Latest Posts by hinakamiya - Page 5
Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
A night out in London to celebrate your friend’s upcoming marriage ends with a quick hook-up in a club’s green room. You don’t expect to see your masked man ever again, and you leave it as a one-time thing. Three years later, you’re back in England, and find yourself facing the man you walked away from at that club. He’s running a tattoo parlor just down the street from where you’re staying. Over time, your paths cross and cross again until the two of you are tangled up in a messy web. Will it last? Or will one of you walk away?
Content & Warnings (overall): canon-typical violence, PTSD, canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, possessive / jealous / obsessive behavior, second chances, grief / mourning, strangers to lovers (graphic chapters will be marked with ** which indicates a Community Label)
Chapters: (ongoing) One // Two ** // Three // Four ** // Five // Six // Seven // Eight ** // Nine // Ten // Eleven ** // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen ** // Fifteen ** // Sixteen // Seventeen ** // Eighteen ** // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three // Twenty-Four // Twenty-Five // Twenty-Six // Twenty-Seven // Twenty-Eight // Twenty-Nine // Thirty
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist
taglist:
@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @coffeecaketornado
title banner: created with Canva
Happy late v-day!! Couldn’t finish this sketch yesterday, so you get it today <3
Every grumpy man needs a lil kiss from time to time :))
COD Fics:
Service Dog Johnny Ghost/Fem Reader/Soap (68k words, incomplete)
Come Quietly König/Fem Reader (8.7k words, complete)
Ax Grinder Gaz/Fem Reader (6.6k words, incomplete)
Unrelated One-Shots:
— Ghost x Reader —
Ghost worships you
Edging with Ghost
Ghost is too quiet when he finishes
Ghost is considerate of your triggers
Ghost thinks he doesn’t deserve you - Part 2 here
Ghost doesn’t know how to comfort you
Being silly with Bob
Keeping secrets from Ghost
Ghost helps you wax
Sleepy Ghost
Quickie
— Soap x Reader —
Soap helps you taste yourself
Stubborn Roommate Soap
— Ghoap —
Ghost and Soap praise you while you get fingered
Ghoap
Ghost Plays with Johnny in the Kitchen
Flirting
Dirt Man
Sensory obsession
Medieval
— Gaz x Reader —
Wet all weekend Part 2 here
Visiting him on base
— Price x Reader —
John Tied Up
— König x Reader —
König biting kink - Part 2 here
Water Bed
Service Dog Johnny Headcanons:
Johnny is a service dog to Reader as well
Why Simon chose Reader
Why Simon only 🖐️ 🍆 with Johnny there
Johnny/Reader kink dynamic
Pre-sex briefing
Why Johnny thinks he’s unlovable
Why Johnny and Simon joke about sex with each other
Why Simon doesn’t touch himself with Reader
Simon/Johnny romantic differences
Johnny's Love
Johnny’s motivation and beliefs about the situation
The first time Simon told Reader about his trauma
Simon’s support system
Simon’s trauma makes it hard to keep up sometimes
Simon getting jealous
Johnny is okay
Who’s getting cast aside?
Missing piece of the pentagram
Simon’s house
What Simon whispered to Johnny
Rough sex between Simon and Reader
Catching feelings
Ghost is a war criminal
Service Dog Johnny Drabbles/Bonus Scenes
"First time she ever showed me--"
Being silly with Bob
Cigarettes
Simon therapy
Pet names
Girlfriend
Johnny POV Part 1 (Laney)
Johnny POV Part 2 (Falling for her)
Johnny POV Part 3 (Family Day)
Johnny POV Part 4 (Rehab)
Johnny POV Part 5 (You’re a good person)
Johnny POV Part 6 (Just a graze)
Johnny POV Part 7 (Ghost in the bedroom)
Johnny POV Part 8 (Crafts)
Johnny POV Part 9 (Baby)
Johnny POV part 10 - Johnny comes over
Johnny POV Part 11 (Tinder)
Johnny POV Part 12 (Rookie)
Simon POV Part 1 (No bra)
Simon POV Part 2 (butterfly in the garden)
Simon POV Part 3 (help me help you)
Simon POV Part 4 (BJ)
Simon POV Part 5 (Shoelace)
⬅️ Back to Service Dog Johnny main page
You Say Goodbye to Soap (18+)
Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content warnings: Verbal child abuse, she/her reader Word Count: 3.5k
Service Dog Johnny Part 19 (full part list here)
Simon doesn’t do crowds.
Well, he does them, he’s just on pins and needles the whole time. He turns into something granite and hyper-aware, covered as much as he can be with a medical mask and long sleeves, so you try not to force him through it too often. Sometimes though, there’s a good reason for suffering.
“Fuck you,” Johnny mutters, arms crossed while you both watch your boyfriend seamlessly plink through targets, with that mini rifle tucked tight into his shoulder. “Right prick.”
“Eight out of ten is still really good,” you remind him. Johnny only missed the first two targets, and that’s understandable considering the carnival air guns can’t possibly be accurate.
“Used my go to sight the weapon, is what he did. I’m goin’ again.”
You’re not entirely sure that it’s possible to aim a gun just by watching someone else shoot it, but then again, Simon is finishing up the last target right now, dead center.
“C’mere, you.” Your man motions you over with a jerk of his head, handing the pea shooter back to the bored worker.
Simon watches your face as you hurry over to him, as if your delighted smile is all he wanted in the first place. You quickly scan the prize options as his hand settles against the curve of your lower back. Unicorn… cat… sloth… raccoon… teddy bear.
You choose the pillow-sized raccoon because it’s fluffy, and it reminds you of Simon before he washes off his eyeblack.
“Thanks,” you chirp, hugging your prize and stepping out of the way for Johnny’s turn.
“Someone had to pick up the slack,” Simon mutters, turning his eyes to the determined set of Johnny’s shoulders.
Horrified, you shoot him a look that conveys, ‘You’d better shut the fuck up, or else.’
Plink. Plink. Good start.
“Better hurry up, Johnny,” Simon drawls. “Too slow, you’re gonna miss it.”
“Simon,” you hiss at him, only to observe a devious light in his eye while he pretends he can’t hear you.
Plink, plink, plink.
“Two, ten, seven, reload,” Simon barks. “Oh look, Graves is here.”
“I’ll fawkin’ kill ye,” Johnny growls against the stock, nailing the last few targets in rapid succession.
Your face is burning by the time Johnny sets the gun aside. Of all the days for Simon to antagonize him, why does he have to pick this one? You’re not even sure there will be another chance to see Johnny after today, and instead of minding the delicate balance of things, your boyfriend’s decided to stomp all over it.
Yet somehow, you seem to be the only one concerned. Johnny merely spares his friend a passing glare before turning back to the prizes, selecting a sparkly unicorn for himself.
“Do you want me to carry that for you?” you offer with a shocked laugh.
He hugs it against his chest. “Aye, when I’m good and dead. No one’s separating me from my unicorn.”
Right. Okay, then.
The sun has just gone down, and taken the last of the warmth with it, so you thread your fingers in with Simon’s and look around for things to do before the nighttime crowd fills the park.
“What kind of rides do you like, Johnny?”
He winks at you over the fluffy rainbow mane. “Fast ones.”
“Bloody hell,” your boyfriend sighs. “I’m gonna be stuck holding the toy shop for the pair of you.”
“We can take turns,” you suggest. “Look, this one’s the biggest roller coaster they have. You and Johnny go, before the line gets too long.”
Simon doesn’t disagree, but he starts squinting up at the ride the closer you get to it, as if he’s inspecting the track for defects. You’re just about to reach for the unicorn Johnny’s passing to you, when Simon makes a grunt of disapproval.
“Fuckin’ back brace on him, I’m not going.”
Sure enough, one of the workers is gingerly crossing the platform to unstrap riders, while encased in a turtle shell of a brace.
Johnny scoffs. “Didn't break it on the ride, you dobber.”
“Fuck are we supposed to know that?”
“He’d be dead then, wouldn’t he? Puddle on the pavement.”
“No one is dying on these rides,” you insist, snatching Johnny’s toy. “It’s perfectly safe.”
Simon smoothly plucks both animals from your grasp. “Seeing as you’re not worried, you and Johnny go.”
Okay, well, now you’re worried.
You find yourself spectacularly stuck next to Johnny in that stuffy queue leading up to the platform, feeling like a total idiot for getting so easily conned into it. Why couldn’t you have thought of an excuse to avoid this? You only suggested the ride to give the guys a chance to have fun together without stepping on anyone’s toes, and instead you’re left scrambling for small talk.
It’s not that you don’t want to be alone with Johnny, it’s just that you weren’t expecting it to happen so suddenly. You were perfectly fine with using Simon as a buffer for the night, and never bringing up that whopping pile of confusion until Johnny was at least willing to open up a little. But now he’s alone with you, acting fairly happy and normal, as if he never walked out that door.
Is that what he wants? Is this going to turn into some horrible game of evasion, where he wanders back into your life and you’re forced to pretend nothing ever happened, and just hope he doesn’t do it again? Can you live like that?
You tried winging it before. You never made him explain himself to you or communicate, and all it did was blow up in your face.
“So why’d you pick the raccoon?”
You blink yourself out of your thoughts, focusing on his face in the cheery glow of Christmas lights. “Oh, um. They’re cute. And I guess I like wild animals.”
For some reason Johnny laughs at your genuine answer. “Makes sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.” He rests his elbows back on the steel railing and gives you this irritating smirk, so you roll your eyes in return. Okay, Flirt MacTavish. Nice to see you again, it’s been a while.
Thankfully the line moves forward right when you need it to, and you sidestep his teasing eyes to poke your head around the beam and scan the waiting area for Simon.
“Oh my god, Johnny,” you whisper. “Look.”
His body presses to your back as he looks over your shoulder, and is greeted by the same sight you are — Simon, with one enormous plushie wedged under each arm, engaged in apparent conversation with some random, gray-haired grandma. You can’t see his mouth moving behind the mask, but he’s inclining his head the same way he does when he’s talking to you.
“She’s stealin’ your man, hen.”
“Let her. He likes the attention.”
The stuffed animals have absolutely shattered his carefully constructed standoffishness. They’re like a beacon of cuteness, inviting in questions and curious looks, and honestly it serves him right for abandoning you to Johnny like this. You hope he’s suffering, but from the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, you kind of doubt it.
Finally you get buckled into the ride next to Johnny, and the nerves you have about him give way to your more pressing fear of heights. When was the last time you rode in one of these things? All of a sudden the pattern of loops spreading across the open air in front of you look a lot more serious than they did from the ground.
“Don’t let Simon see you scared,” Johnny says, nudging your shoe with his. The ride starts forward with a reverberating clunk, clunk.
“I’m not,” you lie.
“Hold my hand then, or you’re full of shit.”
That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but you mold your palm around his and squeeze it tight, right before the drop.
Holy shit.
Johnny wasn’t kidding about liking fast rides. He whoops and laughs through most of it, and you’re not sure if it’s the actual rush that’s getting to him, or your terrified shrieks. The loops hit rapidly one after another, and you just try to hang on as you pass through your threshold of fear and beyond. By the time you finally hit the end of the ride, your heart is slamming in your chest, and Johnny’s hand seems to have permanently fused with yours.
As the ride cars slowly chug up that loud conveyor belt to the platform, you unlock your spine and glance over at your friend to make sure he’s all in one piece.
He’s gorgeous. Ruddy-cheeked from the cold, breathlessly grinning at you, as if he’s exactly where he wants to be right now. Beautiful, human, completely impenetrable and emotionally closed-off.
It makes you want to hit him.
You’d go to town on his stupid chest if you could, punching and slapping those perfect muscles on up and down his shoulder. You want to scream in his ear until he understands how much pain he’s put you through, because maybe then this hold he has on you would finally release. If you burned all your bridges and told him never to come back, maybe you’d stop wanting him quite so fiercely.
Because even after all of that, you do want him. You want to own him. You want to ruin him. You want him like Veruca Salt stomping her foot and shrieking, ‘Daddy, give him to me!’
You want your heart to connect with his, and that craving is so intense that you’re almost jealous of anyone who’s ever deeply known him. Jealous of Simon, who always seems to understand what Johnny’s thinking before you do. It feels wrong, existing so close to Johnny and not touching, not staring, not knowing.
Not allowed to know.
This was all a mistake. A combination of oversights from all three of you, until you’ve reached this point of pain that was so, so preventable.
Johnny leans towards you as you pull your hand away from his. “Hungry?”
The line for the concession stand is annoyingly long. You’re waiting here by yourself because you really needed some space to clear your head. You mentally repeat your food order to yourself, as if it won’t evaporate out of your brain the second you step up to the window.
Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any hot tea?
You’re being idiotic about Johnny. Look at them over there, holding a conference at the picnic table with two stuffies propped up next to each of them. How could you dare be jealous of the most important friendship Simon’s ever had? You’d have to be some kind of selfish monster to deny either of them that comfort.
Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any tea bags, and packets of sugar?
You just weren’t prepared for how unsatisfying this night would be. You’re giving Johnny space, and Simon’s giving you space, and it all makes you want to cry.
“I hope you’re fucking happy.”
Your heart begins to race, hearing those words spat with such hate from somewhere behind you. Instinctively you twist your face around in search of the threat, hoping it’s just some old person berating a server who will never have to see them again. But no, it’s much worse.
An older man sits across from a boy who looks to be about nine, his lip curled up in contempt as he stares the kid down.
Looking away, the boy mumbles something you don’t catch, but the man doesn’t even let him finish before sneering, “You’re a pansy, is what you are. ‘Fraid of a little roller coaster. Don’t know why I bother taking you anywhere nice like this, when you’ll just wimp out.”
Outrage pushes blood to your face, as you glance back over at Simon. He’s too far away to hear what’s going on, still shooting the shit with Johnny. It’s just you and the couple in front of you who seem to notice, the woman giving you an exasperated look, and the man determinedly staring straight ahead.
You know that tone of voice. That kind of disrespect has is etched into your bones, and you know exactly what it leads to. It’s the voice Simon grew up with, the one he has in his head every day, and has to convince himself to ignore.
Helplessly you take another step forward in line, watching the boy in your peripheral vision when he at last decides that the tirade is over, and raises his head. The direction of the kid’s sad gaze shouldn’t surprise you, but it does, as he peers over at your two soldiers across the way.
You look as well, wondering what he sees. Two large men, built strong enough to hurt anyone who talks down to them? Friends who are comfortable with each other, happily performing for no one? Or maybe he’s seeing the innate self confidence they have, to be able to hold their heads high while lugging around stuffed animals in public. It’s almost a display of power, if you look at it through the boy’s eyes. Or at the very least, it’s freedom.
Maybe it’s because you know about Simon’s childhood. Or maybe it’s your own memories growing up that flood you with righteous anger, the firsthand knowledge of how it is to live in fear. How the wrath of your ‘trusted adult’ is absolutely inescapable at that age. You know that weight. You can see it on that boy’s shoulders, suffocating him.
You know what, you’re going to say something. You’re not going to just turn your head away, like that man in front of you. You’re going to walk right up to that awful dad and chew him out, for your sake and for the sake of every kid who’s ever had to listen to words like that.
Clutching your purse tighter and squaring your shoulders, you’re just mustering up the anger you need to go through with it, when—
“Next in line? Next in line?”
“Oh, uh…” you step forward, trying to remember what you came here for. “Do you have… pretzels?”
The worker gives you a deadpan look and gestures over to the very obvious display of soft pretzels under heat lamps.
“O-okay, yeah, two of those, please. No, wait, three, and cheese.”
“Three pretzels and cheese,” the guy recites, giving you the total.
You’re obviously not going to cuss anyone out while holding a bushel of pretzels, so once you’ve paid you stuff your wallet back into your purse, and head towards your table to unload.
“Can’t believe there’s no smoking here,” the horrible man grumbles as you pass by, fishing into his pocket. “Go get your old man a Coke, and don’t be keeping any change.”
The hatred churns in your chest but you keep walking, certain that you’re about to get your revenge. You’re a marginally attractive person, and you’re here with a couple of meatheads who can squish pretty much anyone. There’s no risk involved, you can just unload, and that man… will… take it out on the kid.
Simon gives you a puzzled expression when your face falls, as soon as you reach them.
It’s useless. There’s not a single thing you can do for that boy. Any way you tear down his father would only result in him getting the punishment for it.
You’re just as stuck as ever, helpless and stupid and no one important, same as you were as a child. You might as well still be that little girl, realizing that nothing you could ever do would make the adults in your life see you as human.
All you are is taller now, with tits.
“What’s wrong?” Simon asks, as you push his pretzel over to him.
“Um…”
They’re both concerned now. Dammit.
Your gaze drops to the sparkly unicorn, its horn twinkling in the lights.
“Johnny?” you prompt, blinking at him while your form your thoughts.
“Hmm?”
You rest your hand on the head of his unicorn, tugging at the ear. “Can I have this? For keeps? Will you give it to me?”
He blinks rapidly in surprise, glancing down at his prized plushie. “Yeah, alright. Sure.”
Before you can second guess yourself, you scoop both animals up into your arms and head straight for the boy’s table.
“Excuse me,” you chirp, giving that disgusting man your most sunshiny smile. “I got these prizes here, and I just can’t take them home. They won’t fit in my car. Would you like to have these?” You turn your eyes on the boy for the last question, hopeful.
He doesn’t look at your face, just darts his eyes to his dad, and then to the unicorn.
“Tryin’ to run a hustle?” The man asks suspiciously.
“Nope, they’re free! Just hoping you could help me out.”
The boy glances over at Simon and Johnny, and the man says, “Aww, why not. We’ll take the brown one, don’t need no girl stuff.”
“Oh, come on,” you practically flirt, setting both animals on the bench. “Can’t you take both? I’d really appreciate it.”
Yeah, you’re laying on the charm for the old guy. You’re crooking your shoulder up and smiling a little saucy, and you don’t even feel bad about it. You have tits now.
“Well, alright,” he allows, seeming pleased to have you begging him.
“Thank you so much.” You finally bend down a little towards the boy, who hasn’t looked at you at all. His brown eyes lift hesitantly to yours.
“I’m very happy,” you tell him honestly, “that these guys got to go to someone really special.”
You leave before anyone can change their mind. You just turn right around and prepare to explain why you just Robin Hooded Johnny’s special—
Smack, slosh.
Instead of the clear path back that you thought you had, you run right into someone’s body, and frigid wet instantly coats your thighs.
“I’m so sorry!” the girl gasps, as you both stare down at your legs, completely saturated in some cold, fizzy drink.
“I— it was my fault,” you stammer, brushing droplets off the bottom of your coat. “I’m sorry.”
You’re so frozen in shock that it’s not until Simon materializes next to you that you even think to move away from the puddle.
“Come on,” he murmurs, “let’s get you home.”
What? Home?
A breeze runs through the place then, and you shivery violently at how frigid it feels when your leggings are soaked. You do have to go home. That’s the only option.
“I’m sorry,” you tell Johnny, when Simon’s hand on your elbow urges you to start walking. “I didn’t mean to… for it to be like this.”
“Ehh, it’s alright.” He offers you one of the pretzels he’s carrying. “There’ll be other times.”
No, there won’t. You had this one opportunity to prove to him that you should be in his life, and instead of doing what you needed to do to secure that, you were awkward and you stole his unicorn and you made everyone leave early. This was a disaster.
Fuck, don’t cry. You cannot cry right now.
You stop up your tear ducts through sheer stubbornness, numbly traversing the park and passing all the things you never got to do.
You’re a ruiner, you didn’t even get to talk with Simon tonight, just made him stand around everywhere you went and not have any fun.
Don’t cry.
By the time you make it back to your car, the only thing keeping the tears at bay is the surface tension on your eyeballs. You’be got patches of frostbite on the front of each thigh, and even your hair feels a little sticky from stray droplets of soda. It’s the most you can do to just mutter an excuse to Simon, and escape into the back seat of your car to strip off your leggings.
As soon as you’re alone in that quiet, frozen car, the tears come. Silently they stream down your face, bringing with them the rising tide of your own inadequacy. The guys’ voices are a low hum from somewhere outside while you yank your shoelaces undone and fail to come up with a single glimmer of hope.
There’s nothing you can do. You did your best, and it wasn’t enough.
One shoe off, you’re forced to stifle a sob with your hands, as you come to the painful realization that you have to say goodbye to Johnny. Not just tonight, but in your heart. You’ve been clinging to that control, the idea that if you just perform everything perfectly, you can decide the outcome of the relationship.
But that’s false, you know it now. No amount of flawless behavior will make him love you, if it’s not meant to be.
The side door opens before you've managed to make progress on the second shoe, the task of removing your leggings now utterly cast to the side with the flood of emotion.
You already know it’s Johnny, even before he scoots himself into the backseat with you and wraps you up in his warm arms. Somehow you can tell even without looking, but you know it for sure when you bury your wet face into his shoulder and get a lungful of his scent.
“I missed you,” he says.
Next Part
Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop
he deserves way better fr
So Simon Riley is THE strict daddy dom and he flourishes in that role. There’s no one made for it quite like him.
But our baby is traumatized, folks.
He’s seen things that no one would ever want to have seen. And that leaves scars. And with how he treats you in the bedroom (with your enthusiastic consent) sometimes his feelings will come forward in an unexpected way.
You were both breathing heavily, coming down from an intense session, neither of you able to move quite yet in order to get cleaned up.
After a minute you were once more in your body and you look over to Simon to check in. He’s normally up before you, getting the washcloth, holding a cup of water for you to drink, soft touches brushing over any lingering marks, sweet words being murmured.
To your surprise he’s still in the same position, breath continuing slightly too fast to be normal. Simon? Hesitantly, your hand stretches across the bed to rest your fingertips on his wrist, your touch as soft as possible.
You know for sure something is wrong when he pulls back from your touch, as if ashamed.
Simon, sweetheart, is everything okay? When there’s no response you switch tactics. Scooting as close as you dared while still not touching him, you begin to talk.
‘You did so great for me baby and no one is mad at you. You were absolutely perfect.’ ‘You made me feel so good and gave me exactly what i wanted.’ ‘You’re so good to me sweetheart. You’re SO good.’ ‘Can i touch you?’
When he finally nods, his breathing becoming steadier as you ramble soothing affirmations, you don’t waste any time before placing your hand gently on his wrist. You start stoking back and forth, dragging your fingers and palm along his forearm.
There we go, love. Everything is gonna be okay. I loved every part of that and i love every part of you okay?
When he finally moves its to pull you to his chest, your face tucked into his shoulder before he rolls over you, cocooning you in his arms, sandwiched between his body and the bed. His arms tighten around you before he lets out a shaky breath and settles in for the next little bit, still focusing on your soothing words and your hands stroking his back softly.
He’s so strong for you, all the time. And every once in a while you get to be strong for him, too.
Next || Story Repository
Slater’s Fics
Frankie Morales
Softener (AO3 Version Here): Frankie Morales x f!Reader [SMUT]
Keep reading
Simon jolted awake, a sheen layer of sweat covering his body as he struggled to compose himself. You were dead. You just died in his arms and there was nothing he could do.
Placing a hand over his chest, he tried to steady his racing heart, but was unsuccessful. He blindly reached over for you, but when he found your side of the bed cold, the his panic worsened.
He ripped the blanket off of him, and began to stand on wobbly legs before they gave out underneath him- sending Simon crashing to the ground. What the hell was going on with him?
His breathing was labored, and he tried to call your name out to no avail..his words died in his throat. It felt like the entire world was caving in around him.
Panic attacks weren’t something new to Simon, but ever since he started dating you they grew less and less common. Your presence always had a way of calming him. Just knowing you were in the same house as him would ease any worry he could possibly have. But where were you right now? Why weren’t you here?
The door to the bedroom flew open, but it didn’t register with Simon until your frame came into view, crouching down on the floor to his level.
“Simon, baby. I’m here, it’s okay.” Your sweet, saccharine voice flooded Simon’s ears, causing a warmth to seep into his chilled bones. You were okay. You were here with him.
Simon let out a strangled sob, unable to do anything but wrap his arms around your frame and hold you to him possessively. He was afraid if he let you go, you’d disappear.
“I’ve got you, Si.” You cooed, placing a gentle kiss to Simon’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your firm grip on Simon was just what he needed to ground himself- to pull himself back into reality. You were here, you were safe. That was all that mattered in the moment.
“Don’t ever leave me, Y/N. Promise me that.” Simons voice came out soft, and shaky. “Gods I cannot fathom a world without you.”
“I promise you. You’re stuck with me.” You vowed, holding Simon tighter. “You and me, we are in this together. Forever.”
“Forever.” Simon echoed, finally able to breathe again. He looked up at you, and pressed a shaky kiss to your lips. “Forever.”
Recommendation - Call of Duty: Simon "Ghost" Riley Pt. 2
Navigation
-----
The Apparition (NSFW)
Tainted Heart
Jealous Older Boyfriend Simon
Creepy Simon
Warm Simon
Biggest Regret
Calling Him Simon Instead of Ghost
Morning with Simon
Forced to Fuck (Trigger Warning)
Clingy Simon
I Love You
Ghost x Paramedic Y/N / Part 2 / Part 3
Taking Younger Girlfriend Reader's Virginity (NSFW)
His Love Language
Reassurance
Little Bit of Cuteness Aggression
Nightmares
Panic Attack
A Family of His Own (NSFW?)
My Eyes are Up Here
Playful Argument (NSFW)
Sick Civilian reader
Going Back to His Family
Y/N Joking About Joining the Military
Baker Simon
A Cracked and Fissured Door
Nothing's Gonna Hurt You / Part 2
For the Last Time
I'll Wait for You
Guilty Eyes
PTSD
Try For Me
Simon Rescues Y/N
King Ghost x Princess Reader AU (Series)
King Simon x Personally Appointed Handmaiden Reader AU (Series)
It's Always Been You (Series) / Part 3
He Knows (Series)
Cure For Me (Series)
Moondrunk Monster (Series) / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4
Smashing Pumpkins (Series)
Traitor (Series?)
When Y/N Cries
༻˖ ࣪ ∗ writing catalog
marvel
includes tony stark ⊹ steve rogers ⊹ stephen stranger ⊹ loki laufeyson ⊹ logan howlett ⊹ bucky barnes ⊹ peter parker ⊹ t.hiddleston
stranger things
includes eddie munson ⊹ jim hopper ⊹ billy hargrove ⊹ nancy wheeler
call of duty
includes ghost ⊹ könig ⊹ price ⊹ soap ⊹ alejandro
misc.
includes the walking dead [bethyl] ⊹ emo bruce wayne [r.patts] ⊹ star wars ⊹ slasher films [halloween]
༊.⋆˚ ༘ masterlist tag ☽ nav. ☽ twitter ☽ ao3 ☽
★- Popular
Main Masterlist
COD Masterlist
⚓ Where Ships Sail (Series) DISCONTINUED ON TUMBLR
Continued on Ao3
Teaser Chapter 1: Where It Begins
🍒Popped Cherries! (Smut)
Come Home★ Love Language (Request)★ Simon's Visuals Nice and Slow (Request) ↳ Falling Into Place (Request) Mini Simon Visual★ Delicate (Request) Dessert (Request)★
🍒Cherry Buds! (Headcanons)
Cocky!Simon Headcanons (N/SFW) Simon NSFW Headcanons★ Simon Dating Headcanons Simon's Relationship Struggles (Request) Simon x Sensitive!Reader (Request) (N/SFW) Firehouse Favorite (Request) Simon x Curvy!Reader (Request) (N/SFW) Quiet Love with Simon (Request) Husband Simon Headcanons (Request) Simon x Asexual!Reader (Request)
🍒Sweet Cherries! (One-Shots)
Birthday Surprise Best Boyfriend Ever (Request) Healing Hearts (Request) The Pub with Simon★ Late Night Drive (Request) Two Lives in One (Request) A Place to be Weak (Request) Simplicity Symbolic (Request)
More in the 1K Prompts Masterlist
Bad Hair Day
[Jason Todd x Reader]
Word Count: 5k
Summary: Five times Jason's hair lets him down. Thankfully you're too gone for him to mind.
A/N: This was supposed to be silly, but I infected myself with Soft Bitch Disease HELP
Divider found here
Jason Todd had very nice hair. Dark and soft and unruly, it suited him well. As did the stubborn streak in the front that resisted any attempts to dye it (he’d tried once, on a day when his self-esteem had taken a nosedive).
And ever since the first time you ran your fingers through his hair, he’d put significant effort into taking good care of it. Anything to entice you to do it again.
So, yes, he was proud of it. He was proud of the way his bedhead made you smile. The way you wrapped that stubborn white curl around your finger and pressed a kiss to it. The way you couldn’t resist playing with it when he laid his head in your lap.
…But that didn’t mean there weren’t mishaps.
Helmet hair was the most common problem, and largely inescapable. In the beginning, when he’d just barely started spending nights in your apartment and long before moving in together was even a thought, he’d rushed from the window to the shower, not even taking his helmet off until the bathroom door was closed behind him. You usually weren’t awake anyway. But he didn’t think you needed that particular image of him.
Until the night where you got a little too caught up in a new show to go to bed at a reasonable hour. A summer night in the middle of a heat wave that had Jason flinging off his helmet the second his boots touched the living room floor, before he clocked you laying on the couch in the dim light from the TV.
“Oh, I really got carried away,” you mumbled to yourself, scrambling for the remote as you noted the time on your phone lockscreen. “Yikes.”
“H-hey,” Jason said awkwardly, not sure how he was supposed to act, at once happy and self-conscious.
“Hi,” you greeted with a smile, reaching to turn on a lamp before shutting off the TV. “You okay? I heard a lot of sirens tonight.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Heat wave makes people fucking crazy, though.”
You nodded, giving a sleepy little stretch before vacating the couch and moving towards him.
“Are you fine, though? I assume body armor isn’t exactly… breathable.” You poked at the thick padding covering his stomach.
“You’re right about that. I took way too many breaks.”
You frowned, unconvinced, as you took in his flushed face, the hair plastered to his forehead in damp swirls.
“Not enough breaks,” you corrected decisively. “Strip and sit.”
“Uh, w- ”
But you were already busying yourself with the tower fan in the corner, dragging it closer to the couch and turning it to its highest setting.
You looked back at him expectantly, gesturing towards his gear with an impatient hand.
“I’m serious. You need to cool down. And have you been drinking water? You need to drink water. I’m getting you water.”
You were hurrying away again before he could respond, and a tiny smile stole over his face at your brusk insistence. You couldn’t be bothered with awkwardness when you were convinced he needed caring for. It was… nice.
New. And nice.
So he was quick about following your orders, leaving all that heavy kevlar and plating in a messy heap by the window and dropping onto your couch cushions in just his boxers. The cool air of the fan offered immediate relief, soothing his overheated skin.
You were back seconds later, a damp rag in one hand and your largest water bottle in the other, ice clinking against the sides in time with your steps.
You opened it for him before shoving it into his hands, tossing the lid over your shoulder with a severe look that made him laugh. Drink it all. Message received.
You dropped onto your knees on the couch cushion beside him, swiping the cold cloth over his forehead, his neck, behind his ears.
Jason sighed contentedly at the sensation, lifting the bottle to take a long drink, the water inside so cold it almost made his teeth hurt. He drained a third of it in one go.
“Good boy,” you said approvingly, brushing a kiss to his cheekbone and effectively undoing all your hard work as Jason’s skin warmed again from the praise.
Still, he dodged back from your hands when you reached for his hair.
“I’m still really sweaty.”
“I know,” you said with a laugh. “I can handle sweat, Jason.”
“It’s not gonna feel nice,” he said, eying you uncertainly.
“It will feel nice to you, which is the point.”
And, well, he couldn’t really argue with that. When you reached for him again, he stayed still, sighing as you slowly swept damp and flattened curls back from his forehead. Your fingers worked carefully through the sweaty tangles, gently restoring order and lifting the strands away from his scalp, giving the cool air from the fan an opportunity to ruffle through them.
“Good?” you asked after a few minutes, your voice almost a whisper.
Jason hummed appreciatively, his eyes half-closed.
“Good. Keep drinking your water, honey.”
Hair gel was only a problem once before he learned his lesson.
And really, technically, it was actually your fault. Your fault entirely for leaving him to fend off the vultures alone.
You’d promised. Looked him in the eyes, kissed his pouting lips, and promised to attend this charity dinner with him.
Jason had begrudgingly agreed to attend four Wayne events per year, and the dinners, at least, had a clear and predictable end time. Not that it mattered as much when you were with him. You made an unbelievably charming party guest, skilled at pulling focus off of Jason exactly when he needed, unparalleled in your ability to set him at ease when the endless stream of self-important rich Gothamites started to get to him like an itch under the skin.
But the universe decided to play with him that day, sending its opening move in the form of a frantic, heartbroken call from your close friend who needed you right that very second. Jason heard the crying from the other side of the room, and looked to you with alarm, hands freezing in the process of buttoning his shirt.
You were making soft, soothing sounds, moving to slip the cocktail dress back off your shoulders, reaching for your sweatpants where they sat neatly folded beside Jason’s.
“How long ago did he leave?” you asked.
Jason caught your eyes, raised his brow in question.
Fight with boyfriend, you mouthed to him. He sighed, head tipping back in defeat.
And he did feel a little bad for the resentment that bubbled up at the realization that you were backing out of the event. Your friend was upset, and she had every right to seek you out. But that didn’t mean he was happy about it.
Jason finished getting ready glumly, smoothing his hair into a more gentlemanly shape and using more gel than usual since you wouldn’t be there to fix it for him if it fell out of place.
By the time he was ready to leave, you were finished with your call, waiting by the door in unfairly comfortable clothes and an empty tote bag for the snacks you’d pick up on your way. You started pouting before Jason could say anything, shuffling up to him to plant consoling little kisses over his face.
“So handsome,” you said, smoothing your hands over his shoulders. “Sorry, baby. I know you hate these things.”
“It’s gonna be so much worse without you.”
“Maybe you’ll make a new friend,” you suggested hopefully, breaking into a giggle at the flat look he fixed you with. “Fine, probably not. Is Dick going?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, that’s good then. Just shove him at anyone who gets too close to you.”
Jason snorted, failing to hide the smile the image inspired.
“I’ll see you when I get home, okay?”
And Jason clung to that promise for the whole night. When he saw Dick’s name card placed on the other side of the room. When he caught sight of the menu that listed twelve courses in excruciating detail. When the lady who was seated next to him at dinner wouldn’t stop trying to touch him. By the time the insultingly tiny slivers of cake were placed in front of each guest, Jason had a splitting headache, a thoroughly depleted social battery, and a recurring daydream about strangling himself with his own bowtie.
He inhaled his dessert at a concerning speed, made a show of shaking Bruce’s hand, and fled the venue like a bat out of hell.
The shower was running when he got home, but all Jason could manage was kicking off his shoes, ditching his jacket, and half unbuttoning his shirt before faceplanting on the bed in a flawless starfish formation.
There was no energy left anywhere in his body or mind. Give him a night on the rooftops and alleys, kicking ass and getting shot at, over a night with the Gotham elite any night of the week.
He was half-asleep when you climbed over him on the bed.
“What have they done to you?” you whispered, amusement clear in your voice.
Jason let out a wordless groan, and you laughed.
“All that, huh? You want a bubble bath?”
He shook his head, face never lifting from the sheets.
“Let me rinse this gel out of your hair before you pass out completely, then. We can use the kitchen sink.”
He gave the most pitiful sigh you’d ever heard, and you shook your head with a knowing smile, nudging his heavy limbs over until you had enough space to crawl into bed.
When he woke the next morning, it was to the sound of your soft giggles, syrupy sweet and undeniable. Jason opened his eyes, already smiling at the sound.
“What’s funny?” he asked sleepily, hands automatically seeking you across the sheets, latching onto your thigh, your waist.
You bit your lip, handing him your phone with the forward-facing camera open.
He looked like an electrocuted cartoon character, hair bound together in chaotic spikes sticking out in all directions. God damn hair gel. The look on his face had you laughing again, but you softened it with a fond stroke to his cheek.
“My little dandelion.”
Occasionally, Gotham’s weather liked to toy with Jason too, sending him home to you looking every bit the sad, miserable wet cat.
He refused to carry an umbrella. Umbrellas were for old people and tourists. His hoods suited him just fine and allowed the added benefit of leaving both hands free. And mostly it was fine. Unless Gotham was in a Mood.
Rain fell in hard, heavy sheets, large cold drops that landed with all the force of hailstones and bit at exposed skin without mercy. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of you, the effect only made worse by the blanket of dark, angry clouds overhead. Even that, Jason may have made it through relatively unscathed. But the wind was determined to have its fun too, running through the city in heavy gusts that made windows rattle and buildings creak and groan. Sending torrents of rain nearly horizontal, battering any unlucky pedestrians it caught wandering the sidewalk.
Unlucky pedestrians like Jason, whose hood had been blown off his head three blocks back. Whose eyes were nearly shut against the constant onslaught of wind and rain. Who had shoved a bouquet of flowers up his shirt ten minutes ago and was pretty certain he’d been leaving a trail of soaked flower petals behind him ever since.
By the time he made it back to the apartment you shared, he was soaked to the bone and shivering, hair plastered to his face and down over his eyes from the weight and force of the water.
At the sound of the door, you came running, skidding to an unsteady stop in your fuzzy socks as Jason reached to catch you. He held you carefully away from his drenched body, frowning an apology at the wet handprint he left behind on your sweatshirt.
“Are you okay? I was hoping you were camped out in a shop somewhere waiting for this storm to pass.”
“It’ll go all night,” Jason said, still out of breath and feeling half-drowned as he dripped all over the kitchen floor.
Your thoughtful frown shifted into something more concerned as you noticed the way he was keeping one hand tucked beneath his jacket.
“Are you hurt? What happened?”
Before he could answer, you had his jacket unzipped and were pushing his sweatshirt up in search of an injury.
Jason cringed as several waterlogged flowers tumbled onto the floor, shifting self-consciously as you stared blankly at the sight before you. His palm was still pressing a handful of stems to his stomach, where several leaves and even more petals had plastered themselves to his skin rather than falling free.
“Oh.”
“Sorry, baby, I tried to keep them safe, but I think I just made it worse.”
“Jason…” you said slowly, reaching with gentle fingers to sweep aside the hair that was still dripping rainwater in his eyes. “Did you go out in a thunderstorm just to buy me flowers?”
“N- It’s… It was barely raining when I left.”
“Only you would try to downplay a romantic gesture,” you said, shaking your head with a fond smile.
Jason shrugged, the movement bringing your attention backed to his soaked clothing and prompting you to help him out of his jacket.
He took advantage of your distraction, still finding it easier to say vulnerable things when you weren’t looking into his eyes.
“I had to get you something today. It’s our anniversary.”
Your face scrunched a little, turning to study the calendar stuck to the fridge with a goofy souvenir magnet.
“Help me out, darling,” you said apologetically. “Anniversary of what?”
“Um…” Jason gave up on the rest of the flowers, letting them fall to the floor and brushing the clingy petals away from his skin. He wasn’t even looking at you now, but he didn’t seem offended. Just… embarrassed.
You gave him some space, taking your time grabbing extra towels and clean, dry clothes for him to change into. And you wanted to linger, to help peel wet fabric from cold skin, rub warmth back into numb fingers, kiss rosy color back into pale lips. But he still looked shy, eyes diverted and distracted, so you left him with the stack and a soft kiss to his cheek before moving to make him a cup of tea.
He came back to you in his own time, bundled in his coziest clothes and wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Six months ago you told me you loved me for the first time,” he said softly.
“Oh…” You leaned back into his arms a little more. “I should have remembered that. I’m sorry.”
You felt him shake his head, still resting against your shoulder.
“S’okay… We had a night in. You made pancakes for dinner.”
“I remember the moment, just not the date…” you said, wiggling around in his hold to face him. His hair was still dripping onto the towel he had draped over his shoulders.
“I put it in my phone the night it happened. When you were in the bathroom,” Jason confessed, pink creeping up in his cheeks.
“I felt it a long time before I said it,” you confessed in turn, reaching for the towel and running it over his hair. “It took a while for me to build up the nerve to say it to your face.”
A face that was currently scrunched in boyish protest as you continued ruffling his hair with the towel, soaking up the extra water.
“Yep, that one,” you laughed, dropping the towel back to his shoulders and giving his hair a little extra tousle.
He kissed you twice. Once with a playful nip, then softer, slow and sweet like he’d quite like to stay there all night.
“Thank you. For saying it.”
“Thanks for saying it back.”
You would never convince Jason that The Unicorn wasn’t a brilliant stroke of innovation.
His hair was getting too long, constantly falling in his eyes, tugging uncomfortably in his helmet, hanging out of his hood when he opted for the mask instead. But he hadn’t been in the mood to get it cut, and you certainly never complained. It just gave you more to play with.
When you were home together, it was heaven. You couldn’t stay away from it, passing your fingers through it when you walked by, coming up behind him when he sat on the couch or at the table to press kisses into the unruly curls, playing with it idly any time you were cuddled up together. You had turned the Red Hood into a cuddly house cat, constantly placing himself near you and feigning indifference, only to melt at the first brush of your fingertips.
He’d spill all his secrets for one of your scalp massages. Credit card number. Social security number. Terrible teenage poetry. Anything you wanted to know, as long as you kept touching his hair.
But when you weren’t around, his perspective shifted rather dramatically.
Reading a book became incredibly frustrating, unless it was done with perfect posture and the book held at eye level or flat on his back. This graduated from annoying to fucking impossible the third time he dropped a book on his face.
And cleaning his guns? Absolute bullshit. Grease that took two washes to get out of his hair from constantly trying to push it out of his face. Uncharacteristic clumsiness when taking them apart because he couldn’t see.
So he came up with a… creative solution.
Which is how you came home to find Jason lounging comfortably, tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket, a book, and an absurd hairstyle, the front of his hair gathered into a little bun on the crown of his head.
“Oh, hello,” you called with a surprised laugh, kicking your shoes off and dropping your purse onto the table by the door.
He hummed distractedly, eyes still fixed on the pages.
You plopped down on the cushion beside him, watching him read with an amused little grin until he finished his chapter.
“Hey baby,” he finally greeted you, placing his book on the side table.
“Hi…” you said, eyes flickering back up to the tiny bun at the top of his head. “Who’s your friend?”
“A masterclass in ingenuity,” Jason said as he gave the bun a satisfied little pat. “Which lets me read without breaking my nose.”
“I see.” You bit your lip, hard, trying not to laugh as you stared at it.
“Stop lookin at it!”
He grabbed your chin, forcing you to make eye contact.
“Sorry,” you laughed. “It makes you look like a baby unicorn.”
“That better be a compliment.”
“Oh, of course. You’re a very dashing unicorn.”
He scowled at you, but despite his best efforts it was entirely without malice. Disappointing, given glaring was one of his most natural talents. But he’d never been very good at glaring at you.
“It’s actually very cute,” you said through a smile, reaching up to squeeze the little bun before Jason batted your hand away. “Can I put a bow on it?”
“No.”
He wouldn’t stop you if you actually tried. But you didn’t need to know that.
“You could just cut it, you know. If it’s bothering you this much.”
“It’s fine,” he sighed. “I know you like it.”
“You know what I like even more?”
“Mmm?” He leaned his head back against the cushions.
“Your comfort and safety.”
“Lame,” he said solemnly.
You broke first, falling into a fit of giggles that dragged a laugh out of him too.
“Seriously though,” you said, leaning into his side, a smile still on your face as he wrapped an arm around you automatically. “Why don’t you get it cut? I’ll come with you if you want.”
He shifted a little, let out a sigh that sounded more serious than the last.
“I um… I’m not really in the mood to let a stranger with sharp objects near my face right now.”
“Oh,” you said softly, subconsciously snuggling a little closer. “Okay.”
“It… It comes and goes. That… feeling.”
You nodded, gave a little space in case he wanted to say more. He didn’t.
“Could you? Trim it? I could buy you some salon scissors. And one of those trimmers with the different settings. If you want.”
“Yeah, maybe… Probably wouldn’t look very good though.”
“We could watch tutorials. Besides, you could pull off just about anything with that face.”
He scoffed, but you could see a tiny spark of pride in his eyes, the inclination of a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Could… Would you do it for me?” he asked hesitantly, glancing down at you.
Something fluttered in your chest at the gentle request.
“I can try. Do you think… I mean would that be okay? When you’re feeling like this?”
“Yes,” he said simply, no trace of doubt in his voice.
“Okay,” you answered, smiling at the sweet kiss it earned you.
“Not too short,” he requested, barely moving his lips from yours. “Make sure there’s enough for you to play with.”
Your stomach gave a little flip, and you kissed him back a little harder.
“You’ve got it.”
Slicked back wasn’t a go-to hairstyle for Jason, in any context. And he was still adamantly anti hair gel since “The Dandelion Incident.”
But fresh out of the shower, all it took was a comb. It would keep his hair out of his eyes for a little while, at least. And give him an excuse to seek you out, not that he needed one these days.
He found you in the living room, sorting through a basket of clean laundry in search of matching socks. You did a double take when you saw him, smiling as he dragged you closer by the hips.
“Look at you,” you giggled, holding his face in your hands.
“What do we think?” he asked, moving easily with your touch as you tilted his chin to either side, looking him over with overplayed seriousness.
“Hmm. Very handsome,” you decided.
“Yeah?”
“You’re always handsome,” you said, kissing his cheek. “This is just a different kind of handsome.”
Jason hummed thoughtfully, fighting a smile and squeezing you closer, a warm feeling fluttering in his chest.
“What kind of handsome?”
“Distinguished. Debonair.”
“I’ve never been debonair in my life,” he laughed.
You stepped back, forming a little frame with your hands as you continued to study him.
“This guy’s got a favorite jeweler. A permanently reserved table at a restaurant in case he feels like dropping by.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop you, watching you with a fond smile.
“He slips people their tip during a handshake. Orders a martini like James Bond. He - ” You broke off suddenly, pressing your lips together, eyes widening slightly.
“What?” Jason prompted, poking at your side.
“Nothing.”
“Well now you have to tell me.” He caught your hands as they dropped, pulling you back into his arms.
“It was just a fleeting thought. Nothing important.”
“Great. Tell me anyway.”
You sighed, grabbed at his shirt as if to brace yourself.
“This hairstyle might… maybe… make you look the tiniest bit like… Bruce.”
The reaction was immediate and exactly what you expected, Jason jolting back as if slapped, his expression entirely horrified.
“Just a little,” you insisted. “And only because this is usually how he does his -”
But he was already scrambling back to the bathroom.
“Nope, nope, nope, nope.”
“Jason, it doesn’t mean -”
The door slammed, and you bit at your lip, trying not to laugh at his dramatics. Your humor didn’t last long, however, as you caught the buzz of an electric razor.
“Absolutely fucking not!” you yelled, bursting through the door and snatching the razor out of his hand. “Jason!”
“It has to be done.”
“No, it really doesn’t.” You turned it off, tossing it back under the sink.
“Can’t believe you said that to me,” he groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face as if to wipe away the comparison.
“Temporary insanity. Didn’t mean it,” you said, taking both of his hands in yours.
He stared at you doubtfully but followed without question as you started backing out of the bathroom, towing him along with you.
“I can fix it. Without shaving your head.”
Jason gave a fussy sigh, but you didn’t falter, pulling him into the bedroom.
“Sit,” you said, pushing lightly on his shoulders until he dropped down onto the foot of the bed, looking up at you expectantly.
You placed a knee on either side of his hips, settling comfortably on his lap and cradling his face in your hands.
“Jason,” you said sweetly.
“Hmm?” His eyes were locked curiously on yours, giving you his undivided attention, pout already beginning to fade.
“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”
He looked mildly unconvinced. You continued on your course, pressing gentle kisses over his face until he gave a slow, heavy exhale.
“And I’ll keep thinking so no matter what. But I think we both like your natural hair better than this,” you whispered against his skin. “Can I fix it for you?”
“Yes,” he whispered back, eyelids already beginning to droop as your fingers worked their way into his hair.
You could fix this problem with a quick little ruffle. That’s all it would take. But that’s not how Jason liked to be touched.
You started slow and gentle, your fingertips moving in little circles against his scalp starting at his hairline and moving back, pressure slightly increasing with every pass. Your nails scraped gently over the back of his neck, sending a pleased little shiver through his body as his head dropped to rest against your chest.
“There we go,” you said softly, moving your hands to the sides of his head and working upwards to accommodate his new position. His arms wrapped around you as he gave another sigh, a much softer sound this time. Contented.
You got no words from him for a while after that, just the feeling of his slow, steady breaths and the warm sweep of his hand as it snuck under the back of your shirt.
He loved it when you did this, always, had stopped trying to be coy about it a long time ago. Told you how sweet you were. Talked about how much you spoiled him. But you’d honestly never thought about it that way.
It was a privilege to give Jason these moments of tenderness, to feel the tension drain out of him the longer you went on touching him this way. To see the way his face went serene, eyes soft and a little glossy. You’d do anything he asked to keep earning those content smiles, keep hearing those happy little sighs. You wondered if he knew that.
His hair was dry by the time you stopped, pulling him away from your chest with a gentle tug that had him releasing a low hum. He looked up at you, eyes half-closed and dreamy, his hair a sweet riot of messy waves and loose curls.
“There’s my Jason.” You stroked his cheek, feather light.
“Still handsome?” he asked quietly.
“Devastating, my darling,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll never recover.”
He believed you this time, with a sleepy slow smile.
“Good,” he said, collapsing lazily back onto the blankets, dragging you down with him as he kept you tucked tightly against his chest. “Don’t want you to.”
A/n: Say something before I lose my mind
Motion Sickness
jason todd x fem!reader
aka jason makes you cry after a fight
warnings: angst with comfort
“Jason—”
He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”
Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?” he challenges.
You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”
He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently.
A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”
“It’s not about needing it—”
“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”
You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”
“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways.
You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung.
Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen.
“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”
There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.
The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.
You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.
You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that.
Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?
You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat.
It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.
He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.
Dick stills, blinking warily.
“What’re you doing here?”
His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.
As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.
He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”
Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”
Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch.
“What’d you do?”
Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth.
“Be myself.”
Dick says nothing,
When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.
“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.
Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.
He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.
“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.
Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”
Jason exhales desperately.
“Both, I think.”
Dick nods, understanding.
“Then go home.”
Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“What did you say?”
He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”
“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”
Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”
“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”
Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to.
He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it.
The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.
He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.
“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.
He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.
So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”
There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.
“Not right now.”
Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.
He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.
He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.
He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance.
Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands.
It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now.
Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.
He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.
He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.
He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.
“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.
It takes a long few moments, but you nod.
He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.
“Will you turn over?”
An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot.
He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.
He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.
You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to.
He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.
“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”
Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated.
You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”
He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”
Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.
You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out.
Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly.
“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”
But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.
He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.
“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.
You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”
“No, it’s not.”
That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.
It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.
When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.
He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.
You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying.
“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.
He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”
You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”
“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”
His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.
Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.
“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.
He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?”
You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement.
He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.
“I love you,” you tell him quietly.
His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered.
“I love you too, baby. So much.”
🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague
Motion Sickness
jason todd x fem!reader
aka jason makes you cry after a fight
warnings: angst with comfort
“Jason—”
He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”
Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?” he challenges.
You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”
He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently.
A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”
“It’s not about needing it—”
“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”
You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”
“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways.
You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung.
Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen.
“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”
There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.
The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.
You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.
You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that.
Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?
You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat.
It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.
He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.
Dick stills, blinking warily.
“What’re you doing here?”
His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.
As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.
He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”
Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”
Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch.
“What’d you do?”
Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth.
“Be myself.”
Dick says nothing,
When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.
“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.
Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.
He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.
“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.
Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”
Jason exhales desperately.
“Both, I think.”
Dick nods, understanding.
“Then go home.”
Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“What did you say?”
He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”
“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”
Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”
“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”
Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to.
He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it.
The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.
He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.
“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.
He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.
So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”
There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.
“Not right now.”
Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.
He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.
He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.
He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance.
Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands.
It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now.
Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.
He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.
He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.
He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.
“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.
It takes a long few moments, but you nod.
He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.
“Will you turn over?”
An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot.
He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.
He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.
You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to.
He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.
“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”
Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated.
You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”
He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”
Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.
You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out.
Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly.
“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”
But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.
He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.
“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.
You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”
“No, it’s not.”
That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.
It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.
When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.
He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.
You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying.
“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.
He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”
You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”
“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”
His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.
Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.
“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.
He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?”
You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement.
He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.
“I love you,” you tell him quietly.
His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered.
“I love you too, baby. So much.”
🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague
Call Of Duty Masterlist
Last Updated: 10/12/2023
Requests: OPEN
Current Works: 29
This is the masterlist for all my Call Of Duty work! Make sure to check back frequently for updates and feel free to send in your requests!
⭐ - Fan Favourite!
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
Jealousy, Jealousy
Anyone But Her ⭐
It Was Never Meant To Hurt
Painless Bruises ⭐
Captured In Tandem , Recovery In Tandem⭐
Forget Me Not
Bone Tired
Night Terrors
A Cracked And Fissured Door ⭐
To Hate A Heart That Beats For You
Where One Goes, The Other Follows
It All Comes Crashing Down ⭐
Solace For The Rough Nights
To Coax The Love From A Ghost
Meant To Be a Ghost, Not a Shadow
Superficial Wounds, Deep Devotion
I Swear I Asked For Two
The Price Of A Secret ,
A Fighting Chance, Frayed Stitches Don’t Hold (Pt 2) ⭐
Till Death Do Us Apart
Frightened Of The Fall
Cut From The Same Cloth
John Price
Sacrifices
Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish
Taken
Gentle Hands
A Still Beating Heart
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick
Welcome Home, Love
Lt. Simon Ghost Riley
cod masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist
☁️ = fluff || ⛈️ = angst || 🔥 = sexual content
Ghost Kiss Headcanons ☁️
NSFW Alphabet 🔥
Rumbling (GN!Reader) ⛈️☁️
Ghost + Price Comfort GN!Reader With Scoliosis ⛈️☁️
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” ⛈️☁️
Downpour (GN!Reader) ☁️
Emergency Contact (GN!Reader) - Part 2 ☁️⛈️
July 2023 Smut Prompt Masterlist 🔥
Frozen Fingertips (GN!Reader) - Part 2 ⛈️☁️
Soft Moments: Ghost Edition (GN!Reader) ☁️
Sub Moments: Ghost Edition (GN!Reader) 🔥
Under The Surface (GN!Reader) ☁️⛈️
Need It (GN!Reader) 🔥
Migraines (GN!Reader) ☁️
Keychain (GN!Reader) ☁️⛈️
Sick Moments: Ghost Edition (GN!Reader) ☁️
The Soul Series (GN!Reader) ☁️⛈️🔥
summary; you’re completely out of line and every form of leadership you’ve had have thrown you out because you won’t fall into line, and you’re concerningly disobedient. that isn’t even addressing your morality. you face two choices: follow orders or face dishonorable discharge.
it is proven that majority of women can’t orgasm from intercourse alone. So imagine reader who can’t make herself cum, no matter how she touches her swollen little bud.
it’s becoming more annoying as you keep trying, different speeds, pressures, and angles, but nothing seems to work for you! It’s gotten to the point where you’ve quite frankly given up on even touching yourself. You’ve tried for so long, yet always get nothing.
so imagine telling Simon when he asks you, oh so kindly when on deployment, to touch yourself with him to make you both feel good. The silence over the phone when you say you can’t.
“What?”
“I just can’t. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work for me.”
“‘Ave ya-?”
“I’ve done everything, Simon! I can’t, okay?”
it was clear that this was something that you weren’t comfortable with talking about. It made you upset that you didn’t “function correctly” like other women. So the night Simon came home, he greeted you with a soft kiss. There wasn’t any harsh underlying emotion, just soft and sweet love. His large and calloused hands would cup your cheeks and look at your eyes, watching the slight confusion slip into your gaze.
now laying against his sturdier chest, looking at yourself in the mirror with him behind you, you knew what was happening. He gently pulled down your sleeping pants, taking his time to let his fingertips brush against every inch of your thighs, all the way down to your ankles. And soon enough, off came your panties too. He started by admiring the slight glistening of your slick right by your entrance, using his fingers to gently dip into the fluid that he loved. Dragging his fingers upwards, he brought his fingertips to the side of your clit, letting your slick be the lube for his fingers.
Simon looked at you through the mirror, keeping eye contact as his fingers pressed onto your clit. The gasp that left your lips was sudden, almost reaching down to grab his wrist, but stopping when he gave you a stern warning look. Everything felt different - his touch felt electrifying, while yours felt like watching paint dry. Why was it so different? Your eyes fluttered shut, head resting on his shoulder when he started speeding up his small circular motion. Your thighs spread a little more, shuddering when you felt a build up in your lower tummy. That burn you never felt unless you used a toy, the burn you got before you were clouded with euphoria; it was coming. You let out small squeaks and whimpers as your hips lifted and you came undone. Usually that’s when you’d stop, let your body just relax, but Simon kept a firm hand across your torso, using his leg to keep yours pinned down so he could still rub you till complete satisfaction.
once his movements slowed and he was panting along with you slightly, he pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder, looking at your eyes through the mirror again.
“I don’t care what time of day it is, if ye need t’cum, y’tell me and I’ll help, love. Alrigh’?”
you mustered a small nod, droopy eyes falling to the wet and sticky mess between your thighs, and the lovely hands that helped you along the way.
Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.
Simon didn’t like to hold you. He liked to be held.
At first, you didn’t understand why he’d turn his back to you in bed without saying anything. You thought you’d done something to him, or maybe he was in a bad mood. You couldn’t be any more wrong.
Simon Riley, an absolute brute of a soldier, was silently asking for you to be the big spoon. You nearly didn’t believe it when he finally brought it to your attention.
He was too embarrassed to ask you, so he’d resort to flipping on to his side and wait. And wait. Until he realized you didn’t catch the memo, even after many hopeless attempts.
In his mind, he thought being the big spoon would somehow convince you he wasn’t manly enough, as if his title in the service or his pure stature wasn’t proof enough of his masculinity.
To him, being held was a blanket of security. Where he’d always have to watch his back out on the field, both literally and metaphorically, he didn’t have to keep an eye out at all times with you. It was a chance for him to find solace in a person, and when he explained this to you, he was surprised to find you so willing.
And oh, when it happened, Simon nearly kicked himself for holding back on verbalizing it for so long.
The warmth of your arms when they wrapped around him from behind, your face buried between his shoulder blades, legs tangled in his, he thought that this was what inner peace felt like.
He was silly to think you’d ever be the one to judge him for what most deemed ‘unmasculine’. In all of his broad glory, he felt safe the moment you held him, like a child does when they feel a mother’s embrace except it was from someone he loved dearest to his heart.
And you? You found that being the big spoon was rather enjoyable when the man you’re holding was so damn comfortable to snuggle up to. It was a win-win for you both.
You just wished he wasn’t an idiot that left you wondering all those hopeless nights until the truth came out.
masterlist; simon “ghost” riley
updated: I’ve put them in order of time if you want to read them that way.
just practice
simon eats you out for the first time.
your first christmas
simon is hurting and takes it out on you.
patient
simon comes home to find a joint in your apartment, something that reminds him of the past.
candied ginger
simon starts touching you on the way home from the grocery store.
nightmare
simon accidentally hurts you after having a nightmare.
a relationship with simon is far from easy
you and simon have a fight.
soft ramblings over tea
you and simon share tea the night before he leaves.
against the wall
simon finds himself wanting to give you a baby.
it’s safe here
simon says “I love you” for the first time.
surprising ghost with a pregnancy
...you surprise ghost with a pregnancy
merry christmas, lieutenant
soap runs into his lieutenant off-duty and meets the girl he has been keeping a secret (you).
buckshot
simon teaches you how to shoot so you can protect the family.
soft around the edges
ghost’s son runs up to him in front of the team.
uncle johnny
soap and ghost stay at your home for the night.
drabbles:
TLC from simon
anniversary
your son has a tantrum
ghost + your son's teddy bear
ghost's daughter runs up to him
your native language
domesticity turns him on
all dad!ghost here
au where ghost d*es here
i thought i lost you (again)
jason todd unique second child privileges
you draw jason so PRETTY thank you for the peak content
hehe thanks i draw one pretty jason a day to keep the doctors away
he's post-patrol sweaty
a lil birthday present for @sunlitlemonade :’) <333
based on this fic,, pls go read all of them actually!!!!!!!
Careless Accidents
jason todd x fem!reader
aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed
warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed to hard
You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.
You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.
Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.
“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly.
“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did.
“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”
“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing.
“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”
She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.
Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.
What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear.
What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.
Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.
“Are you okay?” she signs.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern.
“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.
“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.
Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”
Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”
Dick paled.
“No.”
Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”
“No.”
You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.
“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”
Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.
“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—”
Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident.
“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.
You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”
Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done.
You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.
He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”
“Dick.”
He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes,
He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.
“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.
You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”
Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”
You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically.
Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.
“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”
Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”
Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”
A deadpan from Tim.
“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”
Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”
Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”
Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?”
“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.
“Oh my God.”
He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?
He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.
The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”
The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”
Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.”
Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”
Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”
Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.
“I can’t help you.”
Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.
Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”
“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”
Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”
Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”
Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom.
You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you.
“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.
“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.
He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you.
Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back.
You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”
“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”
He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you.
You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”
The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature.
He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.
“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”
You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”
He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.
He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”
You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.
Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt.
“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following.
“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”
He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”
He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”
You nod, happy to ease his mind.
You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.
You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.
You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.
He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.
“Fucking idiot—”
You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.
“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.
“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”
He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.
You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him.
He scoffs, “It better have been.”
You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”
“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”
“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly.
You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”
He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”
His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”
You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”
He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”
He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”
“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.
“Dick!”
The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.
He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes.
“Where is he?”
Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding.
Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.
He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”
But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.
He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.
There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail.
“Really? Really?” Jason bellows.
“It was an accident! It was a fucking—”
He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.
“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”
Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.
Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”
Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”
He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him.
Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”
Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”
“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option.
“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring.
Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to.
“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—”
Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”
“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”
Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”
“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”
“Yeah, of course I did!”
For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body.
The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.
It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more.
“Jason.”
Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption.
You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.
He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.
“I didn’t hit him.”
⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️
Oh, He’s Big Big 18+
Thinking about Jason Todd just being big. Big hands, big cock, even bigger heart. Practically pawing at you, able to hold the plush softness of your thighs when you’re sitting on his face, hands large enough to encircle your entire wrists. Cock the size of a monster can, splitting you open so that you feel in it your throat when he’s fucking you into the bed. Being sore for days after a quickie. Jason who cares so much. Will be there any time of day or night if you need him and will break a few noses along the way.
That’s it. Send tweet.
i lost the ask my bad! but here is jason for an anon
got possessed. drew this. bon appetit
dont tag as ship!