𝙎𝙄𝙈𝙊𝙉 𝙂𝙃𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙍𝙄𝙇𝙀𝙔

But Kyle so desperately wants to talk about his baby boy. He doesn't like having to leave him at home with the missus, missing what little time left he has of the newborn scrunch and soothing him at night when his wife is asleep.

When he finds himself approached by Nikolai, he expects to have his last fag stolen from him or find himself entangled in a joke he'll have to adamantly pretend wasn't funny the next time he sees his captain.

"So, you're a father? If his name isn't Nikolai, I'm going to be disappointed, Sergeant. I'd assumed we were over the mishap with the heli."

Then again, Nikolai is a man of many surprises.

"Sorry to disappoint, Nik, but his name is Ethan."

The pilot sighs, loud and dramatic, but his smile is hard to disguise under all of his feigned anguish. The hand on Kyle's shoulder grips tightly, and suddenly Kyle is aware that he isn't getting out of the conversation. Better yet, he doesn't want to.

"Ah, like Mission Impossible. Acceptable. What's fatherhood like? I assume it's mostly piss, spitting up and crying. And then there's the baby."

i can picture his enormous frame looking all awkward in the supermarket, walking through the produce section checking which of the fruits he wants to try is available.

and while being in the produce section is a normal thing, the fact that it's this man, with his muscular and tall man, not a sliver of skin showing and his face hiden behind his mask as he eyes the watermelons with lustful eyes definitely makes it weird.

he ends up spending a good 10 minutes trying to find the perfect watermelon, ripe enough but not too soft. it's all about the consistency of it, specially if you are going to be putting your dick inside of it.

he skilfully makes a hole in it - must he the years in the military what granted him those knife skills -. but the way it's made already says a lot about him. tight. definitely tight.

he wants to feel the way he imagines a sweet cunt would trying to take him in. stretching out and fighting to take his big dick. slowly pushing himself, deeper and deeper into the impromptu pocket pussy.

the juice of the watery fruit imitating the way a pussy would feel. already slightly wet when he first slips in, remnants of his handy work making the hole. and getting wetter and wetter as he keeps fucking into it.

the drag of the meaty fruit against his cock and the way his bulbous tip is hitting against the end of the hole, smashing against the fruit making it release more of it's watery substance.

and when it starts squirting out... man's about to pass out. that feels just like a pretty pussy squirting all over him. covering his cock, balls, lower abdomen and thighs with sticky juice. what I'm telling you, just like a pretty lass would as he keeps abusing that poor cunt with his thick leaky cock.

i must say, if ge were flexible enough, he would suck the watermelon juice off his own cock.

i said what i said

Blunt!Simon, who has never once been good at keeping his mouth shut. He says this exactly as he sees them. Simon, who has the exact same mindset when he sees you enter the bases gym, clad in leggings and a standard issue sports bra.

'Can see yer nipples cuttin' through yer top, luv' he said gruffly, when you came over to say hi. You stopped dead in your tracks, blood rushing to your face, who even says that?!

You try your best to get on with your workout, opting to do some cardio to warm up...

After a few hours, you head over to the water fountain to hydrate, where Simon had been standing, filling up his bottle. 'Been enjoyin' the outline 'f yer cunt, luvie' he says, looking down at you as you cough on your water in shock.

He bends down to get close to you 'dyin' for a taste... give yer LT a han', aye?'

His daughter only living there at the moment after a nasty break up and not being able to find a new apartment immediately.

Prices wife welcoming the guys at the door and letting them into the warm house.

The boys take off their shoes after misses Price tells them to. Then they look at the stairs seeing a sweet and beautiful woman descending them.

Soap’s mouth falls open, Gaz’s eyes widen while he is actively trying to keep his mouth closed and Ghost drops his jacket when he tried to just put it on the hook.

“Hey, I’m …” you beam at the men that collectively think:

We’re fucked and not the good kind.

_______________________________________________

It started off with Johnny noticing how Simon’s gaze often lingered on you, the newest truck loader.

Then he blabbered it off to the entire team. So yeah— Simon may have banged his head against the wall in his quarters and slept that night thinking about choking Johnny.

But here he was, after a long day of being convinced to talk to you.

You had just finished unloading the last truck of the day and what better time to talk to you than now?

“You gotta be confident and bold with your words, L.T.” Kyle’s words.

“No, you have t’ be funny. Make ‘em laugh.” Johnny’s words.

“If all things fail, just ask ‘em for coffee.” John’s words.

Simon took in a deep breath and smiled (the best he could. He doesn’t smile often). You didn’t even catch it either; he was wearing his damn balaclava. “You just started working, yeah?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his vest. Confident, check.

You took off your gloves and patted your sweaty forehead with your arm, “mhm! About two-ish months ago,” you tell the older man, giving him a polite smile.

A quiet hum fell from Simon’s lips as he rocks on his heels a bit, “Once saw y’ trippin’ over a box,” Simon says bluntly. Funny, check.

You stared at him, blinking twice and half expecting him to finish his sentence.

He didn’t.

Instead, the two of you had a staring contest while Simon’s face burned behind the balaclava.

“You can trip on me,” Simon suddenly adds. Funny and bold… check?

Your brows knitted a bit, “what…?” you ask with an awkward laugh.

Fuck.

This wasn’t going how he imagined it to go. He imagined him coolly leaning against a wall or something while complimenting you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Do you have coffee?” Simon changes the topic, his entire face blowing up with steam.

Off to the side, John stared at his teammate with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temple. “Bloody idiot asked for coffee,” he mumbles.

Kyle shrugs a bit, “T’ be fair, you did say to ask for coffee,” he says, defending his lieutenant.

You never planned on confessing, of course. You know ghost has no interest in you, not sure if he has any interest in men, really. You know so much about him, know the foods he loves and the ones he doesn't realize he hates, know his favorite war tactics and the music he plays in his earbuds on every occasion.

He is somehow fully realized inside your palms yet impossible to grasp. Yet he's still your friend.

"For you, sergeant. Looks like you need it." Ghost huffs, tossing you a cold water bottle after a brutal workout. His body haloed by the gym lights, eyes crinkled in a smile under the plain balaclava.

You down it, cold shocking your system. Maybe the rush is why you don't think before saying "thanks. I love you, ghost."

Dead silence. For a horrible moment, you pray it reads more like a joke than a confession.

But you glance up with a wince, and ghosts face is twisted in disgust. You know the look well, plain as day. "Don't joke like that, sergeant. 'S not fuckin' funny. "

Right. Of course. The hottest guy you've met and he's probably homophobic.

"Uh– yeah. Right. My bad, sir." You rush, standing up to fast and stumbling away from ghost instead of steadying yourself on him. "I need to go wash up, meeting with captain later."

You leave ghost stood in the middle of the gym, skin still smelling faintly of your sparring match where your cologne rubbed off onto him. He breathes it in, cones to terms with it like it's the first time all over again.

Ghost doesn't dwell on your joke, on how the words made his heart flutter. He doesn't need to see the disgust on your face when he reveals something too-close to the chest.

Can Kyle Garrick keep up?

You decide to test that.

Riding him cowgirl, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of him until he's a whiny, trembling mess.

"Please baby, I cant anymore." His legs feel like jelly, cock rubbed raw and leaking like a faucet.

You only smirk, continuing to torture him with that sickly sweet cunt of yours, taking it slow as your bring yourself to orgasm.

"Mmm... I think you can handle a bit more, Kyle. Don't you think? I mean you keep boasting about how high your libido is you should be able to keep up, no?"

He could only whine loudly, hands on your hips as he watches you continue your torturous pace.

He groans loudly as he cums into your tight heat again, having lost count from how many times you've drained him already.

After a few more orgasms you finally pull off and he lets out a small "finally..." until he sees you between his legs, getting ready to lick a stripe up his cock.

soft!simon ghost riley who doesn't expect you — the rookie, the new one — to be anything of difference. yeah, you're pretty, but it's not like he's never seen a woman in his life. and he knows better than anyone the risk of being attached.

soft!simon ghost riley who doesn't not notice the way you seem to naturally gravitate towards his friends, whether it's hanging around with soap or talking to gaz quietly at your table. and somehow your eyes always meets his masked ones before they flick away.

soft!simon ghost riley who watches you for a whole month, trying to judge your character. who really are you? why do you not seem fazed by anything?

you put a note in price’s lunchbox ! (18+ mdni) 

it’s a known fact that price’s wife packs his lunch every day when he’s on desk duty. soap always used to ask what the “missus” had made, getting his hands on the box you have packed for your husband.

( nowadays, you pack enough for four hungry men anyway, you’ve seen how starved they are all the time, how they eat your sunday roast like a pack of wolves. )

today is no different, the little bento boxes are labelled. a little skull for ghost, a bar of soap for soap and a little hat for gaz. and your husband gets a bento box with a love note on it, like every day. 

you always put something sweet in there, and he always takes the post it note and saves it in his desk drawer. it works, you’re shy as a mouse at the best of times, and writing these notes and making this food is the way you really show affection.

“your missus has outdone herself this time.” soap says, as he opens up the first box to the smell of steaming curry, probably butter chicken with the way it looks. the box underneath has small dumplings, john knows you’ve been obsessed with filling them yourself, the soup is completely your own recipe. 

price blushes, face going red. he looks away to see ghost already hungrily going for the food with a spoon, the rice halfway complete. gaz is taking a photo, probably to send to his own girlfriend as inspo. you and her really get along.

johnny leans on simon’s shoulder, and nudges to split a dumpling. 

it’s nice like this. 

until he sees the folded up paper at the bottom of his final box, taped to the bottom. 

he opens it, why wouldn’t he, there in the mess room.

he opens it, and slams it closed. not here.

it’’s a photo of you, angled, in the lingerie he brought you last month. pink and red, cherries littered on the straps. it’s lacy, and he hasn’t seen you wear it before.

he excuses himself to his office, his cock already painful from the glimpse. his hands hiding it as he shuffles into the room.

the locks clicks, and he takes his cock out, thick and heavy. and unfolds the photo. 

it looks good. you look good, the lace cupping your boobs, cunt wet already. your hands tease your clit, and he’s so painfully hard from just looking at the photo.

february 14th. of course you’d do that. you’d be too shy to do anything at home but this? an image, you could do that for him.

his hands smear precum over his cock, and he starts rubbing it, desperate for relief. your cunt wouls be so fucking tight around him, but you aren’t here. you’re at home, twenty minutes away. and he has meetings. 

it’s not long before he comes, with spurts of white cum that he tries to desperately keep a hold of. his hand doesn’t grip as hard as you, it’s not as warm as you, fucking hell.

Big bad mafia!johnny stoic and serious his presence commands respect his posture exudes discipline and power his Icey sky blue eyes pierce through your soul his voice when he speaks can be felt in your bones

vs

Captain snaps at you for staring at him all day... I wonder why ⚆_⚆

Vs

You, who’s known the entire time. You, who’s done more than know. You, who’s been bribing, blackmailing, and occasionally outright paying women to sleep with him since the first girl. Not to boost his ego. God, no. You’re simply keeping the old bastard happy and unsuspecting until retirement.

Shocking, considering the guy wears a Halloween decoration everyday, but he hates all the social interaction. Strangers knocking on his door, begging for sweets. He'd rather decorate for a day or two, enjoy his night alone, and call it a day.

So why is he going all-out to try and attract the most trick-or-treaters this year?

Because you're participating this year. You, the single parent across the street who he maybe-kinda wants to invite on a date but hasn't figured out how yet. Thus...decorating. anything to get a conversation started, right?

"Alright sweetie, go ahead and knock," ghost hears your voice across the door. He's been hovering since he spotted you and your daughter three houses down. Three knocks, and he opens the door–

"Trick or treat!!! Guess what I am!!" Your little one squeals, holding her bucket decorated like an acorn up to him.

"Sweetie, you need to wait for treats first–" you try to tell her, knowing she'll get tok disappointed and forget to get candy if the stranger can't guess.

Ghost takes one look at her and nods "proper weevil, innit. Good costume, kid."

"Yes!!! Yes I'm a weevil! You got it right!!" She yells, hopping in place in pure joy, cheeks no-doubt hurting from the force of her smile. Finally, she looks around at his house, then back up at you "can I go look at the big skeleton?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead." You smile at her, checking that no one's waiting. Thin about having little ones is you always beat the Halloween rush. Then, you smile at ghost "thank you. No one's been able to guess her costume, and she was about ready to quit."

"'S a good costume," ghost nods to himself, "she a fan of bugs?"

"Oh, it's all she talks about!" You laugh, that fond laugh all parents have for their children "she's in love with all things crawly."

"....oi've got beetles, if she wants to see 'em."

Which is how a bowl with a hastily scrawled "take one" is left on the porch, meanwhile your daughter is about ready to explode when ghost lets her hold Betty, his Hercules beetle.

"You wouldn't mind if she comes back, would you?" You whisper, both of you stood back while she stares in awe at his centipede enclosure "you're the first person able to keep up with her bug talk."