request fulfillment in which simon ‘ghost’ riley decides you need to turn your big, beautiful brain off.
“love, for christ's sake. you need t’ fuckin’ stop now.” simon's voice cuts through your focus as you stare down at an email you're trying to reply to on your laptop screen. he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and frowns. “they get enough of yer fuckin’ time. now yer givin’ them yer saturday evenin’ when yer meant t’ be gettin’ ready.”
a blink, “just need to send this. then i’m done. promise.” you reply, face twisting into a grimace. you know he's right; that your job has started infiltrating moments it's not meant to.
there's a pause as you glance down at your bare legs. “and i promise i’ll put trousers on before the lads get here.” it's sheepish.
your laptop shuts with a thud. simon is suddenly right in front of you. and he looks as close to pissed as he ever gets with you.
“no love. you're gonna fuckin’ stop now. you need yer brain turnin’ off a bit.” it's clipped, flat - an order rather than a suggestion.
you start to protest, but the words don't make it past the point of a thought before his calloused hands find your hips; flipping you and pressing you face down onto the mattress; one arm hooked under your hips as your underwear is unceremoniously dragged down the back of your thighs.
his palm collides with your ass cheek with a sharp thwack and you can't help but bite your lip, arching back into the warmth spreading from the memory of his handprint there.
“there you are love. now shut that fuckin’ powerhouse in yer skull up for a bit. want you fuckin’ stupid this evening. yer more pleasant company when yer not thinkin’ so much.”
his palm finds your cunt, grinding the heel of his hand down onto your clit until you whine, pressing yourself down onto the rough callouses on his palm.
he grins. you can't see it. but you can picture it there - shit eating and satisfied.
he shoves you further onto the bed, one arm hooking around your waist to hold you exactly where he wants you.
and then his mouth finds your cunt.
and oh god there's absolutely no ceremony to it, no warm up. no quick flicks of his tongue on your clit to tease you. just his mouth latching on to your clit before pulling back to drag the flat of his tongue over every inch of you.
just him making out with your cunt like it's the last thing he'll ever do.
and he just doesn't stop. when your legs tremble and you try and pull away the iron band of his arm around you waist hauls you back.
when you clench your hands into the sheets and drop your head to the mattress he pulls back for half a second to breathe before diving right back in.
he knows what he's doing is working from the way you've gone pliant; the only noise leaving you a garbled string of whines and moans and occasional words - mostly bitten off expletives followed by his name.
he pulls back again just to scrape his teeth over the curve of your ass and hear you hiss before pressing a kiss over the same spot.
“see? yer already nicer to be around love.”
you can't formulate a response other than a growl with no real heat behind it.
he grins again. absolutely undeterred. emboldened, even.
slowly, he pushes two fingers inside your cunt that's already fluttering around nothing just to watch the way your mouth drops into a pathetic little ‘o’ shape; rubbing the pads of his fingers over the squishy spot that makes you try and crawl away again.
“love, jus’ stop fightin’. yer practically fuckin’ cross eyed.”
before you can even try and think of a retort in the pile of mush you're calling a brain, his mouth is on you again; this time with purpose. each flick of his tongue designed to make you finally crumble.
when you start fucking yourself back onto his fingers mindlessly he knows he's won. he knows that for the rest of the evening you're going to be tucked into his side like a warm shadow. sweet and soft; hard edges rounded down into something that doesn't always bite back.
you come with a noise that sounds like surrender. a shuddering gasp that trails off into a low, long whine. simon doesn't stop until you're nothing but a pile of trembling limbs and breathless murmurs of his name into drool slicked sheets.
he rolls you onto your back, slides your underwear back into place. pulls you into a sitting position before pressing a kiss against your temple.
“get fuckin’ ready love. they'll be ‘ere in thirty.”
later that night johnny corners simon in the kitchen.
“what's happened to ‘em? they haven't called me a prick once all evening. they feelin’ alright?”
simon smirks into his whiskey.
“fucked ‘em stupid. works every time.”
