Asher - he/him - adult. frequently 18+ account - NSFW is tagged with mdni. If you replace Gaz with Konig I will hunt you for sport. Icon and header from doktoruber-archive.
hi there i don't know how to make an intro post but I'm Asher, I am Gaz's biggest fan, and I am a disaster.
divider is by @uzmacchiato
— ♡ I use he/him mainly, but i really don't care about what pronouns are used for me.
— ♡ i am an adult. i will post and repost NSFW under the mdni tag. don’t be around here if you’re a minor im a freak im so sorry
— ♡ you can find my cod related writings over here (its currently empty, but hopefully not for long) and when i write x readers its mainly gonna be gender neutral
— ♡ i have played call of duty... the modern warfare reboots, at least. i have ghosts and black ops/cold war and the og modern warfare games, i just havent gotten around to it.
— ♡ if you replace gaz with konig in 141 content i will hunt you for sport.
— ♡ my other interests include vampires, procrastination, and crying.
— ♡ obviously if you’re transphobic homophobic racist etc gtfo 😭 why are you even here
I just read the not touching ghost x reader and I’m obsessed with your writing?? It was so great, the story, how you got his character and just all muah amazing!!
If you could maybe write ghost x young intern doctor reader, where the reader is staying for 1 year at the military base for the internship and she’s a civilian and very warm and loving and caring and inexperienced person (cause med school) with hots for ghost or whatever story with this pairing you’d be willing to write, because kudos to your gorgeous brain!
Please and thank you for posting in general!
Yeah i can probably write that but itll probably take a while because im in project hail mary hell right now
Summary: You and Ghost have been sleeping together for a while now, and he still won’t touch you any more than strictly necessary.
Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley / Gender Neutral Reader
Word Count: 14,055
AO3 LINK
Main Tags: Friends with benefits to lovers. Vaginal sex. Cunnilingus. Touch starvation. Hurt/comfort. Explicit consent.
Notes: this one… kind of got away from me. I really didn’t mean for it to be this long! Reader is gender neutral but is AFAB.
“Don’t make it weird.”
The words came as you were halfway through pulling your pants back on. Thrown over the shoulder of a man you definitely shouldn’t have slept with and still hadn’t seen the face of.
It wasn’t exactly an intimate affair. You’d barely pulled your pants down, and he hadn’t even bothered with that much, only unzipping enough to pull himself out. Beyond him being inside of you, the most contact between the two of you was a gloved hand gripping roughly at your hair. You’d tried to touch him at one point—grabbing for his hand to anchor yourself—but he’d jerked away with such force that it was the only time you tried.
Stress relief, plain and simple. No strings attached, and the wordless acknowledgement between the two of you that it didn’t and couldn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t happen again.
“‘Course not,” you say back to him as you fix your askew clothing and brush your hair back in an attempt to look a little less disheveled. It doesn’t work very well, but it's a slight improvement. “Won’t mention it again, if you want. We can pretend it never happened.”
Ghost’s mask is tugged up just enough for him to have a cigarette in his mouth. The same way he does to eat, but notably not something he’d done at any part during your…encounter. You hadn’t even kissed.
He exhales smoke that curls around his face and shrugs, not turning to look at you and instead staring up at the ceiling. “Probably smart.”
And that had been the end of that. A way to unwind and let off some extra adrenaline after a particularly stressful close call on a mission. You were both alive, but you almost weren’t, and tension lingered, needing to be let out in some way. You weren’t even really friends—sometimes you weren’t sure whether or not he hated your guts, but you’re pretty sure he’s just painfully neutral—which just made it easier to brush off as a moment of weakness.
When you headed for the door, he didn’t stop you. Didn’t say goodbye, didn't even look over. You were out of his room and back into reality, dragging your hands over your face as you let out a sigh and told yourself it wouldn’t happen again.
Except it does happen again, a few weeks later.
You hadn’t been with him this time. He tends to prefer working on his own, as a general rule—there are certain people he likes working with more than others, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t on the list. The exact contents of it are probably something no one else is privy to the entirety of.
It happens while you’re in the middle of a sentence, walking in the hallways with Gaz when gloved fingers wrap around your wrist and pull you to a stop. Not hard, exactly, not painful, but enough to still you.
Ghost is standing over you. His full expression is unreadable behind his mask, but there’s a dark look in his eyes as they meet yours. Another tug to your wrist and you’re forced to step closer to avoid stumbling, earning him a glare, but the moment you open your mouth to speak, he interrupts.
“Come with me.”
His tone is rough and his words are choppy. You aren’t sure if it’s a request or a demand, but you comply anyway, shooting Gaz an apologetic look over your shoulder as you’re being pulled down the hall. All he does is shrug, but from the look on his face—amused, clearly filing away… whatever it is that's happening happening for later—you can tell that he’s probably going to run off to tell Soap the moment you take your eyes off of him.
Resigning yourself to your fate, you let out a heavy sigh and focus on keeping up with Ghost instead. Trying to lighten the sudden tension in the air, you speak up, “Do you need something, or are you just trying to yank my arm off?”
A noise that’s something between an acknowledging grunt and a huff leaves him, but he doesn’t answer the question, coming to a stop outside of his room. Now that you’re closer and he isn’t ahead of you, you notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep darting around like something’s going to jump out from around a corner and attack. It’s not unusual to see him on edge, but he seems particularly tense right now. That’s enough to make you realize there’s something wrong.
“What happened out there?” You ask as he opens the door and motions for you to go inside. As you pass him, the closeness—your shoulder brushing against his chest slightly—lets you see that his hands are shaking, but he’s quick to put them in his pockets when he notices you looking.
When he doesn’t respond, you look back to where he’s lingering in the doorway, your held tilting to the side slightly as he doesn’t move to step inside. He’s just… standing there. Hands shoved into his pockets to hide how bad they’re trembling, a clear tension in his shoulders. “Lieu?”
He’s staring at you. Even if you hadn’t looked back you’d know, and even with him wearing a mask, you can tell. His gaze is heavy, hanging over you like a physical force, and you step back. From discomfort, but not out of fear. For all that he was a frightening, intimidating figure, you knew he wouldn’t hurt ‘his’ people. Even if you aren’t sure you’re one of them, both of you are aware that Soap and Gaz—maybe Price, but you can never really be sure with him—like you, at least a bit.
With each step he takes towards you, a nagging worry begins to rise in your gut.
“Don’t talk about it,” he says slowly, his voice low as he approaches to look over you. It’s not a request, but it isn’t quite an order, either. He’s just informing you, telling you it isn’t something you’re going to discuss, “just get on the bed.”
The promise to pretend it never happened rings in your ears. You hadn’t intended to go back on it.
“I thought we weren’t…”
You’re cut off when he grabs you by the chin. Not hard, but firm, forcing you to meet his eyes, which are stormy.. “Do you want to? Yes or no.”
Somehow that’s the question that you were dreading, that leaves you speechless because you simply aren’t sure how to answer it. Do you want to? He could be forceful or pushy and you’d have no problem shoving him away and telling him off. But he isn’t. Instead, he’s just looking at you like he needs this and putting the choice in your hands.
Your tongue darts out between your lips to wet them, your mouth feeling unbearably dry. You avert your eyes, but you don’t say no. You should, but you can’t force yourself to, no matter how much you tell yourself to say it. It’d be a lie, but one made for the best.
“Yes,” The truth slips out instead when you open your mouth and his eyes flash with satisfaction. His fingers are still trembling as they press against your jaw, “But we shouldn’t.”
That, the simple acknowledgment of want, is all it takes. He pushes at your chest, shoving you towards the bed while he undoes his belt. “We shouldn’t,” he agrees, even though he doesn’t stop. Pushing his pants down just enough, the same way he did before. Limiting any skin-to-skin contact as much as possible, not letting you see any of him despite what you’re doing.
You could pull away—he’s able to overpower you, but you know enough about him to know he won’t, not like this—but you don’t. Instead, you let yourself be pushed onto the bed and lean back against the pillow. He hovers over you for a moment, hands on either side of your head, and you watch a shudder run through his body.
“Roll over.”
It only takes a moment for you to comply, but that seems to be far too long for him as his leg begins to bounce impatiently. Gloved fingers grip at your hips, digging into the skin and tugging them up so they’re pressed into the air while your head stays pushed into the pillow. He makes quick work of your pants, pulling them down around your ankles before going up to begin unbuttoning your shirt; he does it with surprising ease, considering he’s behind you.
A quip about how he has no trouble undressing you even when he refuses to do so dies somewhere in your throat. It doesn’t seem like the time—he’s still shaking, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. You want to ask, but you don’t.
The moment your shirt is gone, his head leans down on you, his mask pressing against your shoulder blade. His breathing is an uneven thing, torn up and unsteady leaving his lips. The pressure is heavy, the chill of the cool metal seeming to seep into you, making you shiver, choking back a desperate sound when he pushes inside.
Your bodies don’t fit together like puzzle pieces or anything poetic like that. It’s messy, the stretch bringing a sting of pain despite him going slow. Even so, there’s a certain comforting rightness to the contact of your skin, even if it’s limited to one single point.
Just like before, his pace is neither gentle nor rough, just quick and forceful, each thrust following a steady rhythm. With the size of him on your back, you’re unable to do much more than lay there and take it, even if you wanted to. Fingers curling around the sheet, your teeth digging into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Go easy,” you say, voice shaking as you look back at Ghost over your shoulder. “I-I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t respond at first. His hands leave your hips to trail across your stomach and come up to cup your breasts, his thumbs stroking your nipples. His gloves are cool against your skin, but the movement sends heat through you. After a long moment, he murmurs, breathy, the warmth of the words seeping through the fabric of his mask, “Don’t say shit like that.”
Your mouth snaps shut at the words, mind racing. The steady pressure and pleasure of him inside of you is no longer enough to quiet your thoughts.
Clearly, you’ve overstepped—trying to reassure him, like it matters to him whether you stay or go. You should know better than to think this is more than you being warm bodies for each other.
“Right. Sorry.” Your voice is smaller than before and his hand slides up from your chest to your chin, fingers wrapping around it and pushing your head back against his shoulder. So close, yet still separated by fabric that he refuses to remove.
You try not to take it personally. None of this is personal, you remind yourself. None of it is even intimate. He wouldn’t look at you twice if you hadn’t already proven yourself willing to offer no strings attached stress relief.
Ghost keeps your body pinned to the bed with his own, his hand sliding down so his gloved fingers splay out across your throat, holding you in place. He isn’t very vocal—he huffs against your back and lets out little groans with every thrust, but no proper words escape his lips.
His other hand, which has been laying against your chest, tugging at one of your nipples, lifts off of your body so it can slip down between your legs instead. The gentle touch of him trailing his fingers down the length of your stomach isn’t something you’re offered.
It’s all impersonal, but he still seems concerned with your pleasure rather than just focusing on his own relief, as he takes a moment for his fingers to find your clit and begin rubbing circles against it. Your knees feel weak beneath you, shaking so bad you feel like you could collapse forward into the pillows. Your head lolls against his shoulder—he only holds you with a hand on your throat, supporting your entire body weight with it and forcing you up onto your knees.
“O-Oh,” you gasp, mentally cursing how desperate your voice comes out as your hips press forward into his touch, “oh, fuck, Lieu—”
That manages to pull a new sound out of him. A low noise, almost a growl, rumbles through his chest as his hips begin to speed up, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room. It’s somehow quicker than before, harder, and he’s getting louder. No words—not quite moans, either, but with each thrust his breathing gets heavier.
As he pants against your shoulder, you reach for him. He doesn’t push you away when your fingers wrap around his wrist, the one between your legs, but you figure it probably has more to do with you keeping your palm situated over his sleeve, rather than him accepting the touch.
You grip his wrist tightly, trying to anchor yourself with the touch, but the lack of skin-to-skin contact does little to distract you from the overwhelming sensation. At least it gives you something to focus on other than wishing this was more than stress relief. It isn’t love that you want; at least, that’s what you tell yourself. It’s connection. Friendship. Anything more than a passing acknowledgement born of being the only two in the room.
His fingers speed up. The world seems to blur around you.
A sound like a sob escapes your throat and he hushes you. Gentle, the softest you’ve ever heard him. “Shh, shh, don’t move,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking over your throat. Your body feels weak, nearly limp as he fucks into you with a dizzying pace.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to try and pull his hand away, no matter how overwhelming it is. In fact, you pull him by the wrist, pushing his hand further against your groin. To his credit, he takes it in stride, groaning lowly and pressing his thumb against your clit harder.
“F-fuck—Ghost—“ You cry out and his whole body jolts like he’s been electrocuted when you moan his name.
You don’t notice his hips slowing until he’s completely stilled, focused entirely on you. “What are you—” you gasp, unconsciously shifting your hips forward. Not quite pulling away, by trying to lessen the pressure inside of you for just a moment.
“Ah-ah,” he breathes the disapproving sound out, the hand on your throat shifting down to grip your hip instead, pulling you back against him until your ass is pressed to his pelvis. Without him holding you up, you collapse forward, face buried into the pillows with your hips hitched up in the air. “I said not to move.”
His eyes—the only part of him you can properly see—are scanning over you, though. Watching every tiny change in expression on your face. Checking if you’re okay, you realize.
It’s a foreign thought. But as you think over your sporadic interactions with him, you realize it isn’t as uncommon as your brain wants to see it as. A stray hand, pressed to your shoulder, holding you still so he can look you over for injuries. Snapping at you when you do something particularly reckless. Forming a wall between you and the outside world when you’re hurt.
Caring about others—about you, at times—seems to just come naturally to him. Even if in a subtler way than most.
He doesn’t thrust into you anymore, instead leaning over your body, his hand between your legs moving like it’s his one purpose in life. Everything is too much and not enough all at once, and more than anything else, you desperately want to kiss him. Maybe that’s selfish of you—after all, that isn’t what this is for. That isn’t what this arrangement is. But you can’t help it.
“G-Ghost—”
Luckily, Ghost’s free hand clamps over your mouth before those thoughts can escape and you do something stupid like asking him to move his mask, even if it’s just enough to kiss him. That would be a level of embarrassment you aren’t willing to bear.
When you cum, biting down on his fingers so hard you worry you’ll tear his gloves, he shudders like your release is his own. Everything stops for a moment, your thoughts stuttering to a halt. You don’t even realize tears are running down your face until the haze clears from your mind and you notice the damp spots on the pillow. That’s why this arrangement worked in the first place, after all—the shared need for everything to pause, even if just briefly.
By the time your brain kicks back to function, he’s pulling out, and a whine escapes before you can stop it. He hushes you again, gripping your hips to lead you to lay down fully and gently stroking over the curve of your spine. Your breathing is still heavy as you look back at him, trying to hide your disappointment. “Are we done?”
A sharp inhale of breath. A pause, the silence more telling than anything else. Then—
“Yeah,” he says, patting your lower back. “We’ll get you cleaned up. Then you can go.”
Cold. Detached. Just like that, any thoughts of him getting into this, of him caring any more than he does about anyone else, dissolve, and you curse yourself for letting his skill with his hands make you believe them—no matter how briefly—in the first place.
Then you can go. The words echo in your head, repeating endlessly as he fixes his pants and steps out. His dismissal feels heavy and you feel a bit silly for how much it upsets you. Of course he wants you gone as quickly as possible. What else did you really expect?
The bed dips beside you as he returns, pulling you out of your thoughts enough to look up at him. A damp washcloth is brought to your thighs, gently wiping up the sweat and mess there, and a shiver runs through you at the gentle touch. His touch is thorough, careful to avoid any parts of you that are sensitive as he cleans you up in complete silence. He doesn’t even meet your eyes.
“Are we going to do this again?”
That makes him pause, his hands stilling as they’re traveling up your body to clean the sweat off your skin. His voice is carefully neutral when he speaks, not giving you any indication of what he’s feeling. “Do you want to do this again?”
For all his flaws and the mystery that surrounds him, you know that if you said no, he would accept it. You also know that you really, really, should say no. Instead, what comes out is ‘maybe’. Muttered under your breath, too quiet to fully hear. His head lifts slightly, eyes finally meeting yours. You haven’t thought about it before, but his eyes are the prettiest shade of brown you’ve ever seen; they scan over you, lingering where they meet yours.
“What was that?”
If you didn’t know better, you’d think he sounds amused. It’s a conscious effort to remind yourself that that’s just the orgasm clouding your brain.
You roll over onto your back, grabbing for your clothes. He stops you with a hand on your chest, pushing you back onto the bed as you grumble. “Shut up, you know what I said,” you mutter, not intending for him to hear. To your surprise, a laugh begins to bubble up in his throat, a brief second of it escaping before he manages to force it back and clear his throat.
“Maybe I just want a clear answer.”
You’re not getting one because I don’t have one, you barely manage not to say. “Bite me,” is what you actually say.
This time, he huffs out something that resembles a laugh and leans over you. The washcloth, which is beginning to warm from contact with your heated body, comes up to your face this time. The fabric is rough on your cheek, but it still makes you begin to relax into his touch, letting him clean you up. You don’t let yourself focus on how gentle he’s being.
“Yes or no?” he asks again, just like he had when this began.
You equal parts hate and appreciate him for it. Putting the choice in your hands gives you power, sure—but it also leaves it on your shoulders. No matter what choice you make, you have to deal with having made it afterwards. For some reason, the idea of turning him down—knowing that yes, you do want to—and him finding someone else easily accessible makes something in your chest ache. You decide not to interrogate that ache. If you agree, you know the part of your brain that gets a bit confused in post-coital bliss will only get more so. Not to mention the fact that none of this is technically allowed. Though you’re a bit too far in to really worry about that.
“Do you want to?” You return the question rather than answer, glancing down at his lap. He’s zipped his pants back up, but you know he’s still worked up. “Doesn’t seem like you’re getting much out of it.”
“I got what I needed.”
And yet, the look in his eyes tells you he’s far from having his brain turned off. He’s still thinking, maybe even more than he was before. You haven’t given him anything—not a moment of peace, not even an orgasm. It feels selfish. You don’t say that verbally, though, just shooting him a doubtful look and reaching for the front of his pants, intent on fulfilling your end of this arrangement.
His reaction is immediate and startling—he jerks away from your hands instantly, a hiss leaving him, and you both go stiff. He stares at the wall rather than meeting your eyes as he moves to the opposite side of the bed, and though you can’t see his face, you can see the tension that’s clear in his shoulders. The washcloth is left laying on your chest as he drops it in his haste to put distance between your bodies.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” he cuts you off gruffly, getting to his feet now that you’re mostly cleaned up and moving further away. Every step he takes away from you feels more and more like he’s trying to put up a wall between the two of you. His breathing is uneven, shaking slightly with each exhale.
You’d be lying if you said his repulsion to your touch didn’t hurt a little bit. He would touch you, but only when strictly necessary or through the barrier of gloves. He wouldn’t let you touch him at all; not unless he’s too focused on sex to realize you’re holding onto his clothes. Rejection stings in your chest and every time you open your mouth to speak, it feels too heavy for .the words to come out.
Finally, you manage to speak. Hoarse, your voice as small as you feel. “I should go.”’
For a moment, you think—a part of you hopes, though you don’t want to admit that part—he’ll tell you to stay. A moment of silence passes as he leans against the wall, unmoving, before you realize not only is he not going to do so, he isn’t going to say anything.
You’re on your feet quickly, even as your legs shake beneath you. As you’re pulling your clothes back on, you glance back at him over your shoulder. He has his head leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
“…It’s a yes, by the way,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear, “if you still want to. I’m…. Available.”
He doesn’t speak, but his head turns down slightly so he can look over at you. A brief nod is the only response you get. You’re out the door before you can do anything stupid like ask what he really wants out of this—what he needs, if it isn’t release—and the hallways swallow you up as you leave him behind.
It takes exactly two hours for the news that Ghost had dragged you off to his room to reach Soap.
That part is entirely unsurprising. Expected, even. It wasn’t that Gaz couldn’t keep a secret—if that was the case, it would’ve been spread to far more people. But Ghost had known the moment he saw the Sergeant with you in that hallway that whatever he saw would end up with Soap as well. And vice versa; the two were like peas in a pod most of the time.
Equally predictable is the fact that Soap confronts him after finding out. Not by cornering him, because both men knew that was a terrible idea, but by finding a moment when he was alone—easy enough, it would’ve been harder to find a moment when he wasn’t—and coming up behind him. He never did know when to mind his own business.
“Heard you stole the newbie away while they were talking to Garrick.”
Ghost’s shoulders tense immediately, but Soap’s arm wraps around them, continuing to walk so that the other man doesn’t freeze in the middle of the hallway. The touch is one of casual disregard for the frightening distance of the lieutenant on the outside, but between the two of them, both know it’s grounding. Necessary, to hold Ghost together in that moment. Comfortably familiar.
There’s a beat of silence. “He told you,” Ghost says. It’s not a question, just statement of a simple fact that they both know.
Another moment passes, a pair passing by them in the hallway moving over to the other side as they see the death glare Ghost is directing forward at nothing in particular. Soap, unconcerned, snorts, their shoulders bumping together as they walk. “That you nearly ripped the poor thing’s arm off?” he says, tone dry, “he might’ve mentioned it. ”
Ghost inhales sharply through his nose. Pauses for a moment. Then, he turns his head just slightly, directing that glare over to Soap—who doesn’t falter in the slightest despite the heat there—instead.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re not denying it.”
He isn’t, as much as he’d like to pretend he hadn’t had such a massive lapse in judgment and control. The image flashes into his mind, unbidden—your head thrown back against his shoulder, face scrunched up in ecstasy, his name on your lips. A shudder runs through his body.
‘I got what I needed’ had slipped out before he could stop it. Both a lie and an uncomfortable truth, twisted together. He felt like a fool for it.
Soap’s fingers snap in front of his face to bring him back to reality. “Hey, mind out of the gutter.” There’s a teasing note to his voice, but a serious undercurrent as well. “What’s going on?”
That was a harder question than he realized. Because Ghost knew what was going on—but he didn’t know how he’d let it happen. Hell, he didn’t even know when it had happened, not fully. He couldn’t separate things into before the feelings had developed and after—all he knew was that at some point he realized he was in too deep to stop it. He could pull away all he wanted, and did, but when things were bad, he found himself going to them whether he wanted to or not. A part buried deep in his brain just wanted them close and he hated it and himself.
Something in his changing expression, even with only his eyes visible, gives him away.
“Oh,” Soap says, stilling and taking a moment to process the look on his face before his eyes widen, “oh, shit.”
“Shut up.”
Predictably, Soap does not shut up. Instead, as they round the corner to slip outside, he continues to speak, his voice raising if anything. “Holy shit. You’re seriously telling me you—”
He’s cut off when Ghost suddenly grabs his shoulder and pushes him against the wall, a hand clamping over his mouth. He isn’t quite slammed back—despite how it appears from the outside at times, neither wants the other hurt—but there’s enough force to momentarily knock the air from his lungs and quiet him.
“Shut the fuck up,” Ghost says through gritted teeth, leaning down to get in the other man’s face, “what are you trying to do? Announce it to the whole damn base?”
He can feel the grin spreading across Soap’s face against his gloved palm and he feels blood rushing to his cheeks. Not for the first time, he’s glad his face is hidden, but he’s sure Soap can somehow read him like a book anyway.
“Cunt,” is said against his hand. No malice, Slowly, his fingers loosen on Soap’s cheeks and his arm falls to his side with a huff and a halfhearted eyeroll. It’s all he can manage; he feels like he’s losing his mind. Everything about them, whether they’re present or just spoken about, seems to capture every ounce of his focus.
They slip back into walking together, stepping out into the harsh light with their shoulders pressed together, in an instant. Like what just happened was perfectly normal.
Sunshine falls over their shoulders as they exit the building into the yard, and Soap immediately settles with his back against the wall, an elbow locked together with Ghost, who uses his free hand to tug his mask up so he can pull out a pack of cigarettes and light one. It’s in his mouth only long enough for him to take a drag of it before he’s wordlessly holding it out to Soap. The offering isn’t quite an apology for the outburst and shoving him against the wall, but it‘s something adjacent. He responds in kind, taking it with a smile and sticking it into his mouth without any words passing between them.
It’s silent, the form of communication only distinguishable between the two of them—because only they need to understand it.
“So,” Soap begins, smoke curling around his face as he looks over at Ghost, “how bad is it?”
Ghost is quiet. Not his usual form of silence—this is heavier somehow. Less disinterest and more turmoil. Not as suffocating to those around him, but he’s clearly choking on it as he stares out at the setting sun.
Soap’s fingers tap against the wall as he waits, eyes tracking any change in expression he can see. When there is none beyond his mouth setting into a firm line, teeth digging into his bottom lip—and no response, either—he knocks his shoulder into Ghost’s. Lighter than before, more of a nudge. He offers the cigarette back. “Ghost?” A pause. Then, his voice lower, almost gentle, “Simon?”
Fingers wrap around the cigarette, but Ghost doesn’t bring it back to his lips. His breathing is shaky, and he leans his head back, eyes squeezing shut. “Bad,” he admits, voice low, words trembling as they leave his throat, “it’s bad, Johnny.”
“Nothing to be done for it, then, is there?”
You pass by then. Not close enough to hear what they’re talking about, just hurrying past them in your haste to get inside. His eyes follow you the entire time, lingering until you disappear around a corner. Soap is giving him a knowing look when he finally drags his gaze away.
“No,” he agrees, bringing the cigarette to his lips and leaning back against the wall, head tilted up, “I guess not.”
Over the next few months(?), you move around each other in a sort of awkward, quiet dance—missions frequently culminate in the two of you tangled in bed together, always the same way. He never gets undressed. Never touches you without gloves. Aftercare is minimal, though that’s mostly your own choice, admittedly. Why linger if he clearly only wants one thing?
You don’t come to him, only the other way around. Things work, in an odd way—even if you can never quite shake the feeling of longing that comes with every interaction. Learning to leave it when he tells you he’s done, even if he hasn’t cum, goes a long way.
You fuck. You cope. You avoid each other except when strictly necessary—though ‘necessary’ has expanded to include seeking you out in a crowded room, if neither Soap nor Gaz is there. You figure it’s mostly because you don’t pester him with questions, just sitting with one another with the awkward weight of what you’ve done together. Things fall into an odd rhythm.
Somehow, it works. For the next seventy-eight days(? Maybe make longer).
It’s the first time since the two of you got involved that you’ve had a particularly rough mission without him with you. Usually, your reluctance to approach him doesn’t matter because he’s in exactly the same state—not that you’d be able to tell by looking at him.
This is different. The weight of everything crashes down on you, leaving you paralyzed in the courtyard, long quieted helicopter blades ringing in your ears whilst everyone else hurries off to lick their wounds or mourn the dead. You’re only slightly injured. Blood drips down your face from your nose, but it’s relatively minor. Most importantly, you’re not dead—which is more than some can say.
Everything is fuzzy. Your eyes are stinging from the effort it takes to hold back your tears.
The most prevalent thought in your brain is that you shouldn't be alive. You’d come so close, and others had died. What made you deserve to have lived any more than they did?
You’re frozen there for a period of time that somehow simultaneously feels like hours and seconds. How long it actually is, you aren’t sure. All you know is that by the time you finally manage to move, feeling like your limbs are held down by weights, the sun has set and darkness has set in.
You don’t realize where your feet are taking you until you’re at Ghost’s door, knocking frantically. The moment it’s open, you’re practically collapsing against his chest. Your fingers curl into his shirt as he goes entirely still and tense, and you have to force yourself not to think about how he’ll probably never want to look at you again after this. You’re a broken, sobbing thing against his body, not looking the least bit attractive and certainly not acting like the detached partner for relief of stress that he wants and needs.
“Lieu—Ghost—”
You can’t finish whatever that thought was supposed to be, a wail escaping your lips before you can stop it, muffled only by your face being buried against his chest.
His hands hover awkwardly in the air like he isn’t sure whether to touch; the idea of him being so unwilling to touch you even now just makes you cry harder, hiccuping through babbled apologies against his shirt as you soak through the fabric with tears. Your body shakes so violently you’re surprised by how steady he remains.
“Easy, Sergeant,” he says, voice low, almost soothing. There’s a tinge of something like panic to the words, too, which you’ve never heard from him.
An arm wraps around your shoulders, ushering you into the room. The door closes and locks behind you and the knowledge that you’re safe from anyone other than him witnessing your complete and utter breakdown makes a sob that’s more relief than agony leave you. He still doesn’t touch you directly. It’s late enough that he’s wearing a tank top and boxers—no gloves, his mask hastily thrown on when you knocked on the door—but you’re clothed, and his arm lays on top of your clothing.
The realization that you’re still clothed, a rarity since he’s usually eager to get you undressed as quickly as possible, has words spilling out of you before you can stop them. “I-I—” You stop. Inhale, shakily., and it takes a tremendous effort because it feels like the air gets caught in your throat before reaching your lungs every time. “I need to stop thinking. Please. Make—make me stop thinking.”
He makes an almost wounded sound, pulling back when you try to drag him closer. There’s a hand on your chest, keeping you at arms length. Still not touching you skin to skin, just keeping you away from him. You grip his shirt tighter, feeling your breath catching with every attempt to inhale even worse than it was before.
You need something, something that’s frustratingly just barely out of reach. You need him.
Your name leaves his lips and his voice is still calm as he says it, infuriatingly composed as always. “You need to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
Though you can hear the words, it’s like you can’t quite comprehend them. Your brain’s function has stuttered to a halt, and not in the way it usually does around him. You watch his eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the dread building in your stomach, and watch how obvious the concern growing in them is.
Finally, mercifully, his thumb presses to your cheek, fingers hooked under your chin as he gently tilts your head up so you meet his eyes. “Breathe.” The word is gentleness soaked in command. Something solid to hold onto. You grab for it without thinking for more than a second, trying to drag yourself back from the waves of despair. His thumb gently strokes over your cheek, the contact making both of you shudder.
Your breathing is still far too quick, tears streaming down your face, soaking his shirt, and all you can do is wheeze through an attempt at an apology—he doesn’t accept it, hushing you and shifting his hands so he’s cupping your cheeks fully, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. Maybe he can see right through you, can tell how much you crave the skin to skin contact, enough that it begins to calm you down, if only slightly.
“Come on, dove. Calm down for me,” his words, usually so steady, are wavering now. Not much, just the slightest hitch of breath, the tiniest falter in his voice. He can’t seem to pull his eyes away from you, the worry in his gaze too obvious to ignore.
You haven’t really noticed how expressive his eyes are until now, and that’s the main thing that manages to break through the haze over your brain. The thought that maybe, just maybe, that’s part of why he wears the mask manages to form. It doesn’t quite dissolve your panic entirely, but it’s new, unexpected, and it’s enough to bring you back from the brink of hyperventilation as you lean into his palm.
The touch is something to focus on—it feels like a bridge from panic to functionality.
Agonizingly slow, your breathing begins to even out. You still let out a hiccuping, rough sob, but air manages to fully fill your lungs. You feel unsteady, dizzy. The world feels like it’s tilted slightly to the side and Ghost is the only thing solidly upright. It’s no surprise that no matter how hard you try, you can’t bring yourself to loosen your grip on him.
Through your tears, you try desperately to return to what always comes from your meetings with him. What he wants—what might, if you’re lucky, make you feel numb for a moment.
“I need…”
He cuts you off, words firm but not harsh as he interrupts your shaking, hoarse voice. “No. That’s just going to make you feel worse.”
Through the agony and despair radiating in your brain, there’s a flare of offense at the words. The audacity he has to deny you the exact same thing he’s used to numb himself renders you speechless for a moment before you manage to weakly glare at him.
“You do it,” you point out, voice sharp as you hit his chest lightly. He doesn’t even flinch, which just irritates you further.
Ghost, hypocrite that he is, just shakes his head. “You want to avoid it,” he says, firm in a way that tells you that no matter how stubborn you are, he can be more so, “and you’re crying. There’s a difference.”
Admittedly, you are still crying. Tear tracks run down your cheeks, searingly warm in the cool air, and you hastily move to wipe at your eyes, turning your head away in a desperate attempt to hide it. Really, it’s silly—he’s already seen how broken you are. It isn’t like he’ll forget just because you hide your face. Even knowing that doesn’t make you stop.
“I just want everything to stop.”
Something like sympathy—or pity, supplies the part of your brain that currently thinks you should run away and pretend this never happened—flickers in his eyes, softening his gaze. His fingers, calloused and scarred as they are, are gentle as they stroke your cheeks and lead you back to looking at him.
He’s so gentle, and that’s the worst part. Half of you hates being handled like you’re fragile while the other half craves it and wants more than anything to lean into the touch. Gentle isn’t a word you’d typically associate with him and that just makes your mind kick up with activity, buzzing unpleasantly with the knowledge that he’s handling you differently than he does anyone else. You don’t want to be pitied. You want people to see you as capable, because you are. You want him, specifically, to see you that way, and that realization is startling.
“You think I don’t get it?” He asks, not even giving you the kindness of matching your harshness. There’s a slight sharp edge to his words, sure, but not mean. Not fighting.
You feel like you’re shattering under the weight of his softness. Your fingers curl into fists and you hit at his chest over and over, barely managing to choke back another wail. He stands there, still as a statue, through the whole thing, and you can feel something visceral bubbling up in your throat.
“Damn you.” The words tumble out quicker than you can stop them, fueled by pure agony as you continue to hit at his chest. The force of it is weaker than you want—you’re drained. It’s all too much. “Damn you, you—you bastard! I’m good enough for you to—for you to fuck when you need it, but not good enough for you to return the favor? Is that it?”
You still haven’t stopped crying. The words keep coming, the dam irreparably broken.
“Y-You’re such a prick. If you aren’t going to help me, you could at least get out of my way so I can find someone who—”
The sentence never finishes. They die in your throat in an instant when his arms suddenly wrap around you tight and pull you against his chest. You want to fight. Really, you do. But you can’t bring yourself to. His hands, not covered by gloves, cradle the back of your head as he holds you close, stroking your hair. The tears just intensify, streaming down your face uncontrollably.
“I hate you,” you sob. It’s a lie. You aren’t sure if he knows that or not. At that moment, you aren’t sure if your body knows that, either.
All he does is hush you, murmuring against the top of your head. “I know. I’ve got you, dove.”
I know. I’ve got you, dove.
The words repeat on loop in your brain for a moment, but your focus is zeroed in on one part in particular.
I’ve got you.
And despite everything—despite how much of a mystery he is, despite claiming you hate him, you know that he does.
You claw at his back, trying to pull him closer despite yourself, and he stays infuriatingly steady the whole time. His hands tremble, just slightly, against the back of your head and it feels like a victory—the tiniest crack in his armor.
Gradually, painfully slow, you can feel your body beginning to relax against his. It feels, in a way, like a betrayal of yourself, to be calmed by his touch, but you can’t help it. He holds you in this new, unguarded way, tells and you can feel yourself melt. You’re putty in his hands and you hate it and crave it in equal measure.
Even once you’ve calmed down a bit, you can’t form words. Not for a lack of desire to. You open your mouth, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a sound you can only describe as being like a wounded animal. Pained in a way beyond physical. An ache spreads through your chest as your nails dig into his back through the thin tank top he wears. He inhales sharply, eyes squeezing shut, but despite clearly being in pain, he doesn’t pull away.
“Just relax,” he says, clearly trying to be soothing, but his calm in the face of all of this just makes a pit form in your stomach. You wish you had even half of his composure, any of his ability to be untouchable in the face of death. He might not like it, but you’ve never seen him as broken as you are right now.
“I hate you,” you repeat, managing to mumble it against his chest, though you can’t stop yourself from following it up with, “don’t leave.”
Your voice is small when you say it—you feel exactly like the fragile thing you fear being seen as. The pit in your stomach grows and curls into a tight knot. Slowly, reluctantly, you pry your fingers off of him, trying to pull back even though your heart isn’t in it.
The minute your body leaves his, his grip tightens, pulling you back. He lays his head on top of yours and everything—the touching—is so overwhelming that you just freeze. “Not going anywhere. Stay.”
For what’s probably the first time during one of your encounters, it feels like an order, despite the pleading undercurrent to it.
You mean to laugh it off and keep your distance. That would be the smart thing to do. Separating from him before he can come to his senses and push you away—even that would be kinder, in a way, to the alternative. To be held like this, like you’re something that needs holding together, and then for him to push you away after seeing you like this.
Instead, what comes out is an apology as your arms loop around him again, not clawing at his back but holding onto him loosely. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I didn’t want you to see me like this. I don’t know why I came here.”
There’s no reason you should’ve come here. You were out of it, but not to the point of not knowing what door you were at. Even if you weren’t fully aware of what choice you were making, some part of you had made it.
Ghost huffs out something almost like a laugh, but not quite. Quiet, lacking even the dry sort of humor he sometimes has. A hand slides down to your back, rubbing circles against your skin over your clothes. Despite yourself, you can feel yourself melting even further against him, your breath hitching.
“Don’t apologize for stupid shit like that,” he grumbles as your eyes flutter shut, body fully relaxing against him.
It’s sort of funny, the way his harsher—not mean, but blunt—words seem to be what your brain needs to finally calm down and come back to reality. It’s easier to accept and feels more real than his gentleness, even though you’re well aware he isn’t the type to lie or act in a way that’s just to spare your feelings. He’s secretive; talking about himself is not something he’s interested in or open to, and trying to ask about it makes him clam up. But he isn’t fake. His kindness is a real part of him, it’s just so deeply buried it’s hard to believe.
You lift your head so your chin is resting on his shoulder, looking up at him. Hopefully the affection sparking in your chest doesn’t show so obviously in your eyes. “...Thanks. I know I look gross right now,” you say, getting another grumble in response.
Not that being attractive to him is important to you. Admittedly, the thought has crossed your mind, but you’d swear up, down, and sideways that it was only briefly. But it is something that’s relevant in context of your arrangement—you’re still not sure what to call it—since attraction is at least forty percent of it. The other sixty percent is split into three parts. Availability, unwillingness to let anyone else see you vulnerable, and something harder to define. Something soft and warm that you don’t want to think about and go to great efforts to push to the back of your mind.
That’s what it is for you, at least. You can’t imagine it’s different for him.
“I’m serious. It can’t be fun seeing me all….” You trail off, motioning to your face, which is a mess of puffy eyes, tear tracks, and dried blood from where your nose had leaked down your lips to your chin. You don’t finish the sentence because you aren’t sure what word to use. Gross is close, but not quite right. Ugly is only about half the story. Vulnerable is probably what you actually mean, but you decide very quickly that you can’t say that. It’s too personal.
This time when he chuckles, it’s a little more genuine, though he mostly just sounds tired. “What else are friends good for?”
He says it almost like a joke, but you aren’t sure whether he’s serious.
“...Are we friends?” You can’t help from asking. There’s a beat of silence, a tightening of his grip on you, and then he looks down at you incredulously. If you didn’t know any better you’d think you’d just asked him if he secretly wanted to kill his entire team, from how he’s staring at you in complete disbelief and a hint of offense.
“You think I just fuck anyone?”
That leaves you fumbling for words, quickly trying to correct yourself and pulling back to look up at him, eyes widening. “No! No, of course not,” you say hurriedly, waving a hand to try and fix what you’ve seemingly implied, “I just mean… I-I thought it was mostly because I was…. You know. Willing. And didn’t ask too many questions.”
There’s a long, exasperated exhale as he finally pulls away from you. He puts a hand over his eyes, rubbing his temples as though you’ve given him a headache—like he isn’t the painfully confusing one. Like he hasn’t spent months dancing around whatever is happening between the two of you just as much as you have. He doesn’t even speak. All he does is sigh, heavy and sounding nearly as exhausted as you feel.
“I don’t know what that means,” you admit, making him let out a long, low groan of irritation.
“I like…” he begins, speaking slowly like you won’t understand him otherwise, “your company. Even if you’re annoying.”
It catches you off guard, making your brows furrow as you look up at him, though he’s covering his eyes and therefore fully hiding his expression from you. You look behind yourself like there’s anyone else he could be talking to and as you slowly process his words, you point to your chest. “You like me?”
“Don’t push it.”
To your surprise, that pulls a laugh out of you, and you quickly cover your mouth as it refuses to stay as a small giggle and instead escalates into a full on fit of laughter. It’s a shock to the system, the tiniest hint of lightness in your chest after everything feeling so unbearably heavy. You didn’t expect anything to be able to make you feel better right now beyond just not thinking. Yet, without even trying, it feels like he’s brought sunshine back to your life, if only for a moment. Ghost’s hand lowers slightly, just enough to stare at you over top of it.
His hand lowers the rest of the way gradually, his eyes seeming fixed on you the whole time. You can make out just the tiniest hint of pink on his skin like this, just below his eyes. It takes a moment for you to catch yourself staring right back at him.
“So… we’re friends?” You can’t help but try your luck again, which manages to snap him out of it. A more genuine sounding chuckle leaves him this time.
“Sure,” he says. It feels a little bit like he’s making fun of you, “let’s go with that.”
It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s the closest to one you’ve gotten since you first met him, and right now it’s enough for you. Friends—or something like that. Very quiet friends, who also sleep together. It’s hardly traditional. You find that you like the sound of it anyway.
Before you can say anything else, he puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it firmly as his voice turns more serious. “You shouldn’t be running around when you’re out of it like this. Something bad could happen.” It sounds like he’s scolding you, but the concern is oddly touching. “Next time I’ll come check on you myself.”
“You would’ve today if it wasn’t so late,” you say. You’re not sure why you’re defending him—to himself—but you don’t like the idea of him blaming himself for you getting hurt.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be there. Wait for me.”
It doesn’t really feel like it’s a request. Your cheeks feel almost painfully hot, but you nod anyway.
“Okay. I will.”
After that, things are… different. Not massively so, but enough that you notice.
Apparently, the realization that you were completely clueless about the fact that you two were friends forced Ghost into action. It’s a little embarrassing, honestly, the way he has to adjust his behavior just because you’ve been oblivious, but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t helpful.
It isn’t like he’s suddenly the most touchy or talkative person in the world; even if he’s a little more open, he’s still himself. But he will throw you a bone occasionally in the form of a joke—you find that his sense of humor is absolutely terrible, but he tells his awful puns with such genuine enjoyment of them that you can’t help laughing—or, in the rare occasion when the two of you are alone, an arm around your shoulders. He still isn’t much for physical touch and usually wears his gloves, but a casual squeeze of your shoulder or pat on your back is enough to ground you most days.
Just like he promised, every time you’re out without him and he has the chance, he’s waiting for you when you get back. As mortifying as having him standing there like he’s your boyfriend waiting for you in an airport, it’s oddly soothing as well. Having someone there to catch you if and when you fall is nice, even if he is annoyingly perceptive. Any attempt to hide an injury, no matter how minor it is, from him is caught immediately.
There’s also the fact that you’re still sleeping together. The sex is not much different than before, though you’ll usually linger for a bit longer afterwards. Sharing a cigarette after sex is commonplace now.
Things fall into a rhythm far more comfortable than before.
The two of you don’t actually work together without the rest of the 141 much—you’d thought it was mostly because he didn’t like to, but when you voiced that to him, he’d just let out a long, annoyed groan. ‘I find it hard to believe I enjoy your company too, but here we are’ were his exact words. Today was an outlier.
All things considered, it could’ve gone much worse. It also definitely could’ve gone much, much better, unfortunately.
Being shot at is never fun, but it’s par for the course in your line of work. One of those bullets catching your arm, on the other hand, was unideal to say the least. Luckily, it’s just a graze so you don’t have to worry about digging the bullet out, but it’s deep enough that a sizable amount of blood seeps into the fabric of your sleeve while you clutch at it, trying to add enough pressure to stop the bleeding. The good news is that you and Ghost both managed to get out without any further incident, even if it had required him practically dragging you—the bad news is that means you now have nothing to focus on other than the pain, and adrenaline is running low.
“Shiiit,” you mutter, lifting your hand for a brief moment so you can look at the wound and then immediately clamping your hand back down when you see it’s still bleeding. Your hand trembles over it as your head leans back against the wall of the helo with a thud.
You can just barely see how tense Ghost’s jaw is as he leans over you, putting his hand over yours firmly to add more pressure which makes you hiss in pain, the vibrations of the aircraft sinking into your body and jostling the wound worse.
“Stop moving,” he snaps, rolling your sleeve up so he can examine your shoulder closer. Two fingers, ungloved, press to the edges of the gash in your skin, and he begins to pinch the wound closed, sending jolts of agony through your body. You tense up with a pained cry, hands scrambling to grip at the front of his shirt as your eyes squeeze shut. It’s horribly painful, even if you know it’s his attempt to help stop the bleeding. The fact that you know that, logically, means very little in the moment, leading to you trying to push his hand away. He doesn’t budge. His grip on your arm tightens, his free hand gripping your wrist tightly to hold you in place. “You can let me do this or you can bleed out. Your choice.”
It isn’t as though you’re weak. That’s far from the case. But you’re also no real match for his strength due to the size difference if nothing else. Your eyes water from pain as you hiccup through a few rough words, your voice strained. “Fuck you,” you spit out, though you stop struggling quite so hard, even if your body doesn’t relax in the slightest.
He exhales slowly through his nose, unsteady, and his eyes flicker from your wound to your eyes. Usually, you can say that—privately, between just the two of you—to him and earn a small laugh, but you’re both far too tense to even consider humor.
“Curse at me if you need to. Just stay alive.”
The process of the blood flow slowing feels as though it’s moving at a snail’s pace. Gradual and agonizing. You can feel every moment of it and you can’t help how you cling to him, tears streaming down your face. The bleeding does slow, though, even if it takes long enough that he’s almost as tense as you are just from watching your pain. It’d be almost touching if you were in a state where you could focus on that.
You feel woozy, the world seeming to spin around you slightly, and you bury your face against his shoulder to try and hide from the movement. A pained sob shakes your body—he’s still holding your wound shut. It’d probably start bleeding again if he let go.
“You’re the worst,” you choke out, your vision growing blurry as you cling to him with all your strength. Right now, that isn’t saying much. “I hate you so much. You suck.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You hope he’s lying. You hope he doesn’t ‘know’, because you don’t hate him, really. It’s more that you hate the way he makes you feel, the way you’ve never felt closer to anyone else. Sometimes it’s as though he can see through you. Whether he thinks you truly hate him or knows it’s a front for your own tangled emotions doesn’t matter—either is unthinkably painful.
His other arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you in close, pressing your head into the crook of his neck. He shudders at the touch, still firmly pinching your wound. “I’ve got you, dove. Just breathe.”
That name isn’t one you hear often. It’s only slipped out a handful of times since you’d accepted that the two of you are, apparently, friends. But every time he says it your heart does a little flip in your chest that makes you ache.
Time passes in a messy tangle of sharp pain and wet blood.
Ghost doesn’t leave your side the entire time. Even once you’re off the helo, getting fussed over by a doctor(?) he glares at anyone who suggests he separate from you so harshly that they back off almost instantly. He lets go of your arm so you can get stitches, but even then he stays close. You don’t really mind. Frankly, it’s the only thing keeping you from entirely drifting in your own mind, due to the blood loss and medicine making you unsteady.
Your brain doesn’t clear until after he’s taken you to bed the moment you're allowed away from medical supervision. His bed—where you definitely shouldn’t be—but he doesn’t lay or sit beside you. Instead, he pulls away to lean against the wall and watch you. He doesn’t speak for a long, tense moment as your head lolls back against the wall where you’re sitting.
“Don’t move,” he says, the words managing to snap you out of the daze you’re in, “I’m going to keep an eye on you to make sure you don’t hurt yourself worse. Knowing you, you’d probably…”
He trails off. It isn’t often you hear him speechless, which is what spurs you into action. As you push yourself to straighten up and wince at the pull on your shoulder, you can see his hands are trembling slightly. The realization hits you with a start. He’s worried. It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, probably. He’s already established you’re friends—which doesn’t seem to be a status he gives out lightly. Still, you knew he’d be concerned, but you didn’t expect this level of reaction from him.
It takes a moment to find your voice. Your tongue feels heavy and your brain is still a little fuzzy, but you push forward anyway. “You don’t have to worry so much. And you don’t have to stand all the way over there.”
Though he huffs, he doesn’t argue, pushing off the wall and approaching you with slow, heavy steps. He stops at the edge of the bed and lingers there, eyes trailing over your frame and sticking on the bandages on your shoulder. His entire body is tense, still trembling slightly, and you can’t help but hold out your arms to him in an offer of a hug.
The two of you still don’t hug much. Not like this. His willingness to touch you is mostly casual, fleeting touches.
You get the impression he isn’t a big fan of physical contact—which is why it’s so surprising that he immediately takes the chance. He lays on top of your body, his head resting against your chest as he lets out a shuddering, unsteady breath. For such a large man, he curls up on top of you surprisingly easily and surprisingly gently. Your hands hover over his back for a moment, unsure of what an acceptable placement would be, and he waits only a moment before pulling one of your hands to his face. Your fingers pressing to his cheeks over the mask doesn’t seem to ease him any.
Encouraged by him taking the lead, you wrap your other arm around him, letting his face press into your chest and gently rubbing his back. His entire frame seems to melt, eyes soft as he looks up at your face, and he leans in to press his masked cheek into your hand.
“I’m fine,” you say with a gentleness that surprises yourself. Something about the desperate, almost longing look in his eyes seems to just smooth your edges out, “you know that, right?”
He doesn’t respond, and that’s answer enough. His face presses into your chest as he inhales, shuddering and unsteady, and your fingers trail along the length of his jaw, down to his neck where they curl slightly under the edge of his mask. The first brush of skin on skin makes him tense up, but he doesn’t pull away. “Go ahead,” he mutters, sounding hesitant.
You move slowly, looping your thumbs beneath his mask and beginning to tug it up and over his head. It takes some effort to keep your expression the same as, finally, you catch sight of his face. A good chunk of his skin is scarred, but the first thing that catches your attention is how expressive he is. Maybe it’s because he’s so used to having his face hidden—you don’t know and it doesn’t matter very much. What matters is that you’re pretty sure he’s the most beautiful person you’ve seen in your entire life. There’s a desperation in his eyes you can’t say has ever been directed towards you before, a slight pink flush over scarred cheeks.
Apparently, you’ve been staring at him in silence for too long, because he lets out a huff of breath and looks away. “That bad?”
“No!” You blurt it out quicker than you can think it through. His head snaps up immediately, and he manages a laugh as the blush on his cheeks spreads further, hiding beneath the black smudges around his eyes. One of your hands slides up into his hair, tangling into it gently as you ease his head back towards your chest.
“It’s not… bad,” you say, barely stopping yourself from grinding your teeth together due to how hard it is to voice your thoughts, “you’re pretty, actually. Really pretty.”
“Fuck off.”
He’s glaring at you now and it makes you bark out a laugh. Immediately, you move your hand to cover your mouth, but his fingers clamp tight around your wrist to keep your hand in his hair even as he continues to glare. He’s almost pouting, and the way he seems to be completely unable to hide the emotions on his face makes your heart flutter strangely in your chest.
“I’m serious. This is one of those things you just have to accept. We’re friends and you’re pretty,” you say firmly, shaking your head.
The absolute audacity and cluelessness he has is mind-boggling. The idea that he doesn’t know he’s attractive is so insane—this must be close to what he felt like when you asked if you were friends. Maybe you should’ve apologized.
He doesn’t say anything further, but his head tilts to the side slightly, a doubting look in his eyes. “You’re delirious,” his tone is dry as he props himself up on an elbow, “Or giving me shit. Which is it?”
You can’t help it—you roll your eyes and, despite how your injured shoulder screams in protest, reach down to grab him by the shoulders and yank him up to kiss him properly. It isn’t until he goes completely still that you realize this is the first time you’ve actually kissed. He’s pulled up his mask enough to smoke in front of you before, but never to kiss you. He doesn’t seem to know how to react, hands hovering over your shoulders.
“Sorry,” you gasp as you pull back, “I should’ve asked—”
The words are cut off by him yanking you by the front of the shirt into another kiss. Unlike him, it takes you only a moment to melt into it, hands coming up to hold onto his cheeks so you can pull him in closer with a breathy moan. His body presses into yours, mindful of your shoulder as he pushes you back against the wall, never breaking from the kiss.
When he pulls back, he lingers, his breathing heavy and close enough for it to brush over your lips. He’s staring up at you, pupils blown wide and fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt to hold you close. A breathless laugh escapes you as you lean your forehead against his.
“You were worried, huh?” you tease, but gentler than before, leaning in to kiss him again, quick and soft. His eyes shut, a shuddering breath leaving him, and his body melts into yours.
He scowls at you but presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, beginning to slowly trail them along your jaw and down to your neck before he stops and lightly nips at the crook of your neck. “Obviously. Don’t look so smug about it.”
You can’t help yourself. Your head falls back and you laugh again, gripping at the back of his shirt when it earns you another bite to your neck, slightly harder than before. His lips trail down your uninjured shoulder and arm until he reaches your hand, at which point he intertwines your fingers to press your palm against his cheek, shuddering at the contact. He keeps doing that, reacting so strongly to your touch.
“Y’know, you don’t have to touch me if it makes you uncomfortable.”
His head jerks up and the glare from before returns, a frustrated huff leaving him. “You’ve got to be joking,” he says, rolling his eyes and pressing against your hand harder.
For a moment, that leaves you at a loss. It’s like when you asked if you were friends—like you haven’t just made an incorrect assumption, but you’ve said something entirely insane. You’re not entirely sure what to do with that. In some ways it’s a relief. After all, it’s not like you want to stop touching. You like it, almost certainly more than he does. But in other ways it’s terrifying in a way you can’t fully articulate. And thrilling.
“I-I mean…” you stumble over your words, eyes scanning over him as he stares at you like you’ve grown a second head, “you’re super weird about touching me. Or being touched by me. I feel like it’s a fair assumption.”
He stares up at you for a long silence before he sighs heavily—in what you, personally, think is a bit of a dramatic reaction—and unceremoniously drops his head against your stomach. You let out a small ‘oof’ and the hand that had been against his cheek darts to the top of his head, tangling into his hair. Your shirt has ridden up, so his nose presses against your stomach, eyes falling shut.
“Are you seriously going to make me spell it out?” he asks, speaking against your skin in a way that sends a shiver through your body. You just stare blankly at him and after a moment he lets out a frustrated groan. “It’s not that I don’t like touching you.”
It takes you, frankly, an embarrassingly long time to figure out what he’s getting at. You pause, brows furrowing as you consider what he’d said, and then your eyes widen. Oh.
“Oh.”
The idea is almost unthinkable. After so long of thinking he was just repulsed by touch—yours, specifically, even—the idea that it’s not only untrue but the exact opposite of reality is… hard to swallow. It also makes your heart flip in your chest.
“So, you like it when we touch, then?”
He just grumbles something you can’t quite make out against your stomach, refusing to look up at you. That’s all the confirmation you need. You can’t help it—a grin spreads across your face. Your hand slides down his face from his hair to his jaw and you press a finger to his chin to force him to look at you. For a moment you don’t even care that you’re smiling like an idiot, giving everything away.
“You really are pretty, you know,” you say, not even trying to hide how you’re looking to bring that blush back. It works like a charm, a pretty pink shade spreading over his cheeks.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t glare or tell you to shut up—no matter how ingenuine they are, which is something you’ve come to recognize—but instead melts, laying his cheek against your stomach so he can stare up at you. Eyes soft, pupils so dilated that the black nearly swallows up the brown. Your thumb strokes over his cheek.
He pulls his head back from your hand and you’re about to apologize, but before you can say anything, he’s pressing his face against your hip. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers, hands coming up so his fingers can curl just under your waistband—not pulling your pants down just yet, but making the intent obvious, “you’re seriously telling me you don’t know that?”
Your head falls back against the pillows and you stare up at the ceiling, eyes wide as he slides his hands around to palm at your ass.
“Lift your hips for me,” he murmurs against your hip. The moment you comply, propping yourself up slightly, he’s pulling your pants down your legs with a slowness that makes you feel like you’re going insane. He leaves your underwear on, kissing along the top edge of it until he reaches the center of your waist and then pausing. “Can I?”
Like always, he’s so sure to put the choice in your hands. Wetness is already pooling between your legs, soaking into the fabric, and you watch as his eyes flicker down to that damp spot. His breath hitches against your waist. You can’t manage any words., You nod jerkily as your confirmation instead, turning your eyes back up to the ceiling as your chest heaves, and you count yourself lucky that he’s too desperate to tease you for your lack of speech. Fingers hook under the waistband of your underwear and he tugs them down to expose the rest of your skin to the air.
He makes it surprisingly easy to melt into the bed as his lips press to your thigh, only for his teeth to make you jolt. The bite isn’t hard enough to break skin or even really to hurt, but it shocks your body into movement, one of your legs curling over his back to keep him close to you.
Rather than taking it any further, he rubs his cheek against your thigh, tongue darting out to lick his lips, and you groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. “Are you gonna get on with it, or just mess with me?”
The fact that he laughs doesn’t make you feel any better. Luckily, though, he complies without teasing. Maybe that says something about how desperate you both are. His tongue flicks against you and drags across your cunt to latch his mouth onto your clit. A gasp leaves you, your hips pressing upwards against him until he places a hand on your stomach and pushes you down. Gentle, but firm. For once, the gentleness feels less like assuming you’re fragile and more like affection.
Once you’ve settled back against the bed, his hand slides up your stomach under your shirt to tug at one of your nipples as he sucks. You shift your arm down to cover your mouth instead, biting down on the skin to muffle the gasping, desperate sounds leaving you.
“Let me hear you,” Ghost says, muffled between your legs.
Begging, not commanding.
The thought makes your teeth loosen from your arm and a choked moan leaves you as you hook your other leg around him as well. One of your feet presses against his spine, the other against the back of his head, both with the same purpose—keeping him as close to you as possible, not letting him move because you know neither of you want him to.
His prompting makes your noises come more freely as he brings his free hand—the one that isn’t currently groping your chest, playing with and pinching your nipple which makes you whine every time—up, fingers spreading the folds of your slit apart. You can practically feel his eyes on you as strongly as his mouth and you can hardly breathe; you manage, just barely, to gasp his name, though it breaks into a whine at the end, and he makes a desperate moan against your flesh as though you’d touched him.
You’re dripping all over his face and you find that you don’t have it in yourself to care about anything except how good it feels.
Two of his fingers slide inside of you and the slickness makes it easy. He plays your body like a fiddle, really, pushing in and immediately curling to find the places he knows from experience make you feel the best, all while still teasing your clit with his tongue. You’re getting loud but every time you go to clamp a hand over your mouth or bite down on your lip, you think about how desperate he sounded begging to hear you.
In a quick, sudden movement, he swaps the placement of his mouth and hand. His mouth drags down to your hole and his tongue thrusts inside while his hand comes up to swipe his thumb over your clit. You can feel the way he’s shifting, grinding against the bed.
“Oh, oh, oh, I can't—”
“Fuck, I love you,” he moans. You both freeze.
You stay there in complete stillness and silence for a long moment. It’s only when he starts to lift himself off of you that you snap back to reality, and your hand flies to the back of his head to push him back down against your cunt. His shoulders tense for a moment, and then he shudders and melts, going back between your legs.
"Easy," you whisper, trying for teasing but falling short due to how breathless and wrecked with pleasure you are, "it's okay. Me too."
It slips out before you can think too hard about it, but it's true, and that realization startles you as much as it does him. Everything hits you at once with a sudden, terrifying clarity. That strange flutter in your chest, the craving for him to touch you even when he, seemingly, didn't like it—by extension, the dread in your stomach whenever you thought you were upsetting him.
You don't know how long you've been in love with Ghost, but you know that you couldn't change it now if you wanted to.
Luckily, if the way he lets out a choked groan and buries his face back between your legs, the hand on your chest coming down to part your thighs further as his tongue plunges into you is any indication, he feels the same way. He pushes your legs apart before you reach down, intertwining your fingers. Every time his tongue pushes inside, every time his thumb swipes over your clit, your body jerks and you grip his hand tighter. He's holding onto you back, just as tightly.
Your orgasm is explosive and not just physically. The wave of emotion that comes with it is striking, and your body arches up, hips pressing up against his mouth as you squeeze his hand tight.
It's only when your vision clears that you realize you're babbling, little 'i love you's leaving your lips.
Ghost doesn't part from you until you lightly bat at the side of his head as pleasure turns to overstimulation that makes your legs twitch against his back. He still gives your inner thigh another bite as he pulls away, making you scowl. He climbs up your body, coming to rest his head back against your chest and stare up at you. Wet lines of black run down his cheeks, some mixture of your fluids and his own tears.
You can't help it. You cup his cheek with your free hand, teasing in a low voice, "you looove me. Who knew you were such a romantic?"
He huffs, but makes no attempt to move, his pupils still blown wide as he keeps his eyes fixed on you. Leaning down, he uses his hand that isn't currently holding yours to push your shirt up so he can place a kiss right over your heart before laying his ear against it to listen to it beat. Your fingers comb through his hair.
"Are you really that oblivious?" he asks bluntly, tone dry but not aggressive. He's good at controlling his voice—not so much his face.
A grin splits your face and you lead him up so you can kiss him again. Now that you have the ability to, it's like you can't stop doing it. He kisses you back immediately this time but makes no attempt to deepen it. After lingering for a moment, he pulls back, instead bringing your intertwined hands to his mouth so that he can kiss the back of your hand.
"I told you," he whispers against the skin, "you drive me crazy."
It takes a moment for the quiet peace to break, your eyes going wide as you realize you've left him hanging. "Oh, shit. Do you want me to—"
He interrupts you with a hand clamping over your mouth, his cheeks flushing that same gorgeous shade of pink as before. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head. "That's not necessary."
"But I—"
This time, he cuts you off with a glare that lacks any real heat as he reaches down and unzips his pants, tugging them down just enough to reveal the damp spot that has spread across the front of his underwear. "Not necessary," he repeats, slower this time as if you won't understand what he means. Heat rushes to your cheeks.
"Oh," you say, somewhat dumbly, "that's… kind of sweet. I'm flattered."
All he does is groan—once again, you find yourself thinking it's quite dramatic, but it's kind of cute in a weird way—and roll onto his back beside you. He fumbles with his clothes, beginning to pull his shirt off to your surprise. You're not proud of it, but you find yourself unable to do anything other than staring at him as he dresses down to his underwear.
You try to brush your hair back in an attempt to look a little less disheveled while he tugs his pants off. It doesn’t work very well, but it earns you a laugh from Ghost as he lights a cigarette and settles back onto the bed beside you. He exhales smoke that curls around his face, glancing over at you.
"We should probably talk about this more," you say, slowly beginning to settle in beside him and leaning your head against his shoulder.
He rolls his eyes, looking up at the ceiling, and presses the cigarette to your lips to offer it to you. You weren't much of a smoker before him. "Tomorrow," his voice is firm, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, "you can bother me with questions about it tomorrow."
You gasp, hitting lightly at his chest as you scowl up at him, only for the playful offense to melt away when you see him. He's so… relaxed. At peace in a way that you never really see from him. You settle back down, tracing circles against his chest as he rests his chin on top of your head where it lays on his shoulder.
"I can stay?" You can't help but ask, and his eyes flicker down to meet yours.
Kinda project hail Mary inspired? Once again, dabbling into fanfic for things I've never read or watched. If my library has the book, I'll be checking it out
You weren't prepared to find the 141 crew when you were on your mission. They hadn't expected you either, but gladly adopted you, docking the two ships together to stay connected.
You fascinated them.
From a biological structural standpoint, you were the weakest and most underdeveloped out of all of them. You required more food, your suit was necessary for being out in space, you needed rest every few hours, or you became cranky and dumb. But, you're technology and brain were advanced in a way they'd never seen before.
"You were the most advanced in your species, question?" Johnny presses as he watches you rouse from what you called a nap.
"Jesus, Soap, let me wake up first." You grumble as you rub your eyes. You weren't sure what to make of your alien crew at first. Mostly made out of some kind of rock, they still looked vaugly human. If you could ignore them walking on all fours.
"Why do you call me that, question."
"You ate a bottle of soap the first time you got on my ship. It just seems fitting." You push yourself up in your bed, rubbing your eyes sleepily. "What were you saying? Earlier?"
"You must've been most qualified to be sent on mission to save earth." Johnny insists louder, getting Simon's attention. You chuckle humorlessly at that, pulling yourself out of the cot and over to your desk.
"No. Not really. Not even an astronaut. Just a middle school teacher."
"What is an astronaut?" You suppress a groan when Kyle walks underneath your desk, bumping it into the air and sending some papers flying.
"Kyle, buddy, we've been over this. No under my desk."
"Yes, yes. Go around." He chitters dismissively. "What is astronaut, question." He mimicks Johnny, wondering if that would make you answer him now.
"Someone who works hard to learn how to go into space." You explain absently doodling a small drawing of one on your paper. "I wasn't the most qualified, I just had the least to lose, I suppose."
Simon lets out a grunt, which you had learned quickly was his questioning grunt. "No family, no children. I didn't even have a pet, so I guess I was the easiest choice. No one to miss me, no one to distract my thoughts while I'm up here." You contine as you gather your papers up again.
"You have no mate?" John had joined the conversation now, settled comfortably in his favorite corner.
"Nope. No mate." You stopped moving for a moment, shuffling your papers awkwardly. "I guess my life was less valuable because of it." You regret saying it as soon as the words left your lips, but it was true. You knew your skill set was valuable, that you were intelligent enough for this mission, and that's why you were chosen.
But your life wasn't worth living on earth if you weren't with someone. Or making someone. Simply being alive wasn't enough.
"Why producing water, question." You swipe underneath your eyes with shaking hands, letting out a quiet chuckle.
"Crying. It's called crying. I'm just feeling a little upset." You explain, patting the top of Johnny's head. "I'm okay."
"Very valuable to us. Very important to us. Our new friend." Simon declares as he comes closer to you than he ever has before. "Humans are stupid to send you. Lost good friend."
"Thanks, Simon." You sigh as you finish cleaning your face. "Now, let's get back to work. What did you discover while I was napping."
john, john, johnathan price, the attentive man that you are.
husband!john who watched as youd spend a good hour or so scrolling on your ipad. his sunny face an embodiment of eased attitude as your new nails 'tap!'ped away at the glass screen. a calming rhythm synced to his thumming heart.
husband!john slowly felt a small pull tug at him, mind slowly rambling off in curiosity. what could possibly be better than his company? hed put the sudoku down, sit you in his lap and caress your thighs.
husband!john finally cracking. unlocking your ipad whilst you napped on his burly chest. equally as thick arms keeping you pushed into him. grumbling under his whisky toned breath, something about "too many damn bu'ons," and a "wha' the fuck is an.. 'instagram'?"
husband!john who eventually came across your digital diary. the fixation that held components to your life. pinterest! spending the rest of that timely evening studying your carefully articulated and arranged pinterest boards. wombat smiling at the board you made to represent yourself, a perfect online representation.
husband!john having his attention piqued at your board titled 'price home', where various projects for family homes were saved. big or small. new crown molding, painting the sides of doors. your dream home saved as an ode to something more. john glanced around, nitpicking at ideas that didnt display what you had seemingly wanted. scrunching his face when he realized he had been slacking, not knowing you wanted to make the already homey home, even homey-er ( is that a word )
husband!john who dragged you to the nearest supply store. deciding to tackle the first project head on — a walk in closet! standing firm and making you analyze every minute detail, intent on making you love and cherish every aspect of his newly assigned project.
husband!john who without fail, flipped the home upside down. handy manning everything of yours you saved and collected, even the silliest of ideas, ( like new base boards with ducks on them ).
husband!john single handedly put other husbands to a pitiful shame. beaming with overwhelming pride as you ogled at each newest addition, immediately showing him off to friends, family, and the strangers of the so called instagram. maybe or maybe not becoming an overnight sensation at his marveling handiworks.
Don't know if you've already done this, but what about tying a pretty bow around their cocks? Who would or wouldn't, the silly and sweet sex, etc
John indulges you even if he doesn’t understand. Takes his pants off but leaves everything else on, occupying himself as you fuss over what color and type of ribbon you want to use. It’s when you start to touch him, making him hard that he starts paying attention, because, you can put the bow on his cock but what he really wants is to fuck you.
Johnny says yes without having to think about it. For him, every day is a good day to wrap his dick up like a present. It’s like “Dick in a Box” but “Dick with a Bow” and after you’re done he tells you to unwrap your gift.
Kyle thinks it’s cute, finds it humorous, and convinces you that you should try to see how many you can tie while his dick is hard. He’s the praising sort, encouraging, and when you’re done, proud of yourself, he says he’s going to have them on all day, but you’ll have to keep his cock hard to achieve that.
Simon answers your request with a brief “okay” and remains passive during the whole process. He sits there, arms and legs stretched out, utterly relaxed as you show off all the bow options, asking Simon what he thinks, knowing that he won’t say anything while you work. It’s after, when the bow is secure that Simo finally moves, bringing you close and shoving your mouth down onto his cock, saying that if the ribbon loosens because he’s going soft, he’ll punish you for it.
john price who was used to be fit in the military, being his height, he was usually the bigger man in the room when simon wasn’t there.
now, since price took an early retirement few years ago, he had been eating well thanks to you. at first he availed his free time to fix as much things as he could in your house, renovating your yard and building your pool like he promised you when he was still working. but now that all of this was done, he became a professional in couch rotting.
he absolutely hated it, even as you assured him over and over that he was perfectly fine, and that he needed it, he still felt useless.
to not make it any better, john noticed that he was slowly loosing his muscles and a pouch of fat was starting to be noticeable in his lower abdomen. he was slower than before, wincing when getting up from the couch and he now necessarily needed his glasses to read.
however, he couldn’t help but love your delighted expression as you came home, happy to see him healthy and alive, clearly traumatised from all the years you spent waiting for him to come back from deployment. you'd hug him tightly and sigh contently at the feeling of his heartbeat against your temple.
even with all his worries, nothing could beat the moments you spent eating well together, or cooking when you had a day off ; price knew that you probably didn’t notice the weight he gained, and by the nights you spent together, he could tell you couldn’t care less.
thinking about simon riley and nail tech!reader when simon's on base and finally has a chance to take his gloves off. they're caked in dirt and grime, even a little bit of blood from the gruesome work he puts up with.
he sheds the rest of his dirty clothes, ready to hit the shoes when a certain scottish sergeant snickers from the locker over. "lookin' real pre'ty, lt." he drawls, eyes catching on the little designs on simon's nails.
simon casts them a glance, not catching the teasing tone in soap's voice and instead interpreting it as a genuine compliment.
"thanks, the missus' did 'em."
they're painted black, one nail on each hand decorated with a painted skull, and some other neat designs alongside them. it makes his heart flutter every time he looks at them, and he makes sure the higher-ups don't catch wind of it—regulations and all.
still, it brings him closer to you, as he always has a way to keep you close when he's gone.
"tha' so?" soap hummed in appreciation. he hadn't heard much about you—only really knew that simon had a bird by seeing the ring on his finger, but never said anything of it. everyone has someone they're trying to keep on the low for safety, and simon was one of them.
simon just nodded and moved along with his shower, not expecting the very next week to be inviting the scot into his home so you could do his nails too.
"look, lt, we can match."
simon just grunted, arms crossed with a frown under his mask. nail painting was your special routine, but at the same time, he wouldn't have it any other way. time well spent with his favorite people in the world.
more petite!reader and simon… bc petite girls deserve love
Tags !! - wasn’t supposed to be a feeder kink but my friend made me aware it sounds like one but its rlly not supposed to be, smut mention, 18+, breeding kink/pregnancy kink mention
author’s note at end !!
thinking about how simon would love to see his petite girl eat big. he knows you’re embarrassed to really dig in when you eat; you told him why too. “like an animal” you described, but nothing could have been more animalistic than when he went down on you.
loved to see you dig into a big meal though, especially meat. loved to see you go silent when you ate, ripping into the meat, shoving whole bites into your mouth that probably shouldn’t have been able to fit. and the way your cheeks puffed out when you chewed… just the cutest.
just wants to see his small girl nice and full :( wants you big and strong just like him. (and ready for his big ass babies)
i literally just came up w this idea after i took all my cute clothes off and ate a rack of ribs with cutie makeup on 🦔 not aware this could be a feeder kink. idk how to tell but know its not supposed to be one rlly
Simon loves your breasts and you love when he was worshipping them. Wether it was kneading, kissing or sucking, Simon always found his way to show his appreciation for them. He especially loved sucking on your nipples while he was fucking you in missionary.
But now you were on your period which meant no sex. Well, at least no penetration for you. Simon still worshipped your tits while getting his dick wet.
Jonny was propped onto a pillow, his face buried in your tummy and back arched, while your boyfriend punded right into his hole from the back. You leaned against the headboard, panties still on as the brunette's whimpers were muffled by your skin.
Good thing Simon was a brute of a man. He loomed over Jonny's body, face between your breasts, a nipple in his mouth. That way all three of you got their fill. Simon fucked, Jonny was being fucked and you could relax without having to worry about your hormones making you horny and your period.
Thoughts on interrupted sex with Si? Like, in the middle of the hardest fuck of his life, and the bed just broke.
Si and us just straight up with this face: ( ・д・)
Or in the future, trying to finally travel to Pound Town and their kid just hits the door asking for a snack or to sleep with them.
Simon Riley fucks hard.
It’s all he knows. He doesn’t really have much of a choice when you arch into him like that, back off the bed, and hands fisting the sheets as you try to meet his thrusts eagerly. He’s given his all, and still you’re begging for more, harder, faster, please Sim-
When the bed breaks his movements stop and you look up in shock, disbelief on both of your faces. And then the both of you are laughing, curling your bodies from how hard the two of you laugh.
“Jesus, bird, can’t go that hard.”
He finishes the job, of course. It’s not the first or last time it happens.
He thinks a night like that was the reason you got pregnant in the first place. Not once, but twice.
Now, instead of broken bed frames, sex is interrupted by his baby girl, teddy bear in her arms, and tears in her lashes because she had a nightmare.
Simon Riley who likes when you wear lipstick. he couldn’t tell you why, but something about it captivates him. gaze dark and glued to the way red stains your lips, breathing a little slower as he studies you. when you leave the house with him, lips natural and bare, he pulls you aside. makes you bite him hard enough to draw blood just so he can smear it against your lips with his thumb. maybe it wasn’t the lipstick he liked, just the color
You were sat down in the bed, Simon was leaning down next to you, already with his eyes closed, hair muffled, sheets messy, but not entirely asleep.
"What are you even waiting for?" He groaned tiredly, just wanting to cuddle with you.
You kept your gaze locked in the pink digital clock on your nightstand.
"4...3..2...1"
When it hit 12AM, you turned to look at him with a sweet smile
"you forgot our anniversary"
To those words, his eyes snapped open, frozen in the sudden darkness when you got up, clutching your pink sheets, clad in your pink pajamas, pink bonnet and pink fluffy shoes, walk down the hall to sleep in the guests room and not with him.
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