mimi

Vs

johnny doesn’t abide by their rules. he’s secure enough in his position that he knows he’s not going to be fired, and if he is, oh well, he’s got the experience and credentials needed to get the same job anywhere else, and he makes sure his managers know it. he will talk your ear off about how his ma’s been nagging him to settle down in the middle of a friday night rush, or tell the underpaid, sixteen year old hostess that it’s time for her break, though he doesn’t actually have that authority. he’ll befriend his fellow line cooks and invite them out for drinks even though it’s frowned upon, and leave the kitchen in his grease-stained tee and crocs to cuss out the customer who yelled at you about their steak being undercooked. “i was the one who made it, nothin’ to say to me?” it’s a miracle he’s still employed. there’s a rumor that they’ve tried to fire him, on more than one occasion, but he keeps clocking in anyways, and no one has the balls to tell him off.

he gives you free food when he notices you haven’t eaten, will stand guard outside the walk-in if you need a moment to yourself, and tells you how good you look in your new apron. and if you’re a bit clumsy, the type to drop at least one hot plate per shift, he never gets upset, not like the others do. “happens to the best of us, love, don’t stress,” “you’re doin’ all the hard work, anyways,”

will drop the absolute wildest, most unbelievable lore, completely out of the blue.

“what the fuck do you mean you were shot in the head?”

“aye, couple o’ years back, while i was diffusing this bomb,” as if it’s not the most insane sentence anyone’s ever said to you on a monday afternoon.

and when you finally do get together, after months of his shameless, relentless flirting? he’s insufferable about it. he’ll coerce you into that walk-in every chance he gets for a moment alone, cackling whenever one of your coworkers finds the two of you swapping spit in the dead of lunch rush. smacks your ass in front of the bosses and winks after, like someone who’s never heard of workplace harassment in all of his days. some guy gets handsy while you’re waiting his table, and here’s johnny, threatening to follow him home and reminding him to leave a very generous tip for the trouble he caused you. and god forbid your manager yells at you, johnny’s raising hell and HR’s definitely getting called.

genre: fluff

“uh, do you need something?”

ghost stops just a few feet away from you. you don’t even bother to turn, still sterilizing your metal tools.

“no,” he grunts.

only then do you turn, give him a weirded out look as you eye him up and down.

“why are you following me?”

he doesn’t answer.

you hold back an eye-roll and continue to place the sealed bags in the autoclave.

when you’re done, you turn and he’s still there.

he doesn’t shy away from the eye contact and it’s bit a nerve-racking. his face is blank—not that you can see it underneath that mask— and his eyes are almost cold.

to be expected of the infamous ghost, you suppose.

but why is he following you around?

after a few minutes, you get tired of it. you spin around suddenly and he doesn’t startle- like he was expecting it.

“seriously, what is it?!”

a beat of silence and he speaks. “nothing.”

“then why are you following me? did I do something to you- are you plotting some sort of revenge? Are you stalking me?”

simon looks down and then looks at you, clearing his throat. “you look pretty today. I just wanted to tell you.”

you jaw goes slack.

after a few unconvinced blinks, you realize he isn’t playing a joke on you and you clear your throat. “oh… uh… thank you.”

you want to tell him that he could’ve told you before making you think he was plotting your death, but you’re too shy to get the words out.

he hums and gestures to the autoclave and you quickly remember what you were doing in the first place.

“oh, right..”

he watches you diligently and this time you don’t complain. this time, you shoulders are relaxed and you’re moving slower.

the corners of your mouth lift when you turn and he’s still staring at you unabashedly.

his expression doesn’t change.

Simon Riley had known he was a clairvoyant since he was 10, and heard his father's thoughts about the woman he cheated on his mother with.

He quickly learned to never tell anyone about his ability, he was labeled a kook, insane, he even got thrown into a mental hospital when he was fifteen.

The only people who did believe in him, were his teammates. His Captain laughing in awe when Simon tells him exactly what thoughts were going through his mind.

But when you joined the team, he was skeptical whether or not to tell you of his ability. That didn't stop him however, from hearing you think about riding him on the desk during a meeting. That may have been the most awkward boner of Simons life.

It didn't stop there. You'd walk into the gym while Simon was working out?

"Jesus Christ I want to bite down on those sweaty fucking biceps while he fucks me dumb." Simon nearly dropped the dumbbell on his foot.

Simon licked the lid of a yoghurt container?

"Long tongue, thick too. Wonder how it would feel fucking me."

Simon was sparring with Johnny and was standing up after pinning him?

"Pin me like that, don't let me up from under you and overstimulate me until I'm in a damn wheelchair."

John laughed loudly when he realised Simon was sporting a boner, knowing exactly what was going on.

After a while it seemed you started to pick up on Simon. Not genuinely, but everyone has the 'can someone read minds?' thought when they're thinking of something dirty. Especially when Simon was staring at you from afar, having to listen to your thoughts about choking on his cock after a mission.

Simon knew women had dirty thoughts, hell he'd heard most of them. But you were a different breed. Fucking hell, you had a whole bag of dirty things.

You thought about tying him up, him tying you up, sucking his cock after a mission, you care if he was sweaty, in fact you'd like it.

But Simon didn't just use your thoughts to get a fill of his ego or to get off, he wasn't a total douchebag.

It seemed you were on your period one week, you didn't tell anyone, despite the cramps apparently feeling like hell in your guts. You merely snapped at anyone who pissed you off.

And you near cried when Simon placed a hot water bottle on your lap, with a bag of treats. And strangely, a take out box with some sliced steak and a delicious smelling sauce. He grumbled something about you needing something with high iron, before leaving.

Simon finally couldn't take it anymore when you were sat in mess hall, playing with your food as your mind went elsewhere. "Wonder how big his cock is...He's big with an even bigger fucking ego, probably a good seven inches. Maybe he's circumcised..."

"Eight and a half inches, and I'm not fucking cut. You'll see tonight in my barracks" Simon growled in your ear. Leaving you aroused and horrified as he walked away. Gaz and Johnny laughing at your reddened face.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buys you a drink and smiles into his pint when someone else tries to chat you up, his voice dropping lower as he leans in and asks what you do for work.

Ignores your new admirer entirely.

John Price has seen his fair share of lads breaking their necks to take another glance at your ass in these jeans you are wearing (positively evil, luv, you will hear about it from him when he’s peeling them off your legs at home). John Price is not worried about anyone stealing you off because he leans closer and you tilt your head to the side.

Breathe in his cologne, your pupils blowing wider, your smile molten and slow when you blow him off the first time.

Always a game with you, always the need to prove that he will always have you in a chokehold even when you roll your eyes at his advances and down the drink he bought you, seemingly eager to get away.

John likes the process of circling you again, enjoys sight of realisation dawning on you when he is too close, too hot and entirely too filthy — big palms groping your thighs when he asks if he’s not too old for you.

Laughs in your ear when you shake your head, his grip tightening on the fat soft part of you.

Good. Would be such a shame if he wasn’t your type, wouldn’t it?

John Price doesn’t kiss you but strokes your thighs up and down, pressing his chest to your back, noses at your temple when you make a small sound that goes right to his head.

A bit of touching and you are that needy for a stranger? Hasn’t your mum told you not to follow a big man when he offers you a walk to a dark alleyway?

Evidently not, because John has his fingers in your underwear — touching up and down, rough and confident, his smile scratching your ear when he asks ‘gonna come for me, luv?’ and you nod, gripping his shoulders.

He really should have a conversation with you when the two of you are back home. If pretending in a pub to be strangers gets you this worked up, imagine what’s gonna happen if John pulls his ring off and nuzzles in your neck from behind.

Asking if you are lonely, if your husband has not been taking care of you, if he can help out.

Just a hand, John will lie, his fingers closing around your nape so he can bend you over the table.

It started innocently enough, with a “quick drink after training,” as Price said, which, of course, turned into pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, half a case of beer gone, Gaz talking too loud, Soap laughing too hard, and you curled up in the corner of Simon’s couch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

It wasn’t even that late, but the exhaustion from the week was settling into your bones.

It was a good night, but as the minutes passed, you started noticing this slow chill setting into your bones. Your fingers were getting colder, your toes were basically numb, and you had to tuck your hands inside the sleeves of your shirt just to feel like you could function.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, but it was practically useless, more aesthetic than practical, and definitely something Simon had bought thinking, yeah, that looks fine, without once considering whether it could actually warm a person. The man was immune to the concept of “cold,” so of course he thought it was enough.

He noticed before you could pretend hard enough that everything was fine.

Of course he did. Simon had this almost irritatingly perceptive thing going for him, where he’d pick up on the way your shoulders twitched or how you curled your fingers or the fact that you were hugging yourself a little bit too tightly.

He didn’t comment as he quietly stood up and walked down the hall, and when he came back, he had a hoodie in his hand.

One of his hoodies.

Simon almost crushed the beer bottle in his hands when he heard your words. He looks over at your table for the fourth time that evening, the only one of your friends not dancing.

The only one that's not flirting. The only one sitting at the table hiding yourself like you weren't the most gorgeous person in the bar. Before he knows what he's doing, he's by your seat, one hand resting across the back of your chair.

"Too heavy for what, love?" He mumbles, still loud enough over the clubs music. His lips brush the shell of your ear, and there's so mistaking the way you shudder. You nod over to the weird competition talking place on the other side of the bar.

If someone could carry another person across the bar with one arm, both would get free drinks for the night. "You want to try it out?" Simon chuckles, making you turn your wide eyed gaze to him.

"I'm sure you're very strong, but not that str - HEY!!"

Price looks up from his whiskey with a sigh of disapproval, watching Simon manhandle you off your bar stool. Before you knew it, Simon sat you on one of his shoulders, his arm wrapped tight over your thighs and the other supporting your lower back.

"Too heavy, huh?" Simon chuckles, though you can barely hear him over the blood roaring in your ears. Simon carries you around the whole bar, giving you a few bounces whenever he wanted too. By the time he made it back to his table, the bartender was already pouring the two of you celebration shots.

Simon plops back down in his chair, slipping you down into his lap. "Hey! Let me go!" You call into his ear, making him squeeze your waist.

lieutenant!simon riley can’t stay focused knowing reader is waiting for him at home

The safe house is quiet in that way that never really means quiet.

Simon’s back is pressed to the wall, concrete cold even through his kit. Rifle laid across his knees, gloves wrapped around it without thinking. He’s listening, always listening, for the scrape of boots, a breath where there shouldn’t be one, the wrong kind of silence outside the door.

But his head’s not here. It’s a thousand miles away. Warm. Soft. Bare.

He thinks of you without meaning to and then he can’t stop. The way your skin feels under his hands, nothing like the hard edges of weapons and armor. Soft where everything else in his world is sharp. The give of your hips. The warmth at the small of your back when he presses you into the mattress like he’s afraid you'll disappear if he doesn’t keep you there.

Your lips. Christ.

Pink and swollen after he kisses you too long, too hard. The way you tilt her head automatically now, learned, like your body already knows what’s coming when he leans in. He imagines dragging his mouth over yours until you’re breathless, until every sound you makes shoots straight to his cock. He can almost feel it, your breath slipping into his ear, warm and unguarded. The way you say his name like it belongs to you, like it’s not something everyone else barks or growls or fears. The way you clutch at him like you’re grounding yourself and unraveling him at the same time. He thinks about burying himself in your tight cunt for hours once he’s home. No urgency. No clocks to watch. Just heat and friction and the way you cling to him like you know exactly how close he lives to the edge.

His grip tightens on the rifle before he realizes it.

This is dangerous. Letting his mind wander like this. Letting it soften. Letting something matter that much.

A voice cuts through the haze. “Ghost.” Price. Low. Sharp.

Simon blinks, the fantasy shattering like glass. The room rushes back in. The dim light, Soap cleaning his weapon across the way, the faint buzz of comms, the ever-present tension sitting heavy in the air.

“Yeah,” Simon answers immediately, spine straightening, thoughts locking back into place.

“Eyes up.” Price says, already turning away.

Simon nods once, jaw tight beneath the skull mask.

Rifle back in his hands. Ears tuned outside. Mind dragged back to the present, kicking and screaming. But the thought lingers anyway.

But today, all you kept seeing on your For You Page was the trend where they say “things my husband and I have stuck in our butts. Me, none.” Then, it switches over to their partner naming tools.

Something about that trend made you giggle a little too much that you knew you had to try it out.

You had a small following on your TikTok, mainly friends and family. So you figured that no one would see the post even if you published it.

So there you were, in the bathroom so Simon couldn’t hear you. “Things my husband and I have put in our butts. Me, nothing,” you say in front of the phone. Quickly, you opened the door and ran downstairs to see Simon sitting at his desk, filling out paperwork. “Si,” you call out for him. He looks over his shoulders with the same neutral expression he always wore. “My work is doing this thing where we have to ask our partners what kind of things they use for work and their favorites,” you tell him, holding your phone up. “Gotta record it. Part of a presentation.”

An awful lie. But Simon wasn’t about to question you.

He turns around in the swivel chair, crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before responding. “Mos’ly comms— walkies or radios. Anything I can hold onto,” he begins, staring at you then at your phone. “Pry bars; they come ‘n handy when i need t’ get’in fast.”

You let out a snort— one that Simon catches but doesn’t say anything.

He does give you a quick look before he continues. “M16, optics— ones that zoom and zeroes in well. Black Hawks… I let the capt. control that though.”

You bit back a grin, humming along as Simon continues to list things out.

“Helmets ’course. Need protection so I always wear a helmet. Pistols, mags, y’name it,” Simon finally finish listing everything. Before he could even ask you what the presentation was about, you had already let out a ‘okay, thanks!’ and ran upstairs, leaving him in the same position for a solid minute before he slowly turns around and goes back to his work.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that John had texted him.

“I let the captain control it though.” Really, Ghost?

That caught Simon by a surprise. What was he on about? Was he listening in? Was there a secret camera in his home?

Quickly, Simon types back a reply.

What do you mean.

Immediately, John had sent him a TikTok that you made. The moment Simon heard your voice and what the video was about, he let out a quiet sigh and turned off his phone without even bothering to pause or exit the video. “Dove,” he calls out and stood up from his chair.

By now, you had long forgotten the silly video you had made. You came into the living room, happily walking in with a smile, “hm?” you hum out, watching as Simon strides over slowly.

His stare doesn’t waver as he makes his way over. “Never stuck anything in ya’ arse, yeah?” he calmly says. So low that you knew this meant trouble.

Simon didn’t have TikTok downloaded. Claims it was for children and people who enjoy their brains rotting. Which meant— you knew someone on his team would’ve had to send it to him. “What?” you ask, laughing nervously.

you’re playing a game of truth or dare, taking shots and laughing and trying to relax even though the pub is so loud. it’s a saturday, there’s a footie game on, and you’re just trying to get to know them better.

well, johnny and gaz dare you to ask ghost out. the big brute that’s standing like an awkward statue ordering more drinks at the bar. and there you go, swaying on fawn legs, poking ghost gently in his meaty arm. the boys watch as ghost has to bend down to hear you over the noise, and you stand on your toes, putting your hands on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear.

you disappear with that big giant man’s arm around your waist, and when you come back to the table about twenty minutes later, you’re giggly and a little sweaty and stumbling just a little more. johnny leans over the table, confused.

“what happened? what did he say?”

“huh?” you raise a brow.

“what did he say? when ye asked him out?”

“oh…” you go warm all over, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks. “is that…is that what you meant? i couldn’t hear you!”

“what?”

the booth rattles when ghost sits his weight down right beside you, big fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck and curling you up so he can press his forehead to yours. the eye contact is intense, and you break out into another fit of giggles as you stare right back at him.

big, scary bear. adorable giant.

you turn back to johnny, shrugging your shoulders.

“i thought…i thought you said to ask him to eat me out.”

Gargoyle~