The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
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18+ MDNI fuck off minors!! 📢 horny hour wowie‼️ ghost and price with meek virgin fem reader highly unrealistic you take it up both holes yada yada reader is referred to as small and tiny...
you recoil into yourself shyly, drawing your legs up to your chest to hide your most sensitive parts.
"you scared, dove?" simon smirks, slowly reaching and gently moving his fingertips up and down your calf, not making a move yet.
"not gonna hurt you, pretty girl." john purrs, touching your thighs lightly, looking you over with dark eyes.
you look up at them with big glossy eyes and gulp audibly.
fear. anticipation. all coursing through your veins. you'd dream about them using you for their own pleasure.
from where you're sitting at the edge of the bed, you can see two giant mountains of men towering over you, huge monstrous cocks in their hands, angry red tips ravenously dripping with precum as they eye you like predators.
simon reaches over, placing his hands on your knees, murmuring "it's okay, baby." before slowly parting your legs as if to unravel the captured prey.
the cool air hits your core as he reveals your bare pussy to the two feral men.
you can see the seething fire in their eyes as you hold your legs spread for them.
"look at tha' cap!" simon coos, running a rough finger along your folds, gathering your arousal on his fingertips, so soaked and soft against his skin. you're practically dripping with desire.
"dirty little girl," john smirks, running a thumb over your lips, "wanna be fucked by two giant men so bad, huh?"
"p-please." you beg quietly. the noise is barely there. it's like a kitten's squeak.
"fuckin hell," simon chuckles, licking your juices off his fingers, "sweet fuckin pussy's beggin to be ruined."
"come on, girl. up—" john suddenly pulls you forward and flips you over, earning a startled yelp from you, "there you go."
simon comes up behind you as you're bent over the bed, large hands palming your plump cheeks before parting them to reveal your pretty hole, "fuckin look at tha'!"
he spits a ball of saliva over your puckered hole, rubbing in slow circles before pushing a thick digit inside, testing the waters. you gasp as he rolls it against your walls, groaning at how tight you are, chuckling "how are ya gonna take my cock, girl?" he inserts a second finger, making you squeal in return, the stretch feeling new and foreign.
simon slides his fingers in and out, prepping your tiny hole as you let out breathy moans.
"how ya feelin, doll?" john asks, "think you can take it?"
the men exchange a look, waiting for your answer.
"i- i... yeah," you squeal out, "please, y-yes"
and all of a sudden, you're in simon's burly arms, back against his broad chest with your knees beside your ears as his thick throbbing cock stretches your tight little hole so wide you think you're gonna split in half, "fuckin grippin me so tight, lovie." he hisses into your ear as your mouth falls more agape the deeper he enters.
you watch with wide eyes as john approaches. you think you can't take it. it's impossible. you're gonna break.
simon's muscular arms hold your legs wide open for him, soaked pretty pussy before his lustful eyes.
his drooling tip nudges your clit, teasingly circling it before sliding through your folds. you let out a stuttered little noise as john pushes forward. "shh, pretty girl. you can take it." he shushes you, sliding more and more inside, parting your tight untouched walls as you mewl and writhe between them.
simon holds your legs tightly as john's hands support your weight by holding your ass. they're both buried to the hilt inside your needy holes, stretching you out to your absolute limit. you feel so, so full. it's dizzying.
they give you no time to adjust and with absolutely no mercy, they thrust into you in unison, drilling their huge mean cocks in and out of your tiny holes and utterly ruining you.
in no time, your loud noises fill the room as they ram into you relentlessly, virgin holes filled up to the brim by their fat cocks. it hurts, but it feels too good to stop. you can't stop the broken moans that slip through your lips at the sheer girth of them.
"hear tha', cap?" simon grunts, "not a shy little lamb anymore — moaning like a fuckin whore for us."
simon's massive arms hold you all throughout while his beefy cock fucks into your tight ass, reaching places you didn't know existed and john spreads your tiny cunt open on his meaty cock, fat tip bruising your cervix as he hits that sweet spot deep inside you.
your eyes roll back and your mind goes blank, lost in pure bliss as they brutally abuse your holes, knocking the air right out of your lungs and leaving you no room to breathe as desperate little moans escape your lips while you mindlessly paw at price's hairy chest.
"look at the pretty little slut," john says, "just a tiny little fucktoy for us."
you're a crying drooling mess, tears and saliva running down your face, pressed between their giant bodies, their ragged breaths in your ears, drenched in sweat, precum and your juices as they ravage your body like feral animals, reducing you to just a set of holes for them to use.
until you're left with their heavy loads pumped deep inside your sloppy abused holes, body shaking violently and brain turned to mush as they tuck your limp body into bed, kissing your forehead and praising you about how such a good little slut you were for them.
most unrealistic part of PHM is that there is no way that dr. ryland grace, PhD, would not have a flock of suitors following him everywhere he goes. that man is like catnip for academic shut-ins, alien enthusiasts, odd women, and gay people everywhere, as this site has clearly demonstrated
now I’m NOT saying he should have had a partner on earth or whatever because I do think it’s awesome that he’s (implicitly at least) aro/ace/both, but it would have been a great aside to see the cloud of yearning that follows him everywhere which he either has to deal with or has decided to be permanently ignorant of. like the comedy potential of objectively the most fuckable man any of these strange science geeks have ever met being like oh um :) thanks for the coffee and the flowers and stuff and you guys are all so nice to me it’s great to work with you all :)
the devastation he would leave in his wake. like some sort of benevolent aroace whale floating serenely through an ocean of allo heartbreak. feigning ignorance because can you guys lock in we have alien microbes to study
Inspired by this lovely bit @silverlullabies gifted us.
Omega!reader who accepted a long time ago that their scent is disgusting because it reminds people of blood and gunpowder.
It might have been acceptable for an alpha but not for an omega. How would you ever be able to soothe your pups with this kind of violent scent? Nothing sweet or calming about you. You had to wear blockers from a young age because your scent was disturbing for others. When you entered the military you quickly learned that you could cause flashbacks with your scent and it had been used against prisoners more than once until you couldn't take it anymore. It left you broken in ways you didn't even fully understand, all you knew was that alphas either found you disgusting, disturbing or they were panicking, because all their instincts screamed 'wounded omega' once they got so much as a whiff of you.
You adapted. Scent blockers and suppressants, special mandatory leave once a year to go through a heat, so you could avoid long term affects on your health. Although you hoped secretly that your body would finally give up the craving for a mate and pups. You would never have that and you found it ridiculous to keep pretending otherwise.
So you grow cold. They call you ice princess. You don't object. You learn to use your scent like a weapon, a tool. Best decoy on the field to lure the enemy to the injured omega, only to find a deadly surprise. Easy to slip into shelters and hospitals. You are very specialised and the professional praise you get has to be enough to feed your twisted omega side.
When you join a mission with the 141 you don't expect it to be any different. You tell them they don't need to know your scent, but they insist, so they know what to prepare for and not get confused. Fair enough.
And of course you are not surprised by the looks of pity and sadness Gaz and Soap give you when they realise the reason why you use the thick patches and never participate in friendly scenting
What you are absolutely unprepared for is the way Ghost takes a deep breath, then another and then growls when Price calls him back. He doesn't move. Instead he grabs you, holds you close and presses his nose to your scent glands like an addict.
And you have no idea what to do because you can feel his length and a knot building, pressed against your hip. Hands that hold you but in a way that feels protective. And your brain screaming alpha alpha alpha at you.
Pornstar!Simon who’s been told he can’t fuck you anymore because the way you sound when he’s inside you makes every other costar you’ve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didn’t give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
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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. “There she is.”
“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.
Ghost and the secretary on base have been dating for the past three months, everyone knows this.
Well...everyone but you two.
It's painful for everyone else involved, watching you happily approach ghost with a "hey, si. We still on for tonight?" When most people go out of their way to avoid the creep who wears a skull mask all the time.
Really, it's so obvious you like ghost. You always carry around two lunch boxes, one packed specifically for ghost because "that poor bloke would survive on raw spinach and dog food if I let him."
Not to mention how physically affectionate you two are. The most physical ghost is with others happens on the field, pats on backs and rough bicep grabs in a show of military solidarity. But with you? Gaz swears he's seen you and ghost hold hands when you walk back to your cars at night, and soap has walked in on you and ghost cuddling in an empty meeting room multiple times.
But when anyone asks about it, you just smile and wave a dismissive hand "ah, simons a good friend, that's all."
As if you're completely blind to the way ghost only relaxes around you. How he waits for you at doorways and saves trinkets he finds to give to you at lunch. Its so damn obvious ghost is infatuated with you, and you him.
Or, that's what everyone thinks.
The truth? You and ghost had tried dating, when you first realized how well you clicked. It just felt like the thing you ought to do. Anyone else would've.
Only. Dating made ghost freezes up over everything, made you feel weird and trapped, made everything wrong and bad. You almost cut contact before coming to a solution.
No definitions. No words or labels for what you are. Friends, lovers, something in between or something completely different.
i don’t think a lot of people understand how important it is to me that Ryland Grace, the main character from a popular book and movie, being commonly headcanoned as aroace with little to no romance involved. his relation to rocky as a companion and best friend is the relationship that people talk about the most. the power of friendship saved the day with no unnecessary b-plot romance. local man loved humanity and his alien best friend so much he saved both of their galaxies and planets. that’s so awesome, sometimes i’d never thought i’d see something like this
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Stalker!soap who doesn't particularly want to fuck you or anything, though he'd never say no. You're just an interesting thing for him to chew on between missions. Watching through the cameras in your house, occasionally visiting while you're on base.
Of course he knows about your little breakup. He watched it happen. He also watched you fall apart afterwards. Eating takeout most days if anything at all, leaving trash around your home, abandoning your hobbies.
Well. Soap can't have his pretty pet self-destructing, can he?
Kidnapper!soap who decides to be more proactive, takes you while you're sleeping with a window foolishly unlocked. He's got a nice, secluded house out in the woods that gaz helped him find.
You wake up in a...shockingly nice room. No window, but theres a bed and various craft supplies, a laptop, even some plushies you recognize as your own. Eventually you'll meet soap, learn exactly what kind of man he is. He wont hurt you unless you make him, you're only here so he can keep you safe, after all.
Soap who takes away any worries or stress you could ever have, in exchange for your autonomy and privacy. Maybe you'll earn some of those back...someday.
Inspired by a little chat with @youarehereyouaresafe
Imagine ghost forced into retirement as androids become increasingly advanced and take his place, right?
He's left with practically nothing while a mockery of a soldier fights other hollow-chested things. What's the point of a war if there's no bloodshed? If there's no weight? Ghost hates androids, hate what they've made of him.
He can't even fucking escape them in retirement, it seems everyone has or wants one. They scan out his food at the shops, drive him places on the bus, chat with people on the streets like they could ever be human.
People love them, fawn over them. All ghost sees is a cheap plastic toy. He's seen what a real android is, the kind that moves like the perfect human on the field, the kind that's packed full of processing power for complex political decisions in a fight. Used a few during missions, cannon fodder.
Now...he's alone. No structure, no bloodshed to lean on, and a face too disfigured to keep anyone around.
Ghost begins to look at those foolish "companion bots" a little different. Warm hole, clean house. It's a nice toy, at least. But every single one ghost has taken a chance to brows seems subpar to even the basic androids from the field. Nothing could compare, their slow response time and jerky movement irritate him.
So...ghost decides if the best out there are war bots, then he'll get himself a war bot.
Bots are so often dumped, it's not difficult to find a good one in an area technically only accessible to the military. He pulls one out of a pile of other models, on the smaller side for ease of repair...or dismantling if things go wrong.
The wiring is a pain, takes him weeks, and giving the bot a warm cunt scrapped from another almost makes him lose his appetite all together. But it works in the end.
Ghost has himself a pretty little bot, outfitted to serve him perfectly. It still has blood in the seams of it's faceplate. Ghost kind of likes the familiarity.
All he has to do is turn it on.
====
Cold.
The first thing your processor tells you. Cold. Slow restart, bits and peices of your mind collecting into one.
You're familiar with the process, happens when they sweep you after every mission. You enjoy the predictable ping up your servos and frames of sensors switching on, relaying information to you main hud—
Wait.
Those...those sensors are wrong. Unfamiliar.
Your processor stutters over the information, it snags like a hook through your data. Absently, you try to initiate your cooling vents only to find they have been moved to your sides instead of your chassis.
Panicked, you skip your normal sequence and prioritize optics.
The sudden sensory input burns. You aren't in your storage case.
Instead...you're in...a house. Basement, maybe. The table is metal. Cold, your sensors offer. You look down to find why you're receiving extra data and—
That. That's not your model. You know your model down to each screw in your motherboard.
You've been tampered with— you need to report— but when you try to contact your company there's nothing. Your connection has been severed.
It takes .6 seconds too long for you to process when your optics receive less light, a shadow cast upon you. You look up, up, up to see...you run his face through your political database of every possible person of interest no matter how small.
Nothing.
You have no idea who this is. What he wants. It takes you too long to realize you need to switch on your audio reception.
"Morning, lovie," the man croons. His voice doesn't match any you know. One rough, human hand brushes along the plates of your neck, and the sensory inputs makes you lag.
"Ready to be my new wife? Gonna have to change your code a bit, figure it's easier when I can see the affect live."
summary: if you asked him a year ago that his life would revolve around watching every step of a barista he met once, he'd tell you you're crazy. But now, you're the only thing on his mind after every mission, and maybe, just maybe, you're not that opposed to being stalked.
part two; parallels.
summary: getting stalked should be terrifying. But how can you be scared when the man of your dreams takes his time to secretly get to know you? Well, not so secretly, since you have cameras all over your flat, and maybe you enjoyed watching him too much.
part three; bad influence.
summary:he couldn't stop himself from getting closer, which almost caused him to be exposed. well, it did cause exposure as you recognized him. the shame and guilt mix with his desires, making him question who he is and who he might become.
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— gender-neutral nicknames, gender-neutral anatomy, only pronouns used are you, etc.
summary: he couldn't stop himself from getting closer, which almost caused him to be exposed. well, it did cause exposure as you recognized him. the shame and guilt mix with his desires, making him question who he is and who he might become.
warnings: stalker!gaz, self disgust, self doubt that leads to horniness (oops), obsession, possessiveness, recording audio without consent (unless...), suggestive themes, masturbation, pillow humping (i just love my men pathetic and obsessed)
a/n: i couln't be more grateful for the comments on this series, thank you guys so much!! this makes my comeback here so much more fun and enjoyable.
part one, part two
Kyle grew to hate autumn. He didn't hate it for the change, the pretty leaves, or how much fun you had playing in them with your dog, but for the wind instead. He couldn't follow you as closely as he wanted to because his stupid jacket made obnoxious sounds with each blow of wind, and getting closer would mean sabotaging his own mission. He didn't take his binoculars, because pretending to birdwatch wouldn't work at this time of year. Reaching for his phone, he smiled at the wallpaper.
Well, if anybody looked at his phone, they would see nothing, thanks to his protective screen, but he saw it all. Maybe it was a little cringe, he felt like a giddy teenager as he looked over the collage he made of all the pictures of you. Some from your social media, some he took himself. Biting his lip, he typed your date of birth as his PIN code and started taking more pictures.
You were so adorable, playing with the pup, not minding about getting dirty with the leaves and debris. You clapped when the dog caught the stick you threw, your eyes sparkling with joy. He sat on the nearby bench to stabilize himself as he watched you drop to your knees, the dog climbing onto you to show off its trick. Kyle's eyes lingered on you, his blood rushing south as he watched the way you slightly bounced, trying to balance yourself with the pup in your lap. Your head tilted back to get away from the wet tongue of your pet, laughing out loud. His fingers tightened around the phone, his other hand gripping his jeans for dear life.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he muttered in shame, tucking the phone back in his pocket. He felt so dirty, imagining you on your knees for him. He spread his legs, resting his elbows on his knees and hanging his head low to hide himself from the world, tugging his cap closer to his eyebrows. His morality was messed up from his time in the military, but he loved to believe he had a strong backbone, but it was so hard to keep himself in line when you were around. A past version of himself would hate him. A sick, lonely pervert who spent every leave on stalking a sweet thing a few streets away, getting off to your pictures, into your underwear, which he stole. From your flat. After breaking in.
He knew he should stop; any rational person would never start stop a long while ago. But he couldn't bring himself to it. He thought of trying right before he broke into your flat. It was supposed to be the last time, the last checkpoint before he moves on with his life. But you were a bad influence, you were a drug running free in his veins. Sometimes it seemed like you begged for his attention. Going out less, spending most of your time in the living room, which he has the best view of from across the yard. You wore fewer clothes, usually just underwear and a loose t-shirt, which drove him insane.
He could be normal, show up at your cafe one more time, this time properly asking for your name and number, starting a conversation, and seeing where it goes. But he clearly wasn't normal; he couldn't be. The best way to look at a masterpiece is to do it from afar, not risking to destroy it. What's more, he was terrified of you finding out. You'd hate him, knowing he spent the last eight months watching you. Finding out more and more, hacking into your messaging apps to see how you interacted with your friends, dragging his ass wherever you went just to see you.
Another thing that didn't stop him was that he simply felt like it was a part of him. That obsessive self that he hid for so long. The part that made him feral for someone he spoke to once. Maybe it was his nature, being a predator chasing a sweet prey. Always lurking in the shadows, following your every step for the best opportunity to attack. A delicate flower, which he dreams of taking care of, worshipping. He wasn't worthy of you, shouldn't even be seen in your presence. His dirty mind, bloody hands, and gray morality would corrupt you. Change you. He couldn't risk that.
Two months ago, when he found the courage to get into your place, he felt a strange sense of peace. Like he belonged there. Walking around the flat made him feel so homely, your scent in every corner. That lotion he bought you was already being put to use in your bathroom. Lying in your bed was the best part, having your smell completely envelop him, your dog lying next to him as if they'd known each other for years. He imagined waking up next to you, making you breakfast in bed, so you wouldn't be in a constant rush in the morning.
He practically jumped when he felt some strange force pushing at his legs. His head sprang up, cheeks still warm, and his vision blurry from closing his eyes for so long, thoughts forgotten. He blinked, trying to make up the figure in front of him, and froze, recognizing the little fur ball. He struggled inside, seeing how enthusiastically your dog recognized him. Fuck, fuck, fuck; he repeated in his head, lifting his hands not to pet it. He got up too quickly, making his head dizzy, so of course, he didn't see you when you appeared right in front of him.
"Rocky!" you yelled halfheartedly, smiling at the dog, then looking up at him. "I'm so sorry, sir. I wasn't watching him too carefully..." you stopped, kneeling to attach the leash back on your dog. You're trouble, he thought, trying to look away from you, not to see the way your eyes looked up at him so innocently. That's what he thought of you, innocent, sweet, divine, but strong and smart at the same time. A perfect balance of everything he wanted to be. For you.
As thoughts started spiraling in his head, he decided to move past you, trying to reach for his car, before-
"You're Kyle, right?"
He stopped mid-step. You were going to be the death of him. Even if the thought of you recognizing him scared the shit out of him, he couldn't help but look at you when you said his name. His hands went to his pockets, not only to grip his phone, even if the weight of the evidence in it burned him, but also to tug his jacket lower, hiding his arousal.
"Y-yeah," he muttered, lowering his head a little. What a loser, a proper fool; he thought to himself, not daring to look back at you. This was his chance to seem normal, to start a normal conversation, starting a normal relationship. But he wasn't normal. He was deranged, rotten inside, loving the idea of leaving you there with a simple, polite nod, just to get back to his car and drive off to his own flat, so you'd spend your night wondering "what a coincidence".
What he also loved was that he absentmindedly recorded your conversation, brief as it was. Working for the military taught him to collect receipts and record everything in case he missed something, a word or two of the enemy's code. But tonight he used it for something else. He uploaded the audio recording to his PC, clipped it, and looped it so he could fall asleep to your sweet voice repeating his name like a prayer.
He imagined you next to him, whispering it in his ears as his arm wrapped around a pillow like he would do to your waist. His fingers absentmindedly played with the waistband of your underwear, which he liked to put on the pillow. He put a bit of the same lotion he bought for you on his shoulder and wrist, just to smell it as he lay on his side, clutching his phone to his chest.
Kyle, Kyle, Kyle... on repeat as he slowly pulled the pillow closer, cursing under his breath as the soft material brushed against his clothed bulge. Tears welled up in his eyes as he started slowly grinding his hips down, feeding his delirium with the sweet scent and pleasure. He wanted to feel your warmth, to do the same to your thigh while you're lying next to him. He can't help but get addicted, chasing his high with little grunts of your name mixed with your voice in his earbuds. You had to be his. He has to make this right; he has to get you one way or another.
— gender-neutral nicknames, gender-neutral anatomy, only pronouns used are you, etc.
summary: getting stalked should be terrifying. But how can you be scared when the man of your dreams takes his time to secretly get to know you? Well, not so secretly, since you have cameras all over your flat, and maybe you enjoyed watching him too much.
a/n: i have so much fun writing these omg, here's part 1
Your new coworker wrote you off as odd. All regular customers said so many sweet things about you, how you always chatted with them and smiled so wide whenever you rambled about your favorite treats at the cafe. But she didn't see that at all. Most of your shift, after you explained everything to her, you spent watching something on your phone, barely even responding to her questions.
"Hey, boss," Nancy called out, wiping dust off one of the shelves. You just nodded your head, acknowledging her existence, which was less than the bare minimum. "What're you watching?" You just chuckled, hiding the phone in your pocket, waving your hand dismissively.
Dog monitor, that's what you said, explaining how you watch over your dog while you're working. You couldn't tell the poor girl you're watching your stalker snoop around your house. That would be so weird. Maybe not as weird as the fact that you enjoyed it.
It's been three weeks since you installed the cameras. You were slightly disappointed he didn't get in on day one, but what disappointed you more was that he wouldn't appear in your life at all for that time. No shadows in your peripheral, no lingering feeling of being watched over the window, no strange gifts beside the weekly flowers that he must have a subscription for. Nothing. And you missed it.
Until you left for work today and got a notification an hour into your shift that someone had entered your apartment. You kept him in check, watching him roam around your flat, checking your shelves and drawers for anything that would help him get to know you. And you made sure to let him know a lot about you prior to this. Knowing he probably found your socials, you purposefully posted more on your IG. Pictures with your friends at your favorite hangout spots, quotes from your favorite books, and little updates on your hobbies and side projects.
Nancy left for the back of the store for more caramel syrup, and you checked back on the phone. You must admit, he was kind of adorable. Wiping his hands on the front of his jeans before he touched anything, the low-quality image showed you Kyle, who had just walked into your bedroom. You switched from the hallway camera to the bedroom one and couldn't help the smile that sprang on your face as your dog ran to his leg, jumping up and down and begging to be pet. You thought about training him to attack possible intruders, but seeing your stalker kneel down to hug the dog, getting kisses from him all over his handsome face, you were thankful for your delay.
You should be repulsed, terrified even. But something inside of you loved to know someone cares about you enough to break into your house, be so sweet to your dog, and handle your things with such care and love, as if any scratch left on them would hurt your body or soul. Your cheeks felt warmer, heart fluttering as you imagined the day you confront him, the day you show him just how much you know. The idea made your knees weak, eyes darting to your backpack. Your journal.
That sweet little journal you were supposed to use for class, but instead you used it to write whenever you felt Kyle's gaze on you, whenever you heard that faint sound of a picture being taken, or his binoculars flashed outside of your window. Poor thing, you thought. He probably thinks you spend your time with your notebook just studying. You were just not for your classes. He has no idea how much you learned about him during those weeks.
Sweet Kyle wasn't in the town for long; he would randomly disappear every few weeks, then come back like nothing happened, so you assumed he worked in the military. Getting deployed made sense; he made enough money to do nothing but follow you most of the time when he's back home. He can't live far away, since you've seen him running errands in the past. You actually may know him longer than he knows you. You first saw him a year ago, hanging out in the local pub that you used to work at. You were a simple waiter, carrying out orders to people who ordered at the bar. You envied the guy who got to carry his order that day.
He was a gorgeous man, handsome and oh-so-charming, so focused on the conversation with his mates that he didn't even notice you staring at him across the pub, your little notebook in hand as you doodled his profile on the page. You got frustrated, trying to catch his beauty with the cheap blue pen in your hand, but you gave up, tearing it off the notebook and hiding it in your pocket. Now it's glued to the first page of your journal.
Time passed, but you couldn't manage to get him out of your mind. You'd think about him before bed, imagining him beside you. You paid more attention to the people outside the cafe's window, hoping to see him passing by one day, and thinking about what you would say to him. But the day he actually got inside, you panicked. Your voice caught in your throat for a second, cheeks so warm you could boil the water for his coffee with them. Then, your mind started rushing, making you embarrassed with all the scenarios you had made in your head. You just started rambling, smiling so wide you felt pain lingering on your face for days after. You asked for his name, not for the cup, but for yourself, just to put it in big letters on the cover of your journal.
You couldn't resist the urge to check your phone one more time before Nancy gets back. He was lying in your bed, petting your dog, who was definitely too friendly, while his other hand clutched your pillow, pressing it to his face, as if he was inhaling it. Maybe you did spray it a little bit with your usual fragrance before you left each day, and maybe you got a little too excited seeing his head jump up when the corner of his eye spotted the little gift you left for him on the bedside table, if he did show up one day. And sure enough, his hand left your dog's head to snatch the pair of underwear you left for him.
My sweet Kyle, you thought to yourself, hiding your phone back in your pocket, and putting your characteristic smile on your face as Nancy got back. You wished so much to get back home earlier today, maybe you'll still manage to catch him in your bed.
