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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 8 months

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Early Riser (John Price x Reader) Smut

Based on the prompt: "Keep kissing me like that and we're gonna end up back in bed."

AN: Semi-inspired by the end of Season 1!Hotch who is excited to spend annual leave doing chores with his wife. Love it when a man enters malewife mode.

In other news, I'm gonna start a Price x Reader series soon! It's gonna be a lot of angsty pining so if that's your jam, I can't wait for you to read it!

Requests are open! Here's my guidelines to read before you send in a request and a list of kiss prompts if you're stuck for ideas.

Content warnings: Smut (18+ only, minors DNI), basically Price goes down on you in the kitchen. Reader is gender neutral and genitals described are gender neutral. No use of Y/N.

Masterlist // AO3 Version

Palms pressed into the cool granite countertop, you idly watched the space to the left of your kettle as it boiled. You had barely scrounged up the energy to leave your warm bed to get this drink; you did not have anything spare to be aware whilst you prepared it. The few aspects of your mind that were awake hoped this would fit the loophole of “a watched pot never boils” so that you could return to your room as fast as possible.

Finally, the water bubbled loudly and the switch flicked off. You poured a healthy amount into both your mug and the spare one you had for guests. Steam wafted up whilst carrying the strong scent of coffee; a splash of milk sweetened it before you prepared to stir in some sugar.

Something clamped down onto your right hip. You drew in a sharp inhale before it slid out slowly, relaxing as another hand mirrored its partner and the rest of John Price folded him up against you.

“Good morning,” You whispered.

“It is now.” John’s voice rolled off his tongue like a growl, deepened by his recent rousing from sleep. He paired his reply with a kiss on your shoulder. Briefly allowing his forehead to rest where his lips had been, he then kissed your aching neck. Your heart’s eager pulse greeted him.

“Keep kissing me like that and we’re gonna end up back in bed,” You warned, despite allowing his arms to trap you in a grip a boa constrictor would be jealous of.

John let out a gentle hum; he swayed you both from side to side in time with the clink of the spoon against your mug.

Then he mumbled, “Don’t need the bed.”

The teaspoon clattered on the countertop as his hands found their marks. Instinctively, your body keened against John’s, allowing him to rut into you whilst tenderly squeezing over your pyjamas.

Your voice came out a little whinier than expected, “Don’t want breakfast then?”

“Actually, I’m famished,” John said and his coarse facial hair tickled against your cheek, “Figured I should help myself.”

A laugh tripped over your tongue into a moan before you replied: “You’re horrible. Didn’t you get enough last night?”

“Never enough. Just ran out of steam.” Calloused fingertips found the gap between your sleep shirt and trousers. They spread warmth up your torso, cupping your chest, your shirt caught on his forearm.

“John,” You let your head fall back against him, “We have time.”

“Never enough,” he repeated. “Hate waking up and you’re not there.”

“You need me now?”

“Please.”

Freed from his grasp for a split second, you pushed the coffee cups into the sink, not caring about the spilt steaming liquid that glugged down the drain, then you shoved back the sugar pot and milk. John spun then lifted you onto the cool countertop. His body was drawn back against yours, returning his lips to your neck and the evidence of his affection he’d left last night. Your hips rose up as he yanked down your pyjamas and slid down on his knees. A grunt stuck in his throat; you held back a comment about his aging joints but not the smirk.

Instead, you scratched your nails through his hair, giving it a tender tug whenever he kissed your thigh. “You’re gonna clean this up after.”

His words were half lost against your skin, “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the gutters need clearing.” You could feel his lips twitch with mirth against you before he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter. “And the oven could use a scrub.”

“Make me a list.” His hands squeezed the meat of your legs to close them around his head.

A gentle sigh escaped you, “You’re so good to me.”

Looking up at you with bleary blue eyes, John whispered, “Nothing you don’t deserve.”

And, to prove his point, he rewarded you with his tongue, talented and tenacious.

#john price #john price x reader #john price fanfic #john price smut #smut #cod #cod fanfic #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod oneshot #cod smut #my writing #r: gen #wc: 1k<

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xappetites · 27 days

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point of intersection

John Price x f!Reader | Lieutenant John Price finds himself trying to resolve a hostage situation with nothing but a blessedly reasonable and cooperative diplomat and a bureaucratic system that's more concerned with covering their own ass than the lives left behind | word count: 3,421

1. the vault | Jakarta

The worst day of your life starts as any other does. The same chaos commute, the same boring paperwork of looking over everything the ambassador doesn’t have time —doesn’t deign himself— to deal with.

Rubber stamping in and rubber stamping out, the familiar monotony of bureaucratic work on foreign soil.

Then, as noon crawls around through the mud of the day, the alarms go off.

You know they’re there, have known, in theory, all along. This office pod carved out of an ancient bank building was sold to every soul as the state of the art in security the moment you set foot in its checkerboard lobby. That doesn’t mean that the sound isn’t anything but confusing for the first couple seconds of it, followed closely by the screaming. The very many footsteps bolting away from the center of the building, towards the stairs, running for the exits. And it has you standing before you fully process it, phone and wallet in hand.

You try to follow the herd, away from the ambassador’s corner office, past the bathroom door that swings open almost in your face only to show a haggard George Ogilvey, the First Secretary to your Second Secretary, with his shirt still half out of his waistband and a laptop bag hanging from each shoulder.

Against all odds, George smiles at you. He’s charming, handsome and a right bastard if you’ve known him for more than half an hour, but he sort of likes you. Treats you like the embassy’s pet because you keep to yourself and do your work; not to mention, you look younger than you are and report mostly to him. So you figure it feeds his ego to think of himself as your ‘mentor’ in the ‘scary, crime ridden streets’ of Jakarta. Like he’d know the streets of Jakarta, taking every lunch with the ambassador on plush sofas. Or, frankly, as if London is any better.

“Here,” he shoves one of the bags your way, nearly catching you in the knees with it, “let’s go.”

It’s instinct too, to toss the strap over your shoulder, shuffling sideways to make way for him and all his bluster.

“What's happening?”

“An emergency? I have no more details, caught me in the middle of something, dear.”

He’s a step ahead of you down this horrid long hallway, so he luckily doesn’t see the sneer you don’t have the wherewithal to hide at the moment. He should know, he has to. George was supposed to be in the archives down on the ground floor, a straight shot from both a bathroom and the fire door to the back of the building, with no need to risk his hide to reach the first floor unless he knew he had to get these computers out no matter what.

“Weren’t—” the little color band in his calendar comes up in your head like a neon sign, “weren’t you supposed to be with the interns in archives?”

“Nature called. I’m sure the kids heard the alarm too.”

You stare at his back as he rounds the corner to the main stairway, blending in with the stragglers. You both know that’s horseshit. The archive room, windowless and musty and hell hot most of the year, used to be the bank's vault; the walls are too thick to drill through, so there’s no PA system installed in it and the sound is so deadened there that the building could collapse around it without anyone inside even noticing.

A gunshot rings out from the front, a chorus of screams and on its heels a shout in accented english:

We are looking for your ambassador, the rest of you have thirty seconds to leave the building.

The voice, a man, repeats his sentence, louder this time, with another shot to make his point. George looks back at you, more than a little annoyed that you won’t just be a good little girl and panic so he can rescue you.

“C’me on—“ he reaches for you, waving his hand in the universal gesture for ‘move’ . But you’re not frozen, or whatever it is that he assumes, you’re just making a split second decision.

And maybe it’s because of that assumption that he can hardly call out for you when you turn in the opposite direction, sprinting for the emergency stairs that run throughout the back of the building.

It’s insane, you’re aware, the sudden rage in your chest that has you stumbling forward out of sheer stubbornness, narrowly avoiding a wipe out when you hit the landing. Barreling your way past the heavy door to archives, propped open with the usual old broomstick.

You sour the mood immediately. Three sets of eyes look up, alarmed, to take in the absolute mess you are at the moment. But you can’t even verbalize the danger you’re all apparently in before the same voice that boomed instructions reaches you. Which means he’s close, too close— enough for you to catch a glimpse of body armor reflected on a nearby glass door.

Now, in clear sharp russian, the man seals your fate; leaving you no choice but to kick the broom away and lock the vault door behind you.

Seal the building, find the ambassador, get rid of whoever’s left.

…

Calling them kids is a bit unfair, actually. The youngest of this group of fresh graduates is no more than four years your junior. All of 20 years old and stuck in a shithole office halfway around the world, with russian paramilitary on the other side of the door and nothing but you, holding up your hands to shush them, on this one.

“What—?”

Someone tries, only to have you shoving your open palms more aggressively in their general direction. It’s silent, eerily, for a second that feels eternal. Then the locking mechanism clicks, sliding like an icy drop of panic down your spine. The handle jiggles in your grip but it doesn’t give, and the harsh buzzing that indicates a wrong code blares through the room.

It happens again: click, jiggle, buzz. And once more for a third time. Those are the sole sounds you can make out, no muttering or nothing, though you’re sure there has to be talking out there. You’d settle for simple swearing at this point just to have a better idea of what’s happening.

There’s not even footsteps when everything stops, merely the fact that you can’t stay this tense forever, so you end up slumped against the cool metal of the door.

“What the hell?”

Now it’s a curt whisper, from the same girl as before. Pearl, you think, or Opal, maybe? It’s not like you’re exactly familiar with any of them, you haven’t spoken to a single one for more than passing pleasantries. They exist in the periphery, spending their half days here doing whatever admin work other people don’t feel like doing. Which inspires in you some notion of siblinghood, but nothing more than the kind of empathy your row of prefabs shared throughout your childhood back home. The bone deep surety that you’re all stuck together in a less than desirable spot.

“There’s people out there, armed, all men, I think. Russian.”

You try not to make it a shocked mumble, still catching your breath as physical sensation comes back to you in pieces. The sweat running down the back of your neck, the soreness of rolling your ankle at the foot of the stairs and the strap digging into your shoulder.

That tickles an idea in your mind, has you moving to set the bag down and wrestle the laptop free.

“Are you—? Is this a fucking joke?”

The computer in your hands is a Macbook Pro, maxed specs, from late last year. You remember because it had fallen on you to put in the request for them. Twinsies, one for the ambassador and one for good ol’ George.

“Do I look like I’m taking the piss?” You blink up at Pearl/Opal, laptop hoisted in the crook of your elbow while the other hand digs around the back of the nearest desk for an ethernet cable, begging to whatever might be listening for a flash of luck on this shit day.

“We didn’t hear any alarms”

“Nor the gunshots, I’m sure, or you wouldn’t still be in this room.”

That comment sends a chill across the space, stunning everyone where they stand, including you. It makes you consider that perhaps you were supposed to offer some comfort in this situation, older and higher up the bureaucracy chain that you are.

“It’s the fucking thick walls,” you amend, much softer, “good thing is that they can’t hear us out there either.”

The cheery tune of the computer startup finally shakes them into a flurry of hushed questions you have no answers for. Like ‘why are they here’ and ‘what are we gonna do’ .

You don’t know . But at least the picture that comes up is a very professional portrait of the ambassador. And now this is an answer to your prayers, because this is the one password you’re privy to; and this is the only laptop in the building with full open access to the security systems.

Funny, a stray corner of your brain thinks, that the ambassador was so insistent on blowing the budget on good cameras just to catch his own kidnapping in hi def.

The feed pulls up, tiny windows to the world outside this fucking vault, each with their own little button for sound, all except for the very office three of the russians are currently breaking into. It’s unsettling for it to be this quiet, watching both sides of the fancy double doors as they bend and give in a rush of motion. Black gear against crisp white shirt and no doubt of who’ll win in the end.

“What are you doing?”

“They have the ambassador.” You croak it out, gesturing vaguely at the screen, flinching against your will at imagining the sound of the fists currently meeting flesh in the ambassador’s office. “The sink in the tea corner still works, right?”

Someone nods, so you stand as steady as you can, walk straight as possible over to the adjacent room, the weird amalgamation of server room and kitchen that keeps the tiny metal drawers of the safe room, stacked floor to ceiling over the far wall, as a postmodern sort of decoration. You run your hands under the blessedly cold water for a second or two and then offer your breakfast back up, the one good thing this god awful day hadn’t taken from you.

…

You’re still heaving when Matthew, whose name you only know because George has taken to call him Mild Matt behind his back, comes looking for you.

He doesn’t offer sympathies, gladly. Just stands in the doorway looking like he doesn’t quite know how to interrupt your very important meeting with the contents of your own stomach.

“Pearl’s counted the men,” he watches you nod and swish a mouthful of water to try and focus back on solutions to the problem, instead of the blood pouring out of the ambassador’s nose, “there’s seven the cameras can see, two on the back and the main doors and the three in the ambassador’s office.”

“Okay–”

It shouldn’t matter, at this point you’re sure the normal annoyances of sharing a limited space are the least of anyone’s problems; but you fish out a half stale peppermint cream out of a bowl anyway, to try and wash away the taste and smell of vomit before you step back into the archives room.

“What’s— what— why“

You look at Matthew where he follows you, really take a second to see what George considers mildness and you only now understand as a mind running too fast for the mouth that speaks for it.

“I really don’t know, I wasn’t thinking we’d end up trapped in the building, being honest.”

“So—” Pearl looks up from the computer, catching wind of the conversation, but the girl standing next to her is faster this time. Marie, with the same name as your sister; who you keep your distance from, to avoid finding out if she has the same personality too.

“Did Ogilvey leave us? On purpose?”

Bile rises again in your throat, this time with the same sort of rage that got you in this mess.

“Yes,” it comes out like a croak, hoarse and sharp, “I ran into him coming out of the bathroom upstairs.”

“There’s a bathroom right next door here—“

“I know, but those were up there.”

Marie doesn’t deflate when you point out the computer, just turns to Pearl looking so hopeful that you doubt for a second if what came out of your mouth was, in fact, what you meant to say.

“Okay, well if they want the computer we can give it to them and be done with this, right?”

“Wait—“ both remaining interns beat you to the punch, Pearl clinging to the laptop and Matt moving in to block the path to the door.

“They won’t hesitate to kill us, if we give them what they want they’ll have no reason to let us live.”

The sentence beats a rough rhythm against your ribs, spilling rushed out of you. It’s reasonable, it’s the correct response; but you can’t hold it against Marie that she throws her hands up in the air and paces.

“Then what the fuck do we do? Shouldn’t we call someone? The police?”

You’re pretty sure the police know already. If not by the less than subtle entrance that started this whole thing, by some of the understandably hysterical workers that did manage to make it out. You nod anyway. Move out of the way to let them beeline for the closest office phone and take guard in front of the camera feed instead.

There’s a lot more blood now, in a silence so eerie that it makes you unmute the camera right outside the vault as background noise. The long hallway to the back exit and the steady footsteps of the men assigned to keep an eye on it.

A low hum comes with it; just the crackling of empty air that the camera’s microphone picks up. And you think at first you’ve gotten lost in it enough that it feels like it’s vibrating against your skin. Until you realize it’s your own cellphone going off in your back pocket.

It’s a scramble to pick it up, though you don’t recognize the number; because frankly, very few things could make this situation worse. So unless you’re about to hear that there’s an asteroid heading for this building specifically, the smooth, deep voice on the phone that asks to confirm your name and rank is a welcome one.

“Lieutenant John Price, SAS,” he offers in return and you immediately take back that earlier thought, no matter how nice he sounds.

You know her majesty’s timing as well as any bureaucrat, so you expected nothing but six lines in tomorrow’s Guardian, if that. SAS means this random hostage situation is important for crown and country, which means shit is far bigger, far worse than you could ever imagine.

…

This is never something John wants to do, which, in fairness, can be said about many things in his line of work. But within the specifics of hostage situations, contact with someone on the inside holds far too many variables for his taste.

He can’t ever know for sure what kind of mindspace they’re in, how useful the interaction would be for either side. Then there’s the expectation, natural and understandable, that his presence itself is an assurance of safety. That he’ll promise to get them out no matter what, which isn’t something John ever allows himself to do. He might not be a good person, but he will not bet a life on that lie. Especially not with some diplomat or other breathing down everyone’s neck about a fucking laptop.

George Ogilvey, John commits the name and face to memory, just in case he loses the man in the crowd. Though, at the moment, it seems unlikely, no matter how hard he wishes to not have him following close along the makeshift blockade.

“—you do understand how dangerous it would be for the ambassador’s laptop to fall in unwanted hands?” Ogilvey makes the same point he’s been prattling on about since John’s team got here, unrelenting and completely fucking useless. “Last I saw it it was with my Second Secretary, but I doubt she’ll hold under torture if it gets to that, her name is—“

“I have her file,” the man has the gall to scoff when John dismisses the twentieth iteration of this title-name-phone number litany, waving his phone in his hand so the asshole can see it clearly trying to connect as he walks away.

It takes a minute longer than he’d like, but the woman who takes the call is steady on the line, and she listens politely as he does his own knee jerk title-name spiel to explain why he’s here.

“They have the ambassador in his office,” is the first thing she says, shit news and useful information in the same measured tone -all in all, better than he expected, “we’re stuck in what used to be the vault but we have access to the security feed.”

Then a second’s pause, a hopeless little chuckle.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

It hits John weird in the chest, the fact that under the sharp, rushed breathing pattern of fear and the conscious decision to remain calm, he can hear genuine curiosity from her.

“They’re threatening the ambassador’s life for their demands—“

“And the Crown wants him alive.”

“Not for anything good”

It’s a slip up, which John hopes will get lost under the sudden ruckus of voices that erupts on the other end of the line. This woman is a hostage, no matter how cooperative, not part of his team. And the fact that he adopted her as if she was, so immediately, sends a thrum of worry down to the pit of his stomach.

“Are there more people with you?”

“Three interns,” she answers. Interns Ogilvey failed to mention, three lives that are clearly not as important to the man when they don’t happen to be in possession of what he wants. “Could I put you on speaker?”

There’s a beat of hesitation where he wonders how good of an idea that is, with the level of noise these interns have proven themselves capable of. But the Second Secretary must still carry some sort of weight even now, because there’s anxious silence to greet him when he finally agrees, just the unmistakable hollow sort of reverberation of speakerphone.

“We’re ready for you, lieutenant.”

No, you’re not. He thinks. No one is ready for what he’s about to tell them. Hell, if it was him in there he’d have strong opinions about the paper pushing cunt who decided on this approach.

“They’ve sent us a negotiator, at the request of your First Secretary, ETA is ten minutes.”

“A negotiator?” Another woman’s voice cut in, more frantic than the Second Secretary but still quite measured. “Why can’t you just come in?”

“Command’s deemed the risk to the ambassador’s life unnecessary.”

“What about our lives?”

John lets the silence drag on for a second more than he normally would, not because he doesn’t know what to say but because the least he can do, when it took this long for someone in there to break, is not be unkind. They know their survival has been deemed a non essential, they don’t need him to verbalize it to them any more than he already has.

In the background, the line lights up again with a shuffle, a clatter, a sob choked back. Another explosion of noise that moves into the distance as he’s taken off speaker. He feels it as tension running down his spine, thinking he’s lost connection to the only point he has into this mess.

“Right,” the second secretary comes back though, still measured, and he’s starting to think that it’s not out of a stellar handling of the situation at hand, but of a general lack of trust in the system that landed her where she is “so you’re not our extraction team. What can we do for our chances?”

“Stay put,” it’s logic, it’s all he can give her. It’s not enough, “And stay on the line.”

#m: cod #r: gen #for now #captain john price x reader #personal #this is the longest chapter for anything i've ever written i think

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lahficclub · 3 months

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The Poet

Link for the fic: The Poet

Author: MadameQuagmire

Relationship: Gen

Additional tags:

Paul "Wicky" Wickstead

Tim Key

Blood

Like a lot of talk about a lot of blood but The Cleaner-appropriate levels

Gunshot Wounds

poems that are so very bad

Smoking

Prompt:

Wicky is sent to a job in a theatre. An eccentric poet (Tim) is there for rehearsals, but takes poetic inspiration from the "giant cleaning man". Wicky is not a fan of his new poetic shadow.

#january 2024 #prompt: Jan 2024 fills #r: gen #author: madamequagmire #tag: Wicky #tag: Tim Key #tag: blood #tag: The Cleaner #tag: gunshot wounds #tag: smoking

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cosmobrain00 · 6 months

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merry halloween these two losers infected my brain again n the nightmare bf christmas au forced my unwilling hand to finish this🫡

(n evryone say ty to @miwism for the big brained idea im simply the humble messenger🫶)

#might do more doodles too bc gen this made me happy to draw heheheh<3 #LIKE!!! BYLER R SALLY N JACK CODED FR N IDC WHT ANYONE SAYS!! THEYRE EVEN SHAPED THE SAME PLEASE!!!#byler #will byers #mike wheeler #my art<3 #miwi #“why didnt u post this on halloween instead-” MAYBE bc im an impatient bitch n u guys might get more of this from me anyways so..#also an excuse for me to draw will in a dress again LMAO

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ayoedebiris · 6 months

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MARIE MOREAU & JORDAN LI GEN V | S01E08, Guardians of Godolkin

#gen v #genvedit #gen v spoilers #theboysedit #jordan li #marie moreau #limoreau #userrachel #tusercj #userla #userconstance #tusermich #userclara #usereri #*#things are very bad but at least they r ok <3

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clownsuu · 11 months

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Update I have been gifted a new art tablet and oh my lort how do y’all draw with a screenless pad-

This last one was the first thing I drew with it LMAO

all of these were lil test doodles, but m a n I got mad respects to them gamers who can use this kinda tabloot with ease

#Plus like #i don’t have a proper computer to actually use it-#However I can connect it to my tablet and phone surprisingly??#The phone one would feel so cursed LMAO #Tiny lil screen with huge ass sketch pad #Also some of y’all have asked me what programs/device I use for most of my art-#It’s always just been a iPad procreate and a bamboo sketch stylus #However recently iv gotten a (passed down) pro with a gen 1 Apple Pencil #And O H B O Y does procreate LO VE to C R A S H #I DONT EVEN HAVE OTHER APPS ON THIS TABLOOT I USE IT PURELY FOR ART DJDJDJDDK #PAIIIIIIIIIIIN IDK HOW TO FIX ITTTT #welcome home #welcome home howdy #welcome home wally #welcome home frank #welcome home eddie #howdy pillar #wally darling #frank frankly #Eddie dear #robbie robs #New pad only takes a certain app and thankfully I know my way around that one somewhat #Not as comfortably as procreate but still smhhh need time to get used to it #Wallypillar #howdydarling #idk frank and Eddie’s ship name LMAO whoops

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lunalivvy · 7 months

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i started watching gen v and all i can say is,,, every single one of those bitches bisexual

#they r all boy and girl kissers sorry #i don’t make the rules #but i think andre is the only canon (?) bisexual (?) but idc they all are too #gen v #gen v amazon #the boys #the boys gen v #bi #bisexual

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aurorangen · 13 days

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The Mini Vinnys

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #postcard legacy #postcard gen 3 #vincent kingsley #louis kingsley #harvey kingsley #AHHHHHHHHHHHHH MINI VINNYS #im looking at them and think they may be 100% vincents face or 100% bryce/renees face!!! its hard to tell but i hope its 50/50!#one thing is that they look like renees eyes with vincents eye colour #but they sure do look identical and im already getting confused lolol #LoUis is bLUe and haRvEy is gREEn (one way for me to remember)#ok these names: both link to warrior or battle. they mean a strong determined courageous person (perfect if next heir)#both r little fighters and i absolutely love that meaning for their kids!!#i cant stop staring at this post!!#they make me so happy me cry 🥹#and vincents handsome handsome face! AHHH hes just so perfect

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ronanxing · 1 year

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heehoo

#will start adding IDs in alt text :)#persona 5 #p5r #persona 5 royal #enkidoodles #persona #doodles #the rest of the tags r just my persona ramblings ANYWAYS #i gen think harus awakening was so badass #im so mad mona stole her spotlight #also this is so random but #i based sumis pose off a pose i did in disneyland #bc i was talking to princess aurora #i dont even see joker as a flirt i think akechis just down bad for losers #joker goes 🥺 and he folds immediately

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peonypyxels · 4 months

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🌟

#the first 2 #these girls r v dramatic #ts4 #s4 #s4 edit #sims 4 #s4 gameplay #sparks #sparks legacy #s4 legacy #gen 5 #gen 6

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 9 months

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Soundly (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’ve injured your arm, leaving you frustratingly helpless to complete everyday tasks, like cleaning yourself. Your boyfriend and colleague Simon understands your apprehension towards accepting help for such a task and tells you how he does.

AN: Working title was “Sprain” for those of you who voted in the poll. I’ll be posting the Soap fics shortly and posting another poll for my other upcoming fics afterwards! Meanwhile, let me know what you think in replies or inbox me, tell me your thoughts on fics - present or future.

I just want Ghost to feel loved and to recover from all the shit he went through. I did a fic for that and sharing a bed, so I’m doing this one for the reader a.k.a. me. Plus I like the head canon that Ghost is actually kinda talkative, like in the Alone mission. I know he’s probably partly chatting to Johnny to because he’s trying to keep him focused, guiding him to regroup and survive. But he’s telling dumb jokes and joking about watching his torture video. He’s got banter and trauma!

Content warnings: Allusions to Ghost’s time being tortured by Roba and the Mexican Cartel - specifically his SA as well as the reader’s. Reader is GN, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

For “just a sprain”, your elbow hurt like a bastard. It was resting in the hammock of the sling your doctor ordered you to keep on. Almost smugly, it sent a few stings across the bone when you were also instructed to restrict your movements and get support to complete day-to-day tasks before you were signed off on a month’s medical leave – pending review at the end of it for being brought back to work.

It was half your fault. The sprain in the first place was caused by some asshole who would not go down quietly and attempted to dislocate your limb. Thankfully, your training automatically twisted you into a position preventing that but then you had to shoot that asshole and your gun was in the arm he’d injured. The bullet that you fired solidified the damage and you were forced to focus hard on aiming with your non-dominant hand whilst slugging it over to the Heli half a klick to the west for recon. You didn’t have to shoot the guy straight away. You’d kicked him down and he was too far from his own weapon to have made it before you could have swapped your gun to your other hand and ended his life the same miserable way. But nah, in the heat of gunfire, you’d decided to end the fight as quick as possible then ran like a bat out of hell back to safety where the rest of your crew was headed.

Simon had known you long enough – and dated you long enough – to not treat you like glass. He wouldn’t insult you like that. Therefore you were very grateful that he was the one to take you home, and that his driving was a lot steadier and smooth on the motorway.

Letting you open the front door, he carried both his and your bags inside, ready to start your medical leave this instant. He was heading out of the hall with his shoes dropped loudly onto the rack when he asked:

“You want anything specific for tea?”

“Nah, I’m good with whatever.”

Despite years of therapy, this injury had dealt a hefty blow to your pride; you didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you were going to be over the next few weeks. Thank God you’d been to his place enough times for it to be considered familiar.

From the airing cupboard, you collected the towel that Simon had bought you after your fifth stay here and smiled at the memory of shopping for it together. He’d asked for what colour you preferred then gathering other items into the trolley that were the same shade: toothbrush, wash cloth, cup to sit by the bathroom sink. He was nice like that.

The bathroom door locked behind you, the final ebbs of afternoon reaching in through frosted glass. You thanked the sun for enabling you to keep the lights off; the buzz that accompanied their stark spark on the silky tiles was always too much for you. However as warm as the daylight was, it failed to soothe your state. When you tried to retrieve the memory of how you’d gotten this t-shirt on in the first place, your mind offered you a blank slate and tears of frustration bubbling over, stinging worse than the injury as you tried to warp it against its will. But to no avail. Your bitten tongue surrendered so that the crying could commence with your t-shirt still stuck on your body.

Gentle rapping at the door didn’t halt anything. Surrendering felt like an admission of weakness, failure, and it poisoned you against yourself as you twisted the lock in the handle and slumped on the rim of the bath.

A pair of plain-socked feet appeared at the top of your line of sight, lingering on the cobalt carpet side of the door frame.

“Can I borrow your scissors please?” You asked, toying with a stray string dangling from the hem.

“You gonna stab me?” Simon inquired semi-sarcastically.

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little reply. But Simon pushed off the bath, belongings tinkling against one another as he rooted around then retrieved a small pair of scissors from the top shelf.

He sat down beside you on the rim, holding out the scissors by the blade, “It’s a nice shirt.”

You wiped your nose on the hem before taking the scissors, “It’s just Primark.”

“I can help you out of it, if it is Primark’s finest.”

“Was just cut it off.”

But of course your dominant hand was tied up in the sling, and you only just realised now.

“I could help you take it off.”

You’d never been undressed around Simon. The closest you’d gotten were jogging bottoms you’d cut into knee-length shorts and the sleeves of your t-shirt pushed onto your shoulders whilst you both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Towards the end of your set, you mopped at your brow with the hem of your shirt once and the sliver of skin nearly sent Simon into anaphylactic shock.

He knew why you grappled with the notion of undressing. But he didn’t ever linger on you going elsewhere to change. Across your relationship, and even before it started, he’d shown you love in so many other ways that you would forget about what had happened to you.

Today was the first time he addressed it: “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to help.”

Without moving your head, your watchful stare latched onto his adjusting to the nuisance of sitting on a thin perch of porcelain. He withdrew his skull balaclava from its suffocating in his pocket and began kneading at it until the eyehole faced the ceiling you’d stared at many times, wishing you could be more intimate with the man you loved more than life.

“Your reasons aren’t so different from mine.” And he held out the mask to you.

The olive branch was accepted and you thumbed over the skull plate as best you could with the scissors still in your grip. Only when your thumbnail caught against the paint depicting a cheekbone did it dawn on you what your boyfriend was referring to.

“Simon-”

“None of that,” He interrupted you, gently, firmly, “I get it. I don’t wanna bother you if you don’t want me here.”

He rubbed along your shoulder as you matched your deep breaths to his, resting your eyes to bask in his comfort and crushing the mask in your loose fist. You’d always equated it to anonymity. Never had you thought of linking it to another form of comfort.

“You can bathe with your clothes on,” Simon suggested after a minute’s silence.

“Do you know how hard it is to remove wet denim?” You muttered with a crooked smile.

“I do,” and he pressed a kiss to your forehead – his preferred place to do so. “Let’s give this a go.”

You handed back his balaclava and took in his bare face, the medical mask – the one he’d been wearing whilst you were in the hospital and all the way home - gone, his expression carefully crafted to be neutral so that you didn’t have to be.

He eased your sling off you after the taps were thundering steaming water into the tub. Then he vanished to his room, returning with a pair of baggy sports shorts. Cradling them like a baby, your nose welcomed their softness and the steam whilst Simon knelt onto the fluffy bathmat, nodding after splashing the bathwater and twisting the taps into silence.

“I’m gonna stink if I don’t wash properly,” You whispered.

After opening his palms to you, Simon took your shorts and arranged them on the floor, “I’ll get you some wet wipes to use while we wait for your arm to heal up.”

You held onto his shoulders whilst he undid your jeans and eased them down your legs, his hands careful to stay hidden in the fabric whilst you stepped out of them and into the shorts. Simon to pulled them up to your hips.

“Why did the magician take a bath?” He asked you as you lowered yourself into the water.

“I dunno, why?”

“To clean up his act.”

Your chest quivered, struggling to hold in your groans and giggles whilst Simon pumped some blueberry body wash into his palm, “That’s good.”

Tenderly he circled the soap across your forearm, “Fancy another?”

“Go on.” You were nothing if not his little enabler, indulging in his humour even after the rest of 141 had lightly roasted him for it.

“Knock, knock.”

Your free hand fiddled with the sodden hem of your t-shirt, “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne who?”

Soaking the flannel and wringing it out over your arm, Simon began to wash the suds away, “Dwayne the bathtub before I dwown.”

Your smile was not dampened by the tears that rolled down your cheeks and dripped onto the shallow waterline. Instead, you focused your blurry vision on Simon’s hoodie sleeves that were pushed up to his elbows, those broad forearms sprinkled with droplets and soapsuds.

When Simon was lathering up some more body wash, you offered your own joke: “What did the man say after he swallowed a clock and went to the toilet?”

“What?”

“Watch out.”

Simon snorted loudly whilst carefully manipulating your injured arm amidst the blueberry bubbles.

You wiped a new tear away on your shoulder: “I’ve already told Kyle but you can tell it to Johnny.”

“Much obliged.”

With permission and a slow touch, he started soaping up your shins. His contact always lingered for hours on your skin. This felt like a polish, not a scratch or a dent, which is why you felt so overwhelmed now, just as you did that first time he gave you a proper bear hug. You didn’t mind the blueberry, something else to focus on instead of letting yourself meander towards conjuring disturbing imaginations of what you’d just learnt about Simon’s capture in Mexico.

He let you take over for washing your thighs, sitting on the toilet still talking to you with a smile that cracked up his face like the scar, from lip to brow. His eyes never strayed from your face, though it never felt like you were a target down his scope, more like feeling the sun first thing in the morning with a delicate breeze that danced around your being. Such a gaze wasn’t alien to Simon, even if he rarely showed it to you, and never to anyone else. You were just grateful that he was able to be like this, and that he still chose to.

That same stare, he held it whilst draping a towel around your shoulders, patting over your arms before he gathered it at the front for you to hold in your healthy hand. Then he collected a pile of clean clothes from the bedroom, placing them onto the closed toilet lid, you noted the crisply ironed button up folded on top. You settled for nestling your head against his chest since you were unable to hug him.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make dinner.”

The door was locked after Simon disappeared behind it. You did end up cutting yourself out of the shirt, rest in peace. Fogged-up, the mirror wasn’t so bad to stare at whilst you moisturised with your good hand. You could still feel where Simon’s calloused hands had brushed over your skin, tingling in each follicle, and it was protected by the button-up you were able to slide on – one of the few Simon owned. His bulk was once again your gain; the shirt was loose enough to give you some wiggle room whilst dressing.

Clattering from the kitchen caught Simon in the act of putting away the ironing board. He was taking loud and rehearsed deep breaths that hissed through the fabric of his freshly-donned balaclava, the board under his arm before he tossed it into its assigned slot. His hand shook as it released the cupboard door handle, searching for something to distract himself with until he latched his stare onto you bunching your shirt in the front.

“I can’t do my buttons up,” You said quietly.

Your stomach impulsively sucked in on itself when his hands reached for the buttons before it, joining them with the fabric. Nevertheless, your gaze found solace in the thatch of fine chest hair growing in the lowest peak of his V-neck.

Simon started from the bottom button and made his way up. With each wince, his fingers stalled. But you knew he’d never hurt you, never on purpose and never like that. He made steady progress until complete and even helped you replace your sling. But then he sniffed and brushed his nose briefly, stepping away and back to the kitchen. For five minutes he alternated between sifting through the cupboards and staring helplessly into the fridge, his face washed out by the stagnant light inside. You took the time to help him in one of the ways you knew how.

“I’ll order us a takeaway.”

Immediately he slammed shut the fridge door, “You’re a fucking star.”

You were not put off by his pacing back and forth, nor were you by his hovering over you like a gargoyle whilst you tapped at the screen – which you held in a way for him to see clearly in case he wanted to add something. A wide berth allowed you to approach him on the couch with the takeaway when it arrived half an hour later (always reliable, hence why it was your go-to takeaway place). Simon also accepted the drink you brought him, but only because he’d already gotten you one plus two pain meds he made sure you took after getting some food into your stomach first.

The cushioned lap trays you’d invested in were already paying for themselves.

Dinner inhaled and rendering you quite soporific, you mirrored Simon’s earlier actions and tentatively shuffled closer to him, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah.” His arm dropped to around your waist, and you tugged on his wrist to keep it there. Only then did you tentatively wrap yourself around his full belly.

“Fuckin’ softie,” He said under his breath. That didn’t stop him from giving you a little squeeze – his hand no longer trembling - and sinking himself lower so that there was no pressure on your sprain. He turned the volume down a little, which sparked inspiration in your mind.

Half hiding in his t-shirt, you projected loud enough for him to hear you: “The local TV controller museum shut down due to no visitors. Turns out people aren’t remotely interested.”

“Have you been researching these instead of doing your paperwork?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been doing my paperwork?”

Simon looked down at you, those expressive eyes communicating both the “are you fucking for real?” and the “you’re lucky you’re cute” in equal parts. But from the way his balaclava was balanced on his face, you could tell he was smiling at you. So you smiled back at him then snuggled back against him with a contented sigh and the existence of your new joke book still a secret (for now).

The next time you opened your eyes, it was much darker in the living room. A blanket was tucked around your legs. The glow of “Are you still watching Phil Wang: Philly Philly Wang Wang?” from the flat-screen, despite that not being what you were watching when you first drifted off, bathed you in enough low light to allow you a comfortable adjustment period. You squinted up at your boyfriend. Head back in the pillows, his chest was rising and falling with each breath he drew and released through his nose. You adjusted the blanket around to cover his legs too and, tucking yourself back into your bundle, both you and Simon slept soundly.

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