@sleepy-dino12 - thank you again for letting me play with your OCs. Your work on them is so amazing and they're so evocative. I wish I had the words to tell you how much I've loved getting to know you and what an inspiration you are for me in the fandom. <3
Summary: After a close call in the tunnels, Gen comes to terms with the realization that no matter how well she builds her walls, people will always find a way to slip behind them.
WC: 2,355
Content warnings: N/A
~*~*~*~
"Comms check," Gen intoned, leaning closer to the walkie on her shoulder. Silence followed. "Check, how copy?" She tried again. The line crackled. She glanced at the others beside her. Orders remained.
They waited, weapons hot, but did not push.
Until the gunshots.
Gen wasn't there when it happened. When a bullet drove through Soap's skull at point blank. When Soap collapsed and spilled a crimson halo around what she had affectionately termed his "fuckass mohawk." She wasn't there when he was fitted with a foam and plastic collar and hauled into a van to be transported to an emergency medical facility.
But Ghost was.
She was headed toward them, boots pounding on concrete when Price's voice cut through comms.
"All stations - this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized... Bomb is safe... Requesting immediate medevac."
Gen stood in the sterile on-base hospital, her pits clammy with adrenaline sweat, her hair crusty with the same. She stood in front of Ghost, eyes blazing.
"They say it's a close shave." The joke landed flatly between them. "Missed him by a hair." Another dud. "...it's a fifty-fifty shot."
The look Gen gave him would have killed a lesser man.
"That wasn't a joke," Eve placed a warning hand on Ghost's forearm, "GSWs to the head are the cause of 48% of TBI-related deaths. But the good news is that he's still with us, which gives us a reason to hope."
Gen shook her head, turning to stare at the glowing green sign above the exit.
The running man.
"You should have been faster," she accused, throat working, "where were you?"
"Coming from the other side," Ghost explained patiently, his deep brown eyes not entirely unsympathetic, though they didn't meet her sharp, blue gaze. She knew it wasn't because it was her.
"Not good enough," she ground out, "we were told to hold position. You should have-"
"I did what I was ordered to," Ghost cut off the rebuke sharply.
"You didn't tell me until he'd been in surgery for four hours." Gen hated how her voice cracked.
The moment Ghost had texted (not called, texted), she had been lying in Soap's room waiting for him to return. An hour, then two had passed, and she had to admit to herself that even Soap couldn't shower that long. Her phone had buzzed - a quick one-two. Face buried in his pillow, she'd blearily brought it to her face and found purchase on just two words:
IN SURGERY
She leapt up, not bothering to snatch up her sweatshirt as she tore through the base, shouldering past privates and lieutenants alike. Any indignant squawk was silenced when they saw the look on her face.
She pushed through the door to his hospital room, heart stuttering as she took in a sharp breath. Her eyes widened.
The rest of the 141 stood in a semicircle around the bed, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only indication that Soap was alive.
Gen swallowed, eyes trained on the deep rise and fall of his chest. The dark lashes lying still against his too-pale cheeks. Anywhere but the tubes and wires that fanned out around him like angels' wings. The halo of gauze that hid the reality of what had happened in that tunnel.
"He'll be okay," Gaz assured her gently, "the doctors said it was a close miss, but he should be able to come out of it in a week or two."
Gen said nothing, her gaze snagging on his hand, carefully placed on the side of the bed so as to allow his...
"Pulseox," Eve supplied. "Just to make sure he's getting what he needs."
"That stays on?" Was all Gen asked in return. The others began to filter from the room. Only Ghost brushed his shoulder against hers as he passed.
"For now," Eve said gently. "Can I get you anything? Or, if you wanna talk..."
"No," Gen's eyes hadn't left Soap's hand. Her nostrils flared. She swallowed again.
"Okay. I think visiting hours are over in twenty minutes. I'll wait for you in the cafeteria."
"Mm."
Eve wasn't sure if that was an agreement or not.
Gen sat, perched atop the aircon intake, and stared at the stars. A cigarette hung limply in her hand. The sun had set a while ago. The air had begun to chill. But she had no reason to go to sleep quite yet.
She heard the heavy tread of boots before the door squeaked open, every sound for her benefit. Every crunch of gravel the words that Ghost couldn't, wouldn't, say.
"Can I bum one?" He lowered himself against the rough metal by her feet, planting one foot solidly in the sediment. Gen didn't bother to look as she leaned forward, handing him hers,
"Here," she murmured, eyes tracking a commercial flight just outside their airspace.
"Ta," he took a heavy drag, and Gen knew he held it. She'd done the same. Felt it char her from the inside out. It was a relief. A release.
Minutes ticked by and neither spoke, though Gen already knew what he'd say when he did.
"'s Orion," Ghost pointed to the constellation. He always started with Orion.
"I know," Gen replied, kicking her boot heel against the aircon.
"He was a warrior."
"I know."
"Fought Mother Earth herself."
Gen took a deep breath through her nose. Her chest ached. She reached for the crumpled box of cigarettes in her pocket. The metal rasp of her lighter filled the air between them, the flame illuminating dried tracks on her cheeks. She said nothing.
"Won out in the end," Ghost continued, "because he's in the sky forever, and we still know his name." Ghost rested his head against the metal with a soft thunk, his blond hair, Gen realized as she glanced down, shaved rather short on the sides and back.
"New look," she commented.
"Needed a change," Ghost agreed.
"Gonna itch like hell in your mask."
"Mm," Ghost pointed to another constellation, twisting to do so. "Scorpion. Thing Orion was fighting. Stung him."
"Uh-huh," It came out rather choked as Gen let the black tar coat her lungs. Her following sigh was white, obscuring her vision for a short moment. She leaned back on her palms, once more letting the cigarette burn.
"But it can't get him now," Ghost said, "That's the point, you know?"
Gen kicked the aircon once more, her boot brushing Simon's shoulder. He didn't move.
"It's time to sleep," Ghost said once their cigarettes had burned to the filter, too gentle by half. "Tomorrow's another day."
"Yeah," Gen hopped off the unit.
They descended to their rooms, stinking of cigarette smoke and chill air.
---
Gen hated how right Ghost was. It was another day. She woke at 05:00, ran four miles, and ate breakfast before she showered. She watched teammates make small talk as they readied for the range. She shot horribly. And she continued.
Until visiting hours.
She was the first there, that first day. Fresh shirt, fresh uniform pants, hiking shoes having dried last night. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea - that he'd woken right after the mission. She tugged the old, worn upholstered wooden monstrosity of a visitor's chair closer to his bed, barely holding herself aloft by her elbows. Balanced forward on her toes, her calves shook as she took him in one more time. As pale as yesterday. His dark hair limp and brushing his forehead. Not a hint of blue. She planted her heels on the ground, leaning closer.
"Soap," she murmured, eyes tracking down to his shoulder, then the corded muscle of his arm. The rest of the SAS was inked into his forearm in delicate, fine lines. Her chest ached as she fought the urge to reach out and trace those lines. "Who dares wins," it tore at her to continue the path downward, toward a hand draped limply on the blanket, seemingly unmoved since yesterday, except the IV that had been inserted had been moved. The thin plastic tube snaked under the covers, instead.
Gen made a note to ask Eve what it might be.
"Johnny," she tried again, mouth sluggish around his name, "can you hear me?"
Not as much as a twitch of the eyelid greeted her. Those eyelids that creased at the corners when he grinned at her. Those teeth that gleamed white and straight like...
tombstones...
Gen lay on the rec room couch. Her head, against her better judgment, had found its way into Soap's lap. She groaned, the world spinning on an altogether unfathomable axis. One grounding, blessed constant was the warmth that Soap seemed to radiate no matter the situation. She let out another soft moan, turning to bury her face in his stomach.
"Hard night?" He teased lightly.
"You Scots drink like you don't want to live," Gen groused into the well-worn fabric of his sweatshirt.
"Aye, most of us don't," Soap conceded, "you gonna be sick?"
"No," Gen said, entirely unconvincingly.
"I believe you," Soap lied. A moment passed between them. Then, something warm rested on the crown of her head. Hesitant, then heavier. Gen's eyes shot open as it registered. Carefully, Soap began to rake his blunt, straight-cut nails over her scalp and through her hair. She stiffened.
"Hm?" Soap paused, "no good?"
Gen didn't reply for a long moment, expecting Soap to retreat. Instead, he slowly began anew, raking carefully through her short-cropped hair.
"My mom used to do this for me when I was sick," he explained, dropping his voice to a soothing murmur, "was always a comfort."
Gen slowly reached a hand up, grasping at the front of her own shirt. Soap didn't move; didn't change pace or try to explain further. Gen let her eyes slip shut as he continued, fighting an embarrassing heat that began to well behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw, grasping her shirt tighter in her fist.
She gulped down a shuddering breath, suddenly thankful that Soap seemed to have been overcome by an uncharacteristic quietude. It's why she liked getting drunk with him - away from the boys, he would get almost... contemplative. Not maudlin, but altogether... softer. Less boisterous. As if the alcohol sapped the essence of him, leaving only the dregs of the man and what he'd done.
Gen liked seeing someone else hurt, selfish as that was.
"I never..." she mumbled into his belly, unable to complete the sentence. Not when the thought of comfort conjured its polar opposite.
"Well," he brought his hand to the nape of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, "now you have." They lay like that for minutes, Soap alternately running his nails over her and massaging temple, cheek, and neck. When, ten minutes in he encountered the soft shudders and telltale wetness of her surrender on his pass over her cheekbone, he said nothing. He simply swiped it away and continued on his path.
Until she had no more tears to cry.
---
She folded over herself, forehead resting just beside that hand of his.
She turned, staring up at him through heavy lids from where she lay. Mechanical blips and beeps replied with hollow reassurance.
She'd learned her lesson too many times before. There was no use in hoping, or praying, or begging.
Or crying.
And yet the tears came, silent as they tracked over the scar that crossed the bridge of her nose - one of the first things she'd ever let Soap touch when they were alone.
It was when they first fell into bed together after an op, adrenaline crash leading them both to what Gen reckoned would be a quick and dirty roll and ended up being Soap, inimitable Soap, propped on his elbow after having put his all into a kiss and looking at her like she'd hung the moon in the sky herself. He'd gently traced that scar and whispered, awestruck, that he'd always found her striking.
She'd slapped his hand away, rolling over to gather her things and head back to her room. He'd watched her the whole time, that dopey smirk affixed to his lips as if he'd just handed her his heart.
She took a breath, saliva sewing her lips together, and finally reached for him.
His hand fell almost too naturally over her crown, the soft heat of it no small comfort. Gen closed her eyes.
And sobbed.
---
"Oh, no," Eve whispered as she and Ghost stepped into the room. Gen had fallen asleep at some point, having cried herself out of any remaining energy. It was the first time Eve had seen her like this.
The second time Ghost had.
"Blanket," Ghost beckoned to Eve, taking the scratchy wool thing they'd meant for one friend and draping it carefully over the other's shoulders. She didn't move, only letting out a soft sigh. Ghost's fingers brushed the back of Soap's hand before resting carefully, just a moment.
"We'll come back," Eve took Ghost's other hand. He nodded.
"We'll come back," he agreed.
The week after, when Soap's eyes fluttered open and his hand trembled as he tried to bring it to scrub at his face, was the first time Gen had ever initiated anything.
It should have been gentle.
It could have been careful.
But in the end it was neither.
It was Gen, heedless of the fact that she could hear Price and Gaz approaching, or that Eve and Ghost had only just stepped away for coffee, throwing herself across the room. Standing, chest heaving, as Soap's eyes fixed on hers, then drifted down to the bridge of her nose.
"Hey Genie," he croaked, expecting her to scowl or snap back.
And she did. As she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in the thin fabric of his hospital gown. It took a moment for his brain to catch up, surprise still written on his features when Price and Gaz rounded the corner, before he melted into her embrace, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. His arms circled her gently, one hand over her shoulder.
so if you not on testosterone you are not a trans right? then what makes you a “man”? your brain? maybe you should go to the psychologist? (not hate)
Hi nonnnyyy :3 usually I delete these asks but considering its pride month, I wanna make something clear to all my Trans folk on my page!
I support trans folk regardless of their efforts towards a physical transition.
There are many reasons someone may be unable to achieve gender affirming care, whether that be from lack of finances or medical issues or personal beliefs. Regardless they are still trans and just as valid as someone who's been on hormones for years.
More than that, I support trans folk regardless of the amount of dysphoria they experience! Gender is far too complex to boil down into dysphoria and a desire to transition. The only thing that makes someone a man is if they say they are one. That's literally it. Yes I'm serious.
If you want to look more into gender and why transmed thinking is harmful, my friend @profbuppy in gender studies recommended these to read: [light reading] [medium reading] [heavy reading]
I know you are resting but... Soap being obsessed with you wearing glasses.
Boy, I hope you meant smut. Anyway, I wrote this at 10:00 the day I got it (14 May) at work. My heart has never beat faster (least of all because I'm a glasses wearer).
Enjoy!
~*~*~*~
Soap had always said he loved you in glasses, and you’d always figured he was taking the piss - teasing you over the government issue frames you’d never bothered to replace after phase one. But you’d come home just hours earlier with new frames, more ecstatic about seeing the leaves on trees in detail than the plastic that allowed it to happen; and one look had Soap dragging you giggling and protesting into your bedroom.
“God, look at you,” Soap breathed, one hand fisted in your hair, “looking up at me with those pretty eyes.”
Your only response was a soft choking noise as he rocked into your mouth, the tip of him sliding up and back. His other hand stroked your cheek, his thumb grazing the stem of your glasses. His eyes were locked on to yours - or, more accurately, on your glasses.
He’d insisted you keep them on, his forehead creasing as his face collapsed into abject adoration when you sank to your knees by the edge of the bed.
“Fuck,” he gasped, heavy lids betraying how badly he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, “they look perfect on you. Make me feel like I’m fuckin’ my English professor.”
You pulled back with a wet slurp, quirking an eyebrow at the comparison. Soap’s other hand dropped from the crown of your head to frame the other side of your face. He guided you to once more swallow him, pressing you far enough down that your glasses pressed crookedly against his belly. All the while, you never took your eyes off of him. His hips thrust, careful and rhythmic. His breathing became more labored. You could feel him twitching and pulsing against your tongue.
“God,” he breathed, “I’m gonna cum too fuckin’ quick with you looking at me like that.”
You swallowed around his cock, urging him on. As you drew back to resume your rhythm, he abruptly pulled out, fisting himself viciously.
“Don’t move,” he gasped, “don’t fuckin’ move.” You sat, tongue lolling obscenely over your lower lip as you waited patiently. You’d expected him to cum in your mouth as he usually did.
But when he tensed and groaned, the first streak of jizz landed squarely over your left lens. And then another. His cock drooled out a few more fat dollops over the bridge of your frames as he languidly stroked himself, chest heaving.
“Stay just like that,” he whispered one last time, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. With a grin, he rested his cock just so, snapping a picture. “Good girl,” he purred.
Summary: Soap finally agrees to let his girlfriend do him in the bum.
Content warnings: 18+, pegging (of the butt-fucking variety, not the clothespin variety)
~*~*~*~
Johnny set down his empty whiskey glass with a flourish, nearly missing the table in its entirety. He turned, eyes heavy with drink, and met my gaze with unwavering confidence.
Which wouldn't have been surprising, if not for the words that followed that look.
"I'm ready."
I blinked, booze clouding my own understanding.
"Ready for what?" I asked, bringing my beer to my lips.
"You can put that thing in my bum." He said, not a whit of embarrassment in his tone.
"The-" I coughed. "You want me to peg you?" I dropped my voice to a panicked whisper, glancing just over his shoulder at the other men in the bar.
"I'm ready." He said again. My eyebrows rose, in spite of myself.
"What made you want to do it?" I finally asked.
"Ah, hen, you seem so enthusiastic about it." He dropped his cheek into his hand, looking at me with undisguised affection. He only dropped his gaze to play with his glass, bashfully adding, "...and I talked to the boys about it. They said to give it a go."
I nearly waterboarded myself a second time.
"You asked the boys?" I swiped at my mouth, eyes watering. "You asked the boys." I repeated. "You asked the boys if you should let me fuck your bum."
"Aye, well, we were talkin' about our ladies and it just came up, you know?" He scrubbed at his neck, cheeks turning an endearing shade of pink.
"Pegging does not just come up." I sat back with a heavy thump. "How does pegging just come up?"
"Look, sometimes you get a wee bit blootered and you get to talking about how proud you are that you're trying to get pregnant-"
"Who's trying to get pregnant? Not us!" I decided not to try to take another sip of beer until this conversation was over. It was his turn to look confused.
"We're not?"
"No!" I replied shrilly. "Why would you think that?"
"Wh- b-" He stuttered before finally managing, "You've been letting me cum inside of you for weeks now!" He leaned forward. "What's that except trying to get pregnant?"
"It's a creampie fetish!" I croaked. "I have a creampie fetish you- you-" I floundered. "weirdo!" I took up my beer, chugging the remainder of it with a grimace.
"I'm the weirdo?" He laughed. "You're the one who just told me it's a fetish for you to be jizzed in. Kind of feels like something you could have told me about." He sat back, eyeing me. "Besides, that's not the point of what it was we were discussing."
"You want me to fuck your arse." I supplied. "Yeah, I recall what the conversation was."
"So?"
I pursed my lips, biting back giddy amusement.
"Let's get you home, big guy."
---
We were both a little too enthusiastic when we got back to his flat, eagerly pushing through the front door and barreling toward the bedroom. Just as we got toward the bed, he grasped my waist. His kiss was almost tentative. When he pulled back, he was practically vibrating with nervous energy. We fell with a slight bounce on the soft mattress, giggling like teenagers as we lay on our sides next to one another.
He ran a hand over my side, sighing into another kiss as I ran a hand over his chest.
"Johnny," I sighed, grasping at his pec as he carefully wormed his fingers under my shirt, caressing my ribs. He trembled when I mirrored his movements, dragging my hand down from his chest to his stomach, rounding it over his side. I dragged my teeth over his lower lip, giddily giggling one more time.
"Come on," he groaned, throwing his head back. "You're making me self-conscious."
"Oh, I'm making you self-conscious," I teased, cheeks pink. "Not talking about getting pegged with your mates over at the bar."
"Aye, well that's hypotheticals, isn't it?" He flushed. "I mean, I can't imagine why or how Gaz let Kara put a pinky up his bum but it's a far fucking sight from having the bloody prospect staring me in the face." He rolled on to his back, running a hand over his face. He shot me a look, eventually breaking into a sheepish grin. "It's not every day a guy asks to be the woman."
"Be the woman?" I propped myself up on my elbow. "That's not what's happening, love." I trailed a finger over his chest. "You think this makes you a woman?"
"Or at least a little queer."
"Johnny!" I slapped his chest. "That's not okay."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" He tried to fend off my short attack as I smacked him again. "I take it back!" He cried, curling in on himself.
"Damn straight you do." I rolled over, sprawling on his chest. "First of all, that's offensive to queer folk-"
"I know, I know!"
"And second of all..." I sighed, running a thumb over his cheekbone. "If you don't want to do this, it's not a problem."
"That's not it." He craned upward, kissing my palm softly. "It's just... not something I thought I'd ever want."
"Because you're a man?"
"I guess?" He flushed, averting his gaze for a moment.
"Oh, darling." I kissed his forehead. "So, let's talk about it a little more, huh?"
Beers in hand, now sprawled on the couch, we both looked at the notebook in front of me.
"Pros:" I declared, "Feels good." I turned to him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He agreed.
"Cons:" I looked up at him one more time. He took a sip of his beer. "You're not sure it will feel good. It makes you feel emasculated."
"Ten dollar word, there."
"Uh-huh. And you're worried it makes you a wee bit gay."
"Just a wee bit."
"And remind me what the problem is if you find out you like men?"
"Dunno, doesn't it make me a creep?"
I snorted. "You are a creep, dear. The way you talk about women is frankly disrespectful."
He threw his hands in the air, beer sloshing dangerously in this bottle. I took a long swallow of my own as I reviewed the pros and cons list.
"Pro." I finally said, taking up the pen again. "We're being vulnerable with one another." He eyed me warily, lowering his arms. "Pro: We might find a new dimension to our relationship." He nodded, less warily than at any other point tonight. "Pro." I tried one more time. "I trust you. And I hope you trust me. So if this is something you're interested in, I'd like us to give it a go."
"Okay," he nodded more confidently. "But... not tonight." He rested a hand on his belly. "The beer's running right through me."
I grimaced. "Go shit, dear."
"Going." He sprung up, hurrying to the bathroom. I silently agreed with his assessment. Those sounds coming from the loo did not inspire confidence in trying this out tonight.
--
A week later, I stood in front of a grinning, blushing Johnny, his hands loosely bound to the headboard. His chest heaved as he took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Good?" I purred, rounding the bed with long, languid strides. The high heels pressed uncomfortably into the balls of my feet, but the look on his face made it worth it.
"Yeah." He breathed, his eyes shining, his cheeks a deep red. I smiled warmly as I noticed that even the tips of his ears had turned red. "God, you look amazing."
It was my turn to flush. "Oh, this old thing?" I ran a hand down my side, fingers dancing over the lace bustier I'd donned. It felt appropriate, given the harness Johnny and I had fumbled through getting me in not thirty minutes prior. Between my legs bobbed a carefully chosen, thin black dildo. "I guess it's alright." I purred, strutting toward him.
I watched him stiffen as I placed a knee on the bed, the mattress dipping ever so slightly as I crawled closer. His eyes hooded as I positioned myself between his spread legs, running my hands over his thighs. My heart fluttered when he trembled. We both let out shuddering, nervous breaths.
And then giggled.
"Oh god," I ran a hand through my hair. "Does this... does this work? Is this working?" I expected him to tell me no, but his grin softened, then faded.
"It's working too well, darling." He admitted. "I'm so hard it hurts."
I took another breath as he caught his lip in his teeth, fighting a self-conscious grin. I nodded, crawling closer. I licked my lips as I dragged my nails over his thighs, just hard enough to feel the hair along them give way. Johnny sighed, then groaned as I dragged them back upward, barely skirting the sensitive skin of his groin. His cock twitched and I found myself unable to tear my gaze away, repeating the gesture to watch a bead of precum well up at his slit.
I once more skated my hands just shy of his cock, heart racing as I lightly caressed his balls. They jumped, his stomach tightening in either surprise or pleasure.
"The way you respond..." I whispered, catching myself by surprise at just how reverent it sounded. I ran a hand over his abs, taking a sharp breath when they rippled under my touch. "You ready for the blindfold, love?" I breathed, leaning over him to snatch the fabric off of the nightstand.
"Mhm." He nodded, strained.
It had been his idea - that if he couldn't see me when I entered, he'd be less nervous. I leaned over him, arching my back so that my tits dangled just shy of his mouth. He lapped at my nipple when he lifted his head. I adjusted the blindfold. I felt his hips rock against my stomach when I pulled away.
"Can you see?"
"Not really." His response was breathy. He was panting like he'd just outrun enemy fire.
"Good." I purred. I leaned close, brushing my lips against his before softly deepening the kiss. For a moment, he stiffened, then relaxed into the kiss, his tongue brushing over my bottom lip as he mouthed my lower lip between his.
"Shit, babe." He rasped, and he twitched underneath me. I dragged a hand over his pec, then his abs, once more settling between his thighs. I couldn't help but pause, taking in the tableau, hands resting, unhurried.
Here he was, spread out like a fucking feast, all because I'd asked a few weeks ago, and he'd said yes. His muscular arms were clenched taut, fists gripping the restraints looped around his wrists. His lips were parted and pink, looking for all the world like he expected me to have him lap at my rubber cock next. His chest was flushed in a delicious little triangle of anticipation...
God, he was beautiful.
Least of all because his abs were clenching so hard his stomach scooped with each breath.
"Babe," he tried again, "I'm fucking dying here. Please."
"Right." I cleared my throat, once more running my nails over his skin. His hips snapped up sharply when I ghosted over his cock before taking it loosely into my grasp. One, two soft pumps had him whining in the back of his throat. I swallowed, eyes trained on his cock as I continued to tease him.
After a few more soft pumps, I adjusted myself, tugging his hips to spread him out in my lap. He yelped, then giggled, chest turning a deeper shade of red. I wriggled my hips under him again, the dildo brushing his cheek as I did so. He inhaled sharply.
"Is this it?" He asked.
"Oh no, darling." I replied, throaty and deep. "I'm going to make you cum first." He was about to reply when I spat into my hand and wrapped it around his cock, giving it a firm stroke. His groan of surprise was all I needed. I slowed, loosened, and began to pump.
It felt... exhilarating... having him at my mercy. Each time his thighs tensed or his hips lifted, I paused. Slowed until he relaxed back into the mattress. Another dribble of spit had him arching upwards with a strangled whimper.
"You beautiful bitch." He gasped as I leaned down to run the tip of my tongue over his slit.
"Is that what I am?" I wrapped my hand around him again, stroking twice before taking him into my mouth and throat. He groaned, straining against me as I popped off of him. It was the perfect lubricant as far as I was concerned. I tightened my grip, twisting my wrist and watching the head of his cock turn a dangerous red. He was babbling, now, something about letting him touch me.
"Now, now." I watched him with eyes that couldn't really see anymore, pulling away entirely. "Be good." He let out a strangled sob, hips once more sagging against my thighs. Only once he stopped twitching with every heartbeat did I take him up again.
Then again, when he was close, I stopped.
"We didn't agree to edging." He moaned, sweat gathering at the hollow of his neck and on his forehead. My shimmering, beautiful boyfriend.
And I get to peg him.
I nearly lost my composure then and there.
"Ask nicely." I commanded, grinning wildly.
"Please finish me, baby."
I groaned, one hand reaching to cup his sack while I gripped him tight. It took no more than ten seconds for him to tighten, groaning that he was close. I sped up, rolling his balls in my hand. I couldn't tear my gaze away from his cock as he began to pant, profanity spilling from his lips as his climax built.
"Yes, babe, fuck yes I'm so close. Please, fuck, please!" Music to my fucking ears.
I giggled giddily, flushing, as the first rope of cum shot from his cock, striping his shoulder and pec (and potentially the pillow behind his head).
The second shot over his abs, slicing diagonally in a gorgeous, glistening line. And the third… his cock drooled just under his bellybutton, dripping down his side just so.
“Damn.” We said at the same time. He groaned, hips pulling away when I stroked one last time, squeezing a last pearlescent bead from him.
“Too much.” The explanation was strained. I carefully laid him against his stomach, trailing a finger down his shrinking shaft.
“Just wait.” I trapped my lower lip between my teeth, suddenly restless and eager to press forward. Instead, I bent at the waist, dragging my tongue over his abs and lapping up the now-cool evidence that I could play him like a fiddle.
It was bitter. Salty. Honestly, I’d always hated the taste. But the flex of his stomach and abs underneath me, the way I knew the air was that much cooler now… god, it set my blood on fire.
“Johnny,” I lilted as I crawled closer to his ear. I brushed my lips against his and he let out a shocked whine, pressing himself closer. I straddled his waist, curling my hand around his neck as his spend smeared between us. “Are you ready for the main event?” I teased, rocking my obscenely wet center against his middle.
“God yes.” He lifted his hips again, trying to notch himself at my entrance.
“Wrong top, wrong bottom, my dear.” I murmured against his lips.
"What do you mean?" He panted, grinning widely. I could feel his eyes sparkling from under the blindfold, no doubt crinkling at the corners as his eyebrows climbed his forehead. "I don't get to stick it in?"
"Believe that's my job tonight, love." I giggled.
"Right." His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Right." He murmurs again, his grin fading to a nervous smile.
I slid down his body, once more setting myself between his thighs. I grabbed the bottle of lube lying to my right alongside a glove. I snapped the wrist audibly when I pulled it on, watching him jump minutely at the sound. Another concession for him. He wasn't ready for a bare finger.
"What if you end up with shit on your hand?" He'd argued. I had to wait a few days to teach him about how he could prevent that particular scenario.
Still, prepped as he was, he still insisted on the glove. And since it was more for him than for me at this point, I agreed.
I poured some lube into my palm, slicking two fingers carefully. A wicked idea formed, and I leaned closer, ensuring that he could hear the squelch of lube over latex. The hitch in his breath was audible. It was only when my cheeks began to ache that I realized that I was grinning.
Then, in my best approximation of low, soothing tones I murmured, "Ready? Just the tip."
He nodded, then quipped, "That's always a lie: Just the tip."
"It is." I said. But I was careful as I circled his asshole. Instead of pressing, I massaged. If he flinched I paused. And the first two times I tried to touch him, he did flinch away. I waited, and tried again. And on the third time, he finally relaxed enough for me to carefully press inward. Just the tip, as promised. Just up to that first knuckle.
I swept it along the inside, allowing him time to adjust to the odd feeling.
"Ah," he sighed, relieved, "that isn't so bad, eh?"
"No? Good." My lips hardly moved. I was busy cataloguing the myriad new sensations. He was tight like a drum around the edges, and then so, so empty otherwise. It was easy, running my finger along his internal rim. "I'm gonna push in more, okay?" I asked softly. He nodded, relaxing further as I pressed to the next knuckle.
"Yeah, not bad." He said, widening his knees. "Easy." He sighed.
"Second finger?" I asked, pulling out.
"Yeah." He agreed. The second finger was just a little more difficult. But not terrible. The latex crinkled against itself, and I wondered if he could feel it catching and folding as I slowly entered with two fingers this time. I wondered if it would feel better without the glove, or if I'd be as concerned about shit as he was.
That said... the change in him was immediate. I pressed deeper, until I couldn't press any further, and continued to explore. Down and around, then back up and-
"Oh." I breathed as I found it.
"Fuck-" he yelped. What was it my research said? A walnut? Yeah. The prostate. Found it.
I did as I'd read and gently hooked my fingers, dragging the pads of my fingers over it. Glancing up at him, my eyes skittered and snagged on his cock. He was getting hard again. Fast.
I made the motion again and lost the ability to breathe. It wasn't a groan that he let out, but a strangled, choked off whimper. A sound that trailed off into something almost overwhelmed.
Again. And his cock twitched.
Again. And he sobbed out my name.
Oh no.
I'm addicted.
I knew I couldn't change the rhythm. Not when he was gripping his restraints and begging for me to continue. I couldn't not keep going when his hips began to move against my fingers, twisting into just the right position.
"Oh, baby." I cooed. "I hate to do this, but we have to stop here." I was panting alongside him, cheeks burning and eyes wide and fixed on his hole as I slowly pulled out.
I quickly pulled off the glove, tossing it over my shoulder and grabbing the bottle of lube.
"Just put something in, sweetheart. Don't make me wait for it." He begged.
"You got it." I agreed, already shifting his hips in my lap once more. I blinked down at the dildo. It was woefully straight, and I worried it wouldn't properly reach his prostate.
But he urged me again, planting his feet on the mattress and lifting his hips one more time, and I banked that particular fire. He was the one asking after it, now, and I was going to deliver.
I quickly lubed the dildo and pressed it against him. He didn't even try to pretend he wanted to resist. He ground as best as he could, chest and arms flexing once more as he tried to overexert.
"Hey," I ran a hand over his side. "Hold on, now." I shuffled forward, one hand gripping over his thigh. And then, between the two of us, we managed to get him seated on the dildo.
He shifted, and then, again, that whine.
"There it is." He melted, then tensed as he tried to lift himself off of it.
"No." I gripped his thigh tighter, grabbing his other. "I move. You lie there." We both froze, because the tone in my voice was...
"Yes ma'am." He breathed, that blush brushing over his chest and shoulders again.
"...good." It sounded more certain than I felt.
The first rock into him made my lower back twinge. I shifted again, and this time it was fluid. But I stuttered when my hips met his ass.
"Good?" I asked uncertainly.
"Mhm." He bit his lip. "Feels... good even when you don't get my..." He didn't manage to say it.
"Prostate." I agreed, and pulled out slowly. So slick sounding. Almost as slick sounding as me when he was on top. Almost.
I began to figure out the rhythm, then, and realized I'd need to hitch his thighs around my waist. He moved easily, melting into the position with a sigh.
I began to thrust into him again, falling into a steady rhythm more easily than I thought. My eyes wandered, watching his pecs bounce with each soft impact of my hips against him, watching his arms tense with each slow retreat. His lips fell open, each pleased sigh almost inaudible.
I began to move harder, egged on by the color of his cock and the jerk of his hips as I managed to tilt upwards just enough to brush his prostate again.
He groaned, pulling his legs up higher.
"Babe," he gasped, "try..." he blindly tried to hook his ankles up over my shoulders. My eyebrows shot up.
"You sure?"
"'m flexible."
"...okay." My grin was audible, and I hoisted his legs where he wanted. I braced myself on my palms, grunting. The position dragged the small rubber cock against his prostate again. His toes curled, the air wheezing out of him as we managed to find that perfect angle.
I groaned in return, grasping his pec as I tried to keep up the pace.
Luckily, it took all of five more thrusts before he was begging me to grab his cock.
I did, pumping once. Twice. Thrice.
And then he was cumming again, folding in on himself as he shouted, sobbing as I continued to rock into him. Each thrust in was met by a softer, smaller shudder and he managed with a weak groan just two smaller spurts.
I waited until he went boneless, then pulled out, shuffling toward the foot of the bed.
He was panting, flushed, and grinning dopily when my feet touched the carpet and I carefully lowered him to the mattress. When I pulled off the harness, my lips peeled away wet and hypersensitive from the harness gusset.
I crawled to his side, untying his hands and tugging a few tissues from the nightstand. I was wiping him clean when he tugged off the blindfold.
"Good?" I asked, unable to hide my unmitigated adoration when my eyes met his. I dabbed at his spend, swiping it up and off of his chest.
"Yeah." His eyes were heavy and equally adoring. I could smell the word 'love' on his thoughts.
"Good." I finished cleaning him up.
"Just one thing..." His eyes trailed low as I walked to the ensuite, tossing the tissues in the trash.
"What's that?" I said, returning to join him on the bed.
"It's your turn." He said, gleefully pouncing on me.
I squealed with surprise as he kissed me, pulling me tight against him with an arm around my waist. But god, did I love him. It was exactly what I needed when his fingers easily found their way between my legs, dragging over my clit on their way to their destination inside of me. He hauled me underneath him, pressing kisses from my lips to my neck to my breasts. Then down my stomach and right where he belonged.
He ate me with a ferocity that I hadn't seen since we started dating. As if we'd unlocked some missing piece in the puzzle of our sex life.
I groaned, hips leaping as he attacked my g-spot, his tongue laving over my clit. I gripped at his hair, grinding against him as each oversensitive nerve was set on fire.
"Fuck yes." I whined, gripping harder.
"Love you." He slurred between sloppy sucks and licks. "So fucking much."
His grip tightened over my hips as I came with a stuttering groan; tongue tingling, heart racing, and body running hot.
"Fuck." I sighed, head lolling. My eyes fluttered closed as he kissed my thighs, then my stomach, pulling himself next to me and nuzzling his cheek against my chest. "So, we're gonna do this again, right?"
"Oh, definitely." He agreed. "You free tomorrow?"
I laughed, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
Got my Soap keychain from @mala--draws and it is amazing!! Look at him, he is just the cutest 😍 and now permanently attached to my bag because apparently I cannot go anywhere without a Scottish man supervising my daily activities. 😄 So happy with it.
last song: “Silvitni” by Eivør. I’m currently building a playlist with songs in (for me) foreign languages. There is something about listening to a song where I understand absolutely NOTHING that calms my brain. 😊
favorite color: blue. A rich, velvety royal blue. It soothes me. 💙
currently watching: season 4 of “The Boys” so I am caught up to begin season 5.
currently reading: “Passagier 23” by Sebastian Fitzek, because it was recommended to me. It hasn’t quite clicked yet, and I’m currently debating whether to finish it (I hate leaving things unfinished) or to just say “fuck it” and not force myself through it out of obligation and the time I already sank into it. The tiny OCD gnome in my head is getting very nervous😱 at the thought of leaving something open though, lol.
current obsession: modern warfare reboot. Is it just me or is every. single. character. suuuper attractive?
currently working on: my patience regarding one coworker because it is so challenging for me to work with them. We just are soooo different and I am putting a lot of effort into maintaining a harmonic work environment so we don’t yell at each other every two days. And I feel that I make all the compromises and I receive nothing in return for it because this person is just doing everything their way with a very “we’ve always done it like this, so we stay the course” mindset. Which is great, if your goal is to calmly steer everyone straight into an iceberg.
last google search: recipes for quark because I usually don’t buy that stuff but for…reasons I have a lot of it now lol and I hate throwing away food 𓌉◯𓇋
Only if you are comfortable with it: @tropes-and-tales @hellounicetomeetyou @tiredkatzz @laur3a @massivescissorsthingperson
Count your breaths. Count your fingernails and the ridges on them. Count the red-rimmed bits of cuticle you’ve picked at without realizing.
Count the balls on the chain of your dog tags, Sergeant, and try not to think of a rosary. Try not to notice that the adrenaline that got you through lay under the Virgin Mary.
Count how many years it’s been since you were confirmed, taking on Jude as your overwatch.
Count how many times he - no - He found you on your knees in front of your bunk, hands clasped so tight your knuckles ached as you prayed to make it out alive.
Count.
Count how many kills confirmed while the flames lick higher up your boots. How many Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s will absolve you of the souls you took (was that really all His plan?).
Count, Sergeant.
Count the pushups and pullups and kilometers run as you build yourself into the machine they need. The machine that will bring the world the peace it deserves.
Count on him, your teammate and friend, to get you out of this alive. Count the footfalls you hear behind you in the dark of the corner store you’re crouched in.
Count the number of times he has saved you. Hold it up against the number of times He has. Find the numbers weigh different, one heavier, more solid.
Count your failed attempts to end it too early. Count the years you’ve made it past sixteen when you weren’t so sure you would.
Count.
Count down. Your time is running out, Sergeant. They're counting on you to defuse this.
Count the number of times he's gotten away and know that you can change it this time. You can save them. You can be saved if you just do this one thing.
...
Count, Lieutenant.
Count your failures on the wind, each mote of ash a testament to how he counted on you.
Count the days until you forgive yourself - too far away to see right now.
CW: Dark themes (the story has a general topic of dubious consent; sex pollen trope; an element of PTSD). Heavy pining that is mutual. Also idiots in love at this point. 18+ only to be safe.
Word Count: 6112
AN: This is part seven of XX. Other pieces can be found here.
The 141 is gone for three weeks.
You would say that you feel their absence, and that’s true: without them on base, the work dwindles. You fill your hours with inventory, with catching up on non-essential paperwork. You offer checkups to the other support staff left behind—you dole out vaccinations, advice around cholesterol, recommendations for specialists for twinging knees and pap smears and chronic migraines.
You would also say, though only to yourself, that you feel the absence of Lieutenant Riley the most keenly.
He’s always on your mind. Sometimes he shifts to the back of your thoughts, lurking there like he does physically. It’s usually nighttime when he shifts to the front of your mind, when you sprawl on your couch with a book open and abandoned in your lap, or when you’re in bed with sleep far in the distance. That’s when you think of him the most, turning him over in your mind, dissecting each tiny moment with him.
Him looming over you, showing you the trio of old cigarette burn scars.
Him sat beside you outside, his halting attempt at conversation both painful and charming.
Him sitting on the exam table in front of you, mask off, eyes squeezed shut as you study his face on the sly.
Him looming over you, that moment that started all of this, his face pressed close to yours as he rumbled in your ear, told you he had you, said you were safe.
Him as you saw him last, the feel of his wrist clasped between your hands, the steady, solid pulse of his heart thrumming under your fingers, his other hand on the back of your neck as he held you, pressed his forehead against yours in such a sudden and unexpected moment of intimacy that it felt like he had cracked your breastbone open.
You don’t understand him. Or rather, you think you understand parts of him, sometimes, but he’s always shifting in the shadows, only illuminated for a flash before sinking back into darkness. He’s deep traumatized, obviously. He’s incredibly stilted. He seems surprised by his own feelings, doesn’t seem to know how to express his needs or wants. You wonder if he’s ever had a significant other and can’t quite imagine it, and the thought of him being so lonely his entire life makes you want to weep for the man.
You don’t understand what you are to him, either. You aren’t even quite clear what he is to you. The lines are blurry between doctor and patient, soldier and medic, savior and saved. There are probably a million ethical violations to consider, but for heaven’s sake: he’s a man with an incredibly dangerous job. The lifespan of those in his job is appallingly low.
Come back safety, you told him. You pray that he does.
*****
Three weeks.
Nearly a month passes. Three weeks of dogged pursuit of their target across the Ural Mountains, then down into Kazakhstan, then back into Siberia. Their days are full of logistics, survival, improvisation. Simon survives on sips of stale water, MRE’s when they can heat the water, bricks of nutrition bars when they can’t. His mouth has a sour taste to it; his teeth feel like they are coated in scum, and his eyes feel gritty and irritated from dust and lack of sleep.
He is chilled to the bone at night, holed up in a tumbledown safe house, holed up in the back of some rigged transport after their heli is shot down outside of Tomsk. He shoves his hands into his armpits to keep his frost-bitten fingers warm, and when he closes his eyes for a moment of rest, he thinks of you.
Be careful, Simon, you told him. The feel of your gentle fingers on his wrist. The flutter of your eyelashes against the curve of your cheek when he drew your face to his. You had shut your eyes, but he hadn’t: he drank in the sight of you that close, took in the fine lines at the corners of your eyes, the little freckle near your cheekbone, the soft plushness of your lower lip. He should have kissed you then. He hadn’t kissed you during that moment when you were poisoned—it had felt like too much, too intimate then. But he should have kissed you before he left, should have kissed you to see how your mouth felt after it had just said his name. He should have, should have, should have—
It means something, he realizes, that the memory of that moment is enough to keep him warm. It’s enough to see him safely through the mission.
-----
When the transport arrives on base, there’s the usual cadre to greet them: handlers, grunts to off-load equipment.
Medical staff to patch them up.
Simon finds you immediately. You stand on the tarmac with your hands in the pockets of your white coat, shifting from foot to foot beside another doctor. An evening breeze ruffles your hair, makes a lapel on your coat flip before it lies back.
The sight of you makes his body react—his throat grows tight, and he feels a tearing barb against the tough muscle of his heart. It’s so unlikely him and his usual reserve, the desire to dump his heavy pack and run to you, heedless of the others watching. He wants to sink to his knees in front of you and bury his face in the softness of your belly. He wants to scoop you into his arms and press his lips to yours and finally know what your mouth feels like.
He does none of those things. Instead, he hangs back and lets the other men go ahead of him. He listens to Soap make a flirty joke with you (“Gonna kiss all our scrapes better, hen?”). He listens to whatever reply you give, too low to make out but it makes the Scot laugh. Simon stands back and wonders at the riot of feelings coursing through him like a rain-swollen river, his palms slick with sweat, his mouth filled with saliva as if he might puke.
One must forgive him for not recognizing that it’s love.
*****
You and another member of the medical staff split the returning soldiers and triage them. No one is seriously hurt, so you patch them up and sign off on when they can return to full duty.
Sergeant Garrick has two dislocated fingers. Sergeant MacTavish has a gash on his calf where the edges of the wound are a lurid, angry red—the beginning of infection. Captain Price walks into your exam room, tells you he’s fine, then stands with his arms crossed until you sign off on such.
No sign of Simon, though you saw him when he arrived with the rest of the 141. You can’t help the stone of disappointment that settles in your gut, though you also can’t say you are surprised. He hates medical exams even in the best of times, and he’s just returned from a near month away, on a dangerous mission.
You sigh and power down your computer. You make your way out of the exam room, hitting the lights and locking the door behind you. Of course Simon is laying low, you reason—there was a lot of feeling the last time you saw him and he probably regrets it. Two steps forward, twelve steps back—
“Y’alright?”
To your credit, at least you don’t shriek. You startle, heavily, a full-body jump scare that makes your pulse spike before your higher brain catches up to your inner lizard brain. For the life of you, you have no clue how such a big, hulking man can creep up on you, though in this case, it was less creeping and more standing in the shadows until you walked past.
It’s hard to gauge what he may be feeling. The mask hides any expressions, and his eyes seem wary, guarded.
You smile at him anyway. You can’t help it. A better sort of woman might be able to play it cool, but you’ve never been that type. Still, you try to at least play it professional; you ask if he still needs to be cleared by medical. He shakes his head, and you aren’t sure if he means no as in I’ve been cleared by medical already or if he means no as in I don’t believe in medical services. But when you open your mouth to ask a clarifying question, his body betrays him. His stomach makes a god-awful, angry snarl of hunger, and the caretaker in you asks instead, “want me to make you something?”
*****
There are always moments where his childhood comes screaming back to him in full technicolor trauma.
You lead him to the big industrial kitchen that feeds the 141 and all the base staff, and the place is dark. It’s late at night, but you stroll into the kitchen like you belong there. You turn on the fluorescent lights, then turn to rummage through the big walk-in cooler, and Simon—like an idiot—blurts out, “won’t we get in trouble?” He says it without thinking, says it because he said it a million times as a kid, said it to his older brother Tommy when they snuck into the fridge for a nip of their dad’s Newkie Brown or even a bite of food to take the edge off their hunger.
You don’t sense the bigger moment at play. You only call out a muffled, “nah” from inside the cooler before you reappear with an armful of food.
“Kitchen staff doesn’t mind, so long as we don’t leave a mess,” you add. “People gotta eat.”
Then you gesture at a nearby stool, tell him to sit, and he watches as you work. You talk to him (or more appropriately, you talk at him), glancing at him from time to time shyly, then appraisingly before you turn back to the food.
It’s the same skin-crawling feeling as when you gave him his medical exam. The same goosebumps-under-the-skin feeling, the same ripple of sensation from the base of his spine up to his scalp. The last person to cook for him was his mother, he guesses, years ago but it feels like a lifetime. He feels a little sick to be the subject of such attention, but he also knows he wouldn’t move from his perch for a million quid. It’s such a strange juxtaposition, he muses, to want to flee and stand fast in equal measure. To want to cling to you and shove you away at the same time.
He doesn’t even notice what you’re making him. He stares at your hands, the neat utility of your movements. The graceful way you chop and rinse and season, the practiced flick of the wrist that turn the gas burners on. He slides his gaze upwards to your face and drinks in the sight of you. There’s a slight furrow to your brows as you concentrate, and then his eyes drift to your mouth and he remembers how he should have kissed you before.
“Here you go.” You break his reverie by sliding a plate in front of him, and he looks down to find a mountain of food: a seared steak with a pat of butter melting on it, a heap of scrambled eggs, and four triangles of toast balanced on the edge of the plate.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Steak and eggs,” you tell him, and he looks up at you long enough to see the pleased grin on your face. “There was this great diner near the hospital where I did my residency. Used to hit the spot after long shifts.”
He wants to tell you it’s too much, he could’ve done with a couple piece of bread spread with butter, but he finds himself slavering at the smell of the food. He shoves the edge of his mask up enough to dig in. He hunches over the plate like a starving mutt, and he probably only draws a breath or two as he wolfs down the first meal anyone’s cooked him in a decade or more.
One would think he doesn’t taste it at all, given the speed with which he eats it, but Simon will always remember this meal as one of the best of his fucking life.
-----
Afterwards (after you wave away his embarrassed apology for his appalling table manners and make him another plate, and after the two of you clean up), Simon walks with you back towards his quarters. Your own are in the medical wing, and the two of you come to the juncture where he should turn left for his own rooms and you should keep straight for yours.
What do you want from him, he wonders? What do you expect? You’re a bright woman, smart as hell, so you must see him for what he is—a mess, really, only adept at killing and soldiering. He’s no one’s ideal man.
Take the Captain, say: he can separate the soldiering from the regular life. He has a wife, a house. He has a mortgage and a car note, goes shopping with his woman, cleans out the gutters when he’s home. All the cozy domestic shit with a firm black line drawn between the part of him that’s the Captain and the part of him that’s just John Price. He has enough of a life outside of the 141 that the John part of him is never overtaken by the Captain part.
Simon barely even thinks of himself as a man. What even is a man? Someone like John Price, sure, or Johnny MacTavish with his gregarious appeal, or Kyle Garrick with his posh manners and easy charm. Or is a man more like Simon’s father, all heavy fists and blood-red temper and a cruel streak a kilometer deep?
Or is a man like the men who Simon fights against with the 141? He’s seen the worst of it, the men who kill, who rape, who run entire global enterprises of human misery.
It’s easier for him to parse out the Simon part of him from the Ghost part. Easier to think himself a phantom. He basically is one: he has no fixed address, and his meager belongings fit into a fucking footlocker. He has no friends save for his fellow soldiers. No wife, no girlfriend, no casual lovers beyond the rare hookup. He has no family.
He has nothing to offer you beyond what he’s already done, which is that lone moment where he got to play the hero and save your life, and still…that scarred you and scarred him and left you both damaged.
“I’m glad you made it back safely,” you tell him. You still have your white coat on; you took him straight to the mess hall from the medical wing without changing out of it. Now you have your hands jammed into the pockets, and he wonders if you do that to put him at ease. He never noticed it before, but you do it now, like tucking your hands away might allay his distaste for being touched.
He wishes he could tell you the truth of it. He hates being touched, but he wants nothing more than for you to touch him.
“Said I would,” he replies.
You nod. You look at him for a long moment, like you’re trying to figure out the right thing to say. You finally settle on, “you should still get cleared, medically. If not tonight, in the next day or so.”
He scoffs to pretend that he hates the fuss.
“I know you’ll just get Captain Price to sign off anyway,” you sigh, and he feels the moment slipping from him. His belly is full thanks to you, and his head is done in thanks to you, but he doesn’t want the moment to end, so when you nod again and turn away, he blurts out, “fuck’s sake, fine. Clear me now, then.”
And of course, you reward him with that fucking sunbeam of a smile before you lead him back towards the medical wing.
*****
It’s like that moment before he left, only…awkward.
He perches on the edge of the exam table. He lets you take his blood pressure (still high), pulse (slightly high), and oxygen saturation (good). His temperature is fine. His tongue is a little pale, though you suppose slight dehydration after a mission is to be expected.
“Any injuries?” you ask.
He crosses his arms. “No.”
“None whatsoever?”
“No.”
“Interesting.” You turn to the computer and tap out a few notes. “And lucky. Everyone else was a little scuffed up.”
He makes that displeased noise he has, half grumble and half scoff. You turn back in time to catch him rolling his eyes at you, but then he admits that sure, he took a hard hit on his arm, but it’s just a fucking bruise, so leave it.
“Does it hurt?”
Another half-grumble, half-scoff. “Nah, it fucking tickles.”
“No need to be surly, Lieutenant.” You say it lightly, a tease, but he takes it seriously. He slumps forward a fraction and tips his eyes to the floor.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t mean to be such a prick.”
“You aren’t.” A beat. “Do you want me to look at your arm?”
He doesn’t reply.
“I’ll clear you even if not.”
He lifts his gaze and finds you. “Not bein’ funny, I dunno how to do this.”
You guess he’s talking about something else, some deeper feeling he’s going through, but you keep it light and say, “you start by rolling up your sleeve, probably.”
He huffs, then shifts on the exam table, then freezes. Then he huffs again and shakes his head, and in a shockingly swift move—he moves quick for a big man—he grasps the hem of his hoodie and his shirt. He rucks them over his head and balls them in his fist, leaving him more exposed than you’ve ever seen him.
“It’s here,” he grunts, jerking his free hand at his upper arm, but you can already see it. You should be stunned to see so much of him bared to you, but your trained eyes find the bruise: it’s less a bruise and more of a massive, mottled wound. You can’t even guess what caused it, but it spreads from his bicep, across his shoulder. The uneven edge ends just where his pectoral begins, and it’s a riot of color: purple that’s almost black, a galaxy of red where capillaries have burst.
You whistle, low, and you prod at the skin right near the edge of the contusion. “No way that tickles.”
He huffs again, and because you’re so close to him, his voice is a low rumble right by your ear when he replies, “don’t hardly hurt.”
You smile as you gently press your fingers to him, testing if you feel anything wrong in the ligaments in his shoulder. He’s such a guy sometimes with his tough-guy routine, yet you don’t miss how he shudders when you touch him.
“Sorry,” you say. You remove your hands from him, take a half step back. “Can you lift your arm? Like this? And like this?” You demonstrate, and he mimics you, and you shift your eyes back and forth from his movements to his face, looking for signs of discomfort even though you can’t see much with his mask on.
You finally are satisfied. You tell him he can put his shirt and hoodie back on, and you say you’d like to order some imaging, just to be safe, and you put your notes in the computer. You ask him, off hand, if there’s anything else, and your back is turn to him when he says, “wish you wouldn’t apologize like you do.”
You glance over your shoulder at him. “I know you don’t like it. Being touched.”
He says nothing as you turn back to him. He holds his discarded clothing in his lap but doesn’t move it put it on. You see his mouth moving under his mask, like he’s chewing over what he wants to say next. He fixes you with a stare, his brown eyes unblinking.
“Don’t hate it, when it’s you.”
You feel the flush of heat rising up your neck. His gaze keeps you pinned in place.
“Said I dunno how to do this,” he continues, and his voice is a low rumble, just like at the cabin, just like when he talked you through your near-death moment. He leans forward on the exam table, his forearms braced on his thighs. He stares at you.
“Dunno how to do fucking any of this,” he adds. “But fuck if I don’t think about it all the time. Think about you touching me. Wantin’ you to touch me.”
There’s no part of you that’s ever been able to play the part of a cool seductress. In response, you gape at him stupidly, and you ask, in a half-choked whisper, “where?”
And Simon, for all his smoldering gaze and low growl of a voice, shakes his head and groans, then replies in his own half-choked whisper, “fuck, pet, everywhere. Want you to touch me fuckin’ everywhere.”
*****
It’s torture, Simon thinks.
Simon Riley, who has arguably suffered every sort of torture under the sun…he sits on the edge of the table and feels like he’s just slid a knife under his skin and eviscerated himself in front of you. His words seem to hit you like a punch; you flinch slightly, your eyes pinch shut for a too-long moment.
Then your eyes open and find his, and that flayed-alive feeling ratchets up to a billion. You stare at him, study him, but he studies you too. He notices the heavy quality of your gaze, the slow way you blink, the way your pupils grow wide like a cat’s in the dark.
Maybe you want him too. Maybe, despite every bit of bad feeling and suffering you’ve been sharing, you’ve been twisted towards him in the same way he’s been twisted to you. He catches the way your lips part, the way your breathing grows as heavy as your gaze. If you want him, though—want him in the way a woman may want a man, that is—he feels a stab of panic, because he’s never done anything tender or loving. He’s only fucked one-night stands, quick and efficient interludes with minimal touching, minimal kissing—
“Here?” Your voice is a whisper with a harsh edge to it. You reach out a hand and take his wrist. You move slowly. You move slow enough that he could dodge you, tell you to stop, but he doesn’t. He’s frozen in place, but he offers you a single nod.
Your fingers circle his wrist. You turn his arm until his forearm is facing up, and you step closer to him. You run the pad of your thumb over the trio of old scars there, the constellation of his old man stubbing out his cigarette on him when he was a kid.
“Here, Simon? Can I touch you here?”
If he had any ability to form words, he might get surly again and point out you already are touching him there. Instead, he manages to grunt out an affirmative, a rough yuh that makes you snort softly.
Then you bend your head and fucking kiss him there, your lips a gentle press on each scar. One, two, three—not fast, not lingering. Just the softness of your lips touching him, those shiny pink circles that have marked him for decades. Every time he sees those scars, he thinks of his old man, remembers the moment. Simon had done something wrong, some little kid infraction like leaving his shoes by the door for his father to trip over. He’d caught his father in just the right bad mood, in just the right way, and now he bears the scars.
But now you’re kissing them, and the Simon part of him wonders if he’ll remember this instead of the searing pain of the smoldering cigarette, the stink of smoke and burnt skin. If he’ll look down at his forearm in the future and remember this instead: the feel of your mouth on his skin, the reverent way you kiss him, the sight of your head bent over him, the faint feeling of your breath tickling him—
The Ghost part of him rears back. Revolts. No, the memory can’t be overwritten; Ghost needs the pain of the memory, needs the feeling of badness to keep him going, and you shouldn’t be touching him there anyway, putting your mouth there—
“Fuck, stop.” He jerks his arm away from you, and you lift your head. Whatever you see in his eyes makes you lift your hands, palm up in surrender, showing him you’re no threat.
“Disgustin’,” he spits out. He tucks his arm close to himself and glares at you.
“I don’t think so, Simon.” Your expression is placid, and you slide your hands into your pockets as you watch him.
“Don’t need yer pity.”
“Simon, I don’t pity you.” You tilt your head a fraction. “Care isn’t pity.”
“Don’t need yer care neither, then.”
“Okay.” You nod at him slowly, a single lift of your chin. “I’m sorry, Simon. I shouldn’t have pushed it.”
You keep saying his name. The Ghost part of him recognizes the tactic immediately: it’s like you’re negotiating for a hostage, using the captive’s name over and over to humanize them to the kidnapper. Ghost went through all that psychological training bullshite, but his name in your mouth still soothes him. It makes the snarling dog Ghost part step aside, and Simon drops his head in shame.
“m’sorry.” He can’t even look at you, and he shuts his eyes. He keeps fucking it up, keeps getting it wrong. He overplays his hand, reacts badly, hurts you. You care for him—that is obvious. You fed him, you worry over his health, some part of you may even want him, but he doesn’t deserve any of it.
You answer him by stepping up to him again. You take the small step up towards the exam table, and you stand between his spread legs. On the step, you’re maybe a fraction taller than him, you standing and him slouched over, and you put your arms around him—slowly, carefully. You move slow enough that he could push you away, could tell you to stop, but he leans into you instead. He shudders as you wrap your arms around his bare shoulders and pull him to you, and he hooks his chin on your shoulder. Once you have him, he turns his head inward and tucks his masked face against the side of your neck. When you reach a hand up and settle it gently on the back of his head, he sighs and wraps his own arms around you.
“You’re not disgusting,” you mumble against the side of his head. “And I don’t pity you. I just want to take care of you.”
“Y’don’t owe me that,” he mumbles back.
He feels you nod against him. “I know.”
“Then why bother?”
You push away from him carefully, and you reach up to grasp his face in your hands. Even with the mask on, he feels exposed by the earnest way you stare into his eyes.
“Because I care for you, Simon. Doesn’t matter how it started, I think.” You smile at him, then tilt forward to press your forehead to his. “You can keep chucking rocks at me, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you, love—”
“You will,” you cut in. “And I’ll hurt you. We’re only human.”
He snorts. “Bleak.”
“Honest,” you correct. “We can work through it.” You take a breath and peer at him through your lashes. “We’ve already worked through more than most people.”
“I’m more of’a mess than most people.”
You hum at that, then lift your head. You stare at him still, but he feels less exposed now. He feels calmer, somehow. It’s like the churning murk of his badness has calmed, and he can suddenly see a bit clearer.
“Would you like to…”. You watch him closely, but you press your lips together for a beat as you consider your question. “Do you want to go?”
“Go?”
“Back to your quarters.” Another press of your lips as you think. “I mean, you must be exhausted. You need to sleep.”
Simon nods. He still has his hands on you, his palms cupping your shoulders and holding you in place so you can’t step away. He doesn’t want to let you go, and he tightens his grip just a fraction as you offer to see him in the morning, maybe meet up, maybe talk or maybe just sit together, and he feels your nerves and feels that you’re about a moment away from slipping from him again.
“Can I go back t’yours?” he asks, cutting you off.
“What do you—”
“Just to sleep.” He winces at the tone in his voice, but he presses on. “Don’t wanna go back to the barracks and toss ‘n turn all night. Wanna…maybe hold you. Just that. Wouldn’t press you on owt, love.”
“Oh.” The smile that creeps across your face isn’t your sunbeam one, but a softer, shyer one. “Okay, then.”
-----
Simon has only ever slept with a woman once before. As he moves, awkwardly, around your quarters, he tells you so. Sex is one thing—he’s had hookups, he clarifies—but sleeping has always been on his own, aside from that one time.
“Only once?” You close your dresser drawer and hold your pajamas in your arms. “Really?”
“Told you I don’t do this.”
You reply with a contemplative huh, and you go into the bathroom to change and brush your teeth. Simon sits on the edge of your bed and leans over to untie his boots, toes them off. Stands up and shucks his hoodie, and he folds it neatly. He undoes his belt and sheds his heavy cargo pants. He’s left in just a t-shirt and his boxers. And his mask. He waits until he hears you stop running water in the bathroom, then tells you more.
“She was all sorts of fucked up,” he says. “Fell right off afterwards.”
You open the bathroom door and emerge in your sleepwear: soft cotton shirt, loose flannel pants. Your face is scrubbed clean, but your expression is hard to read. Simon wonders if there’s jealousy there that you’re trying to suppress.
“Here.” You hand him a new toothbrush, still in its plastic packaging. “Toothpaste on the sink. Fresh washcloth too, if you wanna wash your face.”
He goes into the bathroom. Pushes his mask up to brush his teeth, then pauses. He catches his own gaze in the mirror and sighs. He pulls the mask off completely. He runs hot water in the basin, washes his face. Scrubs until his skin is flushed pink and the lampblack around his eyes is gone.
He’s ugly as sin. You deserve someone handsome, like Gaz. You deserve someone you’d be proud to be seen out with, someone who smiles easy like Soap. He shakes his head and reaches to put the mask back on, but his hand stills over the scrap of black fabric.
He finds his own gaze again and calls out to you, picking up the string of his story again, “she was cute as hell, sleeping like she was. Shouldn’t ‘av been so cute. Her mouth was gaped open. I woulda thought she was dead, but she snored like a fuckin’ diesel engine.”
“Okay,” you answer, and yeah, he can hear the tightness in your voice. Jealousy, he’d bet. Even ugly as he is, fucked up as he is, you’re jealous of the one woman he slept with.
He tries a smile in the mirror. It looks like a sneer, especially with the scar that twists his upper lip, but it’s an attempt. He sighs again, turns off the light, and opens the bathroom door.
Simon half-expects you to recoil from the sight of him. You’ve seen him, obviously, but you aren’t used to him. He waits for you to look up from where you’re turning down the bed, and he feels his stomach twist in anxiety. Maybe you’ll wince. Maybe you’ll look disgusted for a beat, then school your face—
You do none of those things. When you glance up, you laugh, and it’s not cruel or taunting. It’s such a bright, happy sound that his own mouth quirks into its version of a smile, and you say, “damnit, you’re so blond, Simon! It always surprises me!”
“Could dye it, if y’want.”
“Absolutely not.”
You gesture at the bed for him to lie down, and he does gingerly. It’s wider than his own but still narrow for both of you, so you wait for him to settle before you turn off the light, climb in, and join him. It’s awkward for a moment—afraid of touching, needing to touch because of the lack of room. Then he lifts his arm and gets it under your head, and you inch over until you’re curled against him.
The feel of it tears against the cage of his ribs. He must be bleeding internally, will die from this: the weight of you against him, your own arm carefully laid across his abdomen.
“Was just like this,” he continues, and he lowers his voice in the quiet of the moment. “Coulda left her there. Thought about it, but she was passed out, and I didn’t wanna leave her.”
He feels how you stiffen against him. You say nothing, but he also feels the deep breath you take, like you’re about to politely tell him to shut the fuck up.
“So I laid down beside her, just to shut my eyes for a second. And she turned in her sleep towards me, cuddled right up to me—”
“Okay, you don’t have to—”
“She’d been so scared,” he interrupts. “Thought she was gonna die, even though I told her I’d never let it happen.” He feels the way you go still then, and he turns his head. He doesn’t kiss you, but he brushes his mouth against your hair. He whispers the next part against your temple, scarcely able to say it. He’s only able to say it because it’s dark, and because he doesn’t want to keep throwing rocks at you until you leave him. He may not be a man, but he thinks he can try to learn to be one.
“Knew it even then, love.”
“What did you know?” You whisper back.
“Knew she was mine, that woman. Knew you were mine.” He falters for a moment, embarrassed by the emotion of it. He slides his palm along your bare arm and feels the soft warmth of your skin. He feels how you lean into him at his touch, not scared of it but eager for it. He wants nothing more than to be like that; to keen for your touch, to not be ashamed to want it or ask for it.
“Just don’t know how to do this,” he continues. “Don’t wanna cock it all up.”
You shift in his arms, and a moment later he feels the brush of your lips against the underside of his jaw before you settle against him again.
“I hardly know how to do any of this either,” you reply. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” A beat. “Even if I apparently snore like a diesel engine.”
Simon chuckles. When would he have ever thought he’d be in this place, tucked up against a mint woman like you, mask off, joking in bed? He wants to say more. He thinks he should say more. He should try to explain his past, even obliquely—a terrified part of him thinks he’s pulling a fraud on you, scamming you by not giving you the full scope of his fucked-up past, but it’s almost like that moment in the cabin again. He thinks he’ll just close his eyes for a moment, and then he’s out almost immediately. He doesn’t wake up for long hours, not until late the next morning, and he’ll wonder at that too: Simon Riley, who never sleeps well…the second time he sleeps with you, it’s a deep, dreamless sleep where his nightmares don’t seem to find him at all.
Ghost surveyed the small apartment with a critical eye.
“Small.” He concluded.
Soap was already unpacking small knick-knacks - a wire fruit bowl for the kitchen, pegboards for handguns, a lamp in the shape of a woman - placing them carefully on their sparse furnishing. Ghost raised an eyebrow.
“We’re supposed to be gay.” He looked at the lamp disdainfully.
“I’m bisexual.” Soap crowed, puffing out his chest.
Ghost quirked his eyebrow higher. “Can I be bisexual?” He asked, throwing himself on the couch.
Soap shook his head. “Nah, can’t have two bi guys dating one another. Looks suspicious.”
