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soaps-mohawk · 3 months

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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

Summary: Captain Price has been fighting the requests to add an omega to his team until those requests become commands. You find yourself traveling half a world away to join a pack of highly trained soldiers to balance out their dynamic. Not all of them are quite so happy about your arrival, but you're a good omega who does as you're told.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, brief moments of panic on the reader's side, scenting, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I couldn't help it and I've found myself falling into the Call of Duty brainrot once again so here I am to bless you with some poly 141 a/b/o goodness. It's just part 1, I promise things will get better as the story goes along.

MASTERLIST | Next ->

“I don’t like this.”

“Believe me, John, I know. But the higher ups are putting a lot of pressure on us with this initiative and I’ve pushed back as much as I can. They’re convinced it will be good for morale and team dynamics.”

He wants to protest, but he’s been protesting this idea for three months. “What more can you tell me about her?”

“Not much that isn’t already in her file.” Her tone is not lost on him. She can, but that’s not a conversation to be held over the phone. “She’s quiet and polite, a bit jumpy but she relaxes once she gets to know you. Remember, I picked her out myself.”

That doesn’t make him feel any better.

He flips through the file again after he hangs up with Laswell. He almost has it memorized by now, having looked through time and time again since the letter was dropped on his desk three months ago.

He stares at the photo, the headshot taken by the institute in her file. She’s cute, as most omegas are. American, but she had grown up on military bases. At least this world wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her. He grimaces as he looks over her DOB below the photo. She’s young, younger than he would have liked, but at least she was old enough to drink.

He sighs through his nose as he flips through her records. She’s been in the institute for nearly ten years, likely sent as soon as she presented. He flips through page after page of test results, notes from her instructors, personality and temperament analysis, essays and essays worth of information written on her and also by her. He didn’t care so much about what her instructors thought, he was more interested in her.

“Christ.” He breathes as he pauses on the page with her statistics, rubbing his eyes. The file has everything in it, down to heat tracking and her early signs it was starting.

As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about, now he’s going to have an omega under his care.

He hasn’t considered taking an omega in well over a decade. Back when he had been young and reckless, he had once considered starting his own pack, but then his career in the military began to take off and he let that dream go. It became too dangerous, and he had seen many times what happened to omegas who were left behind during deployments for too long.

His team didn’t need an omega. He had briefly considered it in the beginning as they adjusted to the new dynamics, but he knew it was too dangerous and their schedules were far too unpredictable for the sort of stability omegas needed. He had fought time and time again against the push to add an omega to the team. They had settled into their roles easily, and operated perfectly fine with the missing dynamic.

Then the Omega Initiative was born and he found himself with no grounds to refuse anymore. Task Force 141 was getting an omega whether they wanted one or not.

He can’t help the tickle in the back of his mind that something else might be going on. He flips back to the first page, staring at the omega’s photo. They’d be here in a week. She’d be flying with Laswell to London where she’d be given a few days to adjust before they’d fly in here and she’ll be left with her new pack.

Price closes the file, leaning back in his chair. He has a lot to do in the next week.

You stare down at the files laid out on the table. Four of them, hardly more than a single page each, most of which was blacked out. They’re all older than you, their birth years at least visible to you. Most of the things on the file you don’t understand, and you weren't even sure how tall they were since you can’t convert meters to feet in your head.

You’re tired and on edge, nervous about tomorrow when you'd meet your new pack. You sit back in your seat, letting out a long breath.

“I know.” Station Chief Laswell, Kate as you had been told to call her, takes the seat across from you. “You’re going to have to get used to hearing the word classified. What they tell you about themselves is, of course, up to them, but the things they do, the places they go, even with your security clearance as high as it is, that will all still be-”

“Classified?” You finish for her.

Kate smiles. “Exactly. It’s mostly for your safety. The less you know...”

The less there is to make you a target.

You’d been given that speech before you left D.C. You’d been given a lot of briefings, as Kate had called them, since you had been pulled into the director’s office at The Institute and told to pack your bag. You remembered Kate and the interview you had done a few days prior. It hadn’t been any different than the other interviews you’d done before, except that you were chosen this time.

What had come after was three months of intense briefings and training, for what, you hadn’t really known at the time. They had told you little, at least until last week when Kate pulled you into her office and told you what was happening and why it was happening and where you were going.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though.” Kate continues, something you’ve been told over and over again during your briefings. “They’re all good men. John and I know each other well. I wouldn’t have picked you if I didn’t think you could handle them.”

You continue to stare at the files. Two alphas, two betas. It wasn’t an unusual pack, evenly balanced, except for the missing omega. If the situation were different they may have elected to have two omegas to keep the even balance. This wasn’t a normal situation, though. This was a military pack, special forces at that. It wasn’t unusual for packs to form on bases, especially those stationed together for long periods of time. Alphas and betas united together with one purpose, one collective goal.

That was why so many alphas were drawn to the military.

That, and the excuse for violence.

Omegas weren’t allowed to enlist, omegas weren’t allowed to hold many jobs at all. It was usually only in special circumstances, and even then, they were more likely to be assigned into a pack than be allowed to work and care for themselves. In a lot of ways you were lucky. You wouldn’t have to fight to find a pack, fight to find a match, fight for one of the few decent alphas left in the world. Your road had been chosen for you as soon as you presented.

In a lot of ways, though, things were worse for you.

“How do you feel?” Kate asks, looking you over. You’ve grown to like the beta Station Chief in the weeks you’ve spent together.

“Tired.” You run a hand across your face.

“The time difference will do that to you.” Kate says, giving you a sympathetic look. “Not to mention everything else.” Kate stands, stacking the files and pushing them to the center of the table. “I have a couple more errands to run, so get some rest. I’ll pick us up some dinner on the way back.”

You look nervous.

He can’t blame you. He’d felt a bit of a nervous twist to his stomach this morning as he’d finished ensuring everything was in place. He doesn’t often get nervous anymore, years and years of experience giving him the ability to expect anything and react accordingly.

This is different, though. This isn’t a soldier he’s greeting, this is an omega.

His omega.

As Pack Alpha he had more of a claim to you than anyone else. It was his mark you’d wear, his scent that everyone would notice first. It was his duty to protect you, to ensure you have everything you need. You’re not another member of his team, you’re not even a soldier. You’re just a poor civilian that’s been thrust into this world of danger and secrecy.

“Captain Price.” Laswell greets him, shaking his hand.

He greets her back, but he can’t help his gaze as it flickers to the omega. You’re small, as expected of an omega. Your sweatshirt hides most of your curves, but your jeans hug your full thighs. Most omegas are small and soft, designed to be held and healthy enough to bear children when cared for correctly.

He doesn’t even want to think about that.

Laswell introduces you, your feet shuffling a bit as you step forward toward him. Coming from an institute, you likely hadn’t had much contact with alphas before now. You try to stand taller, look braver as you stand before him, but he can smell the tangy edge of anxiety surrounding your scent.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” You say, shaking his hand. It’s small and warm in his, your skin soft and slightly clammy.

“The pleasure is mine.” He says, releasing your hand.

You let it drop to your side, pulling your sleeve down over your fingers. You shift on your feet, your body language betraying your nervousness. Hunched shoulders, fingers tugging your sleeves over your hands, shifting your weight foot to foot as if you might take off running at a moment’s notice. Your eyes dart across the airfield taking in the movement around them. You’re on edge, alert, and likely a little overwhelmed.

“I’ll show you around and let you get settled.” He says, his eyes shifting to Laswell. “You and I have some things to discuss.”

You follow behind him with Laswell as he leads you towards the building that served as the 141’s home base. He points out different places you might find yourself visiting. The gym, the rec area, the mess hall, and finally their barracks. He leads you down the hallway where their rooms were located, pointing out each door before he gets to yours, sandwiched between his own and Gaz’s, with Soap and Ghost on the other side.

He opens the door, letting you enter. He stays in the doorway, letting you explore the small space. Your bags had been brought in, the faint hint of the beta Corporal that had brought them in still lingering in the air. There’s four shirts folded neatly on the desk, one from each of them that they’d slept in for the last couple days to give you a chance to get used to their scents.

“The lads are still running a simulation, but they’ll be done within the hour.” He says, drawing your gaze from the bed. “We’ll let you get settled in and I’ll come get you when they’re ready.”

“Thank you, sir.” You say.

Laswell steps in as he steps away for a moment, letting the two of you say your goodbyes. You’d likely see Laswell again, and soon, but he knows after three months you’ll have bonded with her just a bit.

Price leads Laswell to his office after she leaves your room, his ears picking up the sound of the lock clicking into place as they walk away. He’d left it on for a reason, wanting to give you the ability to feel safe and secure as you adjusted, even though you had nothing to worry about.

“So.” Price says as he sits behind his desk, reclining back in his seat. “What can you really tell me about her?”

Laswell gives him a knowing look. “The CIA has had their eyes on her for years now. The Omega Initiative as it is now, isn’t how it started. They were going to train omegas as agents, and she was one of the first names on that list. They had FIOT put a hold on her file once she came of age.”

Federal Institute of Omega Training. The name was stamped on the front of your file. It was the highest rated institute in America, the place where most omegas born to politicians, government workers, and some military went.

“They had agents go in and pretend to be interested parties just to make it seem like there was interest in her.” Laswell continues. “But, you know omegas aren’t cut out for this kind of work, so they changed the Initiative. She was still at the top of the list, but there were some...hesitations as to where to place her.”

“What sort of hesitations?” He asks.

“You saw those scores, John. She’s a good omega. Those purebred instincts are strong, and that makes her an easy target.”

Most omegas born from an alpha/omega pairing were good at listening to their instincts. That was why they carried such a high standing, even among omegas. But, being so closely intune with their instincts made them more sensitive, more vulnerable. They were more likely to give in to an alpha, if the alpha knew how to play them right.

Laswell pulls a file from her bag, sliding it across his desk to him. “She’d get walked all over in a larger pack, and the last thing she needs is to get hurt by an overbearing alpha.” There’s something hidden in Laswell’s words, his mind filing that away for later. “I need someone I can trust with her. She’s smart, learns fast. She needs a challenge, but also someone that won’t take advantage of her.”

“It sounds like you’ve grown rather fond of her.” He says, flipping open the first page of the file. It’s the CIA’s data on her, everything they’d done in the last three months to prepare her for her life as a Special Operations pack omega.

“Like I said, I’m the one that picked her for your team.” Laswell leans forward against his desk. “She knows what she’s in for. She was well prepared for this kind of life. She’ll let you mark her, no questions asked because that’s what she’s been told to do. She’s obedient, John, almost to a fault.”

“That could be dangerous.” Price says.

“Yes, it could.” Laswell says. “I’m leaving her in your capable hands. She has my number, and so do you.”

Price walks her back to the airfield, his head reeling a bit as he replays their conversation over and over. The hidden messages in Laswell’s words aren’t lost on him, and his gut feeling that something else was going on had been correct.

“Take care of her, John.” Laswell says. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you.”

He hasn’t failed her yet.

Your body is tingling. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or something else. You haven’t been around an alpha since the day of your presentation, when you had been pulled from your home and taken to the institute. You had nearly wanted to keel over when you came face to face with Captain Price. Your alpha. He’s a commanding presence, the tickling at the back of your neck still not quite gone even though the door is shut and locked.

The bed is comfortable, not any worse than what you slept on in the institute. There’s extra pillows and blankets stacked at the end, likely for your nest when you finally settled enough to make one. The door to the private bathroom is cracked open, facing the end of the bed. There’s four shirts on the desk next under the window next to the bathroom door, and your bags are sitting in front of the dresser and closet situated on the opposite wall from the bed.

You push yourself to stand, ignoring the way your legs wobble as you stare down at the four shirts on the desk. They’re all olive green, folded neatly in the exact same way. You wouldn’t have known any different, except for the scents gently wafting from them, and the names on the tags.

Price. You pick up the one that will be the most familiar, bringing it to your nose. Tobacco smoke, aftershave, something sharp like whiskey. All things you had scented on him in your short time together. Underneath you catch a whiff of his natural scent. Something woody, fresh. A tingle crawls up your spine, prickling in the back of your neck again. You drop the shirt on the desk, taking a step back to breathe in the unscented air for a moment.

You’re breathing heavily as you go for the shirt next to Price’s. Garrick. You press the shirt against your nose, inhaling. Aftershave, different from Price’s. Some kind of lotion. Coconut oil maybe? You can’t pick up more than the base scent of beta, the soothing almondy scent.

You take another deep inhale of it, letting the beta scent ease you before you let it drop to the desk beside Price’s. You grab the one next to it, looking at the tag. MacTavish. You lift it to your face, scenting another aftershave. There’s something citrusy mixed in as well, slightly watered down compared to the scent of the aftershave. Again, you can’t pick up more than the scent of beta, letting it ease the tickling on the back of your neck again before you let it drop back on the desk.

One more to go.

You pick up the last shirt. Ghost. The faceless one. You bring the shirt to your nose, wincing slightly at the sharp tang of gunpowder and metal, smoke and a lingering aftershave. You try to smell deeper, but your nose burns with scent blocker spray. You let out a huff, dropping it back onto the desk.

This Ghost was dedicated to his anonymity.

He’s going to be a problem.

You sink back onto the bed, eyeing the shirts. Your senses have heightened, picking up the scents wafting off of them, mixing in the air. You pick up the sound of boots approaching, three pairs of feet making their way down the hall. You can hear them talking and laughing as they approach. There’s a pause outside your door and you hold your breath, sitting as still as possible.

Of course they can smell you. You had sprayed yourself down with scent blockers before you left the hotel, but it had likely worn off by now. Even with the blocker, the scent of unmated omega wasn’t hidden easily. The entire base had probably caught a whiff of your scent by now. Caramel, vanilla, strawberries with the undertone of pure omega that made alphas go insane.

“Coming, Si?”

Your lungs burn as you hold your breath, and for a moment you’re afraid your heartbeat might be audible from how hard it’s pounding. Steps recede from your door and you don’t breathe until they’ve disappeared.

You decide to unpack to keep your mind busy as you wait. You don’t have much, mostly clothes from the institute and toiletries. You don’t even have a photo of your family, that part of your life behind you. You put your clothes away, venturing into the small bathroom to put away your toiletries. There’s towels already inside, along with a few things like shampoo and soap. They’re all scentless, like the things you had brought from the institute.

Nothing that could dampen your natural scent.

You almost don’t hear the knock on the door, lost in your own thoughts. You take a steadying breath, hand hesitating over the lock. What if it wasn’t Price? What if it wasn’t anyone from your new pack?

“Just me.” Price’s voice comes through the door.

Of course he would notice your hesitation. He’s a trained soldier, he’s always going to be aware of his surroundings. You unlock the door, opening it slowly.

Price greets you with a small smile, your nose picking up the scent of his aftershave and the lingering scent of tobacco smoke now that you’re attune to it. “They’re ready, if you are.” He says.

You nod. “Yeah, I guess.” It wasn’t like you had much of a choice to say no.

You slip out the door, closing it behind you. You’d ditched your sweatshirt, wearing a scoop-necked shirt to give them easy access for the scenting. Price leads you down the hallway, back towards his office. You’re not quite sure what to expect, the nervous twisting in your stomach coming back.

“I thought we’d do it in a meeting room.” Price says, likely picking up on the change in your scent. “Somewhere neutral.”

It’s smart, it’ll keep you from getting too overwhelmed by other scents or sounds. The last thing you need to do is panic and send them all into a spiral. Talk about a first impression.

Price pauses outside a door, looking down at you. His gaze is kind, almost sympathetic as you take a deep breath. “Ready?”

Not really, but you wouldn’t dare say that. You have to do this, and the sooner you got the awkward part over with, the easier things will get. You nod, hands tugging nervously at the bottom of your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

Price opens the door, stepping in first. You’re glad for the few moments you’re hidden behind him as the scents in the room slam into you. Alpha and two betas, scents you recognize from their shirts. They stand as Price enters, and for a moment you want to stay hidden behind the alpha but you know you have to be brave. You were made for this. The words drilled into your brain over and over again at the institute flash through your brain. You have one job in life and this is it.

You can hold power over them.

The words from the book your bunkmate had smuggled in flash through your mind. “The Powerful Omega”, it had been titled. Authored by a progressive omega, it talked all about how powerful omegas could be, even those forced into traditional roles. You can get them all wrapped around your finger if you wanted to.

You steady your nerves, clenching your hands into fists at your sides and step out from behind Price. Your skin prickles as three sets of eyes are set on you. Price is speaking but you’re not really listening as you take them in. You recognize the two betas from their files.

Gaz, you pick up Price doing introductions, has kind eyes. He’s tall for a beta, almost the same height as Price. He waves to you, offering you a small smile.

Soap is the shortest of the four, more what you would expect from a beta. “Good to meet ya, lass.” He greets you, giving you a charming smile. He’s going to push your boundaries, you can tell.

You’re beginning to see the dynamics already.

“And Ghost.” Price says, your eyes finally moving to the place you’ve been avoiding since you walked in.

All hulking muscle, Ghost seems to take up the entire room. Your heart flutters nervously as you meet his dark gaze, his face hidden by a balaclava with a skull painted on the front. His presence is oppressive, tickling the back of your neck. You’re not sure if you want to run or submit to him, every inch of him screaming alpha.

Price’s hand on your back nearly makes you jump, your gaze finally drawing away from Ghost and back to him. “Come on, take a seat. Tell us about yourself.”

Price sits at the head of the table, Ghost, Soap and Gaz to his left. You take the seat on the right, staring at the other three members of your pack. You jump into your spiel, things that they already knew if they’d read your file. There’s not much else to tell, since everything about you was in that file. That was its purpose, to make you look as appealing as possible to potential alphas and packs.

“What about your family?” Soap asks, the sharp scent of your nervous energy spiking for a moment. “Do you still talk to them?”

You shake your head. “Not for a few years. Institutes don’t really encourage keeping ties with previous packs, but I know there were a few omegas that did. It was hard to keep track of where my family was.”

“Your father was a Marine, correct?” Price, even though they already know the answer.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

“You lived on base?” He asks.

You nod again. “Yes, sir. We moved a lot, but we lived in pack housing on every base. We were a family pack, and I was number four of eight by the time I presented.”

“When did you get sent to the Institute?” He asks, almost regretting answering it.

It’s a sore subject, he can tell by the change in your face and the slight souring of your scent. “The day after I presented.” You say.

The tension in the room is palpable, Soap and Gaz’s eyes widening in shock as Ghost's shoulders tense just slightly. Price stares at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes. He knew it was likely shortly after, but that soon? Most would wait until the presentation had finished at least, and usually there was some downtime when it came to getting into an institute as well.

“My father was a traditionalist alpha.” You say, something they also knew by your status. It was printed all over your file, squeezed in every place it could be as a reminder of your worth to whomever was reading it. “It was because we were already on base that they got to me so fast.” You explain. “It was my dad’s status in the Marines that got me into FIOT.”

“What was it like, in the institute?” Gaz asks, wanting to change the subject a bit, if only to ease the sourness in your scent.

You huff out a laugh, the corner of your lips lifting in a smile. “Not unlike the military, I think. We had strict schedules we stuck to every day. Everything was dictated for us, what we wore, what we learned, what we did with our free time and how often we got it. Even what we ate was chosen for us. We always had to be ready to be tested at any time, and we were always being observed.”

“Your test scores were high.” Price remarks.

You shrug. “I’m a perfect omega, or so my instructors always said. It comes easily to me. I don’t really have to think much about it.”

“Did you really kneel for two hours straight?” Gaz asks.

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. There was one day...it was a couple years ago. I don’t know what caused it but there was something in the air. We were all on edge and worked up. The director got tired of us and made us all kneel in the mess hall during our two hour afternoon break. No cushions, no pillows. Just all forty of us, kneeling on the marble floor for two hours. Not everyone could do it. Quite a few got too fidgety, couldn’t handle the pain. Three even passed out.”

“How did you manage it?” Gaz asks.

Price wasn’t a fan of using instinctual habits as punishment. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and he can only imagine what else you could say they forced you to do with such nonchalance.

“To be honest, I don’t remember most of it. I just let my mind go somewhere else and before I knew it the time was up.” You shrug.

“We won’t make you kneel for two hours.” Price says. “And definitely not without a pillow.”

You smile softly. “Thank you, sir.”

Price watches you, the way your eyes dart around the room again, the sour edge of your scent gone, but the tang of anxiety remains. You’ve relaxed some, though, your shoulders are not quite so tense and you’ve stopped picking at your nails.

Ghost has remained silent the entire time you’ve spoken, eyes glued on you. You’ve tried not to look at him, finding your words get stuck in your throat whenever you meet his gaze.

He’s going to be a problem.

“There’s some rules we need to go over before anything else.” Price says. “You have freedom to roam this building as you please, but one of us will escort you if you need to go elsewhere at least until you’ve been marked. There’s other alphas on this base and I don’t want them getting any ideas.”

You knew well enough omegas frequented the barracks on bases often. You don’t want to be mistaken as one. Even with their scents on you, you know that won’t stop some. You’re not even sure a mark will stop them either.

“I want full transparency. If something happens you come to me, or you call Kate if we’re gone. If you need anything too, the same order stands.” You’re beginning to detect the edge to his voice, The Captain slipping through his more casual demeanor. “We have some downtime to adjust for now, but sometimes we may leave for weeks at a time. It will be rough, I won’t lie to you, but Kate pulled some strings and there’s an Omega Specialist that’s been brought in for you. You’ll meet her later, I’m sure she wants to do a full workup.”

You’ve met many Omega Specialists in your time. The beta medical professionals that go through specialized training so they can assist and treat omegas better than regular doctors and medics. Most of them go through a residency at Institutes, studying and practicing on young omegas. The thought of having at least someone who might understand you on a deeper level is comforting.

“I’m starving, let’s get the scenting over with.” Soap nearly whines, rubbing his stomach.

His words strike a chord of nervous energy in you again. You had been prepared many times for the scenting. You’d seen instructional videos and done mock practices with your fellow omegas. Yet you feel like it’s not going to be enough. These were real alphas and betas, your pack. What if you don’t like the way they smell?

What if they don’t like the way you smell?

“If you’re alright with it?” Price says, looking at you.

You’re taken aback by the offer for consent. You weren’t expecting it, as this was something you have to do. What would happen if you said no? Would they respect your boundaries? The fact you had been asked at all is shocking to you. You won’t say no, because you’ll have to do it eventually, and at least this way you’ll be walking around smelling like them. If nothing else, it might make this transition a bit easier.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing down your nerves. “I’m okay with it.”

All five of you stand from the table, your stomach churning with nervous energy. You try to clear your head, try to calm yourself so you don’t stink them out with your anxiety. You need your scent to be clear, to be as tantalizing as possible.

“Don’t look so worried, lass.” Soap says as they gather around you. “We won’t bite.” He winks at you playfully.

Your cheeks warm as Price steps up to you. He is right, that would come later. Likely during your first heat when Price would give you his mark and claim you as his. It wasn’t unusual for packs with multiple alphas to let more than one claim an omega, but judging from what you’ve seen of Ghost, you’re not sure that’s going to happen.

He had a right to claim you too, but from the look of it, he was the least excited about your joining their pack.

You tense as Price’s hands settle on your waist, lifting you up so you’re seated on the edge of the table, putting you closer to being eye-to-eye with them. They’re all so big, the natural consequence of genetics and their jobs.

“Ready?”

You turn to look up at Price, close enough you can see the freckles on his nose and the grey in his blue eyes. You nod, pressing your hands into the table as you bare your neck for him. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as he leans in closer, pressing his face against your neck. His beard tickles your skin as he rubs his face against your scent gland, warm breaths fanning against your skin.

He pulls away just slightly, baring his own neck to you. You press forward, gripping the edge of the table as you press your face against his throat. You catch the scents you had picked up on his shirt in your room, the surface level scents that were environmental. You close your eyes, inhaling deeper. Woody. Pine? Spruce? It reminds you of a candle your mother used to burn. There’s another scent, the one that lingers. Petrichor, you think, rubbing your face against his scent gland.

His hand on your side pulls you back from your scent-induced haze, and you force yourself back from him. You take deep breaths of the sterile air in the meeting room, picking up his scent more clearly now as it mixes with the others.

“Good girl.” He says, squeezing your side gently. Something flutters in your stomach at his praise, some deep primal part of your brain preening at the thought of making your alpha proud. “Ghost.” He says, stepping back from you.

You’re snapped back into reality as the hulking alpha steps up towards you, moving almost silently. You try to keep yourself calm as he stalks towards you, his sharp gaze burning into yours.

He’s testing you.

You won’t satisfy him, holding his gaze as he reaches you, his thighs pressing against your knees. One hand comes to rest next to your hip on the table, his body leaning in towards you. You’re enveloped by the black fabric of his sweatshirt as his other hand reaches up to tug his balaclava up. Stubble tickles your skin as he presses his face against your throat, breathing in deeply. He lets out a quiet sound as he scents you, almost akin to a growl.

He shifts his weight, pressing his uncovered scent gland against your face. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Gunpowder and metal stings your nose again, along with the scent of his body wash. You press deeper into his throat, seeking out his natural scent. Something deep and musky washes over you, like suede or leather. There’s something fresh in there too, almost like eucalyptus. You press your face closer, inhaling it deeply. Your head spins, and you’re sure your knees would have given out if you hadn’t been sitting.

Something rumbles in Ghost's chest as you scent him in a daze. While all alphas’ scents carried a natural musk, Ghosts seems to shoot directly to some deep part of your brain even Price’s scent hadn’t reached.

You let out a quiet whine as he’s pulled from you, his mask back in place by the time you pry your eyes open. Ghost is leaning back against the wall, eyes back to their icy stare as he watches you. Your head is still spinning as someone steps up next to you, taking Ghost’s place.

“How ya doing?” Gaz asks, eyes assessing you. “Hanging in there?”

You nod, taking a couple deep breaths to try and clear your head.

“You’re halfway there.” He says, leaning in closer. “Got through the hard part.”

His breath fans your neck as he leans in, the familiar scent of beta flooding your senses. He was likely doing it on purpose, trying to calm you after the intensity of being scented by two alphas. You breathe in the almondy scent, relaxing into him as he scents you. Your hands raise, gripping his shoulders as he presses his neck close to your face. You seek out the source of the calming scent, pressing your nose into his scent gland.

You’re drawn from the room and to the time your family took a trip to the beach when your father was stationed in North Carolina. Salty sea air, briney and clean, and something else, something soft. Like the clean linen scented spray your mother used on the laundry. You’re clinging to him, his arms around you as you relax into his scent. The tingling energy that had begun to build up at the proximity to the alphas fades as you melt into the calming energy of the beta in front of you.

“Easy.” He says, his hand on the back of your head as he pulls you away from him. You take a deep breath, trying to clear your head. “Still with us?” He asks, meeting your gaze.

“Yeah.” You say, sounding breathless. You knew scenting could be intense, but you hadn’t expected it to feel quite like this.

“Almost done, hen.” Soap says, taking Gaz’s place in front of you. “Lucky there’s only four of us.”

He’s right, you think as you bear your throat for him. You’re not sure you could have handled it had there been more of them. You already feel like you’re floating, enveloped in so many scents you’re not sure what to do. That tingling has begun at the back of your neck as Soap scents you, your eyes meeting Ghost’s. The look in them has changed, his body poised like he’s ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

Soap pulls back, blocking your view of him as he bears his throat to you. You press your face into his neck, pushing past the scents you knew, and that beta scent, looking for him.

You inhale deeply, the scent of warm spices invading your nose. It smells like the holidays, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger enveloping you. You can almost taste the apple pie, see the gingerbread houses. You cling to his shirt, holding him against you as you rub your face against his throat.

You’re trembling just slightly as Soap withdraws from your hold. It’s subtle, but to them, highly aware soldiers, it’s likely clear as day. Your skin is buzzing, like the fluorescent lights above you. You can hear it now, the buzz of electricity. Your pupils are blown, the room suddenly clearer and sharper.

“There she is.” The low grumble of Price’s voice begins to pull you from your heightened state, your eyes turning to him as his hand cups your cheek.

You press into the rough palm of his hand, eyes picking up the grey in his beard and hair as he stands in front of you. He’s older than you, they’re all older than you. Older than you, bigger than you, stronger than you. A small tickle of fear begins to itch in the back of your mind, drawing you from your daze.

You’re vulnerable, entirely vulnerable and incapable of defending yourself against them. Forgetting second genders, they’re all much stronger than you, not to mention trained fighters. You’d be fucked if they decided to try anything, if they wanted to do anything. You’d be entirely helpless against them.

They could if they wanted to.

It would be well within their rights. Even though you had just met, even though you bore no claiming mark, there was nothing stopping them. You couldn’t stop them, and no one would help you.

“You hungry, pup?”

Price’s voice cuts through your fearful daze. There’s a slight furrow to his brow, likely picking up the sharp edge seeping into your scent. Omega fear and distress was the one defense nature gave to your kind, aside from the omega itself. It’s a putrid scent meant to ward off alphas and betas. You’ve heard it described as smelling like sulfur, burning coals, gasoline, melting plastic, and sometimes even the ozonic scent that accompanied alphas in a true rage. It was a warning, but it doesn't always work.

Pup. Price called you Pup.

You haven’t been called “pup” since you were a pup. It’s a commonly used nickname for any status. You remember your father calling your older brothers pup, even after they presented. It could be derogatory, but it’s more commonly used affectionately. He’s trying to ease your discomfort, the fear welling up inside you.

The door is open, the fresh air of the hallway watering down the heavy mix of scents that had become trapped in the room. Soap and Gaz have already stepped out, Ghosts hulking figure blocking the doorway for a moment as he follows them, leaving you alone with Price for a moment.

“Alright?” Price asks as your gaze meets his again.

You nod, still leaning into his touch. “Yeah, ‘s a lot.”

“I know.” His thumb strokes your cheek, a knowing glint in his eyes. He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Soap nearly passed out when we scented him.”

You cover your mouth to stifle your giggle. It wasn’t unusual for scentings to become so intense that the receiver passes out. You’re sure if there had been more than four in your new pack you would have passed out.

“Come on.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist to lift you off the table and onto unsteady legs. He doesn’t even grunt with the effort, moving you easily. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not entirely one of fear.

His hand is warm on your back as he leads you out of the room, the clean air in the hallway clearing your head further. Most bases have circulating air systems, constantly filtering out scents to keep things as neutral as possible. They’re less effective in smaller areas though, especially after scents were intentionally projected. Most military members wore scent blockers, at least while performing their duties. You remember your father coming home at the end of the day with the dull burn of scent blocker still on his clothes.

Your head is still spinning a bit as you follow them out of the barracks and towards the mess hall. They seem to almost walk in a formation, though you suppose with years of having it drilled in your head, it’s almost second nature. You’re sandwiched between Soap and Gaz in the middle, Price in front and Ghost bringing up the rear.

The other personnel on the base give your group a wide berth, and even in the mess you can feel the glances, but none of the stares linger. Price guides you next to him as you get your food, adding things to your tray for you. That tickling feeling starts again at the back of your neck as he makes your plate, your omega preening happily at the knowledge of what he’s doing.

He’s proving his ability as a provider.

In more primordial times he might have gone out and hunted for food to bring back to you to prove his capabilities. Even in more modern times, he might have hunted as some alphas still did, or he would have gone to the store to keep the fridge stocked full of food. Alphas are good at adapting to their surroundings and situations. He’s proving his capabilities in the way he can.

You’re also silently grateful to not have to think too hard about the choices in front of you. Even after a week, British food is still a bit unfamiliar to you. It’s not entirely indiscernible, though, and you’re sure you could pick out things that sounded good if you had to. At this moment, though, with your head still reeling a bit and the unsettling energy of a new place filled with unknown alphas and betas, you’re happy to let Price do it for you.

He carries your tray and his to a table, sitting you next to him. Gaz takes your other side, Soap and Ghost sitting across from you. The choices in their seating arrangement don’t feel quite so random to you, and you quickly realize the arrangement is similar to the room setup in the barracks.

A beta for each alpha, you think. Gaz and Price. Soap and Ghost.

Then there’s you, stuck somewhere in the middle of them. Somehow you’ll fit between them, squeezing into their perfect dynamic. Omegas are supposed to help balance packs, but as you sit with the four members of your new pack, you can’t help but feel like you’re only going to make things more difficult.

I'm willing to put together a taglist if people are interested...

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #141 x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #cod x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #a/b/o

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sizzlingsandwichperfection-blog · 1 month

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A Big TB Announcement

Greetings from Washington D.C., where I spent the morning meeting with senators before joining a panel that included TB survivor Shaka Brown, Dr. Phil LoBue of the CDC, and Dr. Atul Gawande of USAID. Dr. Gawande announced a major new project to bring truly comprehensive tuberculosis care to regions in Ethiopia and the Philippines. Over the next four years, this project can bring over $80,000,000 in new money to fight TB in these two high-burden countries.

Our family is committing an additional $1,000,000 a year to help fund the project in the Philippines, which has the fourth highest burden of tuberculosis globally.

Here’s how it breaks down: The Department of Health in the Philippines has made TB reduction a major priority and has provided $11,000,0000 per year in matching funds to go alongside $10,000,000 contributed by USAID and an additional $1,000,000 donated by us. This $22,000,000 per year will fund everything from X-Ray machines, medications, and GeneXpert tests to training and employing a huge surge of community health workers, nurses, and doctors who are calling themselves TB Warriors. In an area that includes nearly 3,000,000 people, these TB Warriors will screen for TB, identify cases, provide curative treatment, and offer preventative therapy to close contacts of the ill. We know this Search-Treat-Prevent model is the key to ending tuberculosis, but we hope this project will be both a beacon and a blueprint to show that It’s possible to radically reduce the burden of TB in communities quickly and permanently. It will also, we believe, save many, many lives.

—

I believe we can’t end TB without these kinds of public/private partnerships. After all, that’s how we ended smallpox and radically reduced the global burden of polio. It’s also how we’ve driven down death from malaria and HIV. For too long, TB hasn’t had the kind of government or private support needed to accelerate the fight against the disease, but I really hope that’s starting to change. I’m grateful to USAID for spearheading this project, and also to the Philippine Ministry of Health for showing such commitment and prioritizing TB.

—

One reason this project is even possible: Both the cost of diagnosis (through GeneXpert tests) and the cost of treatment with bedaquiline are far lower than they were a year ago, and that is due to public pressure campaigns, many of which were organized by nerdfighteria. I’m not asking you for money (yet); Hank and I will be funding this in partnership with a few people in nerdfighteria who are making major gifts. But I am asking you to continue pressuring the corporations that profit from the world’s poorest people to lower their prices. I’ve seen some of the budgets, and it’s absolutely jaw-dropping how many more tests and pills are available because of what you’ve done as a community.

—

I don’t yet have the details on which region of the Philippines we’ll be working in, but it will be an area that includes millions of people–perhaps as many as 3 million. And it will include urban, suburban, and rural areas to see the different responses needed to provide comprehensive care in different communities. This will not (to start!) be a nationwide campaign, because even though $80,000,000 is a lot of money, it’s not enough to fund comprehensive care in a nation as large as the Philippines. But we hope that it will serve as a model–to the nation, to the region, and to the world–of what’s possible.

—

I’m really excited (and grateful) that our community gets to have a front-row seat to see the challenges and hopefully the successes of implementing comprehensive care. Just in the planning, this project has involved so many contributors–NGOs in the Philippines, global organizations like the Partners in Health community, USAID, the national Ministry of Health in the Philippines, and regional health authorities as well. There are a lot of partners here, but they’ve been working together extremely well over the last few months to plan for this project, which will start more or less immediately thanks to their incredibly hard work.

#tuberculosis

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lovifie · 2 months

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Simon Riley whose favourite hair was always yours.

The first time he touched your hair, you were both deployed. You were walking before him, your hair in a braid behind your head that was almost hypnotizing. You stick your head from behind a wall, and Simon pulls your braid the moment he hears gunshots to keep you away from the fire line. A whine escapes your lips that sounds almost like a kicked dog and you quickly look back to him. "Thank you, Lt." You mutter.

And in that moment, with your hair still in his hand, he knew he was in trouble.

Your hair doesn't glow in the dark, yet it always draws his attention. Like a lifesaver floating in an ocean. He quickly learns that he can't wait to touch it again, so he observes and waits for a chance to do so.

Like when you were rewriting a report on the mess hall, Price told you it was illegible and taking in consideration Price's handwriting you took it to heart. So there you were, writing again the pages with your best handwriting.

A lock of hair in the middle of your face had Simon almost sprinting to you to move it out of your face before you could it yourself. Of course he didn't say anything romantic, instead he said: "You are gonna go blind like that, and you are supposed to watch my back out there."

It wasn't romantic on its own, but his hand remained caressing the hair now behind your ear and when you looked up to meet his gaze, the both of you pulled away from each other as if you had been hit. "That line is dropping, start it again." He comments. "Yes, Lt."

On another occasion, you got late to practice, overslept. Obviously by your bed hair, not even time to brush it. Price quickly told you to fix it and Simon seriously considered if the insubordination would be worth it, because he would rip both his arms off if he could wake up everyday with that sight.

It was at that point that Simon realized he was doomed, because he had not been slowly pulled to you, he fell face first and being honest to himself, he was happy with it. He wouldn't admit it yet, it was easier to believe he only liked your hair.

And as time went on, it became more and more easy to find excuses to touch it.

Like when you got sick that one time, waking in the middle of the night to empty your stomach on the toilet. And it went on until the morning, when he found you sitting on the bathroom floor, too weak to walk back to your room.

Face wet with tears for not being able to stop throwing up, for being tired and for feeling useless. He quickly crouched down, paper towel in hand to clean your face. "Why are you here?" He softly asked, mask hiding his expression but his eyes gave away his emotions.

"I got sick." You mumbled, voice hoarse with the strain of the night.

"That I can tell, love." The nickname caught the both of you by surprise, but neither complained. "Let's get you to bed."

You nod, grabbing his hand to stand up, before another round of nausea hit forcing you to back down to throw up again. He quickly moved your hair out of the way grabbing it at the back of your head. "You are gonna get sick, Ghost. Leave me alone, I'm fine."

"Number one, I'm pretty sure your dinner from last night it's on my hand, so I believe we are past nicknames now." He says, being interrupted before being able to say the second thing.

"Don't touch my hair with puke on your hand!" You say grabbing his wrist, making him chuckle. You barely had energy to pull your head up and still tried to fight him.

"I would never, love. That's the other hand." He said looking as you wiped your mouth, breath getting knock out of him when you lock your gaze on his. "What is it?" You asked, confusing him. "Your name."

"Simon."

"Simon?"

"Simon Riley."

A beat of silence simmered on the bathroom for a second.

"That's a surprisingly sweet name, Simon."

And if the world had ended at that moment, Simon would have died a happy man.

But he didn't, instead he eased his way into your heart.

It wasn't hard, and soon enough Simon didn't need excuses to touch your hair. And touching your hair was the excuse to get you closer to him.

Like when he was dying to kiss your lips, but you wouldn't look up to him. Why wouldn't you look at him? Couldn't you tell it was killing him? So he fisted your hair, pulling back slightly; enough to make you look up but not enough to sting. And when his eyes met yours, he dived right into your lips. Moving his hands to cup your face instead of hair, needing to feel the warmth of your skin. The kiss pulling the air from his lung but still making him feel more alive than ever.

Or like when you finally had the time and intimacy to make love. And when he had you on his bed, knees apart and face buried on his pillow, he fisted your hair again, pulling your head back, because he needed to hear you moan his name while he filled you to the brim. Simon Riley was not a saint, but he would go through the hell his life has been again if it meant he got to experience this. Your cunt milking his dick, your smaller hand grabbing the wrist of his hand on your hip, your moans filling the room and when you looked back to him over your shoulder, his life got meaning and he kissed your lips.

Or like when you would cuddle, and he would do tiny braids on your hair he would forget to undo or tell you about and you would find out hours later when you would try to brush your hair and end up with massive knots. Walking to him ready to throw the brush at his head and you would find him hugging your pillow on his sleep, completely relax and content with himself.

Or like when years later, he brushed the hair sticking to your forehead by the sweat while you pushed his daughter to life. If he could take the pain away he would, but he knew you were the strongest woman in this world and could do it. He also knew you needed his comfort, so he moved his hand from your hair to grab your hand even if you crushed every bone inside.

Your hair was always his favourite, until your daughter was born. Because she had Simon's eyes, but she had your hair. And your hair was beautiful, but his little girl's hair was the proof of the love between Simon and you.

Simon Riley loved your hair, but he loved you more.

Masterlist

Hii🩷

Accept this as an apology for the pain from Inmortal!Simon, hope that you guys like it ♥️♥️

Also I barely proof read it, so if there are any misspelled words, no there isn't ♥️🫡

If there is anything that you would like me to write my inbox is always open for request and asks ♥️

P-Taglist: @whos-fran @thevoidwriting @sklt987659 @kayden666 @dumb12bvtch1212 @thatonepupkai @glocuseguardian3rd @Nothankyew @darkangel4121 @risingofjupiter

Link to join the permanent taglist on the masterlist

#call of duty #ghost #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #cod #ghost cod #simon riley imagine #cod smut #ghost smut #call of duty x reader #cod modern warfare #simon imagine #ghost imagine #simon ghost imagine

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sweet-as-an-angel · 2 months

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MW Reaction to You Leading Them On

Warnings: 18+, Implied Smut, Dark! Modern Warfare, Horny! Modern Warfare, Possessive Behaviour, Territorial Behaviour, Entitled Behaviour, Threatening Behaviour, Incel-Coded! Modern Warfare, Dub-Con Themes, Implied Age Gap (Price), Physical Restraining, Kidnapping, Breaking and Entering, Reader Being Held Hostage, Abuse of Physical Power, Slut Shaming, Pet Names, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Ghost

You’d only just noticed that Ghost stood at the front door of his apartment as if he were guarding it. Perhaps from your attempts at leaving.

You’d tried apologising to him for ‘stringing him along’ as long as you had, but you genuinely believed the two of you were just being friendly, bantering. Nothing more to it.

Obviously, Simon hadn’t seen it that way. You know that now as you watch his hand slip down the front of his sweatpants, palming his erection through them.

“Why don’cha come and show me how sorry you are with that pretty little mouth of yours.” He’s so monotone when he says it that you think he’s joking. His face tells you otherwise.

Of course, you’re speechless. But Simon cares little for your bewilderment. He looks down at you, his eyes narrowing. When you don’t come to him, he steps towards you.

“You know,” he says, coming closer. You step back. “Y’hear about pretty little things like you wandering into a man’s trap. Gettin’ ravaged.”

He’s before you, now, all but chest-to-chest. His eyes are black. Gone is the man you’ve been playfully flirting with these last few months; who you’d tried to push over the edge with your accidental grazes, your unintentional whines, the batting of your eyelashes.

None of that will save you now. His voice carries the weight of a dark star.

“How do you know this isn’t exactly where I want you.”

König

König was eerily silent upon your rejection.

You both stood in his kitchen where, after watching you cook, his heart swelling beyond reason and fathom, König had blurted out that he liked you. A lot.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t return those feelings, only viewing König as a good friend at most.

And now, he stands sentinel over a reaction you can’t possibly predict. Especially as his eyes, usually crinkled with a smile and laughter, seem lighter than usual, as if drained of all their warmth.

“I see,” is all König says. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He leans back against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping its rounded edge while the other remains free.

“I suppose I only have one option, then.”

König stands to his full height, approaching you, invading your personal space. He’s almost chest-to-chest with you, the bulk of his frame, the size of his biceps becoming glaringly obvious to you now as his shirt struggles to contain him, pulled taut over his musculature.

“I’ll just have to destroy you for any other man you try to whore around with.”

The way in which he says it suggests indifference; as if this is something he’s done or thought about a million times before. He presses you into the counter, hands coming to rest either side of you. He bears down on you, jaw clenched and teeth gritted behind straight lips.

“Then you’ll have no choice but to come limping back to me.”

Soap

“Oh aye, Bonnie? You’re gonna drop me, just like that?”

The look Johnny gives you is one of incredulous disbelief. Yet, in some way, you feel that he already knew you weren’t dedicated to the idea of a relationship with him. Even after all the time you’d spent together, the many nights you’d enjoyed sleeping over at his apartment, the many treats you’d baked for him; these were all things one could easily mistake for friendship.

You’d considered that perhaps tonight hadn’t been the best time to let him down, regardless of how gently you did it, considering it was your weekly movie night and it was his turn to host.

You wish you’d listened to your inner self. Especially now as Johnny watches you, his eyes silver and sharp like a wolf’s. Without warning, he pounces on you, taking your wrists and planting them into the sofa cushions.

He lies atop you, heavy. Unmoving. Struggling only makes him grunt, a spark flashing in his eye.

“Tell you what,” he proposes. “If y’can still remember yer name by the time I’m through with you,” he presses his hips against yours. You gasp at the feeling of something heavy and pointed catching you.

“We’ll see how willing y’are to try’n lead me astray.”

Valeria

“I see how it is,” she sighs, arms crossed over her front. She has you tied to a chair in her office, mouth gagged as you try to plead with her through your tears, your eyes. “You thought you could have your cake and eat it too. Thought you could have me while trying to fuck every other bitch that crosses your path.”

You’d dared to try and break things off with Valeria – ‘things’ referring to the one-sided pursual of your love by a certain cartel mommy. But alas, your efforts to repel her had only strengthened her resolve – her need – to have you.

“I’ve dealt with your type before,” she says, bringing her face down to your level. You swear her eyes are black, devoid of the slivers of humanity she still possesses – somewhere. The wrinkle in her nose forecasts disgust, an emotion you know first-hand does not bode well with Valeria.

“I thought you were different. Thought you’d know to shut up and take what’s handed to you – especially when you’ve worked yourself so hard to get it.” Valeria’s hand comes down between your legs, her fingers wrapping around the meat of your thigh. Gripping. Tight.

“Maybe the you I’m looking for is buried in there somewhere.” You can taste the venom in her voice as her scrutinising gaze roves over your bound form. She brings her mouth to your ear, intentional and without haste.

“And all I need to do is fuck it out of you.”

Price

You considered for a moment that John hadn’t actually heard you. What, with his lax demeanour and total lack of acknowledgement of your rejection.

Of course, you were glad he wasn't reacting poorly, but to see him not reacting at all worried you.

“I could have you hidden away somewhere–” Price starts, lighting his cigar and not even looking at you, “–where you’d be for my eyes only.”

The fact that he says it so casually almost has you believing that you’ve misheard him. You blink, wait for him to prove you wrong

Much to your shock, he does nothing to quell your growing anxiety.

“Bet you’d like that – having the attention of an older man. ‘Specially since you’ve worked so hard to get it.”

Now, he looks at you, with eyes hard and sharp as diamond, half-lidded, a glare that could cut glass.

“Sitting on my lap, wearing those tight little shorts around me. Bet you wanted this to happen, didn’t’ya.”

When you don’t respond, too shocked to even conjure a response that could cover even a fraction of what John had said, he spoke for you.

“Well, Love, got anything to say for yourself?”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He took his legs off his desk and stood, staring at you.

“Better say it now since y’won’t be able to say much by the time I’m done with you.”

Horangi

“I just can’t believe you thought this would end well for you.” Hong-Jin paces before you as you sit on the edge of your bed, a hostage in your own home. Clearly, your rejection of his proposal to become his partner hadn’t ended well, hence the lock on your front door now lay broken, your security system disarmed.

“Especially after all I’ve spent on you, after all I’ve done to you – for you.”

His eyes never left you, staring you down. You tried not to shake, tried not to make a run for the door that, while open and tantalising in its beckoning for your escape, a steel model of a man patrolled it, patrolled you. Had you prisoner.

He stops before you, stands just inches from where your knees are jittering. His hands come down to grip them, giving them a squeeze. If it’s meant to be comforting, his intentions are lost in translation.

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with you,” he says. Offers you an out. “Maybe I’ve given you too much freedom.”

At that, he sinks to his knees before you and, without warning, parts your legs. You yelp, trying to pull away, but he keeps you tethered to the spot. His hands shoot to the top of your thighs and you can feel his fingers hooking over the sides of your bed shorts.

You try to reason with him, try to tell him you’ll do whatever he wants, so long as he doesn’t hurt you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Only want to show you–” he pulls the sides of your shorts down– “what you’re missing.”

Alejandro

The instigator of such a cold reception from Alejandro had been your refusal of a date with him. One which, unbeknownst to you, he’d been planning and psyching himself up for for the past week.

“I see.” Alejandro’s face was stern, thunder clouds rolling over him, making his features dark and pointed. The onset of a storm.

You didn’t know what to say, what to do, as Alejandro stood by your front door, dressed as if he was prepared to take you out right now.

You could see his jaw clench, his eye twitch.

“Is there someone else?” he asks.

You know that getting rejected solely because someone favours another over you is bad, but being rejected without competition is worse. You swallow, unsure of which option will infuriate Alejandro more. When you fail to answer, he sighs.

“You know, I always thought you were smarter than this, (Y/N).” His voice is low and intentional, like a plane flying too close to the ground. You look up, only to find him staring down at you, taking up all the space of your doorway with his hand perched on top of it like it’s nothing.

“But maybe I just have to teach you.”

You try to speak up for yourself, try to ask Alejandro what he’s playing at, but he shushes you. Steps into your home.

“I’ll have you crawling back to me by the night’s end, Cariño.” His words carry a weight that roots you in place. “I promise you that.”

Rodolfo

“Oh, I know,” he says with all the certainty in the world. You’re in his apartment, coming to break the news to him that you can’t accept his boyfriend proposal; the one he’d sent you in a five-page-long love letter.

You blink, befuddled. “You…you know?” Your brow raises. “You’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would.”

Rudy gives a hum, a smiling one. He puts his hands in his pockets, leans against the wall behind him.

“That’s because I know you don’t mean it.” He gives you little time to contemplate his statement before he’s descending upon you like a solar eclipse. “I just needed an excuse to get you somewhere we wouldn’t be…” He searches for the right word. “Disturbed.”

Strange, considering how he was disturbing you right now. He went on.

“I mean, how else was I going to get you here? If I’d just text you, you could shoot me down without coming anywhere near me. But now,” he’s close enough that his hands rest on your arms when he reaches for you, pulling him closer to him. You stumble on uncertain legs.

His grip is soft but you feel trapped, even if Rudy is one of the few people you’d feel comfortable being trapped with.

“Now,” he says, voice low. He pulls you into his chest, hard with years of training.

“I can show you how well I can please you.”

Graves

Graves is far more used to being the player, not the played. So when he discovered that you were, in fact, engaging in what could be construed as promiscuous behaviour with him without the intention of falling for his charms, he went silent. His stare hardened.

He’d never admit it, but he’d actually grown to like you in the time you’d been together. A lot.

“So that’s it?” he says. His voice, usually rounded with his southern charm and honeyed words, strikes you like an arrow, ice and sharp. “We have a good thing goin’ and you’re just gonna throw it all away?”

You’d tried to explain to him that no, that wasn’t what you meant when you’d suggested some time apart. You just wanted to explore other options, is all.

He gives a whiplash, humourless laugh.

“Can tell you’re lyin’ from a mile away. I know you want me, need me.”

When you roll your eyes, ready to back out of the conversation altogether, he’s on you, closing the gap between you and gripping you by your shoulders. He presses you against the wall.

“Fight it all you want, but we both know you’re just gonna come crawlin’ back, so why don’t I make this easy for ya.” His breath is hot against your cheeks, a bull on the prowl. His fingers dig into your shoulders and he gives you an impish smile. One that seems to substitute something much more insidious.

“I’ll have you begging me to fuck you by the end of the night,” he promises. “One way or another, whether you like it or not, m’gonna make you all mine.”

Gaz

Gaz has played the nice guy for far too long. This, he realises as he watches someone try to chat you up from across the bar, only to make the fatal mistake he himself had made: leaving you unattended.

Gaz wasted no time. He slithered through the crowded bar to you, taking your wrist in his hand on his way. He dragged you to a small room, dark and out of the way. He locked the door behind him.

“What was all that about, then.”

He faces away from you, but even through the dim light of the one, flickering light bulb above you, you could see his shoulders heaving, his hands clenched into fists as he awaits your response.

A friend, just some guy – it doesn’t matter. Gaz turns and bears down on you, backing you against the wall. Your hands fly up to his chest to try and quell him, to put some distance between the two of you. His heart pounds and so does yours, albeit for different reasons.

“You’re mine,” he says. He pens you in, his form broad and sculpted by horrors unknown. A hand comes to take your chin between its fingers, jerking your gaze to meet his. “Have I not worked hard enough to be able to have you yet.”

His voice cracks, though he shows no signs of crying. No, Instead he presses his front to yours. Something catches your thigh and you gasp.

“Maybe you just need reminding,” he tells you, “of how much I’ve done for you.” He rolls his hips against you, his hands coming to bolt themselves on the wall behind you, caging you.

“How much I can do.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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helluvapoison · 3 months

Text

Nice To Eat You

[ii]

The Vees x Cannibal!Reader

warnings: drugs, suggestive, rosie slander, dark themes, violence, security shenanigans and, hello, cannibalism

heads up: if you didn’t know, the people of cannibal town are hellborn; born in hell, never lived on earth, never sinned! their life spans are unknown(?) but seem to age as a human would, unlike other demons

Cannibal town has been off limits to The Vees, courtesy of Vox, ever since the incident with you know who. Meeting you was a suspicious surprise for them. You were kicked out of said town by Rosie for giving cannibals a bad name. Can you fucking believe the irony!?

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Vox ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Suspicious might be an understatement

• For the longest time, Vox is unnerved by you for every other reason than your appetite. Anyone associated with Rosie is an adversary by proxy. If you take Alastor out of the picture, Rosie is still an Overlord and all Overlords will inevitably crumble to The Vees– even if they don’t know it yet

• There’s an expression for that though, isn’t there? Keep your enemies close. That’s exactly how Vox went about dealing with you

• Gives you a job as his security guard. Hell knows he needs one, what with the price of fame and all, those dirty fucking sinners that try and touch him wherever he goes

• It’s a slow development because neither of you initiate conversation

• Vox is beyond used to the rotating door of demons in and out of his life. He abandons the names of anyone that isn’t you, Velvette or Valentino (Angel Dust and Alastor he can’t forget against his will)

• Becoming attached to you while simultaneously waiting for the other shoe to drop is fucking awful. It feels it like a bug in his system, annoys him to the point his screen starts glitching one day

“Just what the fuck are you up to!? I know you’re with Rosie–”

You knew, on some level, Vox didn’t trust you all the way but it didn’t bother you because he hardly seems to trust anyone. So you cut him off with a mix of a snort and a scoff,

“Rosie? Rosie’s a cunt. She gave me the boot years ago, haven't seen her since.”

Involuntarily, he begins to smile, “Years, huh?”

• Trust is another slow endeavor. Now that Vox doubts your motives slightly less than before, he can silently appreciate the fact you do a damn good job of keeping demons away from him. Bonus: if you happen to take a chunk out of them for shits and giggles, blood never touches his pristine self

• “I believe I owe you an apology,”

“Am I going to get one?”

• In a way, sure, but you’ll be sorely disappointed if you thought it was with words. He invites you to dinner. From that moment until you arrive at the restaurant, he’s reveling in the constant state of shock you seem to be in

• Your eyebrows jump when the waiter nervously lifts the lid from your plate and reveals ribs. Real, demon ribs

“Surprised?” Vox asks rather smugly

“Somewhat,” You return his sly smirk, “Most can’t stomach my… indulgences.”

“I don’t have a stomach. I think I’ll be just fine.”

˚✧₊⁎ Velvette ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Vel doesn’t give two steaming shits about Rosie or her backwards, unflattering town so long as it doesn’t interfere with her enterprise. Vox’s grudges are his own. If The Vees got hellbent and demented over each other’s EOTD (Enemy Of The Day) nothing would get done!

• During a pathetic comment war on the her social, a few threats became too detailed for Vox’s liking

• A cannibal wasn’t his first choice– or second, or third– but you’d certainly scare off anyone trying to hurt his business partner!

• Velvette’s far from worried about being lunch when she meets you.

• “You’re my–? No. Absolutely not! I can’t be seen with this.” She gestures to all of you

“You’re not exactly making me drool either,” You mutter under your breath

• Judging by the looks of her partners’ faces, stunning Velvette to silence was impossible. Key word: was

• It didn’t last long and hasn’t stopped since

• She pulled out every trick in the book to get you to quit. She gave you a uniform to wear during your shifts, tossed fabrics at you until you turned into a living clothes rack, forced you to hold her phone during her live streams but criticized and berated the way you did

• For fucks sake, she even screamed at Vox to let her fire you!

• You didn’t need her to like you and that was as obvious as it was infuriating. She was Velvette! Everyone loved her! Having you around was like a black eye; literally bruising her ego and bad for business

• Or so she thought

• She made you stand in the shadows of her studio so you wouldn’t frighten anyone and ruin photoshoots with your “freaky face” she so eloquently put it.

• Velvette was mid fashion crisis, yelling at Joanne for the gazillionth time, when you approached from behind

“I’m taking my lunch.”

“Fucking fantastic! Here, have Joanne since she insists on being fucking useless!”

Playing along, you let a guttural growl rip from your throat, making Joanne jump high in the air.

She squeaked and shook her head vigorously, holding her hands in surrender, “I-I’ll be better, I swear!”

• Her candy cane eyes widened in delighted surprise. How had she been so blind to your potential usefulness!?

• Velvette could get high off the new game she created with you. It was like having a scary guard dog– only better dressed to aesthetics. Paparazzi didn’t dare touch her now, standing at a respectable distance that made her more unattainable and desirable than before

• Her attitude change makes her like-able to you too, she’s heaps more pleasant to be around now. You don’t mind doing the extra stuff that wasn’t in your contract like being a dress up doll, dealing with the pet names or escorting her to events. She knows and takes advantage of this instead of saying how she feels

• “You’re my arm candy now, dollface! You go where I go.”

“I hardly think I qualify as arm candy,” You mumble to her, overtly aware of how she holds you close to her

“If you’re fishing for compliments, fuck off to another pond. I don’t waste my free time with uggos,” She says seriously, abruptly smiling as a camera flashes in her direction, “Now get ready. Fans have been dying to get a picture with me lately and if anyone smudges this dress with their dirty fucking fingers, I want you to bite them off!”

“Anyone that touches you won’t have hands tomorrow,” You promise

• You swear she shivers upon hearing that

˚✧₊⁎ Valentino ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• The easiest by far to get along with. In a mortifying way

• Val is fairly accepting of all Hell’s creatures. It’s typically followed up by something sexual but, hey, you’re not in a position to complain, not when no one else in Hell would willingly sign up to work with a cannibal. Especially one outside the confines of Rosie’s civil town

• Rosie’s loss is his gain

• You would be lying if you said you weren’t expecting him to turn horror-struck but he barely blinks when you explain what you did to get exiled. Your savage methods intrigue him, a plethora of potentials just waiting to be explored. In fact, he goes a step further to praise you for being different

• “Hell would be deathly boring if everyone thought the same way, darling. That’s what makes you so… alluring.” He rolled his tongue with the last word, dragging it out and making it ring in your ears

• You’d been called many things in your afterlife, but never that

• You feel rather useless at the moth’s side. You were supposed to be protecting him but he could take care of himself just fine. Val was about the tallest in every room (if not the tallest) with guns hidden under his coat that he never used

• Later you’d understand he only reached for them as a last resort, when his head was unclouded by blood lust

• If you ever voiced your complaints, he’d be quick to reassure you that you make him look good. What powerful Overlord doesn’t have bodyguards? (Do. Not. Answer.)

• However the day does come when you prove your services have merit. On set of all places! A coked up Hellhound didn’t take kindly to Val’s directions, sending a demon wielding a boom mic flying towards him

• Valentino dodged the demon with ease, whipping around and aiming his pistol to put the dog down. Instead he saw you pushing the mutt’s face into the ground, his arm pinned at an angle. Your sharp teeth were bared at his throat, drool dampening his fur

• But you made no moves without Valentino’s say-so

• There’s a lot he could say about the scenario you provided him and how it made him feel– but he only calls your name, beckoning you back to his side

• Where you belong

• “You’re lucky I don’t like hair in my food,” You growl in the Hellhound’s ear before following after Val

• Valentino may be a mastermind of porn and sex but he knows the real way to a demon’s heart, it’s is the universal love language

• Unbothered by blood, he’ll sit pretty and poised on his loveseat while you tear into the meal he provided you. A thanks for a job well done

• “You’ll never go hungry now that you’re with me, monstruo,” The pet name is dripping with adoration, “I won’t waste you like that bitch did. Look at you, you’re already so special.”

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ i lost the request that went to this but i hope it reaches them. cannibal!reader got that rizz, huh?

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel headcanon #vox headcanons #vox imagine #vox x reader #velvette headcanons #velvette imagine #velvette x reader #valentino headcanons #valentino x reader #valentino imagine #help i’m actually falling for val

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romanticintheory · 4 days

Text

thinking about fellow soldier!reader coming back to ghost after having been mistaken for kia

gn!reader x simon "ghost" riley

-maybe he's back in your shared apartment, holding the last photo he took with you.

-it was taken the day of your birthday, with your arms around simon's waist and a gleeful smile permanently etched on your face.

-you were looking directly at the camera with your eyes crinkled at the corners. simon, however, was looking at you and only you with an expression only a lovestruck fool could manage.

-he had long since stopped crying about what he believed was your death. when price came to him with a somber expression and the news that you were on the wrong end of an explosion, the only thing he could do was cry or be angry.

-now, he felt nothing.

-you could imagine his surprise when he hears the front door open. did he forget to lock it? was someone breaking in? he didn't care enough to prepare himself for a potential attack.

-but, no, you walked in with an ungodly amount of bandaged wounds and a tired look on your face.

-you expected him to stand from his place on the sofa to meet you, but he didn't. he thought he was imagining things, again, so he said nothing.

-"simon," you said softly, not bothering to take off your shoes and throwing you things onto the ground next to you.

-still, he said nothing.

-"i'm sorry. i'm so, so sorry. price said he tried to contact you but that you never answered," you continued. nobody knew where you and ghost lived, and simon's grief took the form of self-isolation.

-he still didn't answer you at this point, and it was becoming unsettling.

-"simon, can you hear me?"

-"you're not real," was all he could muster. he didn't have the heart to tell "fake" you to go away or beg himself to wake up from his supposed dream. "i can't do this again. you're not real."

-you realized just how hard your false death had hit him.

-"i'm real. i promise. i was able to take cover last second and-"

-"no. you're dead with not even a body to recover because i wasn't there to protect you. god, i..." the words got stuck in his throat as he leaned forward on the sofa, holding his head in his hands and near trembling.

-you dropped to your knees in front of him like a follower worshipping their god. taking his hands, you held them tight as you could in a silent attempt at convincing him you were alive.

-there was a moment of silence between the two of you before he drew his hands away from yours. it made your heart hurt.

-"simon..." you were grasping at straws, now, trying to figure out how to convince him of what was true. maybe there was something in your luggage that might help.

-as soon as you turned your body to your bags by the front door, you were pulled right back in by a pair of strong arms.

-he was hugging you like the moment he let go, you'd disappear into thin air (and, in a way, he believed it to be a possibility). after being pulled from your shock, you immediately brought your own arms to reciprocate the embrace.

-"(y/n)," he said, trying to keep his voice stable. there was still a part of him that couldn't believe he had you with him. if he weren't so thankful, he'd be lecturing you about acting wreckless on missions and convincing you to quit your job so nothing like this happened again.

-but, for now, he was content like this.

#call of duty imagine #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #cod imagine #cod mw x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost imagine #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x you #cod angst #call of duty angst #simon riley angst #ghost angst #rara writes

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certified-bi · 9 days

Text

Okay all my thoughts because some people have been saying that not supporting this change is not supporting artist and creators and as an artist fuck that.

1. Audiences owe you nothing. You have to convince them to engage with your creation not the other way around. This is something both the nonprofit theatre I work with recognizes and huge companies realize. It's just part of life. There are so many talented people in the world making amazing art, videos, music, writings, and on and on, and there's only so much time in the day. I'm not saying you shouldn't know your worth, just that being flippant about how little you care about those who can't pay isn't a good move. On that note...

2. PR is everything. If you haven't made a visible effort to push patreon, channel memberships or other avenues of making money, don't be suprised that your creation that was previously accessible to those without extra cash and to those who can't support foreign subscriptions due either to conversions or because it simply doesn't work, being made private isn't popular. There's a big leap from "We want to have more artistic control" to "We can't afford to make our content accessible to most of our audience," and people are smart enough to see this. You either have to make budget cuts or give into sponsors. This isn't unique to Watcher, it's part of literally every production from broadway, to Hollywood, to YouTube. Unless you can fund it yourself or get viewers to pay(which given how many are already strapped for cash...) that's life.

Not to mention they simply do not have enough followers to make the switch to a paid only site(dropping the first epsiode only on YouTube isn't going to draw people in, they're just going to say "oh why start if I'm not going to see the rest" and not watch) especially not one that is buggy and a security risk. Even if the switch had been supported its not going to end well. The only reason services like nebula and dropout work is because of the large amount of series and creators and the fact those creators still are partly on YouTube so new people are drawn in.

3. As for the price, 6 dollars a month is a not a good starting price for only their content and that's as someone who pays for nebula. I'd be paying the same amount for a fraction of the access to others work. Actually it'd be twice as much. And before someone says "it's only a coffee-" that's for you. Not everyone has your lifestyle. And with every other patreon and subscription service that says the same thing, it all adds up and I simply don't think 60 dollars for 48 videos a year on a subscription basis where you don't get to keep the videos if your situation changes, some of which don't appeal to every viewer is a good move. If you were able to buy physical copies of your favorite series they've made that'd be different, but that's not what this is.

4. I do believe that the employees deserve a livable wage. I also did not hire them. It is not on the viewers that they hired more people than they could afford to. They can charge that much if they want to to try and balance this out. They also shouldn't be suprised if not many can or will sign up. They also don't have to be based in L.A. L.A has ridiculous costs associated with it, and quite honestly it doesn't really add much to the content. I'm not saying they need to move to the middle of nowhere Kansas. Simply that living and basing your studio in a super expensive city and then being suprised money is tight is just weird.

5. Something that occurs to me is that they might get more views if their playlists were better set up. Only some series are given playlists. It'd be easier to find all of the series and binge them if they didn't just show off their more popular shows. Honestly the only draw the streaming site has to me is that the series are actually labeled well.

Do I think the weird ass energy towards Steven is necessary? No. He's not the only one at the company and they're all adults. I actually liked grocery run and homemade, and like to see them back. The parascoial attachment to Ryan and Shane is annoying in people's criticisms, but that doesn't make them completely wrong. If you're going to brand yourself as the anti capalist underdogs you can't get away with being dismissive of your poorer fans. The dissonance is what is causing this backlash and makes you look like hypocrites. I definitely think Steven is turning into the fall guy which is fucked up, his statement and the fact dish granted is one of those shows that make people uncomfortable about wealth flexs doesn't help matters.

#watcher #they really need a CEO who has business experience first and foremost or at the very least a consultant they actually listen to #they also should put more focus on other personalities and actual give them a chance to stick. none of them got famous or a fanbase in a day #give some of the others time to grab attention

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rileyslibrary · 6 months

Note

(Can i just say i love ur work, i too read them like bedtime stories, u perform a great service to humanity my good comrade)

Also, could i request perhaps Reader needing to go undercover for a mission and getting a bit too close for comfort with some baddies and thus making Ghost worry? He’s certainly not jealous by any means tho, of course not! Nope. Not jealous at all. Not even a smidge.

He is tho. He’s jealous. In his own Ghost way.

Thank you for your kind words, nonny and sorry for being so late!

Reader is an undercover tourist in Paris for this one. No warnings, other than a pretty sulky Ghost. More A/N at the end.)

———————————————————————

He hasn’t uttered a word since you returned to your temporary base. No “good job,” no “well done,” no “thank you for risking your life for the team.” Nothing. He didn’t even stick around for the debriefing. Instead, he stashed his gear in his locker and headed straight to the kitchen.

Usually, after a high-stress operation, Ghost would go to the kitchen to make some tea. Yet, the way he went about his business today seemed more like he was about to sharpen his knives than brew himself a ‘cuppa’.

There is a reason he’s upset, though, and you know it. While you are always prepared to risk your life for the team, your latest actions were pretty... out of character, so to speak, and Ghost took notice of that.

You stare at the closed kitchen door, wondering what’s unfolding behind it, how he feels, and whether he can communicate it without lashing out.

“Maybe it’s best to give him some space,” Price advises, narrowing his eyes. “You did a pretty risky thing back there; no reason to push your luck.”

“A whole kitchen’s worth of space, Captain?” you retort. “I’ll evacuate if things take a turn for the worse.”

“Call for backup if you can’t handle it,” he winks at you. “And don’t tell him I did that,” he says, pointing at his closed eye.

You smile at him, and push open the kitchen door. Ghost sits at the table, his back turned towards you, hunched over a cup of tea. He has his balaclava draped over his right thigh and his gloves on the table.

“Your hair is a mess.” You tease.

You reach to fix the stray hairs hanging over his forehead, but he pulls away from your touch. You lower your hand and go for the kettle instead. This will be much more difficult, you think to yourself.

“Coffee?” You offer. Although you know he’d refuse, you feel it’s a good way to break the ice.

Yet he doesn’t reply. Instead, he reclines on his chair and stirs the tea with a metal spoon. With your back turned to him, you pour the preheated water into your cup, add coffee granules, and cool it down with a gentle blow. The clinking of the metal spoon against the ceramic mug continues until it suddenly stops.

“Are you alright, mademoiselle?” He mocks, with a fake—and quite terrible—French accent, mimicking the enemy guard who “rescued” you when you dramatically pretended to twist your ankle in front of him.

A chuckle escapes you, and you turn to face him, leaning against the kitchen counter. He keeps his gaze fixed on his cup.

“I had to buy some time for Soap and Gaz, Lieutenant,” you explain. “They were inside that safehouse, gathering-”

“Intel,” he interjects. “I was there too; no need to rehash it.”

“The guards were dangerously close, sir,” you press on. “There was no time.”

He shakes his head. “No time doesn’t mean dropping to your hands and knees like a coquette, bawling your eyes out, waiting for a French knight in shining armour to come and save you now, does it?” he spats.

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Coquette’? You? He knows damn well the fall was staged, the tears were fabricated, the vulnerability was an act. The fall did hurt; otherwise, it wouldn’t have been believable. But shedding tears over twisting your ankle? No way. You’ve endured bullet wounds in the past, for heaven’s sake, and barely flinched. Ghost knows that. Yet, he looks more…

“Jealous, Lt.?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.” He murmurs, scratching his forehead.

“Say what you want,” You shrug. “But you must admit: it was a pretty convincing fall.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Nothing says more ‘convincing’ like kissing the cobblestones of Paris.”

“Alright,” you say, leaving your cup on the kitchen counter. You cross your arms in front of your chest and nod upwards. “What would you have done, then?”

“Shoot him,” he responds, his black-painted eyes shifting from the cup to you. “That’s why I was up on the rooftop, remember?”

“What’s the point of going undercover if you’d eliminate the threat like that?” You persist. “And in a public place like that? Come on, Lt.!”

He pushes his cup to the side, places his hands on the kitchen table and stands up.

“Have you ever thought of what would have happened if your cover was blown?” He asks, raising his voice. “How was I supposed to protect you if you were right in front of my bloody target?”

You keep staring at him, his last words replaying in your mind.

How was I supposed to protect you…

You look at your mug on the counter; the steam from the coffee is almost gone. It must have been transferred onto him instead, you think to yourself. Might as well let him blow it off. Let him vent.

“I know how to protect myself, Ghost.”

He sits back on his chair and brings his tea closer, shaking his head.

“You should’ve waited for the signal.” He says. “We’ve got a plan for a reason.”

“I understand, s-”

“Falling in front of the enemy, letting him scoop you up like a fucking princess in agony, removing your shoe, fetching you ice from the coffee shop wasn’t part of the plan.”

A smile threatens to escape your lips, but you suppress it. You turn your back to him and pretend to clean the counter. There’s no reason to anger him more.

“Sir,” you begin. “What is the problem here: me not following orders or letting the guard run to my aid?”

“I don’t care about that French prick touching your ankle.” He murmurs.

Well, seems that ‘French prick’ touching you bothered him as much as you not following the plan. You stop fake-wiping the counter, grab your mug and turn towards him.

“I apologise, sir,” you say. “It won’t happen again. But you could have voiced your concerns in a less... abrasive way.”

“Wasn’t the pavement abrasive enough?” He snaps. “What’s next? Are you going to cry over it?”

You click your tongue and approach the table, extending your hand for a handshake.

“Alright, enough,” you say. “Let’s make a truce and end this right now.”

He remains still, looking at you. He finally reaches for your hand, but instead of shaking it, he twists it so your palm faces down. With a smirk, he stands up, brings it to his mouth, and kisses it.

“Isn’t that how that fucker would have done it?” he asks, still smiling.

You roll your eyes. At least his anger has died down and you’re left with his—typical—snarky self. You pull a chair across from him.

“Mind if I sit?” You ask.

“Normally, I’d tell you to ‘hit the bricks’,” He murmurs, motioning for you to take your place. “But you’ve already done that.”

———————————————————————

A/N: I keep confusing “ankle” with “uncle”. You twist your ankle, not your uncle ffs.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley #call of duty #cod mwii #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #cod mw ghost #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic

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gutsby · 4 months

Text

Playing Dangerous

Pairing: Detective Dixon x Reader

Summary: Working undercover in a seedy part of town, homicide detective Daryl sees you in your skimpy club attire and mistakes you for a hooker. A wrongful arrest makes for a funny way to foreplay, but you’re still game.

Warnings: NSFW. Thigh riding. Brat taming. Daddy kink. Dubcon elements vis-à-vis power imbalance and forceful facefucking, plus some dark-ish dirty talk, face slapping, overstimulation where Daryl keeps making you cum after you say that you’re finished (all meant to be consensual).

Notes: Big big thank you to @dilfsandmartinis for this filthy lil idea!! 🫣🩷 Requests are always welcome :-)

Shitty was an understatement.

This was a full-blown, top-notch terror of an evening, rivaled only in its sheer lethality by the time you once broke your nose and got arrested twice in the same day.

Tonight was likely to be a close second, though.

You’d spent all of ten minutes in the center of that hot and sweaty club, fighting madly not to drop your drinks or lose your purse, when suddenly, simultaneously, it seemed every guy around you had lost the power of self-control. You were prodded and groped like a shiny slab of meat ripe for any man’s hands—and no matter how hard you elbowed each offender, you couldn’t find reprieve. You were constantly being grabbed.

You’d grumbled as much to your friends, and they’d told you to ‘lighten up’ and ‘not be so surprised when you were wearing something like that.’

Something like what? A super mini skirt and a bustier?

You promptly informed each member of your party they could kiss your ass, and left.

That had been almost half an hour ago, and you were still currently stuck outside the club waiting for a lift. In the snow. With no jacket, or adequate covering.

Every time a taxi passed, you’d wobble over to the street corner and wave your hand, but on each endeavor, without fail, its driver would shoot you a dirty look and speed right off. Like you had, ‘I’M GONNA ROB YOU’ written on your forehead or else smelled of rotting flesh.

You were mystified, distraught, and supremely pissed off. You didn’t know what you were doing wrong.

The second you saw a semi-reputable looking Dodge Charger pull up to the curb, you decided you’d had enough. Uber or not, you needed a fucking ride.

You stalked over to the vehicle, already seeing its passenger side window creeping down on your approach. Your arms were quick to fold over your chest as you bent down and scowled,

“Could you please take me home?”

The man you saw inside looked polished. Well-groomed.

You hardly had more than a second or two to inspect his appearance, though, because in an instant, he was leaning over the center console to shoot you a smile.

“How much, hon?”

You heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, someone was taking you seriously.

You reached for the door handle and tumbled right in.

“Any price, just name it,” you groaned. You rubbed your face with both hands and leaned back in the seat. Almost unable to believe your stroke of good fortune after so many failed attempts, you let out a shaky, but grateful, breath and spread your legs just a little to get comfy.

“Good,” the man to your left said, calmly, evenly...then, “Now put your hands where I can see them.”

You lowered your hands from your face and gave the stranger a puzzled look.

“What?”

“Hands, show me hands,” he said, voice raising ever slightly in volume.

What the fuck was he on? Staring you down with that stupid, self-righteous face, lip curled in a melodramatic snarl like he could’ve been one of those lousy fuckin’—

“Police,” he barked. Louder, this time. Flashing a badge before your panic-stricken eyes and clenching his jaw.

Your hands flew up instinctively.

Was it illegal to hail a cab now?!

You didn’t have time to think, or blink, or do much else besides breathe when the well-dressed man got out of the car and instructed you to do the same. Your hands and feet seemed to move of their own accord as you gingerly slipped out from the front seat of the car to the cold wintry night outside. You were pushed to your knees on the concrete sidewalk and made to kneel.

To your right, you saw a gaggle of college kids strolling by—some pointing, others laughing, but all watching in muted awe as the undercover cop circled to your back.

“You have the right to remain silent—” he started, reaching for the handcuffs on his belt.

“Excuse me?!” you hissed.

“—anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—” he continued. A couple gentle clinks and suddenly your wrists were in chains.

“What’d I do? What the fuck did I do?”

“You have a right to an attorney,” he droned on, heedless of your cries as he read your Miranda rights, “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

You felt tears spring to your eyes as both cuffs locked into place and you were being hauled back onto your feet, sniveling and sobbing before throngs of amused onlookers. Your face burned with embarrassment.

“I didn’t know it was a crime, officer— I didn’t know, I swear— I-I-I’m so fucking drunk!” you blubbered as he guided you swiftly to the rear of his car. You practically bawled when he opened the back door.

“I just really needed a taxi!” you wailed, legs shaking as he started to lower you into the vehicle.

At that, he stopped.

He tugged you back on your feet and spun you around.

“A what?” he asked.

“A taxi,” you cried, “All the other drivers kept— kept driving away, I thought, I-I don’t know, I thought you might be another Uber driver or something.”

The man’s expression betrayed a change, though you couldn’t decipher just what that was through your tears. You sniffled and tried to wipe your cheek with your shoulder but ended up smearing more makeup in your line of sight. You whimpered at a pathetic pitch.

“Taxi,” the police officer repeated, seeming to mull over the word in his mind like it was the latest addition to the English language. He frowned.

Through your tear-streaked vision, you could just then detect the faintest trace of affliction…even remorse? His eyes wavered between your face, your ensemble, and the ground below, making a couple quick circuits before finally settling on your wet, bleary gaze.

His voice sounded strained to you now.

“You weren’t…trying to have sex with me?”

Your breath caught in your throat. You coughed, blinked, looked the man up and down and hardly knew to even shake your head with how blind-sided you felt.

“W-What? What?”

“You’re not…a prostitute?” the man said, almost pained.

That query threw you for a loop just the same. You pressed your weight on the car and sensed a strange unsteadinesses seize your limbs. This undercover cop thought you were a hooker—and a cheap one at that, game for any price the man was offering—and presently, you felt queasy. You looked down at your outfit.

It surely wasn’t that revealing, was it? He couldn’t have been so easily convinced of your profession by a...pair of glossy go-go boots, latex skirt, and lacy top, right?

Okay, you looked a little bit like a hooker.

Worse yet, you noticed a wad of cash stuffed between your left tit and armpit, from the time you tried to bribe the bouncer for a ride while leaving the bar. A loose cigarette stuck behind your ear, two hickeys suckled into the skin of your neck, and a teensy bag of blow to boot, tucked haphazardly between an assortment of Trojans and Magnums strewn lazily throughout your purse.

Alright, you could’ve been cast in the next Pretty Woman remake, but who cares? Half the girls in the club were dressed just as scantily, if not more so.

You somehow mustered the strength to squeeze your hands into frozen little fists behind your back and gave the officer a brazen look.

“Think I don’t have anyone better to fuck?” you scoffed.

The detective’s expression went from inscrutable to uncomfortable in fewer than two seconds. He seemed hardly able to look you in the eye any longer, casting sidelong stares at the crowd growing larger on the sidewalk. Collective curiosity piqued at the sight of a cop and a would-be streetwalker making small talk outside of the club, he knew he had to get out of this. Quick.

“I’ll, uh, take ya home, ma’am,” he said under his breath.

Before you could either accept or reject his offer, he had your cuffs undone—discreetly—and your body shuffled hastily inside his car. You heard the door slam shut and saw the officer make quick strides toward the driver’s side. You raised both brows as soon as he re-entered.

“That’s it?” you quipped.

“What?” he returned as he started the engine.

“You make that hot-shot unlawful arrest in front of all those people, and you’re not even gonna say sorry?”

The man made every effort not to shoot you a look in the rearview mirror. Slowly, he pulled into the street.

“Well...y’know, you do look the part. But I’m sorry.” Proffering one of the most pitiful apologies you’d heard in your life, the detective fixed his gaze on the road.

You knew he was bluffing. The man was humiliated as shit, too coy to come clean with the fact that he’d just made an egregious error, and now offering you a ride all to make himself out to be the good guy—and quite possibly avoid a wrongful arrest lawsuit.

Maybe it was the residual amounts of alcohol still coursing through your veins or else the cocaine, but you couldn’t let the dipshit get off that easy. You scrambled your way up to the front of the car.

It was at that moment Detective Dixon sincerely wished he’d driven the squad car—complete with a cage, of sorts, to keep inmates locked away in the back seat—rather than his unmarked vehicle, to be making arrests that night. He stifled a groan when you plopped down in the passenger seat next to him.

“What do you mean, ‘looked the part,’ hm?” you quizzed, burning a hole through the side of his head with how intently you were watching him.

“Put yer seatbelt on,” the man rolled his eyes, attention never straying from the long line of cars ahead of him, “And where do you live?”

“Over on ‘Fuck 12’ Avenue, Officer...Dixon?” you answered sarcastically, scanning his chest for a nametag.

“Detective,” he corrected, “Friends call me Daryl.”

“Detective Dixon, I am not your friend.” You smirked, and for the first time, you thought your discomfited front-seat companion might be tempted to crack one too. You watched him fight his base instincts, however, and force a frown instead. Still not tearing his gaze from the road, he reached over, blindly, for your seatbelt.

“C’mon now, buckle up,” he urged, echoing the words of a concerned father but somehow making it sound far more sexy when he said it. You swallowed a giggle and swatted his hand away.

“Detective!” you feigned an offended gasp.

“Ah, hush up, will ya?” Daryl muttered as his broad, veiny hand continued fumbling for the seatbelt, “You know it’s against the law to— shit!”

The two of you simultaneously leapt in your seats with near-identical sounds of...shock. You, feeling his fingers accidentally graze that tender spot between your legs and him, in turn, finding it unclothed. And soaked.

Detective Dixon retracted his hand just as fast as he’d sunk it in place, only holding it up in the air for an instant—but that was all either of you needed to see that his digits were glistening. You clamped your legs tight together and sucked in a breath.

Under any normal set of circumstances, you would’ve been much more in tune with the way your body was reacting to external stimuli. With all the commotion of your almost-arrest and the subsequent desire to exact revenge on the undercover detective, you hadn’t even realized how physically aroused you were.

Still reeling from his touch, you sank back in your seat. Suddenly more conscious of your bodily fluids than ever before, and embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry,” Daryl blurted out in a hurry. Gripping the steering wheel and pretending not to notice the slight wet slip of his right hand.

You couldn’t speak. He wouldn’t dare to venture a look to see if you might.

Now this would make for one hell of a career-ending lawsuit, Detective Dixon thought with a grimace. Wrongful arrest, soliciting sex on the clock, making unwanted advances on a woman who was technically, in a sense, being detained in his car while he—

Jumped, again, the second he felt your hand on his own.

You were pulling his arm over to your side of the car.

When Daryl turned his head, he paled the instant he saw you bring his hand to your mouth. Watched you pucker your lips and move them over his still-damp fingertips. Then suck them inside your mouth, three at a time.

He nearly swerved off the road and took out six civilians.

“Eyes...on the road, detective,” you murmured quietly, words garbled by the obstruction of his fingers.

Daryl swallowed thickly, and then, reluctantly, turned his attention to the street. He didn’t see much of what was in front of him.

“13 Peachtree Place.” You plucked his fingers out of your mouth just long enough to tell him your address. Then you went right back to suckling down the skin, letting your tongue glide gently over the tender, slick digits.

Daryl stifled a groan. There was no fucking way this was happening.

Guided by the faintest idea of where your neighborhood was located, he pulled off onto a side road and tried hard not to let out a sound when you sucked his three fingers to the back of your mouth—and felt your throat seize just a little at the sudden intrusion.

You pulled him out of your mouth with a wet pop and started over his lap.

You, yourself, were hardly more aware of what you were doing than why you were doing it, a slave to your sensory impulses and a sucker for a man in brown slacks. You crawled across the lap of the plainclothes officer who’d accused you of ‘selling yourself’ just minutes ago, only to show him what you were happy to do, free of charge.

It wasn’t your most gloriously feminist moment, to be sure, but then again, when were you going to get another chance to fuck the police and get off scot-free like this?

You palmed Detective Dixon through his pants and smiled when he whined just a little.

“Bet you wish I was selling, huh? Wish I was some pretty little thing for you to use at your convenience?” you purred, stroking over him gently.

Daryl gritted his teeth but said nothing in return. He brought the car to a stop under a red light.

You didn’t like the quiet types. You squeezed him harder in your hand, felt his erection grow even larger between your fingers, and moved up to press a kiss on his neck, tasting tiny beads of sweat there.

“How badly did you wish I was a whore, detective?”

When you leaned in for another couple light kisses, you were startled to feel a hand at your own throat, jerking your face up to his.

“Already knew you were the second I saw you.” he returned, deadpan, before your wide and unsuspecting eyes.

When the light turned green, he released your neck and reached for the back of your head. You let out a muffled whimper as he shoved you down against his crotch, stiff as a rock underneath your cheek.

“Why? Does a whore wanna suck it?” he asked, pressing his foot on the gas.

At a moment’s notice, you were robbed of your slight dominant edge and made to grovel under his touch like a bitch in heat. Daryl rubbed your plush lips over the mound in his pants like he was proud to make you feel it. And you, yielding as ever, made no attempt to keep from being manhandled because, if you were honest with yourself, you knew that you wanted it that way. You smiled against the cotton blend of his trousers and made a soft moan along the fabric, letting him drag you by the hair any way that he pleased.

When he yanked your head up and the car came to another stop, you weren’t surprised in the least by the trail of saliva that followed your lips. You locked eyes with his steel blue set and grinned again, quite stupidly.

“Well?” Daryl pressed, giving your hair a sharp tug.

You thought the sight of your watering mouth and blissed-out expression would have sufficed for an answer, but clearly, he wanted more. You worked gracelessly over the belt buckle and zip beneath your chin, and had his cock freed in seconds.

The car sped up again. Detective Dixon’s grip tightened on your scalp.

The second your lips latched onto the head of his dick, you knew you’d be in for a bumpy ride. He hissed as soon as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him, gripped the wheel like a vice, and made sure to spare your throat no expense the second he came to a sloppy halt.

Either your car was in bumper-to-bumper traffic, or the man couldn’t drive for shit while getting road head. You’d put a large sum of cash on the latter if you had it.

Regardless, you bobbed your head up and down and tried your best to suppress the urge to gag when you could. It was tough work, flattening your tongue down his length, gripping his cock at the base, sucking hard until your cheeks hollowed out, and then bump went the whole fucking car, and suddenly your throat was forced to take four more inches in the span of a second.

You lifted your head to protest but were swiftly met with a firm hand holding it down. Keeping it down.

“You’re done sucking this cock when I say you’re done,” Daryl informed you sternly, sucking a breath through his teeth when you gagged around him once more.

He pulled you off just long enough to breathe—and answer a question.

“You live over by McGinty’s? Or MacManus’?”

“McVeigh’s,” you supplied in a shaky voice. No one ever got the Irish pubs around you right.

Daryl hummed and shoved you right back onto his dick, pretending to take no notice of the way you gripped his thigh or tried to groan, ‘Fucker’ against his shaft. Your oral cavity was presently flooded with cock, pre-cum, and saliva, and the longer you sucked, the harsher he got to pushing your head up and down. Your eyes stung with tears.

“In through yer nose, darlin’, almost there,” he hummed, smug as ever. Whether he meant you were close to your house or he was about to cum down your throat, you couldn’t be sure. Your mouth slipped and squelched gently over the man’s throbbing member and made tiny whimpers when you felt you might climax any minute.

In a clandestine act, you moved one hand down your body while you continued blowing Daryl’s brains out. You were half-cockdrunk and hardly more sentient than a sex doll, it seemed, but you could’ve sworn you were quite discreet about the endeavor between your legs. You had just grazed the slick wet seam of your slit, about to press two fingers to your clit, when a hand jerked at a clump of your hair. Hard.

As soon as your mouth was disconnected from his shaft, Daryl landed a tart slap on your cheek.

“My baby need something?” he said, almost tauntingly.

You blinked up at him, failing to understand, until he reached down and pried your hand away from your heat.

“If tha’ wet, greedy cunt needs sum’n, ya better tell me.”

You were amazed how deftly he appeared to maneuver the car now, just pinching your face between forefinger and thumb as he veered down winding streets. When you paused a second or two to answer, you were punished with another slap.

“Just wanted a touch,” you whined, trying to rub the cheek that was stinging and finding yourself outmatched by Daryl’s grip. He squeezed you even tighter.

“Then you say that next time. With your big girl words,” Detective Dixon grunted, bringing the car to a sudden halt and hauling you into his arms.

You looked small splayed across his lap. Perhaps even tinier just straddling one leg, as you were, body writhing beneath his touch and moans and whimpers bubbling up your throat one at a time.

When you looked around, you realized you were home.

Part of you wanted to bolt, for a second. Go sprinting up the lawn toward the safety of your home and jump straight under the covers, a place where you would be free to touch yourself as you pleased—no smug homicide detective breathing down your throat.

But, as you straddled his wide, beefy thigh and felt one gentle pulse of the muscle underneath, you knew you were done for. He saw just as clearly as you that your body was in need of release. Not from your fingers, not from his tongue, perhaps not even from the fat, throbbing cock that had been fucking your mouth the whole way home.

In this moment, all you needed was for him to bounce you on his thigh, let you ride, and make you cum.

Your expression must have looked exceptionally pathetic when you tried stirring your hips and felt two hands stop you cold in your tracks.

“What did daddy just say about big girl words, hm?” Daryl’s voice took on a tender lilt so unlike anything he’d said or done before that you almost didn’t hear the word ‘daddy,’ or think it strange at all. It seemed so natural playing off of his tongue.

“I need you, daddy,” you whimpered.

To say you were putty in his hands was still something short of the truth. You were damn near liquified underneath his touch, half-limp and wholly yearning as the man steadied you in place and began his delicate ministrations like you’d never experienced before.

The once callous, largely cruel law enforcement figure took on something of a gentle affect as he ran his hands up and down your body and let you ease yourself into his touch. There were kisses, caresses, and all sorts of soft little touches on your skin that made you feel pampered and prized, even precious in his eyes. Was this really the same man whose cock had been choking you to the point of tears just minutes ago?

Daryl hiked your skirt up your hips until the sight of your bare, needy cunt was all he could see. Still, he stayed cool and trained his eyes up to yours.

“How’s that feel, honey?”

Even as still as a stone, you felt sparks of hot energy fly up from your center. Remembering your big girl words, you replied, ‘So good, daddy, I just need some more.’

Daryl seemed happy to oblige his good little girl and made sure to shift his knee a little to the right. At the slightest bit of friction, you moaned.

“Oh, daddy,” you whined, leaning in to that praise-heavy dynamic Daryl seemed keen to play out. When he bounced his foot once or twice, shaking your whole body as he did, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and grabbed hold of his thigh. Even rolled your hips right back to his movements.

As light, tender sounds tumbled past your lips with increasing frequency, so too did Daryl’s mouth impart more gentle kisses and dirtier words for your ears to hear:

“Such a pretty little thing, ridin’ daddy’s thigh like tha’.”

“Grindin’ tha’ needy wet pussy all over my leg.”

“Gonna make a mess fer daddy? Show me how much my sweet girl’s been needin’ a good fuck?”

You loved every last filthy syllable. You braced hard against his leg and rutted up and down, in circles all around until you thought you could’ve soaked his whole pant leg. Meanwhile, he was bouncing his thigh, stroking your sides, and making sure you were never wanting for affection or praise as a soft swell of pleasure came dimly into view.

When he flattened one palm across your tummy and told you to lean back, you knew the end wasn’t far from sight.

Daryl took hold of your hips and made an even quicker cadence with his leg, bouncing you fast and hard and hopelessly tight against his thigh as he drank in every one of your moans coming out.

You pressed one hand to the window—long since fogged up and opaque with the hot breaths you were panting—and placed the other on Daryl’s shoulder.

You could tell by the glint in his eye and the grin on his face that he loved you like this. Spread out and desperate for release as you rocked your hips a vicious course over him, using his body for leverage as you fucked his leg for all it was worth.

“Tha’s my girl,” Daryl beamed, practically scintillating with joy.

He watched you rut your hips again and again in the most obscene sort of fashion, riding his thigh with a moan never far from your lips. You squeezed his shoulder.

“Daddy, I—” you started, only to swallow your words with a whimper the second Daryl started bouncing his foot even faster.

“Daddy what?” he teased, pretending not to notice the elevated pitch to your whines.

“Fuck— you know what!” you cried.

“Nah, pretty baby, I ain’t got the slightest clue,” Detective Dixon was exuberant now, grinning from ear to ear as the pleasure visibly mounted inside of you, “Fuck my leg a little harder and tell me how it feels.”

You did. He helped. Even gripped your hips and moved them for you, keeping that breakneck pace as you moaned and writhed and sank your nails into his shoulder as the feelings just got to be too much.

With one last strangled cry, you came all over his thigh.

And, whether that climax lasted two seconds or two hours, the man beneath you didn’t really care—he kept bouncing his leg as you finished, and long after you had, as well.

You seized both of his shoulders this time as you tried to slow his movements. He made no such effort to oblige, only flashing a smile and nodding his big, dumb head as he said:

“I want one more.”

What? No fucking way, you thought, communicating as much through your frantic eyes and the shake of your head. Daryl kept right on moving his leg and holding you firm to that mile-wide wet spot on his thigh, which only grew larger and larger the longer you rode him.

As a bizarre, unfamiliar feeling sank to the pit of your stomach and twisted, you weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or cum all over again—luckily, your body decided for you and graced you with yet another orgasm. You gritted your teeth and tried not to scream as a wild wave of a new sensation washed over your senses…

And Daryl kept bouncing that fucking knee.

Mind-numbing waves of ecstasy came crashing closer and closer than ever before, and frankly, you couldn’t quite tell how, or when, you’d ever cum again until you did it, you felt it: walls clenching back and forth while your vision blurred with pleasure. A sound wavering somewhere between a scream and a plea—Daryl, keep that goddamn knee to yourself, for fuck’s sake!—tore out of your chest and prompted you to sink all ten nails into flesh that told your sly detective it was time to stop.

Your whole frame was shaking by the time his foot came to rest. If you hadn’t been so fucked-out and sensitive, you just might’ve jumped out of the car the second it did.

But you didn’t. You stayed frozen in place, let your vision return apace, and didn’t let your eyes stray an inch from Daryl’s smug face while your third orgasm subsided.

Fighting every urge to giggle when he squeezed your ass and begged for another.

“Fourth one’s gonna cost ya, asshole.”

“Oh yeah?” Daryl said, grinning, “What’s your price?”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon one shot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl x reader #the walking dead #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #twd imagine #smut

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clairdelunelove · 7 months

Text

around the clock

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (working drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, handyman!ghost

synopsis: ghost finds comfort in always being busy, whether that'd be completing household maintenance or chores but what does he do when there's nothing else to fix? well, it's simple, he goes over to your place–

a.n. hi lovelies! life's been picking up BUT it's finally spooky season! 🕷 pls take handyman!ghost to compensate for the fact that I dropped off the face of the earth for a bit <3

ghost would definitely have the characteristics of being a handyman– specifically, yours.

paid leave was a valuable but rare benefit that many military personnel took advantage of. traveling, relaxing, or staying with family were typically on the itinerary for most. to catch up on lost time. to ground and comfort them with the humanity that they might’ve forgotten about while on the battlefield. a solace for their minds, souls, and hearts to rest. service members could request leave at any time, fortunately, but ghost never had a reason to. he found comfort in being constantly busy. proved to be less on the mind. an escape from the pain that frequents him whenever he opens his eyes and follows him into his sleepless nights. he recalls price mentioning his unhealthy coping mechanism– the word ‘escapism’ leaving his lips in a sympathetic grimace. a sensitive emotion that reached the captain’s eyes and caused ghost to uncomfortably shuffle on his feet. he wouldn’t label it as ‘escapism,’ per se, just favors his hectic life. so when he chooses is forced to take his paid leave, ghost keeps himself active; repairing his plumbing system, fixing broken light fixtures, or testing any of his home appliances to ensure they’re working properly. he’s continually restless. likes strenuous and taxing work. makes it easier to fall asleep at the end of the day. and, by the off chance there’s absolutely nothing left to maintain in his compact flat (because a couple bare rooms, small porch, and no backyard is hardly a feat to clean), he’ll sit on his threadbare couch. might tap his fingers against his thigh while the living room clock obnoxiously ticks. the silence is deafening, ironically. his heavy-set eyes float to glance at the time and upon noticing this is the predicament he’ll be in for a couple more weeks, he abruptly gets up, pockets his keys, and makes his way to you.

ghost who stiffly stands at your front door when you answer the familiar knock. frankly, you’ve noticed the way he knocks on your door is strikingly different than how he does on missions. a strong rap but not powerful enough to scare you. it’s a sign that’s irrevocably him. served as an indication of his presence. it was up to you whether you wished to entertain his trivial inquiries. you peep your head out first, not quite believing the sight before you, and he raises a brow at your widened eyes. “simon?” you ask incredulously. his plain balaclava shifts when he catches how you intuitively open the door wider for him. to make room for him in your home. “remembered you asked about patchin’ and paintin’ your walls,” he explains like it’s ordinary to recall a conversation from weeks ago. astonishingly, he was right. you had, offhandedly, mentioned that you nailed picture frames to the wall which created noticeable holes that you didn’t know how to fix. you reminisce at how he held back an amused scoff when you emphasized that it was an honest mistake on your part. didn’t entirely think it likely that he’d personally fix it. “oh,” you glance at the rather large toolbox in his hand as your voice trails off, “like, you want to fix it right now?” he offers a singular nod as a response.

ghost who’s a second away from packing up his home repair tools/gadgets and heading back home when you glance behind you to stare at your place in contemplation. your lower lip caught in-between your teeth. he hesitates. isn’t accustomed to the sensation even when he has a weapon in his grasp. his mind whirs. the green-eyed monster of jealousy bleeding its way into his heart. “unless,” he dreads the words before they leave his lips, “you have a bloke to help ya with it?” his words are stiff. ghost shifts to lean against your doorframe in an attempt to ease off the bitterness in his voice. drawn to the movement, you can’t help but become aware of how he fills the entire entryway with his physique. your cheeks burn. a quick shake of your head followed by a resounding, “no, I don’t and I haven’t called a handyman either.” and it’s the perfect remedy to quell his discontent. his rigid posture loosens with the answer. while you step to the side to welcome him in, you hurriedly clarify with an awkward laugh, “had to think for a bit because I didn’t want you to see how much of a slob I am,” and hope that the joke lands. the universally polite comment to excuse the untidiness. ghost isn’t focused on the clutter, however. he’s basking in the fact that you’re not seeing anyone. offhandedly throws in a murmur of, “not a problem, sweetheart,” when he eases by you. and the way it borders raspy satisfaction reduces you to a puddle.

ghost who allows his gaze to wander to your decorated walls and dainty furniture while you explain where the tactless gaps in the walls were at. picture frames encasing friends and family were thoughtfully tacked onto the walls. trinkets lined the shelves to serve as memoirs. he stops himself from reaching up and picking one up for closer inspection. wouldn’t be fair if he did. truth be told, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d put up a photograph in his own flat. his loved ones and comrades stayed etched in his mind. recurrent and persistent. your place, on the other hand, seems well-inhabited, lived-in, and loved. he could almost spot the glow that you managed to sprinkle everywhere you went regardless of the situation. a feature that endlessly puzzled him. the addictive familiarity that accompanied you and made every place feel like home. ghost likes it. it’s comfy and cozy– you. and his mind slips into the possibility of adding a few pieces of him in your home. his work boots at the front door. his toothbrush residing beside yours in the bathroom. his shirt in your closet. “need any tools to help fix the damage I made?” your witticism forces him out of his train of thought. halts the delusion from straying too far. he’s quick to recover, however, and murmurs, “got everythin’ I need here,” while his eyes are solely fixed on you. a declaration that’s spoken as profound as a pass of thunder. and you wait with bated breath, mind whirring to reciprocate the sentiment but ghost is already trekking past you. he gets to work almost immediately by using a putty knife and a joint compound to patch up the holes in the walls. but goodness– his eyes. the raw dedication that manifests and bleeds out when he glances over to you. his words are a certainty that he grasps onto.

ghost who, unsurprisingly, fixes the blunders in the walls with ease. it’s a minor task that’s covered with a gentle hand and some paint. nothing that he can’t fix. but truthfully, the afternoon passes far quicker than usual. with fleeting smiles and stolen glances whenever his focus shifted to you. it was spotting your figure, halfway hidden behind the kitchen entryway, from the corner of his eyes. it was finding you tampering with his tools whenever his back was turned and hearing your soft laughter when he halfheartedly chided your roaming hands. a serenity disguised as a luxury that ghost could never afford. “want to hear a construction joke?” your voice fills the house; he prefers it that way. yet, your inquiry falls flat because he’s short-circuiting. with a hand on his shoulder, you lean forward to inspect the spot that he’s working on. forces the two of you closer. your breath is a hot puff against the shell of his ear and he visibly pauses. you’re warm. he turns his head sideways, purposefully staring ahead, and decides to indulge you, “sure.” “hm,” you hum and the pleasant noise goes straight through him, “I’m still working on it.” and when you’re rewarded with an amused huff from his lips due to the punchline, a grin stretches across your face. it’s a meager detail that he imagines as he trudged back (with heavy feet) to his bare flat later that evening. yet, it’s the only solace that allows him to sleep a little easier that night.

ghost who questions his rationale when he’s hauling his lawnmower and other tools onto the back of his pickup truck just for you. well, he supposes you never did ask him to mow your lawn but your front yard is in need of his care. his personal touch. afterall there were various benefits of keeping a lawn clean and tidy. encourages new grass growth and deters pests– or so he justifies. surely it’s not due to the appreciative smile you throw him when you tug your curtains back to find him trimming the edge of the grass. he hears the click of the window opening before your voice calls out to him, “you didn’t need to, si!” but ghost has never given half an effort to seek your favor. lives his life in extremes. so he spares you a glance while genuine words leak from his mouth that he attempts to mask in his surly voice, “jus’ wanted to.” and hastily wretches the starter cord on the lawnmower so it roars to life. pretends not to catch onto your longing stares when the sun’s rays are scorching and he’s compelled to shed a couple layers off. sure, you had tasks at hand rather than blatantly gawking but it could wait. and he didn’t particularly mind the attention. especially when you’re seated by the window so prettily with your face perched atop your hand. admiration pooling in your wide eyes. you watch with bated breath as he one-handedly tugs off his bulky sweater to reveal a fitted black shirt and dirty jeans. a combination that has you visibly gulping as he continues pushing the machine across the lawn. he’s a tantalizing brew of brawn and power. a darkness that you wish to traverse upon. satiates you with a knowing look when he stretches and the fabric of his shirt is pulled taunt across his broad chest. and he huffs in delight when you hurriedly reach out to yank the curtains closed.

ghost who picks you flowers (weeds) but doesn’t know the difference. he ends up discovering a clump of golden dandelions growing near the edge of your fence and decided to pluck them. pinches the stems in between his fingers until it breaks. ends up harvesting a handful of them. the question is: what does he do with them? he saunters over to your front door, raps his knuckles against it, and patiently waits for you to answer. of course. then, he hands the dandelions to you, unblinking but brimming with good intentions. because he’s not aware that dandelions are the most notorious weeds that many desire to get rid of. just acknowledges that they’re pretty and you’re pretty– so it only makes sense. another gift for you. anything for you. he watches as you absentmindedly twirl the stems in your grasp, speechless. and, without warning, he’s flushed for a reason far beyond just the weather. a terrible queasiness that was unlike any he’s experienced. his mannerisms are fidgety, mind itching to leave, and save him the humiliation of offering you weeds. but then your lips break into a wide smile. a dazzling one. knocks the breath out of his lungs. you’re uttering repeated ‘thank you’s’ though, clearly too distracted to notice his predicament, before scurrying into your kitchen. he’s left stunned while you call out, “how did you know I have a pretty vase to match with these?”

ghost who’s knocking at your door in the early mornings, greets you with a gruff, “mornin’,” and slinks past you into your home. doesn’t even pause despite the fact that it’s barely the crack of dawn and the sky is still hazy from the remnants of last night. the birds are barely tweeting out to each other, still testing to find a harmony to start the day. you’re as bright as the sun, however, when he offers a glance to you. an expression of stupor and excitement conveyed on your face due to his arrival. he’s stopped by a couple times now yet the warm buzz never dims: if anything, it flourishes like the row of flowers he planted on your front porch. vibrant and all-consuming. “still finding stuff to fix, si?” you joke while tilting your head. you stop him by the kitchen counter just as he’s about to state that everything looks maintained for now. “‘course,” he rumbles as his gaze sweeps to you, “soon you won’t need me though.” his statement is heavier than he expected and he opens his mouth to thwart the abrupt negativity but you beat him to it. the words tumble from your lips, “pretty sure I can always find something here that needs to be fixed.” your voice is soft as you add, “just as long as you want to stay.” he watches as your eyes flicker to the floor but it’s too late. ghost has already seen the tenderness that belongs wholly to him. your vulnerability that he wishes to cradle in his grasp. his hands clasp and unclasp by his sides before he finally mentions, “your fence needs fixin’ today. don’t want the strays comin’ in and fuckin tramplin’ on everything.”

ghost who’s true to his word and tirelessly works to replace your fence posts even in the scorching heat. scratches the back of his neck while muttering something about how they’re rotted on the bottom. and it’s almost hypnotizing to observe how he works. methodically checking each panel’s angle to see how severe it is. he detaches the surrounding pickets and stringers from each post in order to pull the wooden planks out. it’s demanding manual labor, more exhausting than his previous projects, which is why he requests your help. “just need ya to hold these up for me and I’ll straighten out the rest. can you do that for me, pup?” he explains as he hands you a singular fence post. and you try– you really do since he asked so nicely– but the wood is coarse against your fingertips and the sweltering sun hits the nape of your neck too harshly. you huff, voice bordering a whine, “I can’t do this anymore, si.” and ghost, the saint he secretly is, just raises his head to peer up at you. he’s currently on his knees, denim jeans caked in dirt, and dripping with enough sweat that the edges of balaclava curl at the edges to expose slivers of pale skin. “be good for me, will ya?” an inquiry that sounds more like a command due to his thick accent. his dark eyes search for yours, squinting in the sun’s rays, before he goes back to digging around the base of the fence post. however, when even the rare sight of his bare skin does little to serve as a reward against the extreme heat, you’re pouting again, “can’t we do this another day–” “oi,” he interrupts you when his large hand blindly reaches back to clamp over your knee. his thumb moves to caress the inner portion of your knee and you can vaguely discern how each of his fingers press against your skin. featherlight touches that sear your skin. his gaze snaps to yours, a dark brow arching at your unwillingness to move. the next demand leaves his lips in a low, tempting voice, “behave.”

ghost who’s a sucker for your large, beseeching eyes and only shakes his head when you prance back into your house. you’re humming a light tune when you skip up the steps, away from the harsh weather, and leaving him to continue angling fence posts alone. it’d be a crime for him to deny your wish. and it’s not like he bends to your every whim. sometimes. he huffs, half in amusement and half in disbelief, before hauling another slab of wood. it’s not like the task was terribly difficult. he’s proficient– a machine that rather enjoys ruthless duties. just assumes that teamwork would lessen the strenuous work. and having your company was always pleasant. he’s in the act of lifting another fence post when he spots you bounding towards him, a glass cup in your hands, and a radiant grin on your face. his heart flips. pounds against his chest like a sledgehammer beating against fragile wood. “made some lemonade,” you offer and raise the glass to him, “for the hard worker.” notices the hesitant tremble in your fingers and your sudden shyness compels him to inwardly crumble. like you weren’t already the cause of his peace. there’s a swirly straw and a decorative umbrella in the drink which catches his attention. calloused fingers skimming the edge of the vibrant garnish, he’s silent. has never gotten this treatment from another person. it's foreign to him but not unwanted. his eyes are unblinking, caught in a trance, before he’s murmuring honest appreciation for your generosity.

ghost who prods, a bit of humor in his voice, as he sips at the beverage, “a bit sweet, yeah?” coerces himself to ease the smirk that threatens to overtake his face when he recognizes how your eyes widen in alarm. recognizes the panic that spreads within you when you quickly suggest, “is it? let me try.” and he’s more than happy to comply. wordlessly edges the straw between your glossy lips so you can take a sip. half-lidded eyes trained on how your lips curl around the straw, an action that serves as his newest vice. one that he’s certain will take ages to treat. constant time that’d be spent with you. always you. “you’re right. it’s kinda too sweet,” you naively remark, flicking your eyes up at him. you’re so sweet to him– soft voice and all. he’s not looking at you, however. no, ghost lifts the straw to take another sip and as he pulls away, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. to chase after the taste of you. memorizing it. saccharine and gloss. a primal act that has you aching for more. “m’fault then,” his amused voice was snuffed by his blank expression as he gently gripped your jaw. you watch as he slowly blinks, blond lashes sweeping against his cheek, and lowly hums, “forgot I like sweet things.”

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty #simon riley imagine #cod x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost cod #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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bitterchocoo · 23 days

Note

Hello! I have been reading everything you post and I love the way you write.

I would like to request Aventurine to meet a Child who suffered from the same past as him and because of that the child never smiles and his eyes lack shine. Only if you want, of course. Thank you for your time🫂!

Kilmer

Aventurine | Child M. Reader (Platonic)

----------

"I'm worried now this is the new worst low of my life. Conveniently, heaven allows such things to exist with no punishment."

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It's just a transaction.

It was just a transaction.

Until he saw the child standing next to the person he was making a deal with.

He stood there, completely motionless, straight as a pole. He doesn't slouch, he doesn't move, he stands still like a statue next to the old man wearing a black suit. If he was the man's son he would be sitting on one of the sofas, probably goofing off or action entitled. But this child..

He just stands there with a blank expression, his eyes not even reflecting the light in the room. They look so dull. So lifeless.

The man seems to have noticed Aventurine's gaze on the child as he chuckles. "I see he caught your interest, like my newest toy?"

Toy..? This caught his attention as his eyes scanned the child. He seems emotionless, only there to stand and act pretty, given how expensive and luxurious his suit appears to be.

Like a little trophy.

"Haha! What a catch right? I'll say he's worth the price!"

Price...? Does he mean—"You bought him?"

"He was in the auction! Can't you believe it? They say he's the last of his kind too! How exotic!"

....

......Last of...

Aventurine's smile dropped as his expression became unreadable.

----------

The second time Aventurine saw him was at the hotel during the banquet. He saw the child standing alone with his back against the wall and a champagne glass in hand. Seeing this, he decided to approach him. "You look too young to be drinking that."

He didn't reply.

"Your suit looks nice, is it polyester?"

No response.

'This is getting awkward..' Aventurine thought, averting his gaze away as he thought of how to get the child to talk. The child glanced up at Aventurine, scanning him before finally speaking up. "You're the man from before.."

His voice is hush, almost like a whisper, and is awfully monotone. So flat. So bland. As if there's no life at all.

"Ah! Yes, I am Aventurine, the one who talked to your.. uh.. caretaker.." He fell silent once more before replying. "...[Name].."

"[Name]! What a lovely name."

Aventurine scanned the child, looking at him up and down. His hairstyle and suit is still the same and his stoicism too. Then his gaze landed on the boy's neck. He saw something poking through his collar and out of curiosity Aventurine looked a little closer.

[Name] seems to notice his gaze and turned his head away, a little uncomfortable by the staring. But as he turned his head, it only gave Aventurine a full view of the thing he was trying to see and that's when he realized something.

It's a tattoo. No... a series of numbers. An actual serial number is tattooed onto the boy's neck.

This revelation makes Aventurine subconsciously put a hand on his neck, on his own marking that was burned onto him a long time ago.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x male reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr x male reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine x male reader #x male reader #x reader #platonic

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sprout-fics · 10 months

Note

have you ever dabbled in Omegaverse CoD?? If you’re comfortable I’d love some spicy headcanons about Alpha 141 with their Omega reader 🤭

Oh don't even get me STARTED-

Omegaverse TF141 Headcanons

(Part One: How it Begins)

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Hidden designations, Alpha! John Price, Alpha! Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Beta! Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Omega! John 'Soap' MacTavish, Omega F! Reader, Emergency heat, Illegal suppressants

Masterlist

So first of all, I have a hard time imagining all four men are alphas

Primarily because I believe in the gospel that is Omega Soap

The idea of being underestimated because of his designation, of being rebellious of authority due to it and rising the ranks to prove his commanding officers wrong, of possibly even concealing himself because of the stereotypes involved is GOLD

Soap is also an attention whore, is very tactile and affectionate and outgoing, and I just feel like Omega suits him better than Alpha or Beta

We don't need to argue about Price. This man is an Alpha. No debate. Assured. Commanding. Feral. Protective. Yet gentle and indulgent when he can be.

Gaz I think can be pretty versatile, but for the sake of team dynamics and figuring out how they all blend together, Beta suits him best. He's calmer, keeps his cool under fire, and is in many ways more emotionally attuned than Soap. He's a steadying presence that's needed within the volatility of the other three, and they adore him endlessly for it

Ghost, for the sake of these headcanons, is an Alpha. However I think there's a whole realm of exploration in regards to him being a hidden omega. Details on that at a later time.

You, however, are an Omega

You, like Soap, concealed your designation in the military to avoid questions. You take a rigorous amount of suppressants, allow yourself to be perceived as a beta. Under the radar. Quiet. Reserved. Trying to not draw attention.

That changes when you're in the field with the 141 and things go very very badly.

It's an extended mission. You'd packed a month's worth of heat suppressants, can live off the lower quality ones given in supply drops along the way. You're there as an asset, a specialist, and there's a distance between you and the team that you don't mind. As long as you don't attract their attention and reveal yourself things will be fine

Except they aren't fine. In fact, they go to shit

Your camp is ambushed. You lose your kit in the scuffle, try to scramble for it under the hail of gunfire but Ghost grabs you by the scruff and snarls to leave it

You have no choice. You're hauled away, watching your kit vanish into the darkness, your heat suppressants alongside it

It takes a few days for the effects to settle in, and when they do it's hard

You haven't had a heat in years, and the withdrawal of the supplements you've been swallowing gives you a withdrawal whiplash that sends you into a delirious, feverish haze

You try and push them away, try and say you're fine, but you've been made

Soap is the first to figure it out. He knows that scent like he knows himself. He plays arbitrator alongside Gaz, tries to keep you hydrated and fed, keeps Ghost and Price well at bay. They're respectful, of course, sympathetic no doubt, but they're glad for Gaz and Soap running interference

Unfortunately it becomes clear pretty fast that things are quite dire

You've been taking illegal suppressants for far too long in an attempt to conceal your designation. They're illegal for a reason, because once your supply runs out, the heat you go through could be fatal

Price intervenes first

He's gentle, reassuring, firm in your feverish, wrecked state. You look at him with watery eyes, drink in his scent and beg him please-

He gives you what you need. Slow, firm thrusts, dragging wanting little cries from you as he ruts you with precise, rolling presses of his hips into yours

He has Gaz on standby, makes sure that his captain doesn't hurt you, doesn't lose himself. Your head is braced on his lap, your tears of pleasure wiped away by his thumbs as he hushes you "I know. I know doll. You're okay. Gonna take care of you."

It's not enough. You're consumed by sickening heat, and eventually Ghost is forced to step in too

He fills the ache in way Price is reluctant to, refuses to do as your superior officer. Ghost involves himself in the role, tells himself it's to save you, to keep you alive

But when you moan and whine under him so pretty like that, he has a hard time holding back

After, Soap holds you, shushes into your hair as you whimper and whine, as Ghost and Price debate about abandoning the mission so they can call for med-evac. It's Soap's hands on you that help quell the ache, provide a brief respite from the all consuming blaze inside you

It takes days for your heat to settle, and in those days you're lost in a buttery haze of flesh and wetness and moans as the men try and see to you, try and tell themselves it's only clinical, try to refuse the fact that they're falling for you

You wake up back at base, and in the days that follow you barely leave your room, waiting for you to be called down to someone's office and dismissed from your role, turned out of the military for hiding your designation

Instead you're summoned by Price, and in his office are the others

"No one will ever know." He promises you, low and sincere. "You have our protection as long as you want it."

You know years later that this was the moment you accepted your fate, took a single step towards them that would lead to the claims against your skin, each of them bearing your own mark in turn. Claimed.

In this moment you look up at them, again echo that singular desperate plea for them to stay.

"Please."

#poly 141 x reader #omegaverse #modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #omegaverse dynamics #thursday night thots #I have many. Many thoughts about omegaverse 141 dynamics #I have invested far too much time into this please PLEASE don't get me started #gender nuetral reader

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natalievoncatte · 15 days

Text

Few moments in Alex’s life would stick out like this one. There was a rising panic in her throat, pulsing against her airway. Panic and grief gripped her like icy hands, working to strangle, and she wasn’t sure if what she choked down was a sob or vomit. Her hands trembled as they held the paper. She hadn’t thought of this.

The letterhead read simply, PAST DUE- FINAL NOTICE.

With everything going on, she’d simply forgotten about the matter until she swung by the loft. She should have sent Kelly, should have set up something earlier to deal with this. Kara was six months behind on her rent and she was going to be evicted if she didn’t pay.

Which she never would.

Alex had quietly accepted, about a month ago, that Kara wasn’t coming home, that all their methods had been exhausted, that her sister was lost in an infinite, shattered Phantom Zone, never to be found. She’s finally gotten the martyrdom that she’d been unknowingly seeking since she arrived on Earth.

She was keeping it bottled up, because the others still believed, even Brainy, who had to know the odds.

Alex seethed with a towering rage. There were some nights when, lying awake in Kelly’s arms, she’d fantasize about how she’d punish Clark for failing Kara, or what she’d do to Lex Luthor if she got her hands on him. Sometimes it would even be J’onn she raged at, or Lena.

She saved them all so many times, threw her life and body and soul in front of all them as a shield and took on their misery and suffering on top of her own, and though it was like drops cast in the ocean of Kara Zor-El’s grief, she felt every blow, every loss. Alex’s falling tears stained the letter as she thought of every time Kara paced this apartment, excoriating herself for her failures whenever she couldn’t be in five disasters at once.

Alex didn’t want her to be a superhero. She didn’t want that need to throw herself between others and their own suffering to consume Kara’s life, but it had.

Not for the first time, Alex wished that Kara had just stayed on the ground and let her plane crash. It was a selfish, hateful impulse. Kara would never have let it happen and even if she had, something would have prompted her to put on that red and blue costume and fly. It was what she was for.

Alex raged anyway. Fuck that little shit Wynn for making her a costume. The little pervert probably just wanted to make her try shit on to see her half naked. Fuck J’onn for recruiting her, fuck Clark for abandoning her… and… and…

The paper crumpled and so did Alex, sobbing. This was all her fault. If only…

“Alex?”

She hadn’t heard Lena come in. She’d long ago given up heels. Hell, shed given up. She was a wearing a hoodie that Alex knew was Kara’s and her hair was in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck, and if asked when she last ate or sleep, she’d have lied. Alex already knew the answer: she ate when someone remembered to feed her and she slept on a cot in her lab as she tortured herself.

Lena was the only one that Alex couldn’t rage at because Lena was already punishing herself. Kara would be furious if she knew how they were letting Lena treat her health.

Without a word, Lena gently grasped the letter and Alex released it.

Lena read it, frowning.

Then she pulled out her phone.

“Jess, I have a task for you. I’m going to send you a pic of an eviction letter. I want you to pay off the back rent.”

“Lena,” Alex began.

Lena waved her off.

“I want the building. Set up some shell companies. No one can know it’s me. Try to negotiate so it looks legit, but they can name their price. I want it done by tonight.”

Lena hung up.

“This is her place,” Lena said, softly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Alex.

“Yes, I did. This is her place. She deserves to come back to it,” Lena dropped onto the sofa beside her. “I will never give up. I don’t care if I’m still trying to bring her home when I’m old and gray, it’ll be worth it to see her one more time.”

Alex felt a wave of grief overwhelming her.

“Besides,” Lena forced cheer into her voice. “I spent a billion dollars so I could hang out with her at work. What’s an apartment building?”

Alex jolted. It was as if she watched a wine glass, which had toppled and shattered and cast its contents across the floor, leap back into position. As if the shards of crystal returned to their proper places and the cracks sealed, and the wine splashed back to its proper place, not a single shimmering golden drop lost. When the understanding snapped into place, it was like a lightning bolt. She felt too large for her skin, and the fine hairs at the back of her neck stood, as though bearing a charge.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Lena was in love with Kara.

She could see it now. The love radiated from every pore of Lena’s skin, undulled by the grief that draped her like a nighted cloak, as gold shimmered untarnished beneath dust. Alex’s heart was about to break again.

“I have to get back to the lab.”

“Why are you here?” Alex said, softly.

“I was… I’ve been spending the night. I should have asked. I’m sorry.”

“Kara would want you to.”

Kara would want you to move on, Alex thought. She would want you to find someone and be happy and think only of her in fond memories. She would gladly martyr herself for you, too. You above all. She never stopped defending you even when…

Now there were two wine glasses, side by side, almost touching but not quite, promising a toast unsaid.

Oh.

Oh God.

Alex launched off the couch and threw her arms around Lena, holding her tight. Lena recoiled a little; she seemed to dislike hugs, almost like she didn’t understand them, even as she’d melted in Kara’s embrace dozens of times.

How had she been so blind?

“We’ll get her back,” Alex said.

“We will,” said Lena.

Later, Alex stood off to the side, her veins singing with unbridled joy after Kara released her from a full on, no-powers bear hug. She watched as the others embraced her and slapped her back and welcomed her home while Lena stared at here like she couldn’t believe she was real.

Limping, haggard, Kara suffered their joys with quiet reserve, pushing a little closer to her ultimate destination with each one until she stood in front of Lena.

The hug was awkward, tentative, but Kara thrust herself into it after a hesitant moment and Lena molded against her, the pair standing cheek to cheek a beat too long. Lena pulled back and Kara pulled after her, leaning in, only to dance back and do that awkward little shift.

“Kara,” Alex blurted. “For fuck’s sake, just do it.”

Kara looked at her, wide-eyed and a little betrayed. Kara was beyond honest to a fault: Alex knew that after Kara nervously told her about the infamous “I flew here on a bus “ incident. Kara was honest to the core of her very being, sickened by the act of lying.

To Alex’s surprise, it was Lena’s hands on Kara’s shoulders that turned her away. Kara looked back and her and Lena brought her hands to Kara’s cheeks, resting her palms against the abnormally pale skin of her face. Kara froze for two heartbeats and then gently put her hands on Lena’s sides and pulled her in, there bodies slotting together as their lips found one another, Kara leaning over Lena a little more with the added height of her boots as Lena collapsed into her, tears glittering on her cheeks. The kiss carried on until Alex cleared her throat.

Everyone in the room was stunned save Alex.

“Guys,” she said, “let’s give them a little privacy, huh? We can celebrate later.”

As the others filed out of the room, Lena raised her head from where it had lain on Kara’s shoulder and mouthed a silent thank you.

#supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl #supercorp fanfic #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #karlena #supergirl fanfic #ficlet #return from the phantom zone #grief and joy #or as I call it: groy #angst and fluff #angst with a happy ending #first kiss #first supercorp kiss #supercorp first kiss

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blackopals-world · 11 months

Text

I've Found Home

Fem!Yuu and Twisted Cast

(Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8)

Implied relationship

She moved on. She had to and had every reason to. She had someone who relied on her.

Warnings:hurt-comfort, Angst to heal your soul. Healing those and abandonment issues. Happy ending I promise. Don't read if you are not ready to cry. Did not proof read, wrote this late a night, sick and half asleep. Sorry.

Move on.

Forget.

There was no going back.

You chose this.

You wanted this.

After three years of living in another world Yuu couldn't adjust easily to her old life.

A life that no longer exists. So she began building a new one.

She found a good price on a place near the mountains. Private but not isolated. She had the money after her book deal.

People would never believe her story so she wrote fantasy novels. She felt closer to her friends this way but more lonely all the same. She couldn't share the truth with anyone and could never talk about them as though they were real.

Still, she could write new stories with new characters to forget.

Life had been quiet. Eat, sleep, write, watch TV, read and do it all again. Sometimes getting food deliveries, read fan mail and get a call to two. It was decent life. Something Idia would love.

He's probably taken over STYX by now. I bet he and Ortho are doing great together.

Nevermind, she could probably cook something. Eating instant meals was probably ruining her health. Vil would kill her if he knew.

...

Food can wait. She wasn't that hungry anyways.

The garden! Yes! She had to tend the garden! She had ordered a spring bundle to plant.

The tag said it had some tulips, mums, begonias, and specialty white roses.

Nevermind... forget it. She should take a nap. A lazy day never hurt anyone. Even beasts can afford to sleep.

...

Yuu decided to leave. She couldn't take this anymore. If she got one more reminder she'd collapse. Their faces were ingrained in her mind and guilt burned under her skin.

Life was funny you know. You don't know what come next.

Yuu certainly didn't.

She hiked up the mountain trying to forget every time Jade would drag her to go foraging with him. Every late-night walk she had with Malleus. Every magic carpet ride with Kalim.

It wasn't fair! Why did she have to go through this? She wanted to see them again. What did she do to deserve this?

She was good! She was kind! She just wanted to go home! Is that so wrong? She worked hard! She made a name for herself! She should have the life she wanted and be able to enjoy that life.

But she missed them...

Unknowingly Yuu had dropped to her knees and crying. Only the forest could hear her and perhaps it took pity on her.

(Warning: If you are sensitive to child abuse or dead animals please don't read on.)

When her tears were gone and her cries faded there was a response.

A different cry. High pitched and gurgling. The kind that every woman knew in an odd instinctual way. The kind that sets off every alarm in your head and makes every hair stand on end. A baby.

She ran towards it praying to God that this wasn't a mountain lion. It wasn't though.

She found a small shack off the path. It was surrounded by trash. Must have been occupied by squatters. Said squatters seemed to have vacated at least a few days ago.

Yuu muscled open the makeshift door. The crying had turned into unfamiliar cracking breathless howls. Their voice must have given out a while ago after who knows how long. Hours, days...any longer would mean death.

Yuu searched and found a bunker of sorts under the floorboards.

She found a soggy bare mattress, a few scattered crayons, a ball and-oh God, that smell. It was a rotting cat. Poor thing must have been here for weeks. There was an empty cat food bowl nearby. Little drawings littered the floor. Ones of a smiling child with a smiling cat.

The whimpering cries continued and drew Yuu forward. She found them curled up in a corner. A rope was tied around their leg. It was a child. They were wrapped in soiled clothes, had matted hair, and emaciated.

Yuu felt her heart break again. This poor baby. Who could do this.

He looked at her with fear and hope. He wanted-no needed to be saved. He was probably no older than 3. He had no understanding of what was happening to him. His tears had marked his face as the only place was covered in a layer of dirt.

"Hey, is okay I'm here to help. I'm going to take you away now. Is that okay? We'll get you some food." Yuu tried to keep her voice even to not scare him.

The boy crawled over to the place of the dead cat. And began shaking it.

"Nina!Nina!" He wailed trying to wake her up.

He didn't know she was dead. He didn't even understand what death was.

"I'm sorry Nina can't come with us." Yuu said pulling him gently by the back of his ragged shirt.

But children don't understand these things.

"Nina! No! Nina!" He yelled horsey.

"Shh, it's okay. Don't worry I'll come back for her later. I promise." Yuu hushed.

She could bury her in the garden. He clearly loved her a lot and the poor kitty deserves that much.

After untying the rope Yuu lifted the boy into her arms and carried him home. He made almost no noise as he buried himself in her arms.

Yuu promised herself that she'd never let something like this happen to him again. He would never be abandoned again, he'd never go hungry again, and he'd be loved. She'd love him, she swore it.

"My son." She whispered to no one at all but I affirmed everything she felt.

He needed a name. The case worker didn't have one for him on file. She got to choose one.

For a writer she struggled to find one.

Mal, Elliot, Leo, Cecil, Bishop, Ali, Jacob, Carter, Azure, Jess

Only one name stuck

Grimm

"Grimm! It time for bed. Grab a book if you want me to read it to you." Yuu said walking up the stairs.

Grimm scanned his bookshelf for one of his favorites. The titles were: "The Rose Queen", "The King of Beasts", "The Wishing Star", "The sea witch", "The Sand Serpent", "The fairy Gala", "The Little Robot", "Magic Cat", "The beautiful Queen", and "The Underworld and back again"

Grimm had a favorite right now. The newest among the children's book collection Yuu had written. She pulled it off the shelf and ran back to bed.

Yuu could barely keep up these days. Grimm was fast but Yuu had practice.

She pulled the covers over him and read the title as Grimm snuggled up with his favorite stuffed animal. It was another merchandise stuffed animal. It was a big gray cat with a stripped bow and purple crystal around its neck.

Grimm named it Nina and took it everywhere. Along as it comforted him Yuu said nothing.

"The Lonely Dragon: Once upon a time there was a powerful dragon prince who lived in a land far far away." Yuu began.

"But the dragon isn't lonely forever. He meets the lost princess and they become best friends! Oh and the Silver knight comes in stop the dragon here!" Grimm interrupted leaning over his mother.

" Well if you want to tell the story." Yuu sighed.

When Yuu finished Grimm asked her something.

"So the dragon isn't lonely anymore?" He looked at her with wide eyes.

"No, he has many friends and rules over a nice kingdom," Yuu said in a hushed voice as shifted his pillow to make him lie down.

"What about the lost princess?"

"The lost princess found her way home. She said goodbye to her friends and is where she belongs now."

"But is she lonely? Without all her friends?"

"She used to be but now she has a home. She misses her friends but she's happy."

"I wish I could meet her. I'd be her friend and she'd never be lonely again."

"I know, I'd bet she'd be so happy. Goodnight, baby."Yuu turned off the light as she kissed Grimm's cheek

"Night Mama." Grimm said kissing his mother back.

When Yuu left the room she kept the door open just a bit so Grimm wouldn't be afraid of the dark.

She took a deep breath. Maybe she shouldn't have written the Lost Princess series but it was so well loved these days what could she do?

Still, she could relive those days for just a brief moment and smile.

She made her way to the study to go back to writing her new book when a knock came from downstairs.

Yuu cautiously made her way to the door and pressed an ear to it to listen to who it might be. Forgetting she had a peephole. A familiar voice called her name from the other side.

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lialacleaf · 9 months

Text

To Care For A Woman

Chapter 1

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: You join the army as a last-ditch effort to avoid destitution, but when you sustain an injury protecting Lieutenant Ghost and earn yourself a medical discharge, you're stuck all over again. Or maybe not... Warnings: Tension, Simon wants to care for you, small reader, a little bit spicy but not NSFW, man worrying about a woman's safety, typical cannon violence, deception I'm sorry it's unedited...

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Simon's POV

A fear tactic. That's what Johnny called it. The infamous Ghost. The Reaper of The Night. The man, myth, and legend that was coming to act as a vengeful reaper and mercilessly take the lives of those who got in his way.

His reputation preceded him. A reputation he never intended to have. The point was never to be something for others to fear. A Ghost couldn't be seen. A Ghost couldn't be touched. Most importantly, a Ghost couldn't be hurt. Simon was safe if he was dead.

Until he wasn't.

You were just some stupid rooky who joined the army so they'd pay for your college tuition. You had the same sob story most people did. No money, no marital prospects, and not enough education to obtain a job that would sustain you in a struggling economy. No one was coming to save you, so you made a decision to save yourself.

"Mom and Dad were barely making things work financially, I couldn't be a burden anymore," you explained once as you sat next to Soap in the helicopter, your head barely reaching the shoulders of the men and women you were seated around.

It made Ghost's stomach drop, no, Simon's stomach. You were fragile and had no business having that battle rifle in your small, soft hands. People like you were supposed to have options. At least Simon believed so.

How was he supposed to give you orders as if he didn't know you had a higher chance of not making it back? He just wanted to leave you on base, wrapped up in bubble wrap for good measure. When he looked into your eyes there was still a softness there, a feminine light that hadn't been beaten out of you just yet. The idea of seeing it vanish terrified him. It made his chest ache.

You didn't need to know that however, and as far as anyone knew, Lieutenant Ghost despised you. He told you to secure the landing zone for when they got back or left you behind to keep watch on every mission possible. You were convinced the large, masked man saw you as a disgrace to the 141 and was embarrassed to have such a small fry on his team. At least that was the gossip you picked up here and there. He didn't want you to see any action, that much was clear.

"You're up late."

Simon glanced in your direction as he stirred the honey in his tea, his grip on the chipped mug, the porcelain stained on the inside from many years of holding hot coffee, tightening ever so slightly. You were seated in one of the kitchen chairs, legs folded in on yourself as you sipped at your own steaming mug.

He didn't respond and went about dumping his tea bag in the wastebasket. He needed to not look at you in your soft leggings that hugged your figure with that baggy 141 sweatshirt that despite being a size small was still too big for you. You'd be swallowed whole in his clothes, and that was a sight that a very primal part of his brain wanted to see.

There was something about you being so delicate that made him want to press his lips against the curve of your jaw and tell Price to go to hell for not assigning you more office work instead of sending you out with his men.

He had to keep his mind in his upstairs brain, however, lest he risk your life and others in the field. He wouldn't be responsible for you getting hurt.

"I'm sorry," you said all of a sudden.

"What for?" he didn't look up from his mug as he took a sip.

"For being...being a liability that you have to plan for."

He let out a tired sigh. "What happened to going to college?" he disregarded your apology.

"What?"

"Heard you tell Soap you joined the army so you could get into college, that clearly never happened."

You coughed awkwardly. "I got a little lost along the way." You didn't know what to study. Didn't know where to apply. Didn't know what you really wanted out of it other than a career that would make you money. "The 141 offered me a good salary, no need to waste tax dollars on a degree I wouldn't even know what to do with."

You shouldn't have to worry about that sort of thing. You should have someone taking care of all of that so you could read books, go on walks, and grow a garden. You didn't seem like the type who worked because they wanted to, you did it because you had to.

The part of Simon that had watched his mother go to work grueling hours at the local diner just to support his father's addictions hated that. The part of him that had watched her slowly lose her feminine glow and replace it with withered steel to accommodate the survival of herself and her boys stung. He wasn't supposed to feel this hurt. He was supposed to be a Ghost. But the overwhelming urge to care for you was making that difficult.

He set his tea down on the counter and let out a huff as he approached you. Your hair was wet, and you had clearly just come from the shower. He suspected you showered later to avoid the others, specifically the men.

And boy did that thought have him grinding his teeth. If you were his woman, you'd be using his own private quarters to clean up. No prying eyes, not even his own.

"What would you have done if none of that was of any concern?" he asked, and you let out a soft little laugh.

"You'd have me anywhere but here, huh?" you said with a raised brow.

Simon tilted his masked face downward to pin you with a stare that made you swallow thickly, brown eyes boring into your own.

He'd have you dolled up in his cabin back home doing whatever the hell you pleased, painting pretty pictures, baking sweet bread, he bet you would like riding horses too.

"I'd have you safe, y/n."

He didn't say another word to you as he turned around, picked up his mug, and left you to watch him go with wide eyes.

He didn't want to take you on the mission, but Price said they needed someone small enough to sneak in through the warehouse's ventilation system and gather intel.

Price told him not to worry, and that you were a clever girl. That didn't ease his mind in the slightest. He had the scope of his sniper trained on the building, watching for any alarming movement.

"Confirmed intel on the location of the arms dealer and their client, ready to regroup, L.T.?" you whispered into your radio.

"Affirmative, meet us at evac," he replied, motioning for Soap to follow him. The other soldiers under his command had been circling the warehouse from a distance, looking for any sign of trouble. He had just about allowed his shoulders to relax when the alarms started.

Ghost whipped his head around as a slew of curses left Soap's lips. "What'd the little lass do now?" he muttered, but Ghost didn't hear him, having already taken off towards the warehouse.

He was already planning how he was going to chew you out for not being careful enough when he saw trucks approaching in the distance. It wasn't you that set the alarms off, it was some rag-tag terrorist group on their way to rob the warehouse. And you were going to be right in the middle of it.

"L/N! What's your status?" he demanded over the radio. His men were already being pulled into the firefight. It wasn't until he was nearing the warehouse that he finally had eyes on you, your small form crouched behind a stack of crates.

"L/N, Move!" he shouted, providing you with enough cover to make a run for the evac. He watched as you took off, running as fast as your small legs could carry you. He was so distracted with you that the sting of the bullet in his shoulder came as a shock.

Seconds later he was knocked to the ground, by a kick to the back of his leg, and a strained grunt left his chest. His head snapped up as his attacker stood above him, prepared to finish him off with a bullet between his eyes.

But then he stopped, and Ghost's eyes narrowed at the sound of running feet slamming against the ground. He felt his heart sink watching you throw yourself at his attacker, knife in hand.

No. It wasn’t going to work. He was bigger than you, and you didn't have a clue what you were doing. You were going to die for him. Because of him. He'd never hated himself more.

He had to watch the man rip the knife from your hand and drive it into your knee, his anger boiling over as his attacker pushed you away as if you were as threatening as a sunflower stalk.

You fell to the ground in a sobbing heap, and that sound alone had Simon reaching for the man's sidearm despite the pain in his shoulder. There was a bullet in his throat before he even noticed that the Lieutenant was no longer lying flat on his back.

"L.T.? Where are you? Evac is here?" Soap's voice chimed over the radio, but Ghost ignored him as he hefted your small form into his arms.

"Shh shh, hold on f' me now. Done so good so far. Gotta finish the mission," he murmured as he squeezed you against his chest. "M' not leavin' you here," he promised, trudging towards the evac site.

"L.T.?" Soap tried once again, but Ghost didn't answer. It was too much to think, too much to hit the button on his radio as he tried to hold you in a manner that wouldn't make you cry out in pain.

"Almost there, love."

AN: Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! Next chapter will be in Reader's POV!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader

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