silk with a 20+ skin care routine? Fantastic. He'll take you however you're willing to give yourself. He'll love you all the same.

Gaz keeps himself maintained more than the rest of the force. He's tried growing out more of a beard, but felt the subtle mustache and goatee suit him better. When it comes to body hair, he's naturally not too hairy. He's got light whisps on his forearms and legs, a light dusting on his chest, and just enough happy trail to be tantilizing. This goes to say, he does try to keep his nethers groomed, makes him feel cleaner between those long operations where showers are rare and rest is myth. When it comes to his partner, he likes a little hair. Clean shaven is fine, but he's a bit of a sucker for a landing strip or any sort of cheeky, creative pubic hair.

Soap isn't as hairy as Price, but he's a close second. The scot is fond of a natural look both on himself and others. The only regular maintenance he keeps up is shaving the sides of his head and trimming his beard. Everywhere else? Not a problem. Now, that's not to say he won't clean it up a little before date night just to make it a little more "presentable," but don't you dare do the same. This man is the CEO of "you shaved your bush???" then sobbing about it. Same goes for if you have arm and/or leg hair. He's happy whether your shaven, stubbly, or super hairy. Your hair doesn't define you, Bon, you know that.

Ghost is basically hairless. Most of his skin is scar tissue and the patches of blonde around his body basically blend in with his pale complexion. He still gets a bit of a beard now and then that he shaves clean because it gets sweaty and irritating in his mask. That being said, the Brit does not give a shit about beauty standards. He's baffled someone as amazing as you fell into his life in the first place. You think he's going to sacrifice the love he's been missing out on because of some hair?? Bloody mental, you are.

-Nightmares-

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Summary: When getting a late night snack, Simon finds you and breaks down.

It’s exactly 2:36am

For some reason these past few days, you’ve been struggling to fall asleep. To much on your mind. Im your 23 years of living, you never did figure out how to turn your brain off.

You’re currently standing in the kitchen going through the pantry. All of a sudden you hear staggered breathing and quick footsteps. You reach for your gun on the counter, and hold it up aiming towards the hallway as the steps get closer. When the footsteps stop, you discover it’s Ghost. With no mask. His eyes are glassy and his hands are shaking. You quickly place your gun down.

“Simon..?”

He stands there, staring at you. He seems like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Simon. Hey, talk to me.”

“Y-You’re here.” Tears begin to fall.

“Yeah, im here. What happened?”

He goes to speak, but nothing comes out. He falls onto his knees. You rush over and hold him, he sobs into your neck. He holds you tightly.

“I-I thought i lost you. You were s-shot. Your blood was everywhere.”

“It was a nightmare. You’re okay, Im okay. Nothing happened, love.” You brush pieces of his tear soaked hair from his face, and place kisses on his cheek.

He meets your eyes. He sees your concern and quickly sits up. He wipes his eyes and stands.

“Fuck.” He turns away, “You must think im such a pussy”

“Not at all.. i think you’re brave for telling me wjat happened.” You stand and take his hands in yours.

“Would you like to come back to my room? Might help you sleep, knowing im by you.”

“Yes please.” He keeps his head down like a sad puppy.

“Come on baby.”

a/n: Unfortunately this was just a little drabble so i probably won’t make a part 2. Have a great day💕

Stiles, talking abt the betas: They're all mine