NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.
mr. riley is a new regular.
hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.
always.
he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.
big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.
because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.
so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.
"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"
simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.
"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"
the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”
but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.
riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.
you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.
he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.
nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.
you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.
“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.
his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.
you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.
he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.
“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”
“s’fine,” he grunts.
his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.
you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.
you freeze.
metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.
no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.
your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”
his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”
you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”
a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.
“disappointed?”
“a little.”
you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.
“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.
simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”
“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.
you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.
“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”
his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.
“… you want to mess with my arm?”
“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”
“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.
“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”
he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—
“… got tools?”
your face lights up. “back in my car!”
“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”
“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”
“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”
…
simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.
because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.
no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.
it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.
so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.
"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."
simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."
you laugh. “you look like a simon.”
…
he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.
really. he doesn’t.
but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.
so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.
he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.
it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.
then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.
not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.
he caves.
simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.
he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.
the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.
your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.
"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.
before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.
"break," you toss over your shoulder.
your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.
simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.
your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.
riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.
simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.
you’re fuming.
he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.
he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.
"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"
his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."
you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"
riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.
"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"
"didn’t wanna bother you."
you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"
"managed."
"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"
simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.
riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.
"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.
"good. let it sink in."
riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.
simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."
the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.
you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."
"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.
riley whines. you don’t even look up.
"good.
his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.
you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.
he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.
it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.
to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.
he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.
his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.
"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.
he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.
you nod, already packing up, already moving on.
he watches you.
then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”
simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.
he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.
he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”
you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.
thought so.
“two days, at least,” he tells you.
your horror is almost funny. “two days?”
“maybe three.”
you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.
he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”
it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”
you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.
you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.
you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.
“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”
“i’ll drive you.”
you stop. blink. “what?”
“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.
you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”
“on break.”
“friends?”
he shakes his head. “not really.”
“family?”
he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.
something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.
simon doesn’t let you say it.
“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”
you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”
he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”
you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”
“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”
you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”
“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.
so he starts picking you up.
at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.
simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.
but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”
simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.
you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.
“…what’s this?”
he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”
“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.
“does he want some?”
simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”
you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him
simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”
“he’s cute. he deserves it.”
“he’s a liability.”
“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”
you look up, realizing what you just said.
simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.
heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”
riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.
he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”
…
this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.
you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.
and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.
but this time—
you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.
no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.
simon frowns. “…what?”
“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”
his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.
your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”
he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.
you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.
you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.
and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
a beat.
“…all right.”
…
simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.
riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.
simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.
the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.
and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.
you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.
his stomach twists a little when you say it—
“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”
simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.
but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.
it’s really fucking good.
and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.
“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.
you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”
he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”
you don’t answer.
he sighs and pulls out his phone.
you blink. “what are you doing?”
“making a call.”
simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.
it’s for you too.
he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”
it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.
“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”
a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.
“go on.”
simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”
another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”
he rolls his eyes. “no.”
“boxing, then?”
“price.”
the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”
he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”
one i want, he doesn't say.
“your arm acting up?”
“yeah.”
“so get it fixed.”
“this is better.”
price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.
then: “she good?”
siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”
he hums, considering. “you trust her?”
that’s what it comes down to. trust.
simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:
1. his mother. until she was gone.
2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.
3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.
and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.
and that’s all price needs to hear.
you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.
but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”
you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”
you freeze.
“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.
price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”
you blink. “wait- so-?”
“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”
you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.
“just make sure it works, yeah?”
you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.
simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.
you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”
“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”
your eyes narrow. “and you do?”
simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”
and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.
if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.
…
you learn more about simon throughout the months.
he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.
he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.
he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.
he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.
he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.
one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.
simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.
“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.
he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”
you glance up. “are you sure?”
he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”
“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”
his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.
you nod, make a note. “good.”
rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.
simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.
you hesitate.
simon notices. lifts a brow.
“what?”
you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”
there’s a beat of silence.
simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.
“…you sure?”
you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”
he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.
“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”
you roll your eyes. “obviously.”
he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.
the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.
simon stays.
…
months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.
it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.
he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.
then— a flicker in the system.
it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.
“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”
your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”
he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”
“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.
simon is skeptical. “be honest.”
your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”
his brow arches. “good for what?”
“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”
there’s a beat of silence.
simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”
before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.
his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.
you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.
he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.
the prosthetic hums again.
before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.
your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.
simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.
“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”
his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.
his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.
not that you would. not that you could.
his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.
"si-"
"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."
simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.
"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"
his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.
"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"
your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.
simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.
"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."
his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.
his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"
heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.
you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.
the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.
you don’t get long to stare.
his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.
his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.
then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.
your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.
you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.
simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.
"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."
his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.
his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.
you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.
"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.
his hand stills.
his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"
your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.
"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."
pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.
the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.
your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.
simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.
his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.
"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”
a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.
simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.
he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.
"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."
his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.
you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.
he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."
you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—
he pulls away.
your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.
you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.
you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.
the clink of his belt.
your breath hitches.
he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—
his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.
simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.
his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.
he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.
a whimper breaks from your throat.
simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"
you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.
he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.
"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."
you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.
"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."
simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.
your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—
his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.
a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.
his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.
"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."
your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.
"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"
he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.
"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"
he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.
and fuck, you deserve better than that.
he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.
but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.
his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.
"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."
you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.
"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"
"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."
you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.
"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.
"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."
and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.
"there it is, fuck, there it is-"
he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"
"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"
you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.
simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.
"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"
and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.
Ghost gets no bitches and he reminds me of whatever that TikTok audio is that’s like “how’d you get her?” And the other person is like “get her? No she grabbed me by the throat and told me I was hers”.
Word count: 800
Warnings: none (ghost being immediately whipped)
So hear me out you’re at the grocery store and while walking down the aisles you see this behemoth of a man. Big muscle sexy, surgical mask covering his face. You want. What to say? How should you approach? Ah yes you need help getting something from the top shelf. Stepping so you’re in his line of sight
“Could you come here?” You ask him and he just gives you a blank stare. Raising your eyebrows clearly waiting for a response he turns around looking for who you could be talking to and who is clearly not listening to you. When he sees no one else in the aisle he slowly points at himself, questioning you. “Yes you.” You smile trying to hold in a laugh. Quickly adding a “please” in the sweetest little voice and he is scurrying over to you.
“Could you please reach that box for me?” Ghost raises his arm up and points to a box when you nod confirming that’s the one you want he hands it to you. “That one too please” he obeys. You have him hand you two more boxes (not needing any of them). Then you try to push your luck a little. “Wait not this one” you hand him a box back and he returns it to the shelf. Before you know it you’ve had this man put all the boxes back just to hand them to you again. A smirk plastered on your face. Not once did the large man question you, not when you were looking up at him with those pretty eyes.
“Ok done with this aisle. Come on.” You start walking and his feet are following you. He hasn’t said a word to you but is following you around the store like a puppy. Down the next aisle you pointed at something (well within your reach) and he handed it you.
“Are you always this obedient?” You watched his eyes go wide but he found himself nodding. He’d probably say yes to anything you ask when you’re looking at him like that, like you want to eat him whole. His answer brought a smile to your face and he swore his knees were gonna buckle. You held out your hand, “phone.” It was a statement not a question and he quickly (fumbling) pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to you. When you saw it was locked you looked up at him moving the phone ever so slightly towards him. You had meant for him to take the phone and unlock it but instead he mumbled out “0000” a small but dramatic gasp left your lips “oh so he does speak.” You typed in the 4 digits and the phone opened. You looked up at him when the basic passcode worked. “Simple and obedient. Just how I like ‘em” ghost swallowed hard. No one has ever treated him like this. Spoke to him like this. Not even Price. He should be offended? Insulted? Definitely not turned on. Right? (mark him down and scared AND horny). You handed his phone back to him, your number and name resting on his screen. He reached to take the phone from you, but you didn’t let go. Fingers touching you looked up at him “you better call me. I’ll be real sad if you dont.” He swore he was gonna pass out. Before you let go of his phone, hands still touching, heavy steps made their way into your aisle.
“Aye lieutenant there ye are. Been wandering round lookin fer ya.” Soap called down the aisle.
Ghost refused to acknowledge his friend calling for him, keeping eye contact with you. Your smile got bigger as you let go of the phone.
“Lieutenant huh? That mean you know how to give orders too?” He nodded again. “Then I’m definitely going to need you to call me. I’d like to see that.” Your eyes shamelessly raked down his figure. Fuck he needs to hold on to something.
Once you finally walked away, Soap approached quickly asking who you were and when ghosted shrugged his shoulders “I don’t know.” (But he’s gonna that’s for sure)
“She’s a fine looking lass I’m gonna go talk to her.” Ghost’s hand moved fast, grabbing the back of Soap’s neck guiding (pushing) him in the opposite direction of you. He was thanking god you saw him first and not Soap. If you had talked to Soap like that, ghost knew you’d have him walking on a leash (who’s he kidding if you had asked ghost would’ve barked)
An independent contractor for the OSCE, code name Vixen is deep undercover in an European human trafficking ring. When things hit the fan and their cover blown, Task Force 141 is sent to extract them and any surviving victims. With the traffickers on their tails the group is forced to split up and lay low. The groups aren’t even however, and Vixen isn’t given a choice. They are stuck in a safe house with the one member who could keep them alive, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.
CW: canon typical violence, mentions of blood and gore, human trafficking, sex trafficking, abuse, mentions of violence against women and children.
Reader discretion is advised.
————
It was bad. It was unbelievably bad. They had been compromised and now the trafficked girls were paying for it. Vixen watched as body after body fell to the ground, the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood lingering in the air. They struggled to free themselves from the too tight zip ties that bound their hands to the leg of a bolted table. This was not how it was supposed to happen. They were 3 years deep into the ring and everything they had accomplished was now worthless. If it hadn’t been for a dealer recognising them from a previous bust, they wouldn’t be in this situation.
“Ah, you know I like it when you struggle, Ma chère.” Vixen dared to look up at the voice. Before them stood the second in command of the operation, his slicked back hair making him look every part of the villain.
“Fuck you” They spat, pulling at the zip ties once more. The skin of their wrists rubbed raw and bruised.
The man sucked his teeth before walking closer to them. Once he was an arm length away, he stopped, crouched, and grabbed their face. “Is the little fox sad they got caught in the hen house? Well, that’s too bad because I’m very glad. We may have lost a few hens, but we caught the cunning fox.” Squeezing their face harder, the man pulled them closer. “There are always more in the den so this way,” the French man gestured around them to the corpses that littered the floor, “we can lure them out.”
They glared at the man and spat in his face. They knew they shouldn’t have done it. They knew that it went against training. But how could they not retaliate when dozens of innocents lay dead before them. It was their fault that it had happened. They had been compromised and the girls paid the ultimate price.
“You little!” He jerked back slightly and dropped their face before taking hold of their hair and yanking their head backwards. "Don't start what you can't finish ma chère," He pulled their head back harder, "because you will not like how I finish it." The French man released their hair and stood abruptly. "Bring the child."
At these words Vixen stiffened. One of the women had a child during her years of forced prostitution. One of the women that now lay cold on the floor of the room. Her blood was on their hands. Their heart beat hard in their chest, the sound of it in their ears muffling the wails of the boy in front of them. “You’re a fucking monster.” They struggled against the ties again, angry bruises blooming around their wrist. “Im going to kill you when I get outta here.”
“When ma chère? No no its if you get out of here.” Taking hold of the child, the French man held his glock to the boy’s head. “Now, tell me how many more are part of your operation?”
The wails of the boy echoed in their ears. “Go fuck yourself, Fabian.” the cocking of a gun sounded, and they flinched.
“I will not ask again, little fox.”
Vixen couldn’t speak. They couldn’t go against training. But could they let another innocent die? They opened their mouth to tell the man they were the only one, but shots rang out. They ducked their head and cowered as much as they could under the table. The only sign that it wasn’t Fabian’s men firing was the small body tucked against theirs.
Something hit the floor hard and with one eye open they were blinded. The explosion was deafening, and the smoke burned their lungs. “Cover your mouth and nose!” They yelled to the small boy, trying to cover his body with theirs.
As suddenly as it started the shots stopped. Once again, they chanced a look around the room and saw several pairs of boots rushing towards them. The ringing in their ears began to lessen as they saw what had hit the floor. Fabian's lifeless body was sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around his head and chest.
"What!" Vixen yelled at the crouching man in front of them, feeling the young boy cling to them harder. They watched as the man's lips moved barely understanding what he was saying. "We need help. We need to get the boy to safety!" Vixen's eyes darted around the man's face and chest. When they noticed the Union Jack plastered to his vest, Vixen sighed. "Please!"
The man said something, but they shook their head, “Forget about me. The boy…” they looked down at where the boy had been moments ago only to realise that he was gone. Vixen searched frantically around the bloodied space only noticing the boy in the arms of another soldier when they saw a mess of dark hair over the man’s shoulder.
“…turn to…hands out…” The man before them pulled a large combat knife from a holder on his shoulder and angled the blade tip between their wrists and the zip ties. With a flick of his hand, their confines were removed and Vixen all but fell forward, their legs and arms numb from their cramped position. “…get you… here.”
They could barely hear what the soldier was saying, only making out bits and pieces, and nodded as the man helped them up, catching them when they stumbled over bodies on tingling legs. once they reached the exit the thundering of gunfire echoed through the compound again. Bullets ricocheted off the walls leaving pock marks where they landed. Vixen’s head was covered and pushed down by the man supporting them and the only thing they could do was clutch onto his Kevlar vest tighter. Smoke surrounded the pair as they made their way through and out of the building, the once blinding light of the French countryside was replaced with the pitch darkness of night. Had it really been that long? Had Fabian really interrogated them for hours? Tortured them for hours?
They licked their lower lip, tasting the distinct metallic that went with blood. When had they gotten a split lip? And who had sent the soldiers to retrieve them? Vixen looked over at the man beside them finally paying attention to his appearance. His head was covered with a boonie hat and his vest held the insignia SAS in the centre.
“Where are we going?” They yelled, ringing ears making it difficult to hear how loud they were speaking.
“…soon enough… meeting point…” the SAS member motioned to a group of tactical vehicles waiting in the distance, their lights and engines off. Again, the thundering of enemy fire sounded from behind them, following the retreating group.
They quickly looked behind them and watched as the traffickers giving chase fell. Vixen turned back around just as quickly noticing a tall figure step out from behind one of the vehicles. Their breath caught in their throat. The figure morphed into the shape of a man, and they couldn’t help but stare. Looking through them was no man, but rather the image of death.
As vixen was pulled closer to the figure by their rescuer, death raised his gun and fired. He opened the back of the vehicle, weapon still raised.
“Get… no…time.” The man beside them said all but tossing them into the open doors before slamming them closed. “Ghost…” Was all they heard as the space around them grew dark and the truck rumbled to life. Feeling around the back of the truck, Vixen’s hand hit something solid and through further investigation they discovered a built-in bench. Suddenly the truck rocked and they were tossed from one side to the other. Whoever was driving clearly didn’t care that they were in the back. But neither would they if the continuous ping of bullets hitting the truck was any indication of the situation.
Again, the truck jostled them from side to side and they really hoped that the driver remember that they were there.
— — —
When the vehicle finally stopped, Vixen had lost track of time. The darkness of the back of the truck did little to help their sense of time. For all they knew it was days later. The door opened and light blinded them. They quickly raised their hand and turned their head. “Where are we?” They asked to the air and received nothing in response. “Can you at least stop shining that damned light in my face.” Vixen lowered their hand when the flashlight finally lowered and eventually turned off. Chancing a look at the other person, they noticed that it was death. Or rather a man with a death mask. The white of the skull was stark against the pitch black of night and his clothes. If they hadn’t known that the man was there, they would have thought that the skull was a floating omen of what was to come.
Having the time to fully feel their injuries Vixen hissed as they inched their way closer to the open door and slid out of the truck. Standing was something that they wished that they didn’t have to do. Their ribs ached and their legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. How had the adrenaline crash been so subtle? There was no way that they hadn’t passed out in the back of the tactical truck. Had they? Vixen couldn’t remember.
They took a step and nearly collapsed, grasping for the man beside them. He stood solid as a rock. So much so that it took Vixen by surprise when he turned his head to the left looking over their head at a dark structure in the distance. They hadn’t noticed this. They hadn’t noticed that the man pulled their hand from his arm until he was walking towards the structure.
Taking a steadying breath Vixen followed the masked stranger and held their sides trying to keep their ribs from aching as they walked. It was safe to say that they wouldn’t be getting anything from the man. Not verbally at least. Instead, he communicated in his body language. The small pauses to let them catch up or the slight look over his shoulder to make sure they were still standing.
The least the masked man could do was tell them where they were going. The structure ahead of them turned out to be a quaint house in the middle of nowhere. Safe house. They thought as they finally made it to the steps of the building. Slowly they made their way up onto the landing and behind the man. A series of beeps alerted them to the fact that the house was locked with a keypad rather than a traditional lock and key. Once the door was open, the masked man stepped aside and placed a hand onto the gun strapped to his chest. Another detail that they hadn’t noticed.
“In you get.” He spoke for the first time since leaving the trafficker’s compound. His voice was low and gruff, reverberating through the quiet night. Without a second thought, Vixen entered the house and all but collapsed to the floor. The bravado that had gotten them through the worst of the night fell and they were greeted with the dark of unconsciousness.
— —
It shouldn’t have surprised him that the UC in his care was as tough as they were, but it did. Ghost’s arm shot out to grasp the back of their shirt as soon as they started to wobble. With a grunt the Lieutenant dropped the hand on his gun and pulled them towards him and slung them over his shoulder before he pushed the door to the safe house closed.
The briefing before the mission had been interesting and something unusual for T141’s expertise. Exfill wasn’t something that was new to them but the target was. It wasn’t every day that the task force was sent to retrieve a civilian from a mission gone south. He had to give it to them, they put up a hell of a fight — the state of their body gave the impression that it wasn’t a fair one. Ghost shifted the unconscious body further up his shoulder as he trudged through the safe house. It was a one level with a cold storage turned bunker. Or so the blueprint said. The layout of the building was open concept, for the most part as it had a hallway that led to two separate rooms. One he assumed to be the bathroom and the other…
Ghost shoved the door open with his free hand. His gaze fell upon a singular bed. It was a small thing, definitely military issued, and had the bare minimum for bedding. He grunted as he entered the darkened room and made his way to the bed. Sliding the body down from his shoulder, Ghost placed the unconscious UC on to the bed. Adjusting the pillow under their head, he once again gripped the gun slung to his chest and looked to the ceiling of the safe house in a silent curse.
This was the last place he wanted to be. He didn’t want to play babysitter to anyone let alone a civilian UC regardless of their combat and intellectual prowess. The lieutenant turned away from the sleeping form and exited the room, closing the door slightly so that it wouldn’t be a hassle for either party to haul ass and go if need be. Before taking a moment of respite, Ghost walked to the front door and checked the automated lock. Satisfied with it, the man walked back into the open concept living room where he sat on the worn couch and removed the rifle from his chest, placing it across his lap for easy access.
Ghost hoped that Price knew what he was doing when he tasked him with watching the UC. This wasn’t the best use of his skill set. But, he supposed, that he was the best choice for this part of the mission given that specialized skill set. It was a contradiction to say the least and it was one that he didn’t want. They were cut off from the rest of the task force until he received notice. How or when that notice would come was a mystery the man didn’t much care for. But until that day came, the lieutenant would hold his position and ensure the target was looked after, even if that meant babysitting.
Summary: Avengers timeline but with a soulmate twist. No one knew who their soulmate would be until after you slept with them. The matching mark on both of your hands would only appear after your bodies joined in union which left for a few strange outlooks on sex.
A/N: another one written on my phone, I’ll edit it next week. I also said I wouldn’t write over the weekend but I had an idea and it won’t go so here we are.
The shadows of the alley seemed to swallow your screams before a gloved hand pressed tightly over your mouth. Your knee moved on reflex, just like your momma taught you, hitting the man square between his legs and sending him collapsing to the ground with a painful cry.
“You little bitch!” He hissed as you grabbed your handbag you had dropped and sprinted back to the street.
Oomph. The wind was knocked from your lungs as you crashed into what you assumed had to be a wall but found the wall had arms. A fresh wave of panic set in as they closed around you and your knee jolted up again.
“Ugh.” The man grunted low and bent at the waist but still he didn’t let go. “I’m trying to help.”
You looked up at his face, recognising his voice from the many videos you had seen of him over the years. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry Captain.”
His lips curled slightly but there was also a hint of a grimace that left you feeling guilty as he let go and stepped past you. “Just wait there, let me deal with this jerk. You like attacking beautiful women huh?”
The guy that had tried to drag you into the depths of the dark alley whimpered from where he lay in a puddle. His head was shaking as he tried to deny what he had done but he could hardly get the words out through the pain in his groin.
“I, I barely touched her.” He managed to stammer. “Bitch is lying.”
“I hope you have a lawyer.” Steve said as he heard sirens echoing along the street.
“And insurance.” You added, Steve’s head cocking in your direction as you stepped up behind the safety of his back. “You’re gonna need it for your testicle retrieval.”
Steve tried to cover his laugh with a cough and held his hand out for you. “You should be proud, most people freeze in these situations.”
You stared at his hand, thinking it would be simple to shake his hand but even though you didn’t need his help he had still come when everyone else ignored your cries for help. He stiffened for a moment as you wrapped your arms around his waist and whispered your thanks to his broad chest.
“No more walking around by yourself at night, alright?” He said as he relaxed and let his arms fall around your back, feeling an odd sensation in his stomach as he inhaled your mouthwatering scent.
“I have to.” You uttered as you loosened your hold, not wanting to make a fool of yourself but missing the sense of security you felt in his arms the instant they disappeared. “I have to get home somehow.”
Steve ran his hand over his beard as he felt his inside twist at the idea of you out at night, alone. “Is there anyone who can pick you up or walk with you? A boyfriend maybe?”
You shook your head, looking down at your hands clasped in front of you, the skin naked of the mark. Some days you longed to find the one you were destined to love, some days you feared who it would be. Every day you felt alone.
“I don’t have anyone.” You whispered.
“Shit.” He sighed heavily, wanting to find out more about you but the sirens were getting closer. “I have to go.”
You nodded, understanding the weight of Steve’s actions and what he risked to help you since he was technically a fugitive on the run. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Not Captain.” He shook his head with a sad smile. “Just Steve.”
“Steve,” you tasted the sound on your tongue, the interaction suddenly more intimate just from saying his name, “thank you.”
You turned as a pair of headlights filled the alleyway and when you looked back Steve was nowhere to be seen. The blanket of security that had enveloped you was gone just as suddenly and you began to tremble as the adrenaline burned out.
“Ma’am, we had a call about an assault.” The officer said as she got out and noticed your shivering, her hand signalling to her partner to get out. “Are you alright?”
You pointed a shaky finger at the man trying to pull himself up from the ground, but from the veins popping from his forehead he wouldn’t be getting away. “He tried to…”
You didn’t have to finish the sentence for the the policewoman to understand as she turned her fearsome glare to the man.
“It’s not like that.” He hissed as he cupped himself. “She’s my soulmate, I know she is, I just need to show her.”
The policeman looked down at his marked hand and closed it into a tight fist as he struggled not to punch the attacker. “You don’t deserve one. The mark is a gift, it has to be given you idiot, you can’t just go around forcing yourself on people. I’m sure when we run your prints we’ll find it’s not your first attempt at this sort of thing. Am I right?”
The man kept his lips tightly shut as a pair of handcuffs snapped around his wrists and he was roughly pulled from the ground.
“Here’s my card, come down to the station in the morning so we can take your statement.” The policewoman said softly. “Do you have anyone who can come and get you?”
“No, but I just live around the corner.” You said as you took her card and slipped it into the pocket of your apron you still wore.
“If you’re gonna walk ‘round here at night if suggest pepper spray.” The officer said as the car door closed behind your attacker. “Can’t be too careful, seems to be a lot of people who can’t wait to meet their soulmates, it drives them insane.”
You nodded at the truth. There were some people that burned through sexual partners, hoping that they would meet their destiny by playing the numbers game. There were some who believed that the mark would come if they took the time to get to know their would-be partner, thinking a genuine connection would make the mark appear when they finally make love. Then there were your kind, it was a mixture of both where you didn’t wait to fall in love before having sex but you also didn’t have sex with someone you had no attraction or spark with. You did not want to find yourself marked to someone you didn’t have any similarities with.
You stood under the streetlight as the police car disappeared down the street, not moving towards your apartment block until the red taillights were completely gone.
“Want some company?” You jumped as your shot nerves jerked your body around and you clutched your chest as you saw Steve step out of the darkness of the alley. “Sorry, I would’ve called your name but you didn’t tell me it.”
“Jesus Christ.” You cursed as your heart raced a mile a minute.
“Pretty sure it’s not that.” He teased, his attempt at humour calming your nerves quicker than you thought could be possible after your evening.
“And the dad joke of the year goes to…”
His smile sent butterflies flapping in your tummy and you couldn’t breath as he stepped closer until the light of the street lamp.
“It’s y/n.”
His smiled grew as he absorbed the name and committed it to memory. “Well, y/n, would you be comfortable with me walking you home?”
Your head was already nodding and you swore a bolt of lightning jolted your senses as he held out his elbow and you looped your arm through. From the widening of his eyes and the stumble of his step, you were sure he felt it too. Your body felt like static, even second that you were touching it was increasing and you didn’t know how the hairs on your body weren’t standing upright from the electricity.
“Do you want to come in?” You asked as the elevator to your floor opened and you pulled your key from your apron.
His answer was almost out before you have finished your question and it only made you smile more as you unlocked the door.
“Steve?” You pressed your back to the door after closing it behind you and played with the bow of your apron. “I hope I’m not too forward but am I crazy to think there’s something between us?”
Steve turned and saw your hesitation, an ache in his chest as he felt the need to reassure you. “You’re not crazy.”
Your mouth went dry as he stepped closer and you licked your lips to moisten them. “Do you want to kiss me?”
His answer came in the form of his touch. His lips were soft and supple while his beard ticked your skin. His hands pulled your hips towards his before snaking around your body and you threw your arms around his neck as the kiss deepened with his tongue caressing yours.
Steve pulled away first with his irises swallowed by his dilated pupils and his hair a mess from your fingers combing through them. “We shouldn’t do this tonight, not after what you have been through.”
“That is exactly why I need this, Steve.” You said as you held tighter to his body, feeling his erection straining beneath his jeans. “I don’t want to go to bed remembering his hands on me. Chase away his touch, please.”
His eyes searched yours and time felt suspended as you watched his internal monologue reflect in the emotional depths of his eyes. “You let me know the second you feel uncomfortable, alright?”
You nodded eagerly as he looked around your apartment and spotted the open door to your bedroom. His hands trailed down your back until they spread across your ass and he lifted your feet of the ground. You held his shoulders in a death grip as your legs locked around his waist and you both moaned at the friction of your core pressing against his cock.
Steve laid you gently across your bed before stepping back to pull his shirt over his head and you propped yourself up on your elbows as you watched his muscles ripple with every movement.
“Holy shit.” You sighed longingly at the delicious v shape of muscle that disappeared into his waistband. “I wanna taste you so bad.”
His chuckle rolled over your skin like silk and he unbuckled his belt, leaving his jeans hanging open before deciding to undress you first. You were more than happy to have the restricted clothing gone and his heated stare set fire to your skin as he drank in the sight of you laid bare for him.
“I wanna taste you so bad.” He moaned as he settled between your legs and blew cool air across your clit. “Can I?”
“Oh god yes, please, Steve.” You begged as you looked at his eyes watching your from above your mound.
His smile disappeared below your line of sight and your head tipped back as his lips sealed over your clit and sucked. Your fingers laced into his hair as you rolled your hips against his face, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Your moans were quickly filling the small room and when he lowered his kiss to your slick folds you saw stars. His lapped at the juices flowing, pushing inside as he fucked you with his tongue until your legs trembled around his head, deafening him as they clenched over his ears with a cry of ecstasy.
Crawling up your body, you should have felt intimidated by his size domineering your person space but it had the opposite effect. You felt safe and secure between his beefy arms and his broad shoulders promised the strength to carry any burdens you might have. Reaching between your bodies as his lips shared the taste of your desire, you pushed his jeans over his hips and he kicked them off without breaking the kiss.
The weight of Steve’s cock hung heavy on your thigh and you felt his tip touch your dripping folds as he shifted closer. “Are you sure?”
Your palms pressed to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart hard against them and you nodded and slid them over his shoulders while your legs locked around his hips. “I’m sure.”
Steve bit his lip as he fought the urge to slam himself home when his head slipped through your slick entrance. His cock was already throbbing and his balls tight with the need of release but he counted to 10 as he eased himself in, one inch at a time.
Your lips were parted with the deep breaths you were taking and your nails dig into his back at how full you felt with him inside you. You could feel the tension in his body as he held back and you rolled your hips to get the movement you desperately needed.
“Please, Steve, you’re not going to break me.” You promised as he gave you long, slow, methodical strokes that teased you with the potential. “Fuck me hard.”
His hips bucked at the order and he caught himself before his hips crashed into yours and caused any bruises but it wasn’t enough for you. Your hands trailed down his back until you reached his firm ass, clenching with every thrust and you dug your nails into the tissue and pulled yourself up to meet him.
“Oh, shit, that’s it.” You moaned as he bottomed out in you, pushing against the deepest parts of you. “I can take it, Steve.”
His control was waning as he felt your walls fluttering around him and he let go just a little more, his strokes speeding up as he pushed your leg higher over his hip and moaned at how tight you were. “You feel so good sweetheart, so fucking good.”
You buried your face in his neck as his deep voice reverberated through your body and the aural stimulation tipped you over the edge, his name falling from your lips as you came around him. His rhythm faltered as your pussy clamped around his girth, the walls massaging his cock until he spent himself with guttural cry to the ceiling.
His body collapsed above and his elbows beside your body kept most of his weight from crushing you as he regained his breath. He chuckled and shivered as your hands drew lazy designs along his spine and you felt his smile against your neck. “That tickles.”
He slowly retreated from your body and fell heavily onto his back beside you, pulling you into his arms so your head rested on his hard shoulder. You looked at your hand resting on his defined abs and felt the ache of disappointment begin to spread in your chest. You had accidentally let hope fill you when you felt the spark but the proof was bare for you to see, no mark.
Steve could feel the change and he looked down to see you looking at your hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” You said with a weak smile. “I shouldn’t have expected anything, then you can’t be disappointed right.”
His high was quickly draining as he felt his own pain growing, the idea of going back to being alone a bitter pill to swallow. The pain in his chest began to radiate through his body and his back arched as the burn of a thousand needles pricked him. He couldn’t think through the sudden searing heat until he heard your scream in his ear and felt you writhing in your own world of pain.
“It hurts.” You whimpered as the pain flooded your veins and traveled across your body until it seemed to concentrate in your hands. “Make it stop.”
Steve wished he could take it away but he knew what was happening and that it would be over soon as he reached for your hands. His fingers entwined with yours and the invisible flames licked your skin and the mark appeared in swirls and lines as unique as a fingerprint. The burn dissipated as fast as it arrived and you sagged back onto Steve’s chest equally excited as you were exhausted.
“They’re beautiful.” You gushed as you looked at your joined hands.
“They are.” Steve agreed as he captured your lips, his body already stirring awake as the excitement of finding his soulmate renewed his strength. “I can’t believe, after all this time, I found you.”
You slipped your hand from his and traced the soft hairs below his bellybutton until you wrapped your fingers around his shaft, stroking him slowly as you shifted on the bed. “Me too, now I need to taste you, so bad.”
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