Rei :)

Kyle “Don’t Pull Out” Garrick because he loves the way you lock your legs around him for a forced creampie.

Johnny “Don’t Pull Out” MacTavish because the last time he came outside of you, you asked him if he hated you.

remembers scarred skin on scarred skin, whimpers into each other's mouths, the fact they felt like the closest thing to home he'd known for a long time.

he still remembers. but he tries to not think about them.

about how their hands were gentler than they had any right to be. about how they brought him tea without asking. about the late nights in the middle of june they spent wrapped around each other murmuring promises they both knew they couldn't keep. 

and when he hears a familiar voice one day as someone steps off a transfer plane - the way their r’s curl and ‘th’ sounds at the end of words become ‘ff’ and the crackle in their throat that makes it sound like they smoke a hundred a day.

when he sees you step off the ramp, the same lopsided smile on your face. new scars. new lines. but you.

it's all he can think about. he's right back there. right back in the dry heat with their sweat mingling. 

but he's Ghost now. 

and you were never Ghost’s. 

you were Simon's.

and Simon doesn't exist anymore. 

[inspired by this song, originally by Glass Animals obvs but as ever, hardcore covers are my life xoxo]

Coughing, he has to brace against the armrest of the couch for a solid minute before looking at you with teary eyes and a rough voice "what the hell did you just say?"

"can I touch your dick?" You ask again, only glancing up from your phone for a second to nudge his side with your socked feet "I wanna know what the big deal is."

"Bruv. You cannot just ask a guy that." Kyle replies weakly, taking a careful sip of his tea.

To which you give him your biggest puppy dog eyes, pouting "please, man? I'll buy you a brownie when we go to spoons on friday."

"...yeah, alright." Gaz accepts after briefly considering the implications of letting you touch him for a six pound dessert. With a huff, he shirks his trousers low enough to show off the briefs he's wearing, then looks at you with a raised brow "well, go on, then."

Which is how he ends up shaking beneath you as you curiously stroke his dick, feeling the weight of it and squeezing experimentally. "Kyle. Kyle why is it moving."

"Fuuuuck– because it feels good," kyle forces out, one hand gripping the couch cushion tight, the other half-covering his face "your hands a warm."

"Yes. I'm a mammal, great commentary." You snort, watching with fascination as his foreskin slides over his glands repeatedly. Kyle whines, and a shiny bead of precum spills out. "...whoah...can I jerk you off?"

"What do you call this?" Kyle raises a brow, but nods with a smile. He wraps a large hand over your own, guiding you "here, like this–mmhh, perfect."

And it is perfect. Your warm palm wrapped around his dick, the other pressing down on his hip whenever he tries to thrust. Kyle can just toss his head back and moan, whine, gasp. There's no performance here, just feeling good and safe with you.

"Ohh– okay, I'm close, I'm–" with a groan, Kyle's cock twitches, and ropes of cum spurt out. It shocks you so much you stop on instinct, and almost pull away, but kyle grabs your wrist.

"No, c'mon, you need–" his hand is back over yours, guiding you to stroke him through his orgasm, whole body shuddering at the feeling.

"Huh. That was...nice." you hum.

"So? Is it worth the hype?" Kyle asks.

"Hm....did you like it?"

"Dude. I just came so hard it got on my lips." He snorts, kicking you gently in the side, eyes full of affection.

LET ME MARRY HIM RIGHT NOW

He's constantly cold, despite being a beast of a man who burns more fuel than a tank, his hands and feet are never warm.

...unfortunately for you, ghost loves this fact.

He enjoys nothing more than skimming two ice cold fingers along the back of your neck and watching you jolt in shock, turning around only to be face with his shit eating grin. "Made you flinch."

Or pushing his hands under your shirt, over your sides just to he can hold you as you try desperately to escape his icy grasp. His breath is warm against your ear when he chuckles "what? I thought yer always begging for me to hold you, lovie. What changed?"

Of course, his little game came to a quick end in a barren supply closet.

Your lips pressed together, his forearms resting above your head on the wall, boxing you in. Your stomach flutters when ghost huffs "yer gonna be good for me? Hm?" With one hand sneaking down sliding under your waistband–

Only for you to promptly squeal and rip ghosts hand out. Ghost stares at you with wide eyes, totally dumbfounded by your reaction. "Wot."

"ghost! Your hands are cold!" You hiss, thighs pressing together to warm yourself up. "You're not touching me with cold hands!"

You thought that'd be the end of ghost tormenting you with those damn hands of his, but you were wrong.

Because now, whenever he intends to get you off, he shoves three fingers into your mouth with a grin "warm me up or I'm going cold, love. Yer choice." Sure, he could just use a heating pack, but watching your eyes water as you slobber over his knuckles is much more entertaining.

Reader character going red

Soap laughing when he realises the corolation and deciding to try to get Simon to change his gloves as much as possible just to inadvertently mess with reader character since it's funny

What if you were too autistic to realize Gaz was offering you a make-out session on New Year's Eve? Sent with love to @skeletonsucker and @miss-vanta-likes-to-write

WE STAN A RESPECTFUL MAN

I love him so much I hope they meet again ToT I would cry maybe idk it's Gaz

You think he accidentally glanced at reader characters phone and saw some weird shit they were reading

OMG WHAT IF HE ALSO HAD TUMBLR AND FUCKING SEARCHED WHAT THEY WERE READING AND SEND THEM A REQUEST OR SOMETHING

She never even knows it's him until they become really good moots

If it's ao3 it's gone to the wind

no because imagine Ghost, who’s spent his whole adult life with a mask on and now the scents of the the world are too much. every cheap cologne, every burst of omega perfume, every new room full of strangers is an instant headache. he’s the only alpha who walks into an omega heat bunker and immediately goes “absolutely the fuck not” and locks himself in his room until his vision stops swimming.

everyone thinks he’s cold. untouchable. “Ghost doesn’t do scents,” Soap jokes, and Ghost just grunts and changes the subject. (it’s not a joke. he’ll get a three day migraine if someone walks past with a strong enough aftershave.)

and then you show up. beta, background, scent so low key he almost misses it the first few times. not flowers, not pheromones, just… clean skin. fresh laundry. the soft warmth of someone existing, not advertising.

he doesn’t realize at first why he keeps drifting into your orbit. why he stops sitting at the end of the table and starts pulling a chair next to you during briefings. why, when his rut hits and everyone else’s scents feels like sandpaper against his nerves, he’s following you, hands in your hair, nose tucked under your jaw, breathing easy for once in his life.

you’re the only person he can stand to be near when his senses are on fire. everyone else is too much, too sharp, too loud. you’re just… quiet. he can bury himself in your scent, soft and muted and not at all the migraine trigger he’s learned to dread.

Except you pull out your dented box of Marlboro's to find it empty. Right, you forgot you smoked the last on the fly back. Hands shaking from...well, everything. You're about to settle in for sitting miserably against the wall when kyle asks "wanna share?"

The cigarette, a brand you don't care for, burns bright for a second between his lips. Pressing your lips together in a thin line, debating, you finally nod. "Yeah, okay–"

Before you can react, Kyle's hand is holding your jaw still, lips pressed to yours as he exhales smoke. It fills up your mouth while he chuckles.

"What? You wanted some." Kyle pulls away with a smirk, amused by the way your lashes flutter as you whine a bit.

"Kyle." You groan, closing your eyes.

"Hah! Yeah, yeah, I know. Fuckin' pent up huh?" He takes another drag as you tuck your face into his neck, embarrassed.

"That is so not fair." You take the cigarette from him and press it to your lips. A complaint on your lips that quickly dies when kyle pushes you against the wall.

One thigh slotting between your legs, kyle takes the cigarette back and blows smoke in your face. "Why don't you just relax? Hm?"

HNNGHHH NONNY IM SO FUCKING WEAK FOR PUPPY PLAY!! hear me out tho... what if two bad bitches at the same time?

price was always the meaner handler between him and simon. he didn’t fuckin’ like disobedient and untrained pups which is exactly what you were. demanding, pushing your damn limits when you knew you could get away with it.

price thought simon was too gentle with you, too sweet, too fuckin’ spoiled for your own good. that was another issue in itself but.. he wanted to focus on you.

it pissed him off. pups need to be good and yet, you whined at any sign of rejection and simon would fucking cave. he planned on changing that the moment he saw you whine at his lieutenant and the man just fucking caves, following you into your room.

that simply wouldn’t do.

your disobedience is exactly how you find yourself with your collar tight around your neck, legs hiked up on his shoulders while price fucks you on his desk. you've been in this position for god knows how long and fuck, you just want simon to take over cause price is so mean to you!

the captain has been pounding away at your cunt, he's filled you up so many damn times but hasn't even let you cum once! as you tilt your head tilted back, you see simon on the other side, sitting on price’s chair and a hand palming his cock.

“simon— ah, sir, please—“ you begged the wrong handler, feeling price tug on the metal leash to have you look at him. you whine at the jingle of the metal ring and the leash.

“wrong fuckin’ person, pup.” price mumbles, wrapping the leash around his hand and tugging hard. “such a bad fucking pet, damn ungrateful for the dick i’m giving you.” he tuts, the tone in his voice practically making your non-existent ears flop down.

"ah-- price, 'm sorry--" and he cuts you off with a smack to your ass, making you flush red.

"not what i wanna fuckin' hear, pup." he hisses, pulling out of you and hearing the instinctive whine you let out, price tugs on the leash. you sit up, panting and feeling his calloused hands cup your cheeks. the heat of his cum oozing out of you was fucking distracting you-- god, you wanted price and simon at the same fucking time and it was driving you nuts that you couldn't have either.

"my puppies are good, they know when to fuckin' listen and say thank you." the older man reminds you and god, does that make a sick heat pool in your stomach. "y'don't know when to behave, you fuckin' dog."

you whine, shaking your head and having tears well in your eyes. "n-no, sir, i'm a good pup! i'll listen!" you plead, your hands tugging on your leash because you have been good!

right?

wrong fucking move.

price who flips you over, ass up on the desk. his thick fucking cock slips into you again but.. he stills. you feel a hand in your hair and it's simon. you almost light up and mewl at the sight of him but..

"puppy, yer bein' a brat for price." the lieutenant whispers and you let out the saddest whine. "haven't even thanked him for fillin' you up, yer being a real ungrateful pet today." simon shakes his head, shoving two fingers into your mouth.

"fuckin' pathetic, i didn't train you to be ungrateful." simon looks up at price who begins fucking up into you. you gasp, crying out at the brutal pace price is setting. it felt so goddamn good. "spoiled you, pampered the fuck out of you, pup.. and you're being greedy?" he tuts, watching you suckle on his scarred fingers. "show price how good you can be, doll.. maybe, just fuckin' maybe, i can give you more."

you practically choke on simon's fingers, spit coating your chin and dripping all over the desk. you felt fuckin' embarassed, you are being a bad puppy and god, you wanna make it up so badly. to both of them.

"si—" your groan is muffled as simon's fingers leave your mouth with a slick pop. "hnnngh— i'll be good, fuck, i'll be a good puppy!" you plead, looking up at simon who was leaning back in price's chair. even with that obvious bulge and the twitch in his hands, you knew you had a lot of begging to do.

your train of thought gets cut off by price beginning a brutal pace inside you, hitting all the good fucking spots and making you fucking sob. price is burying his fucking cock to the hilt and it makes you whimper.

you feel tears well in your eyes, letting out breathy cry. "ah! fuck, thank you, sir, ah— my puppycunt feels so fuckin—" you hiccup, resting your face on the desk and peering up at simon who.. is clearly pleased at how desperate you sound. how pathetic you look for both of your handlers.

"thas a good pup, showing me how grateful you are for yer capn's cock— fuck, such a tight and obedient pet, huh?" price praises, watching you nod desperately as he slams back into you. "fuck, we just needed to be a lil mean to you, huh, baby? tell you how bad yer fuckin' being?"

"fuck— yes, please, need you and si to remind me— i'm a good cumpuppy— ah!" you mewl, arching your back as you feel price frantically fuck up into you. the captain groans, burying himself deep inside you and stilling to fill you up thoroughly. the familiar heat of his cum buried in your cunt has you in tears.

"haaaa— thank you, thank you, oh fuck, please, thank you, sir.." you murmur, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel your own release, coating the poor mahogany desk in your cum. price doesn't pull out, in fact, he hums at how your pussy squeezes him.

"tha' good enough f'you, son?"

He can ignore the occasional shirt or trousers being lost in the wash, it happens to everyone. He can even ignore one of the old, soft balaclavas he wears to bed getting lost! But he draws the line at his favourite jacket being taken from the recroom.

So, he comes up with a plan. Ghost sews a little tracker into the inside of his hoodie band, the one he usually uses as a pump cover, and leaves it out while he takes a shower.

Sure enough, it's gone when he towels off.

Ghost expected to find some recruit taking it for a prank, or maybe kyle hiding it to get back at him for that training last week.

He doesn't expect to follow the tracker all the way into the city, up to a small apartment.

Ghost momentarily debates simply breaking in and taking stealing his jacket back, but then he actually stops to look at where he is. He...recognizes this address. Not from actually ever visiting, no, but from seeing it on the forms for the little secretary laswell brought on.

Oh. Ohhh. This will be good.

"Can I help you with so– oh. Uhm. Lieutenant riley. Why are you here?" You open the door, hair damp from a shower most likely. Ghost just raises a brow at you and steps inside, gently pushing you out of his way.

His jacket is lying on your coffee table, and ghost snatches it up. "Stealing shit now, huh kid?"

"W–what? Sir, I can explain–" you follow behind ghost anxiously as he begins walking through your apartment. Opening every cabinet and checking every couch cushion.

"Uh-huh. Sure, kid." Ghost huffs as he opens the door to– bingo. Your bedroom, supposedly, has the hoodie he left this morning. He snatches that up too, and begins opening drawers.

Clothes, mostly, nothing noteworthy. You stand in the doorway, completely silent with a burning face as ghost opens the bottom drawer.

"Fuckin' christ–" his balaclava, shirt, some pants. More importantly, a pair of boxers he didn't notice missing, right next to a fucking dildo. You make a mortified, strangled noise when ghost picks it up. "Huh."

S:...go on

*reader not having thought that far, fully didn't think he'd give them a change TO explain"

R: I...ran out

S: Ran... out

A hand cupped around your bicep in crowded halls, dragging you to the side when boisterous recruits pass through. Or on the small of your back in the tiny recroom kitchenette, as if steadying you against some unseen force.

You try not to acknowledge it. Privately, you kind of enjoy the touch and fear it will stop if you point it out.

But...the question still nags. Why? Why does his hand brush over your knee in the briefing room when he refuses to even wear short sleeves in fear someone will touch his bare skin?

You won't ask ghost, so you turn to the next best source.

"He's got a crush on you, dumbass." Kyle states, voice flat. He doesn't even look at you when he says it, instead placing a card down that makes soap swear.

"...what?" That can't be. You think back to all the interactions you've had with ghost, and none of them really stand out as flirty "no. No way. You misunderstood me, garrick, it's not like a flirty touch, it's–"

"Casual?" Soap cuts off, drawing a card from the deck "like holding your shoulder or back when you walk together?"

"Uhm. Yes." You nod, brows furrowed. Sure, it's a bit familiar, but nothing more than what two friend would do. "Yeah, and sometimes hold my knee when we sit together. I think it's a comfort–"

"Ooh, knee holding? He wants to fuck you real bad, huh?" Kyle snorts, placing down another card and completely ignoring your indignant gasp. Finally, he actually turns to you the the fakes sympathetic look you've ever seen.

"Think of it like this." He offers "ghost isn't touchy with anyone. So doesn't it make sense for it to be a big deal when he does touch someone? Like, I don't know, a crush?"

"Uh–" you open your mouth to retort, but actually...kyles logic makes sense. The idea makes all those feelings you've been ignoring about ghost resurface. "I...I need to go. Bye."

Face blind Reader x Ghost Idea Pt 2 Pt 1

As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work.

It was the definition of slow burn to get Ghost to open up to your relationship. Slow baby steps because you did not want to startle him.

Simon, for a long time, did not know about your condition because you had been coping so well. He just did not understand why a pretty thing like you would settle for him. Still, you were so happy around him, and he did like you; even if it felt temporary, he let himself enjoy what he believed was a fragile peace. You would light up anytime Simon willingly accepted affection or reached out to you. He loved that look. So he put in the effort to do better.

Then he had time off work. He did not really want to go to his empty flat. You were not there. Price invited him into your home. "She has been fretting, pondering how to ask you. Does not know if you would want to share a bed. If she keeps pacing, the carpet will have to be replaced... again. Please."

You do not make it to the bed the first few nights. Simon thinks it is on purpose because you both fall asleep on the couch watching TV. The thing is, you do not like TV. Simon does not know that this is due to your condition, as he is still none the wiser about it. Then you start complaining about your neck hurting to Price, unaware that Simon can hear you. Price points out that you have a bed, and you get irritated, "I am not giving up valuable cuddle time with Simon."

Simon carries you to bed that night after you fall asleep on the couch. He climbs in only a minute later at your unhappy, sleepy sound, after having lost his warmth. Price moves ghost in not long after. No, he does not get a choice. Price is tired of the long game.

PLEASE I BEG YOU

TALK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS

Kyle knows he's supposed to laugh it off and walk away to find some girl to take home. But he's seven drinks in and horny about it.

So, he crowds the Scot against the wall and grabs the hand that isn't grasping a half-empty venom, and palms it over the bulge in his jeans as he stares Johnny in those wide blue eyes.

Kyle knows he's supposed to laugh it off and walk away to find some girl to take home. But he's seven drinks in and horny about it.

So, he crowds the Scot against the wall and grabs the hand that isn't grasping a half-empty venom, and palms it over the bulge in his jeans as he stares Johnny in those wide blue eyes.

He loves to eat you out all sensual and slow; keeping your thighs spread with his rough hands, dragging and flicking the little barbell over your swollen clit or the twitching slit of your cockhead while watching with his heavy–lidded, smoldering eyes as you unravel above him, savouring your taste and sounds.

The rain had stopped sometime before dawn. The streets outside were slick but quiet, and Simon had been gone before the sun even thought about rising. Running helped, or that’s what he told himself. The burn in his lungs was easier to manage than the pit in his stomach. By the time he came back, your flat was still quiet and dark, the smell of damp pavement and sweat clinging to him. He showered, dressed, made his tea. No noise, no hesitation. Routine. He did everything he could to ignore the fact that you were behind your door, asleep like something he’d only just realized he’d protect long after the mission ended.

You didn’t wake until the light had crept too far across your floor and onto your pillow. The dull pulse behind your eyes made you regret every shot of cheap tequila, but not nearly as much as the memory of his mouth on yours. You moved slow. The silence was deafening. His door was shut when you passed it, and for a moment you thought maybe he’d already gone. Maybe you’d been spared.

But you found him at the kitchen instead. Fresh shirt, hair still damp, mug in hand. Of course he was. He glanced up when you entered, just once, and that felt worse than if he hadn’t.

“Mornin’,” he said. The word was neutral, clipped clean of anything else.

“Hey.” Your voice came out hoarse. You cleared your throat. “You’re up early.”

“Went for a run.” He took another sip of tea, eyes on the window instead of you.

You nodded, pretending the kettle needed your attention. “Head’s killin’ me.”

He hummed, a sound that could’ve meant anything. “Hydrate.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” It came out sharper than you meant, but he didn’t flinch. Just rinsed his mug, set it on the counter.

“I’ll be out for a bit,” he said finally, jacket slung over one shoulder, voice low. “Need to check on the flat.”

You wanted to ask if the mold was gone. If he was going. But the words tangled in your throat.

“Right,” you said instead. “Good luck with that.”

He gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

He slipped past you, the air thinning as he barely brushed the small of your back. When the door closed behind him, you realized you hadn’t taken a full breath since you walked in.

The flat had stayed too still, every sound too loud. Once the headache dulled to a throb, you went to the gym. Trained until your legs burned, until there was nothing left but the ache. You pushed harder than you should have, muscle and memory both. Kept your body busy. Kept your mind busier. Tried to forget the way his thighs felt under yours on the couch.

By the time you got home, the sky had gone grey again. You showered, made something simple for supper and ate at the counter with the hum of the fridge for company again. You’d almost convinced yourself he wasn’t even coming back today when you heard the door unlock.

Simon stepped in, boots heavy on the floor, eyes flicking to you just once. You froze cleaning up after yourself. “Didn’t know if you’d be back for dinner,” you said, aiming for casual. The words sounded thinner out loud.

He gave a short nod, hung up his jacket. “Right. S’alright.” His voice was steady, too steady.

“Figured you'd sort yourself,” you said quickly, too quickly, hands already wet in the sink to give yourself something to do.

He hummed, low in his throat, something unreadable flickering across his face. He couldn’t tell if it was guilt or the comfortable routine you'd fallen into, but he hated that you’d eaten alone. He leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, watching you rinse a plate. The silence stretched too long, the air too heavy.

Then, finally, “Think I’ll stay at Soap’s for a bit."

Your hand slipped, the plate clattering hard against the sink. “What?”

He straightened slightly. “Wore out my welcome, I think." The words were too light, too easy. They hit like a punch anyway.

You blinked down at the soap gathering in the drain, forcing your voice steady. “I don’t think that’s true,” you said, tone clipped, not looking at him. “But whatever you wanna do, Simon.”

He didn’t answer right away. You could feel him watching you, the weight of it heavy between your shoulder blades. You kept washing the same dish twice, jaw tight, pretending you didn’t care. Pretending his decision didn’t cause something sharp in your chest. It is fine, you told yourself. I’ll be happy to have my flat back to normal, your brain lied.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. “Didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

He lingered, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past you. You could hear the breath leave him before he spoke. “We were pissed, yeah?” he said finally, voice low, like if he said it quiet enough it might sound true. “It happens.”

Your hand stilled in the sink. Water kept running, hot and steady. You gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Happens.”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “Good. Then we don’t need to—”

You turned suddenly, leaning your hip against the counter now, arms crossed, hands quickly dried on your sweatshirt. ““That what you’re doin’ then? Pretending it never happened?”

That made him look at you. Really look. The muscle in his jaw jumped, eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for a fight or forgiveness.

“Could make things easier,” he said after a beat.

You exhaled, soft but sharp. “What—you leave an’ forget it?”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “Already gave that a go this mornin’.”

You stared at him, searching for the joke that wasn’t there. “Didn’t work?"

He met your eyes. “Not even close."

You nodded once, something small and almost sad tugging at your mouth, “Right, well... yeah, me neither.”

The silence lingered, heavy, but softer this time. Your chest eased as the truth of what you’d both just admitted sank in. You turned back to the sink, rinsing the last plate like it was the most important task in the world.

“Anyway,” you said, too lightly, “Soap’s flat’s a bloody health hazard. You wouldn’t last a night.”

That earned a low hum from him, barely a laugh. You didn’t look up, didn’t need to. He stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, watching the water run.

Neither of you said another word.

But he never got around to packing that night. Part 6. Here