Simon Rileyâs never thought that beforeâuntil theyâre barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.Â
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They wonât hurt you, of course, but you donât know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked manâ
Laughter stops him in his tracks.Â
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddlerâs giggling so hard sheâs nearly tippinâ out of her seat as she yanks on Macâs ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.Â
And youâyouâre bent over, one hand holding Capâs paw, the other scratching behind Kiloâs ears.Â
âCute pups,â you say.Â
Cute...what?Â
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.Â
âYou military?âÂ
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. Youâre not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.Â
âMy husband was, too.â Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. âHe did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.â
You donât have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find somethingâanythingâto say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.Â
And thenâit hits him in the chest like a bullet.Â
Youâre all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.Â
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong itâs almost staggering.
âWell,â you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. âHave a good one.â Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. âLieutenant.â
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the âcute pupsâ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.Â
a perverted priest who finally gives in. rolling up his robe enough so you can see how hard his cock is. his trembling thighs. the way he'd beg to you like a prayer, "I don't care where. but please touch me" without even looking at you, because he can't fathom what he's doing. an "oh god" falling meekly from his tongue.
Still thinking about ghost in the [24-hour diner] that reader works at...
The strange man becomes....not a regular, but a frequent visitor. Comes in twice a week or once a month. Always pays in cash, always heavily overpays. Always when you're on staff.
You've taken to calling him ghost because he dissappears so often. He laughed his ass off the first time you called him that, said you had perfect instincts. Whatever that means.
Without fail, whenever he comes in you're already calling out to the back "code ghost!" Long before he sits down. By this point patty just starts making whatever. Ghost will eat anything and money is never an issue.
He always ends with a vanilla milkshake. Cute.
It's just....today is the one day you don't want to see ghost.
He notices it instantly. The tight press of your lips, the wet sheen in the corner of your eyes. How you don't say hi the second he walks in.
"Whats wrong, kid?" He asks, sitting right in front of you instead of at his usual seat. You purse your lips, try to stop yourself from choking out the words.
"Nothing. It's silly." It still comes out weak, forced, and you take a breath before trying again. "Just....boy trouble. Really thought he loved me, yknow?"
Which is silly, of course ghost doesn't know. He doesn't seem like he's ever even locked pinkies with someone in the last century. you continue at his grunt, tears welling again "well, he said loved me. Just...not enough to stay loyal. I guess."
Ghost makes a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat "want him dealt with?"
...
....what.
"What?! Like...dead? No. No, notâ" the sheer absurdity of the statement and the tiny voice in your head telling you ghost is serious is enough to snap you out of your mind. "No! I don't want him dead!"
"Not what I said." Ghost grumbles, but pulls the usual cash from his backpack anyways. He lets you calm down while he eats what you assume is a hundred pancakes.
At the end, ghost asks for two vanilla milkshakes. He passes the second to you, and urges "just fuckin' relax a bit, kid. Life's too short and meaningless to worry about some bloke."
thinking of SIMONRILEY staging a break in, in the middle of the night to test his sweet country wife.
he waits until he knows youâre down for the night. you were under the guise that simon wouldnât be home for another week or so and with that he makes his plan. simon trusts you wholeheartedly, he knows youâd take a bullet for him and vice versa, especially for your newborn child. his intentions are to see what youâd do in these very real situations, because simon does have enemies.
simon goes the whole nine yards, cuts the power, busts a window and climbs though and everything. he has installed cameras but heâd made sure to cut off any access to them.
simon wanted you terrified.
imagine his surprise when he bursts into your bedroom to âattackâ you and youâre sitting on the bed on your knees, in an oversized shirt with a 12 gauge pointed in his direction â your new born hidden behind you and surrounded by pillows for safety.
but only simon has at least two seconds before your firing off a round in his directionâthat just barely misses his right ear by a few inches. he has another five as he watches you cock the shotgun to fire another round at him but heâs able to stop you before.
âdown birdâitâs jusâ me lovie.â
he snatches the black balaclava off, right hand raised in surrender as your baby screams bloody murder behind you from the thunderous clap of the shotgun.
the calmness in his voice isnât what takes you by surprise, anger and pure disbelief flooding your veins as your babyâs cries get louder and louder. not only did you almost just kill your fucking husband but now thereâs a big ass hole in the wall of your bedroom thatâs you spent weeks choosing the wallpaper for.
the cherry on top being your newborn now wide awake because of simonâs stupid shenanigans.
âsimon!?!? what the fuck!? i couldâve killed you. are you fucking insane!?â
the next couple of hours consist of you rocking your baby while calling simon every rendition of an idiot you could come up with.
as you bitch him out, the sadistic fucker can only look at the mother of his baby with hearts in his eyes.
even if he knew it would take a while for you to forgive him for this little stunt.
Now imagine that omega heat cycles can sync up like periods...
Not really an issue for gaz, considering he's the only omega on the team. He's not on suppressants, most omegas this high up aren't, too much risk to make it worth. It's fine, some minor medication at the start of his joining has Gaz's heats perfectly timed and predictable for price to plan around.
That is, until you join the team. A fellow omega.
Gaz nearly rips prices throat out for not properly consulting him before bringing on an entire omega, his respect for the beta and pack leader the only saving grace. He refuses to let some runt mess up his perfect cycle.
Which leads to what can only be described as gaz attempting to bully your cycle into matching his.
He lingers around you all the time, trying to acclimate you to his scent. It's...nice to be around another omega, you understand things the others never will. It's better that you do nothing more than whine when gaz decides to scent you. Scrubbing a wrist into your scent glands whenever he sees you, followed by "sorry, runt. Just gettin' you acclimated. At least you smell like pack now."
When he just barely smells of pre-heat, gaz decides to lay it on thick. Pulling you into vaguely-secluded spots just to press his body against yours with a purr, filling your senses with his pheromones. He even slots a thigh between your legs when his own instincts kick up, muttering "c'mon, runt, have at it. Wanna see what you look like desperate for it."
Kyles heat hits right on schedule, as predicted. Not a day later you come knocking on his door in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and so confused why your heat is two weeks early, begging for help from the closest packmate you have.
Well...he's already made his nest bigger in preparation. Gaz is more than happy to teach you the wonders of having an omega heat-partner.
Cuddling up with Simon. He's watching some shitty tv, the first channel when he switched it on, while you soak in his warmth, slowly drifting to sleep. You look up at his steel gaze, wondering what could possibly be going through his head. Is he thinking of you? The characters? His friends? Trauma? God, you wish you knew.
You curled up a little tighter, poking a little at his stomach. He glances down, putting his hand over yours with a huff. You look down at his palm encompassing your entire hand, when you suddenly blurt.
"Do you hate me?"
He stares at you for a moment before holding your face in his hands and kissing you. His little cleft lip brushing against yours and you could feel the torn skin on his lips from him biting. He wraps his arms around you, holding you as though you might fade away.
"I don't know what's going through your head to make you think that, but I could never hate you. You ever see me without my mask around anyone else?"
You shyly shake your head, burying your face in his chest. He doesn't force you, but guides your chin up to look at him.
"Keep looking, wanna make sure you're hearing me. I love you, dear, and it hurts when you don't believe that sometimes."
simon who keeps things strictly professional at first â calls you by your last name, voice clipped, tone neutral, like youâre no different from anyone else on the team because he keeps trying to convince himself you're not.
simon who notices you anyway â how you move, how you think, how you react under pressure â and starts assigning you to his side more often than necessary.
simon who tells himself itâs because youâre reliable, not because he trusts you more and definitely not because he prefers you there â under his eye.
simon who stands just a little closer to you than anyone else during briefings, like itâs coincidence â but it happens every time and definetly does not escape neither soap nor price's eyes.
simon who corrects you in the field with that low, steady voice: âfocus,â âwatch your sixâ never harsh, but always right there in your ear.
simon who doesnât praise openly, but youâll hear it in quieter moments âgood workâ said lower, meant only for you.
simon who starts using your name differently, less sharp, less distant, even if he doesnât realise it.
simon who steps in immediately when something goes wrong around you, faster than he does for anyone else like itâs instinct, like he doesnât even think about it.
simon who notices when youâre injured before you even say anything, grip firm on your arm as he checks you over, voice droppingâ âwhy didnât ya say somethin'?â
simon who gets quietly irritated when you brush it off, jaw tightening behind the mask, because you shouldâve told him.
simon who starts giving you orders that sound a little too personalâstay with me,â âdonât move unless i sayâ and you listen, even when you donât fully know why.
simon who lingers after missions when everyone else has cleared out, like heâs making sure youâre okay without actually saying it.
simon who has that one moment where your hands brushâpassing gear, steadying each otherâand neither of you pull away immediately.
simon who pulls back after that, creates distance. goes colder, more formal again â calls you by rank, keeps conversations short â because he knows exactly what that moment meant.
simon who watches you more after that, though, from a distance. like heâs keeping himself in check.
simon who gets that edge in his voice when someone else gets too close to you, even if itâs just another teammate joking around.
simon who doesnât like how distracted you make him, how his attention shifts to you without permission.
simon who reminds himself constantlyâ youâre under his command. this is a line he does not cross.
simon who almost breaks that rule more than once. late nights. quiet moments. when itâs just the two of you and the tension sits too heavy in the air.
simon who finally snaps one time â not loudly, not dramatically â but quieter, more dangerous.âyou need to stop looking at me like that.â
simon who regrets it the second he says it because now itâs out there.
simon who then does not regret it when you lean forward and kiss him.
It was a skill that had kept him alive more than once. Long before a weapon was raised or a voice sharpened, people told you who they were in smaller ways.. the way their eyes moved, how they held their shoulders, the rhythm of their breathing when they thought no one was paying attention to them.
Most people missed those things.
Simon didnât.
He noticed who was nervous before a mission briefing. Who lied too easily. Who laughed too loudly to hide how afraid they were.
And when you, the new recruit arrived he noticed something about you almost immediately.
You were angry.
It wasnât loud. Not the kind of anger that started shouting matches in the mess hall or got people written up by command.
Noâ yours was quieter than that.
It lived in your shoulders, tight and coiled. in the way your jaw clenched when someone got too close. It sat behind your eyes like a storm that never quite calmed. You followed orders well enough, but every âyes, sir or yes, maâamâ came out clipped, like even the words themselves irritated you.
Most people on base didnât like itâŠor you.
Soap said you had a temper. Gaz said you looked like you were permanently one dirty look away from throwing a punch. Even the other recruits learned quickly not to test your patience.
Simon never said anything about it.
Because he recognized it.
He had seen that kind of anger beforeâ lived inside it, once.
Anger like that didnât appear out of nowhere. It was learned young, shaped by raised voices and slammed doors. By houses where every conversation turned into a fight and learning early that usually the loudest person in the room won.
Simon understood that kind of home better than most.
So he didnât push you.
He didnât try to soften you with careful words the way some people did, like you were just a stray animal that just needed kindness. And he didnât challenge you either.
He simply treated you like a soldier.
Professional. Quiet. Direct.
The first time you snapped at him, it happened after a long training session. Everyone was tired, tempers short, the kind of day where the air itself felt heavy.
He had corrected your stance during a drill.
Your response came sharp and immediate.
âI know what Iâm doing.â
The words came out harsher than necessary, edged with the kind of bite that usually started arguments.
You were ready for the reaction that always followed.
Someone raising their voice. Someone reminding you of rank. Someone deciding to prove a point.
Instead, Ghost justâŠ. looked at you.
The mask hid his expression, but his posture didnât change. No tension. No anger.
Just stillness.
Then he said, in that calm, rough voice of his,
âFinish the drill.â
That was it.
No lecture.
No irritation.
Just the order.
And somehow that unsettled you more than if he had yelled.
Because you didnât know what to do with someone who refused to meet anger with more of it.
Months passed like that.
You still snapped at Soap when he joked too much. Still rolled your eyes at Gaz when he tried to lighten the mood during long briefings. Your temper showed itself often enough that most people simply worked around it.
But with GhostâŠ
Something strange happened.
Your voice softened.
You didnât even realize it at first.
You still spoke bluntly, still carried that edge, but the bite disappeared when you spoke to him. The anger didnât flare as easily when he was around.
Maybe it was because he never raised his voice.
Maybe it was because he never looked at you like you were a problem to be solved.
Or maybe it was because, in a way you couldnât quite explain, he understood the storm you carried around.
Simon noticed the change long before you did.
He noticed how you stood a little closer during briefings, close enough that your shoulder sometimes brushed his arm without you immediately stepping away.
He noticed how your sharp replies to everyone else softened into quiet mutters when they were directed at him.
Most of all, he noticed how the anger in your eyes didnât flare quite as brightly when you looked his way.
Like something inside you settled.
One night after a rough mission, the base was quieter than usual.
The team had filtered out of the rec room one by one until only you remained, sitting at the table with your elbows braced against the wood. Your hands were clenched tight enough that your knuckles had gone pale.
Simon paused in the doorway when he saw you.
Anger again.
But this time it didnât look like the kind you aimed at other people.
He crossed the room without a word and pulled out the chair across from you.
The legs scraped softly against the floor as he sat down.
You didnât look up.
Your gaze stayed locked on the table like it had personally offended you.
After a long moment you muttered, voice tight with irritation,
âDonât start.â
Simon tilted his head slightly.
âWasnât going to.â
Silence settled between you.
A minute passed.
Then another.
And finally you spoke again, the words quieter than anything he had ever heard from you before.
The frustration in your voice sounded different now. Less like anger and more like exhaustion.
Simon was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said simply,
âSometimes angerâs just what you learn first.â
Your head lifted at that.
For the first time since youâd joined the task force, you really looked at him â not as the intimidating lieutenant everyone else whispered about, not as the masked soldier people stepped around in the halls.
Just a man sitting across from you, calm and steady.
And strangely⊠familiar.
Because there was something in the way he said it that told you he wasnât guessing.
He knew.
The realization settled slowly in your chest.
For the first time ever, you didnât feel like you were standing in a room full of people you had to fight.
You sat there with him in the quiet.
And somewhere along the way, you realized something strange.
Maybe you werenât an angry person after all.
Maybe anger was just the only language anyone had ever taught you.
you always knew this day would comeâwhen someone would finally come looking for you. (ghost x f!reader, 18+, cw graphic violence)
he's always reminding you about consequences. there are deliberate choices that you make that set off chain reactions, whether or not you intended to.
one of your choices was choosing simon riley. terrible, horrifying, brute simon riley, who on paper was supposed to be dead, but in reality was still on the SAS payroll.
there were a lot of reasons not to let simon into your life. there were a lot of reasons to let him go.
he never answers his phoneâthe relic that it is. he comes and goes as the job demands; sometimes he's home for supper when he says, and sometimes you don't see him until three weeks too late. his entire family is dead because of the same job he leaves for, and he's never let you see his face.
yeah. definitely reasons to walk away; but there were too many other reasons to stay.
"oiâeyes 'ere, love."
your lashes flutter when his gloved fingers hit under your chin, angling your face up. he kisses you, masked lips pressing against your mouth, and you sigh as he runs his other hand down the back of your head, clutching the nape of your neck.
"come back soon," you whisper. "i-i...i know you can't promiseâ"
"'s olright," he murmurs. "heart's beatin' out of y'r chest, baby." he runs his nose along yours, shaking his head. "won't be long. this one's recon, nothin' else."
you close your eyes, reaching for his jacket. you clutch the front of it, standing on your toes, and he chuckles lowly. your mouth falls open when his hands cup you under your thighs, squeezing your ass as he drags you even closer and breathes out slowly.
"can you say it?" you ask.
"even though you know it?"
"just say it, simon."
"mmm." he grips your jaw tight with one hand, and it forces your eyes open. you look at him, trying not to smile, and you feel warmth spread in your belly when you see his eyes crinkle, indicating his own smile. "i love you."
you can't stop the giggle that leaves you. it feels so stupid sometimes, to feel this way. you never understood the metaphor of butterflies in your stomach, but fuck, what else could it be? how else do you describe it?
it's quiet when he's away. it's nothing but monotonous chores and waiting for him to come home. you go to work, you come home, and then you try to distract yourself from doing anything except think about simon.
simon in the field. simon in hostile territory. simon having to fire that gun. it follows you into your nightmares, and you think about it when you close your eyes.
it's why you can't sleep. it's why you hear footsteps on the ground floor of your house, and it's why you're awake when you know someone is here.
your hand reaches for the knife simon keeps under his side of the mattress. you slide out of bed, slipping your socks on, and you use them to keep your steps quiet as you go to hide by the doorway to your bedroom.
you peek around the edge, looking over the railing towards downstairs. you can't see much from this angle, but you do see a shadow pass by, and you know just from the shadow of it that it isn't simon.
you hug the wall again, closing your eyes. you squeeze the hilt of the blade in your hand tight, taking a deep breath.
keep your head on. you know what to do.
"negative. nothing downstairs. heading up-top."
you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. you hear a step creak, and you know that he's halfway up the stairs now. american accent. you grit your teeth, trying to commit all the little details to memory.
the clock reads 3 in the morning. there's a full moon tonight. it's cool outside. there's someone in your houseâ
you see the toe of his boot just before he comes into the bedroom. you wait until his gun has made it past the doorway before you make your move.
incapacitate. incapacitate. incapacitate.
you go for the thigh first. you swipe with all of your weight, catching him off-guard. you go for the warm spots that his gear doesn't protect, and you cut deep on his inner thigh. he stumbles forward, screaming, and you use his moment of weakness and shove the blade right up into his armpit. the gun skids across the floor as he screams again in agony, and you shove him hard into the dresser behind him before you run.
"you fucking bitch! i'm gonna kill you!"
not before i kill you.
you make your way downstairs, skipping the creaky step before making your way into the den. you pat a hand under the coffee table, mentally giving your assassin boyfriend a big, wet kiss when you find a gun secured to the underside. you slide it out of its holster, checking the chamber, where you see one loaded in already. you switch the safety off, the weight of it heavy, and you hurry to duck around a corner as you hear him limp downstairs.
"i'm gonna find you, you fucking cunt. i'm gonna find you and fucking bury you!"
you keep circling behind the walls as he makes his way further into the living room. he's stalking, swinging his gun around sloppily as he kicks the couch and flips chairs looking for you.
"i'm gonna make sure he sees what i do to you. he's gonna pay!"
when you see him sway on his feet, you know you have the upper hand.
you circle back into the kitchen, ducking to use the counters as cover. you tuck the gun under the sink before reaching for the skillet sitting there. stainless steel; the weight feels good as you hold it in front of you, and you creep to where he still is checking under the dining table.
he never hears you coming. he turns around for a split second, but you're already swinging.
"fucking bitchâ"
something cracks under the pressure as he crumples to the floor. you kick the gun out of his way, and you lick over your teeth as you inspect the damage. the lip of the pan caught the edge of his mouth, and a couple of his teeth lay on the floor behind him. he coughs, blood splattering, and you drop the pan as you go for the duck tape in one of the kitchen drawers.
it takes a considerable amount of effort to hoist him up onto a dining chair. he's all bulk and gear, but you manage to sit him there, and you carefully tape each wrist and leg to the chair before securing him with zip-ties and spare rope. you use the remaining bit of rope to fasten it around his mouth, not even stopping when he howls from the broken teeth he's still spitting out.
you go for the bookshelf in the living room, keeping an eye on him the entire time. you feel for the right book, pulling it off the shelf before reaching for the satellite phone hidden inside.
you dial the only number on it.
it only rings a few times before you hear someone pick up on the other line.
"this is price."
you swallow hard, toes curling as your hands tremble just a little.
"uhmâ" you close your eyes for a second as you rack your brain. "we're geronimo."
the other line is quiet for a few moments before you hear a deep sigh.
"i read you, love. how many?"
you squeeze the phone to your ear, sniffling.
"just one. i think."
"you think?"
"just...just one."
you hear some interference, and then he grunts.
"stay low. stay quiet."
"waitâ" your voice shakes. "he...he knew. he knew who was supposed to be here."
"mmm," price curses under his breath. "roger tha'. you stay put. don't answer the door for anyone, and don't leave. do not open the bloody door unless i call this phone, do you read me?"
"y-yes."
you flinch as the phone call gets cut. you wobble on shaky legs as you take a seat on the couch. your eyes are wet and watery as you keep staring at the back of the man's head, not willing to look away in fear that he'll get loose.
you wait hours. you're still in your pajamas; just a big shirt to sleep in and fuzzy socks, your hair in all directions and on the cusp of totally freaking out as you guard the intruder to your house. he can't talk; he tried for awhile, screaming and spitting over the rope, but he gave up after awhile, and now he sits with his head slumped over and his chin to his chest.
when the satellite phone rings, you count to three before answering it. the sun is high now; it must be close to noon.
"hello?"
"open the door, baby."
as soon as he crosses the threshold, you're in his arms. forearm hooked around the small of your back, masked face buried in your neck as he hoists you up onto your toes and hugs you to his chest. you bite back a sob as you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him back tight as you let all of the tension melt off your body.
all the fear. all the worry. all the guiltâhe takes it all.
"i...i-i did what you said, simon, iâ"
"did so well, baby," simon mutters. "y'r perfect. you 'ear tha'? perfect."
he pulls away, cupping both of your cheeks and making you look at him. you sniffle, letting some tears fall finally, and he catches them on his gloved thumbs and brushes them away.
"oi," simon shakes his head. "i'm proud o' you. y'r mine, yeah? oll mine."
you nod, stepping forward, and he wraps and arm around your shoulders as you bury your face in his chest. you cling to him, digging your nails in, and he stands up straight before opening the door wider.
three men file into your home. you've never met any of them, but you recognize the mohawked one from a picture simon showed you once. when the three of them make it into the kitchen, you hear a low whistle and a few curses.
"bleedin' christ," one laughs. "ye look like right shite!"
you're holding simon's hand when you follow him into the kitchen. simon sighs, narrowing his eyes as he gets a good look at your trophy. he's bleeding in your kitchen, eyes watery as he looks around the room. he's terrified; he doesn't try to fight, and he averts his gaze as quickly as he looked up.
"bloody hell," simon mutters.
the one in the beanie is definitely in charge. he looks much older, a few greys sprinkled throughout his hair, and when he speaks, you recognize his voice.
"this your work, simon?" he asks, nodding towards where you stand. you squeeze simon's hand, and he squeezes back.
"it's mine," you say.
"is that right?" he raises a brow. "simon didn't teach you how to subdue a bloody target this way, is that it?"
"well, not exactly," you hide a little behind simon's arm. "i took some...creative liberties."
"i can see that."
simon ushers you upstairs, kissing the back of your head through the mask as he watches you climb them. he gave you the go-ahead to start packing your things, and you just nodded and made your way up. simon lingers at the bottom of the steps as gaz sticks a bag over the guy's head.
"price," simon says lowly, and his captain turns his head to look at him.
"got somethin' to say?"
simon looks back to where you just disappeared into the bedroom.
"do wot you will with the bloke." simon's grip on the railing nearly splits the wood. "but you leave the last of 'im to me."
you cannot stop staring at lieutenant riley's tits. (18+)
what the fuck was he thinking wearing something like that at work? a compression shirt a size too smallâi mean what the fuckâhow is that fair? how is that normal? what else are you supposed to do except sit at your desk outside price's office and oogle at him whenever he goes into and out of a meeting?
it wasn't really a problem, actually, until he caught you.
he was waiting for the typed transcripts from laswell's meeting. standing in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, pecs straining against the dark grey fabric he wore as he grunted out that he wanted a copy of the papers that you were holding in your very hands.
"oi!" ghost snaps. your eyes, half lidded and focused on the middle of his chest, shoot wide open at the sheer volume of his voice, and you shuffle a little on your heels as you blink up at him.
"s-sorry, lieutenant, what were you saying?"
you squeak when he grips your face in one big hand. he squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips, and you're dragged up and onto your toes as he leans down and presses the mouth of his mask against your own. he makes your lips move like a fish, squishing them tight and loose again, and he chuckles lowly as he studies the way your skin warms under his touch. pretty, stupid thingâsmartest behind that desk, stupidest when you're standing in front of him.
"look at you," he murmurs. "y'r so bloody soft. all over. just how i like."
"y-yeah?"
"yeah..."
"y-you're so hot," you whisper. he laughs, chest heaving with it, and you ache to reach out and feel how meaty and fat he is there. "o-ohâ"
"not supposed to fraternize with staff 'n the like, you know tha', don't ya?"
"y-yeah," you nod, leaning up on your toes, keeping your face against his.
"y'r just naughty, tha' it, innit? naughty, pretty thing you are."
"s-super..." you lose your train of thought, giggling, "naughty."
"fuckin' useless, tha' head o' y'rs," ghost mutters. you chase his thumb that traces your mouth, aching to take it into your mouth. the world is quieter when he lets you have it; your lips close around it, and you suck with a soft whine. "bloody useless."
"sorry..."
"no matter, love. just gonna 'ave ta bend you over to empty it."
The briefing room was loud in the way it always was before a mission.
Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped against the floor. Soap was halfway through arguing with Gaz about something completely irrelevant to the operation while Price leaned against the table with a mug of tea that had definitely gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Laswell stood at the head of the table, flipping through a folder.
Ghost stood slightly behind the others, arms crossed over his chest, silent as usual.
No one paid much attention to it at first.
Until he stopped listening.
Noticeably.
It happened mid-sentence while Laswell was explaining a satellite window.
Ghostâs head turned slightly toward the glass wall that overlooked the hallway.
Soap noticed first.
ââŠanâ if the timingâs offââ Soap stopped mid ramble and followed Ghostâs line of sight.
Walking down the hallway was you.
You had a small stack of folders hugged to your chest, head slightly down like you always walkedâŠcareful, quiet, like you were trying not to take up too much space. Your office was down the hall in the records room, which meant you sometimes passed the briefing room.
You didnât even glance inside.
Just kept walking.
Ghost watched you the entire time.
Not in the casual way someone notices movement.
No.
It was focused. Intent. Like heâd completely forgotten where he was.
Laswell stopped talking.
Priceâs eyes shifted from Ghost to the hallway.
Gaz smirked first.
Soap leaned back in his chair slowly.
ââŠLt.â
No response.
âGhost,â Price repeated, more amused now.
Ghost blinked and looked back at the room like heâd just been woken up.
ââŠWot.â
Soap grinned like a shark that smelled blood in the water.
âOh, nothing, mate. Just wonderinâ why ye look like a guard dog watchinâ the front gate every time she walks by.â
Ghost stiffened.
Laswell closed the folder in her hands slowly, clearly deciding the briefing could wait.
Gaz tilted his head.
âRecords girl, right?â
Ghost said nothing.
Soap slammed his hands on the table.
âOH MY GOD YE FANCY HER.â
Ghostâs head snapped toward him.
âI do not.â
âYou absolutely do,â Gaz said instantly.
Price sighed, rubbing his forehead like a tired father.
âSimon.â
ââŠSir.â
âIf you donât like her.. whyâd you stop listening when she walked past the room?â
Silence.
Ghost shifted his weight slightly.
Soap leaned forward, elbows on the table.
âBetter question â whyâve you never spoken to her?â
That got a reaction.
A small one.
Ghost looked⊠uncomfortable.
Which was deeply concerning.
âDonât see the issue,â he muttered.
Gaz blinked.
âYouâve cleared buildings full of armed men.â
Soap nodded.
âYou once broke a blokeâs arm without batting an eye.â
Price added calmly, âYou interrogated a cartel lieutenant⊠for six hours without even raising your voice.â
Soap pointed toward the hallway dramatically.
âAnd yet the girl who files paperwork terrifies you.â
Ghost glared at him.
âShe doesnât.â
Laswell raised an eyebrow.
âThen why havenât you spoken to her.â
Ghost looked back at the hallway.
Like you might walk past again.
His voice was quieter when he finally answered.
ââŠSheâs nice.â
The room went silent.
Soap squinted.
ââŠThatâs it?â
Ghost shrugged slightly.
âSheâs⊠soft.â
Gazâs grin widened.
Soap leaned forward again.
âMate.â
Ghost didnât look at them.
âShe smiles at everyone,â he added quietly.
ââŠRight,â Gaz said slowly.
âAnd?â
Ghost hesitated.
ââŠFeels like if I talked to her Iâd⊠ruin it.â
That actually made the room pause.
Soap blinked.
ââŠSimon.â
Ghost shifted again.
âSheâs not scared of anyone in this building.â
Laswell nodded slightly.
âThatâs true.â
Ghostâs voice dropped another notch.
ââŠBut sheâd be scared of me.â
The room went quiet again.
Because suddenly that sounded less like Ghost the Intimidating lieutenantâŠ
âŠand more like Simon.
Price spoke first.
âShe wouldnât be.â
Ghost didnât answer.
Gaz smirked.
âYou know she brings you coffee sometimes, right?â
Ghost looked at him.
ââŠWhat.â
Soap pointed toward the hallway again.
âLeaves it at the desk outside your office. Every Tuesday.â
Ghost stared.
ââŠThatâs from her?â
Price chuckled.
âTook you long enough.â
Soap smiled.
âOh my God heâs hopeless.â
Gaz leaned back in his chair, grinning.
âCongratulations, Lieutenant.â
Ghost narrowed his eyes.
âFor what.â
Gaz gestured toward the door.
âYouâre officially both too shy to talk to each other.â
Soap nodded dramatically.
âThis is gonna be painful to watch.â
Laswell finally opened her folder again.
ââŠIâll give it two weeks before someone locks them in a room together.â
Simon doesnât get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but thereâs verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!
Simon doesnât get why you hate him so much.
Doesnât understand why youâre perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your bootâs sole.
Not that he cares; itâs only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever heâs busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Donât tell me youâre getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when youâre both on baseâ when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
Youâre both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
âOn your right,â Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that youâre still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
âOh. Hi, Lt.,â you say. âDidnât see you there.â
âIÂ told you to move, Sergeant,â he mutters.
âSorry, Lt., what was that?â You cup your ears. âCouldnât hear you over my music.â
Youâre not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
Itâs been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them. You had greeted themâ Price, Garrick, Johnnyâ with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and itâs like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet youâ like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet youâre in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and Iâll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didnât get hit in the first place, Lt.
Itâs infuriating.
But you donât stop because there are never any consequences.Â
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like youâre out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like thisâ your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesnât remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wailsâ bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
âgetting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers heâs posturing to snicker and laugh. They donât seem to care that youâre standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical heâs being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
Thereâs a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but youâve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says.
The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ânoâ.
Itâs not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards youâre seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan fast before you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
âLetâs see if youâve improved, Sergeant,â Ghost taunts.
âI swear I wonât accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,â you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his musclesâ no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like thisâ and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldnât be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend whoâ)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
âIf thatâs all.â You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
âNeed to talk to you âbout something,â he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. âSir, thereâs nothingââ
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. âDâyou have a problem with me, Sergeant?â
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. âWhat?â
âI repeat, do you have a problem with me?â
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
âYes or no, Sergeant?â
His voice is all guttural and deep, like heâs holding himself back from something.
ââŠN-no, Iââ
âGood,â he hums. âWonât have a problem with this then.â
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly theyâre pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bonesâ a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
âDo you hate me?â He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to meanâ mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, heâs so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitchâ fuckinâ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
Itâs unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissinâ me off with thaâ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blurâ everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut upâ"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"HahâFuck, Lt., I'm gonnaâ," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stopâ,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath hitches. âYouâre such a fucking assholeââ
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhhâ"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.â"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyouâ please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
Itâs embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trashâ how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141â the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
âWasnât so hard, was it, love?â Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and itâs just not enough.
âFuck you,â you cry out in frustration.
âI will," he hums. "All thaâ sass for what, hm? Someone I donât even remember?â
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerkâ hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucksâ you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your chest.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
âDon't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"âoff," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training groundsâ knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, pleaseâ."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.â," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuckâ so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoricâ combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
âD'you knowâ,â he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. ââhow much I thought âbout this?â
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cuntâ" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bedâ" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and overâ" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-unghâ"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"âmngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm youâ now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more timeâ milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.
âI still hate you,â you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But thereâs no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
âRight.â He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small âoofâ. âKeep tellinâ yourself that, love.â
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mindâ but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
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