Was gonna b a short story about Simon buying you panties, turned into a 77 page fic about him being too emotionally immature to admit you're already his girlfriend.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, smut, MDNI, 18+
You’d been at his flat for eight days
Eight days, which had not been the plan.
The plan had been one night. Maybe two. Three, if neither of you were feeling sensible.
Then three became five because it rained, and five became eight because Simon had this extremely annoying habit of making his flat feel safer than yours. Quiet. Warm. Uncomplicated. Like you could exist there without performing for anybody.
Which was dangerous.
Because you’d started leaving little pieces of yourself everywhere.
A hair clip on his bathroom counter.
Your ring by the kitchen sink.
Your boots by the door.
A half-empty bottle of shampoo in his shower.
And now you were standing in his bedroom wearing one of his black shirts, staring into your overnight bag like it had betrayed you personally.
“You alright?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
You pulled out a tiny black thong between two fingers and held it up.
“This is my last clean pair.”
His eyes went to the thong.
Then to you.
Then back to the thong.
“That the emergency?”
“Yes, Simon, that’s the emergency.”
He looked unconvinced. “I’ve got a wash.”
“I know.”
“And detergent.”
“I know that too.”
You shoved the thong back into your bag. “I have to go home.”
His expression shifted immediately, though barely. Just a small tightening around his mouth. A flicker in his eyes.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You can wash them here.”
“No, that’s weird.”
Simon stared at you.
“Weird.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been sleeping together for months.”
“Still weird.”
“I’ve eaten your ass.”
“Different category.”
“You wore my boxers to bed last night.”
“That was cute.”
“You’re afraid of my detergent?”
“I’m not afraid of your detergent.”
“Sounds like you are.”
You pointed at him. “Do not make this sound irrational.”
“It is irrational.”
“It’s intimate.”
“More intimate than my tongue in your bumhole?”
You blushed but stayed quiet.
He blinked.
“I literally could not give less of a fuck about the ten pence worth of detergent it takes to wash three thongs.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is…” You paused, irritated because the point sounded stupid even in your own head. “It’s domestic.”
Simon’s face changed again.
Still small.
Still barely there.
But you saw it.
Domestic.
That was the word you’d both been orbiting for days. Maybe weeks. Not sex. Not staying over. Not using his shower or eating cereal in his kitchen or falling asleep with your face against his chest.
Domestic.
That was the dangerous thing. The toothbrush in his cup. The socks mixed in with his laundry. The drawer that didn’t exist yet but could. Simon looked down for half a second, then back up at you. “I’m offering to wash your underwear,” he said, quieter now. “Not marry you over the rinse cycle.”
Your chest tightened. “Could’ve fooled me.” His mouth twitched. “You’re dramatic.” “You like it.” “A bit.” You looked away first, zipping the bag with too much force. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” He nodded once. “Alright.” You hated that. You hated how he accepted it too quickly. How he pulled himself back behind that neutral face like he’d never wanted anything in the first place. So you stepped closer and poked him in the chest. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Act like a sad divorced dad at a train station.” His brow lifted. “I’m not.” “You are. In your face.” “No face.” “Like someone just told you Christmas was cancelled.” That got him. Barely. A tiny exhale through his nose. “Christ.” “There he is,” you said softly. Simon looked at you for a long second, then reached down and picked up your bag. Not to unpack it. Just to carry it.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Yes. Tomorrow.” “And bring more of those little—” He glanced toward the bag. “Underpants.” “They’re thongs.” “Right.” “You can say thong, Simon.” “Can.” “But won’t?” “No.” You smacked his arm on the way out. The next time you stayed over, you did not bring enough underwear. That part was on you. A little on purpose. A little not. You told yourself you’d packed in a hurry, that you’d miscounted, that nobody could reasonably expect you to remember basic items while leaving the house. But some traitorous part of your brain had remembered Simon’s face when you’d said laundry was too domestic. And now you were back in his bedroom, dropping your bag beside the bed, when you noticed the matte black shopping bag sitting on top of his dresser. Folded tissue paper. No branding you recognized from the grocery shop.
You stared at it. Then at Simon. He was standing near the wardrobe, calm as anything, wearing a black T-shirt and looking very much like a man who had handled a situation. “What’s that?” “Yours.” “My what?” “Underwear.” You blinked. Then laughed once. “You bought me underwear?” “You ran out.” “Simon.” “What?” “That’s…” You paused. Because it was sweet. It was insane, obviously. But sweet.
He’d noticed. He’d remembered. He’d gone out and bought something so you could stay without having to turn it into a whole vulnerable conversation about detergent and intimacy and whatever domestic cliff edge you kept dancing around. You stepped closer, suspicious but warm. “How did you know my size?” He shrugged. Your eyes narrowed. “No, don’t shrug. How?” “Guessed.” “You guessed?” “Yeah.” “Simon, you cannot just guess women’s underwear sizes.” “Apparently I can.” “You don’t know that yet.” “Looked right.”
You stared at him. He stared back, annoyingly steady. No shame. No explanation. Just that deeply aggravating confidence of his, like he’d glanced at you once and mentally recorded all necessary measurements for future field use. “You’re weirdly good at that.” “At what?” “Knowing things you should not know.” His mouth twitched. “Observant.” “Creepy.” “Useful.” “Concerning.” “Still useful.” You looked back at the bag. Curiosity won. Obviously curiosity won. You opened it. The first piece was black lace. Pretty. Delicate. Expensive-looking. You held it up, pleasantly surprised despite yourself. “Okay,” you said slowly. “These are nice.” Simon’s eyes flicked over them, then to your face. “Told her black.” “Told who black?” “Woman in the shop.” Your head snapped up. “You spoke to someone?” “Had to.” “About my underwear?” “About buying underwear.” “For me?” “Yes.” You pressed a hand to your mouth, half horrified and half delighted. “What exactly did you say?” “Said I needed a few pairs.” “And?” “Your size.” “Which you guessed.” “Correctly.” “Allegedly.” “And I said black. Lace if they had it.” You stared. He was too calm. Far too calm. “Simon Riley, did you walk into a lingerie shop and request black lace underwear for me?” “Yes.” “Just like that?” “Wasn’t shouting it.” You laughed, genuinely now. “I’m obsessed with you.” “Mm.” “You menace.”
“Needed underwear.” “No, you bought lingerie.” His gaze flicked to the bag. Then back to you. “Thought you’d look good in it.” That shut you up for half a second. Not because it shocked you. Because it didn’t. Because of course he’d thought that. Because of course Simon, practical and blunt and quietly possessive in all the ways that made your knees stupid, had looked at black lace in a shop and pictured it on you.
The problem was that your brain liked that. A lot. You cleared your throat and looked back into the bag before he could clock the heat rising in your face. “So you bought these because I needed underwear?” “Yes.” “And because you thought I’d look hot?” “Yes.” No hesitation. No coy little smirk. Just yes. Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful. “Right,” you said. “Problem?” “No.” “Sounds like a problem.” “It’s not a problem. I’m processing.” You pulled out the next pair. More lace. A little strappier. Still fine. Then the next. Mesh. Thinner.
Less practical. Then you reached in again and pulled out something with tiny pearl beads. You froze. Simon’s eyes moved to it. You held it up between you. The room went very quiet. “Simon.” “Yeah.” “What the fuck is this?” He frowned slightly, studying it. “Underwear.” “No.” “No?” “This is not underwear. This is a threat.” His brow furrowed more. You lifted the pearls higher. “This is not something you wear to run errands.” “Didn’t buy them for errands.” You looked at him. He looked back. Your mouth opened. Closed. You reached into the bag again, because apparently you had chosen psychological warfare against yourself. The next pair was crotchless. You stared at it. Then blinked. Then stared harder, as if the missing fabric might reappear out of respect. Simon watched your face. You lifted the garment with two fingers. “Simon.” His eyes dropped to it. This time, something shifted in his expression. Not surprise exactly. More like recalibration. “Oh.”
“Oh?” “Right.” “Right?” He leaned a little closer, inspecting it with the seriousness of a man reviewing faulty equipment.
“That one’s more… direct.” A laugh burst out of you so hard you had to turn away. “Direct?” “What?” “You bought me crotchless panties and your review is ‘direct’?” “Accurate.” “You knew they were sexy underwear.” “Yes.” “But you didn’t know they were this sexy.” He paused. Then gave a small nod. “More or less.” You laughed again, still holding them up. “So what, you thought this was like… elevated date-night underwear?” “Something like that.” “Not tactical access wear?” His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say tactical.” “You thought it.” “Didn’t.” “You absolutely did.” He took a step closer. You did not step back. That was the problem, really. Because you were baffled. Entirely. Profoundly. But not offended. Not even close. The bag was ridiculous. The man had gone out to solve a domestic issue and somehow returned with a curated selection of black lace escalation. It should’ve been absurd. It was absurd. It was also hot. Annoyingly hot. And Simon knew you well enough to sense the difference between your actual discomfort and your theatrical outrage. His eyes stayed on your face. “Too much?” he asked. That softened something in you immediately. Because there it was. Not insecurity. Not embarrassment. Just a check. A real one. You lowered the crotchless pair slightly. “No,” you said. Then, because honesty apparently wanted you dead, you added, “Just… a lot.” He nodded once. “Can put them away.” “You already bought them.” “Doesn’t mean anything.” “It means you walked into a shop and somehow guessed my size perfectly.” “Mm.” “And asked for black lace.” “Mm.” “And came back with a bag of slutty little crimes.” His mouth twitched again. “Nice crimes?” You stared at him. Your grip tightened on the lace.
“I hate how well that line works on me.” Now he did smile. Barely. Infuriating. You shoved the crotchless pair against his chest. “Stop looking proud.” “Not proud.” “You’re extremely proud.” “I got the size right.” “You have no proof.” Simon’s eyes dropped to the lace in your hand. Then back to your face. “Try them on.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, calm as anything.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Accurate.”
“You bought me a drawer full of lingerie and now you’re acting like this was a public service.”
“You needed underwear.”
“I needed underwear. Not a full tactical seduction kit.”
His mouth twitched.
You lifted the crotchless pair between two fingers. “Especially not these.”
Simon looked at them.
Then at you.
“Wear those.”
You should’ve said no faster.
That was the problem.
You didn’t.
You looked at the lace, at the missing piece of it, at the absolute audacity of him standing there like this was a reasonable suggestion.
Then you looked back at him.
“To what, Tesco?”
“Dinner tonight.”
That threw you so completely you forgot about the underwear.
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“As in… out?”
“Yeah.”
You blinked.
The word moved through the room differently than the rest of it had.
Lingerie was easy. Lingerie was ridiculous. Lingerie was a joke you could hide behind, a dare you could pretend you were only considering because he was infuriating and hot and too calm about all of it.
Dinner was not that.
Dinner was shoes on, coat on, sitting across from each other with glasses and menus and candlelight and the awful social implication of being seen together on purpose.
Dinner was what people did when they were trying.
You stared at him. “You’re asking me on a date?”
Simon’s face gave away absolutely nothing.
“Foreplay.”
You laughed, but it came out a little too late. A little too breathless.
“Dinner is foreplay?”
“With you?” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “Everything is.”
That should’ve helped.
It did not.
It made the whole thing worse, actually, because he’d made it filthy enough to survive, but he hadn’t taken back the date.
You narrowed your eyes, trying to recover. “So this is not a date.”
“It’s dinner.”
“You just said foreplay.”
“It can be both.”
Your stomach did something small and stupid.
“Both,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
“Dangerous wording.”
“Accurate wording.”
You looked down at the crotchless pair still dangling from your fingers.
That part, annoyingly, was not the problem anymore.
You could wear them. You probably would wear them, because apparently you had no respect for your own peace and because the idea of him knowing about them across a table had already started doing irreparable damage to your nervous system.
But dinner.
Dinner meant something.
Or it could.
And neither of you had been touching that with both hands.
You lifted the underwear slightly. “These I can work with.”
His brow rose.
You pointed at him. “Do not look pleased.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You were internally pleased.”
“Maybe.”
“But a date?”
Simon watched you for a second.
Then his voice came quieter, still blunt, still him.
“Just dinner.”
“That’s worse.”
“How?”
“Because you’re saying it like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
There it was.
Small.
Plain.
Absolutely devastating.
You stopped moving.
Simon held your gaze, not pushing, not softening it into something easier. Just letting it sit there between you.
Then, because apparently mercy was not one of his stronger qualities, he added, “Still want you to wear those.”
You huffed a laugh and looked away, grateful for the escape.
“You are emotionally manipulative.”
“No.”
“You just followed an almost sincere moment with crotchless underwear.”
“Balance.”
“Psychological warfare.”
“Foreplay,” he said again.
You pointed at him with the lace.
“You are on very thin ice.”
“Still coming?”
You looked at him.
At the drawer.
At the lace.
At the man who had somehow made the underwear less frightening than being asked to dinner.
Then you sighed.
“Yes.”
His mouth barely moved.
“But,” you added quickly, “do not get smug.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“You already are.”
“Face did nothing.”
“Your face is a national security concern.”
Simon’s mouth barely moved again.
“Wear them.”
You looked down at the lace still hanging from your fingers.
The underwear, horrifyingly, was not the part making your stomach twist anymore.
That was the thing. That was the problem.
The underwear was ridiculous, yes. Criminal, probably. A garment with suspiciously little respect for public decency. But it was also just the kind of dare you could survive by pretending it was funny.
The date was the bit that had knocked the air sideways.
Dinner.
Outside.
Together.
On purpose.
You glanced back at him. “You’re very focused on the underwear for a man who just asked me on a date.”
“Foreplay,” he said again.
“Yes, I heard you the first time.”
“Then you understand.”
“I understand that you’re unwell.”
“Likely.”
You lifted the crotchless pair slightly, studying them like they might explain themselves if given enough eye contact.“They’re not exactly dinner underwear.”
“They are tonight.”
“That’s not how categories work.”
“Could be.”
“They are barely underwear.”
“Easy access.”
“Simon.”
“Practical.”
“That is not practical. That is deranged.”
“Efficient.”
“You sound like you’re planning a burglary.”
“Might be.”
You pointed at him with the lace. “You’re not slick.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Don’t need to be.”
There was a pause.
A bad pause.
A pause where your own imagination betrayed you completely, sprinted miles ahead, came back with notes, and then had the audacity to blush.
Simon saw it.
Of course he saw it.
His expression barely changed.
But you knew.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Haven’t said anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“What’d I think?”
“You know what you thought.”
His eyes stayed on yours, calm and unbearable.
Then he stepped closer, slow enough that you had every opportunity to move.
You did not move.
His hand settled lightly at your waist. Not pushing. Not grabbing. Just there, warm through the fabric of his shirt you were still wearing.
“You said yes to dinner.”
“I said yes to dinner because you made it weirdly sincere for half a second and I panicked.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“And the underwear?”
You looked down at the lace again.
Then back at him.
The corner of his mouth threatened to move.
“Do not look pleased.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Face did nothing.”
“Your face is smug in spirit.”
His thumb moved once over your waist.
Tiny.
Barely anything.
Enough to make your spine remember it.
“Wear them,” he said, quieter.
You swallowed.
“Why?”
His eyes held yours.
“Because I want to know you’re wearing them.”
Oh.
That was worse.
That was so much worse than the jokes. Worse than easy access. Worse than efficient.
Because he said it plainly. No performance. No smug little grin. Just the truth, rough and simple and unfairly effective.
You looked away first.
“Mental illness.”
“Probably.”
“You need help.”
“Likely.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You shoved the lace against his chest.
“Fine.”
Simon went still.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not look victorious.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Didn’t move.”
“You got quiet. That’s worse.”
His mouth twitched.
You snatched the lingerie back before he could say anything else and turned toward the bathroom.
Simon caught your wrist before you made it two steps.
Not hard.
Not even close.
Just enough to stop you.
You looked down at his hand, then back up at him. “What?”
“You can change here.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“In here.”
“Simon.”
“What?”
“I’m not putting on crotchless underwear in front of you like this is a fitting room.”
“Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
“That is not the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His thumb shifted once against your wrist.
Slow.
Patient.
Infuriating.
You hated that he didn’t pull. Didn’t crowd you. Didn’t make it a command.
He just stood there, big and calm and warm-eyed, like he already knew you were thinking about it.
“Come on,” he said, quieter. “Let me see.”
Your stomach flipped so hard it was actually disrespectful.
You looked at him.
Then at the bathroom door.
Then back at him.
“You are so full of yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“You think all you have to do is stand there and ask?”
“No.”
A pause.
His eyes dropped briefly to the lace in your hand.
Then returned to your face.
“But it’s working.”
You scoffed, because murder was illegal and he was unfortunately correct.
“It is not working.”
“No?”
“No.”
His hand loosened around your wrist, giving you an easy out.
You did not take it.
That was the worst part.
Simon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His mouth barely moved.
“Door’s right there.”
“I know where the door is.”
“Could use it.”
“I know.”
“You’re still here.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Quiet.
Certain.
Waiting.
You exhaled through your nose and held up the lace between you. “You say one stupid thing, I’m leaving.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
“That was already a lie.”
His mouth twitched.
You rolled your eyes and stepped back toward the bed instead of the bathroom.
Simon’s gaze followed you.
Not rushing.
Not greedy.
Just focused in that way that made your skin feel too aware of itself.
You pointed at him. “Do not look victorious.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You look like you won a war.”
“Small skirmish.”
“Simon.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
He did.
Which was worse.
You just sighed, pulling your jeans down.
“Stop staring.”
“Can’t. It’s my favourite view.”
You rolled your eyes and changed quickly, deliberately not giving him a show. Unfortunately, the crotchless panties did that for themselves.
He licked his lips slowly.
“There’s that perfect cunt.”
He said it while pinching your labia together, making you squirm.
“SIMON!”
“What? Got a problem with this?”
His hand cupped you, his middle finger exploring your folds through the slick gathered there.
“See? You act all offended and dignified, but your body has different opinions.”
You bit your bottom lip, finally letting out a soft moan that he usually would’ve taken as a plea to keep going. Instead, he pulled his hand away and smacked your bum.
“Get ready for dinner.”
He got up and started changing his clothes, ignoring the growing bulge in his sweatpants.
You stared at him.
Actually stared.
Because apparently Simon Riley could just do that. Touch you like he’d been put on earth to ruin your nervous system, then pull away and start getting dressed like he hadn’t left you standing there in cursed underwear, breathing wrong.
“You’re evil,” you said.
He pulled a black shirt from the wardrobe. “Yeah.”
You watched him tug the shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly over his shoulders before settling against him. It should not have been that distracting. It was a shirt. A normal black shirt. Buttons. Collar. Adult man clothing.
Unfortunately, it fit him like it had a personal vendetta against you.
He rolled the sleeves to his forearms with the same maddening calm, exposing ink and veins and the thick lines of his wrists, then reached for a pair of dark trousers like this was all very ordinary.
Like you were not still standing there trying to remember how knees worked.
“Oh,” you thought, traitorously.
He cleaned up nicely.
Painfully nicely.
Not polished in a pretty way. Of course not. Simon Riley didn’t do pretty.
Just sharp. Controlled. Broad shoulders under black fabric, belt pulled through loops, watch fastened around his wrist, jaw set like he could walk into a room and make every other man there suddenly remember an appointment elsewhere.
You hated it.
You loved it.
You wanted to bite him about it.
Simon glanced over and caught you looking.
“What?”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
His brow lifted.
“Stop staring,” he said.
You scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that annoying?”
“Distracting.”
“Good.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bite. Bastard.
Instead, he reached past you toward the chair by the wardrobe.
Your dress was still there.
Small. Black. Folded over the back like it hadn’t been quietly living in his room since the other night.
Not left behind.
Not on purpose.
Just… not taken home.
Simon picked it up with one hand and held it out.
“Wear this.”
You looked at the dress.
Then at him.
“You have outfit requests now?”
“Suggestion.”
“That was not a suggestion. That was a command in a button-up.”
He shrugged, painfully nonchalant. “Looks good on you.”
Your brain tried very hard not to melt at that.
Failed.
“Makes your tits look like your bra’s overflowing.”
Ah.
There he was.
“What, I’m complimenting you.”
You rolled your eyes.
That was what you hated most about him. His ability to be all sweet for half a second, just long enough to make your stomach do something embarrassing, and then immediately follow it with something crude enough to make you want to throw the nearest object at his head.
Worse, he never even looked like he was trying.
He didn’t leer. Didn’t grin like some idiot who thought he was being clever. He just said things in that flat, calm voice, painfully uninterested in polishing the edges.
Like he wasn’t aware he’d just said something that would live in your head for the next several business days.
Simon held the dress out again. “Put it on.”
“Bossy.”
“Dinner.”
You looked at him.
Then at the dress.
Then back at him.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Simon.”
“I like seeing your tits,” he said, entirely too calm. “Don’t make a big deal of it. Just put it on.”
You stared at him for one full second.
Then you snatched the dress from his hand.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to look away. Just stood there in his button-up with his sleeves rolled, composed as anything, like watching you get dressed was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Which, unfortunately, made you feel very unreasonable.
You pulled his shirt over your head and reached for the dress.
“Stop staring.”
“No can do.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to step into the dress quickly, deliberately giving him as little performance as possible.
Simon, apparently, had other ideas.
He reached out and gave your left breast a squeeze.
You froze halfway into the dress.
“Simon.”
“What?”
“I am getting dressed.”
“Helping.”
“You are absolutely not helping.”
His hand lingered, warm and shameless, thumb brushing once like he was testing fabric he already knew he liked.
“You’re delaying me,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“At least pretend you’re sorry.”
“No.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, dress bunched at your waist, hair half-messy from pulling his shirt off.
He looked back at you like this was normal.
Like he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes making sure you’d be thinking about him all through dinner.
“You are impossible.”
“Still going?”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Yes.”
His hand dropped away.
Immediately.
Infuriatingly.
“Good.”
You finished pulling the dress into place, smoothing it down with more attitude than necessary.
He grabbed your hand, placing it on his crotch.
“See what you do to me?”
You felt his hard cock twitch beneath his trousers.
Unconsciously, you bit your bottom lip and tightened your hand around his bulge.
“…Fuck…”
“Yeah? You want it?”
You nodded brainlessly.
“You’ll have to wait until after dinner.”
Unfair. Completely unfair. You just wanted to pull his trousers down and suck on those perfectly shaved, heavy balls of his.
He moved your hand away, making you whine before you could swallow it down.
Simon’s mouth barely twitched.
“Thought so.”
You hated him. You hated him deeply. Religiously. With conviction.
Mostly because he was right.
You grabbed your bag, watching him tuck himself under his belt with the same infuriating calm he did everything else.
“Ready?” he asked.
You stared at him.
“At this point? No.”
His mouth twitched.
“Good.”
He grabbed his keys and led you out of his flat.
You thought he’d be a gentleman, at least this once. After the dress. The dinner. The whole “date” thing. So you waited beside the car, chin lifted, expecting him to open the door.
Instead, Simon got into the driver’s side, shut his door, and looked at you through the windscreen.
Then he sighed.
“You getting in or what?”
You stared at him and scoffed.
“Right. What was I thinking?”
Simon frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“I thought you’d be a gentleman.”
“Yeah. Nah.”
You nodded once.
The joke died too quickly.
Something small and tight formed low in your stomach, embarrassment crawling up the back of your neck before you could stop it.
Why am I putting up with this bullshit?
He was never this rude.
Blunt, yes. Dry, always. Occasionally impossible.
But not mean.
Not like this.
You looked at him through the windscreen, suddenly very aware of the dress, the underwear, the whole stupid date you’d let yourself get excited about.
The drive to the restaurant was quiet after that.
Simon kept his left hand on your thigh like nothing had happened.
That annoyed you more than the comment.
More than the door.
More than the way he’d looked at you through the windscreen and made you feel stupid for expecting something gentle from him.
You stared out the window, throat tight, suddenly too aware of everything: the dress, the underwear, the ridiculous date, the fact that you’d let yourself get excited about being asked.
His hand was warm.
You hated that too.
His thumb moved once against your leg.
You didn’t react.
Not even a little.
The movement stopped.
For a while, there was only the low hum of the engine, the passing lights sliding over the dashboard, the wet shine of the road ahead.
Then Simon glanced at you.
You saw it in the reflection on the window, though you pretended not to.
His eyes moved from your face to your hands, folded tightly in your lap. Then to the set of your jaw. Then back to the road.
Something shifted in him.
His fingers loosened on your thigh.
A second later, he moved his hand back to the steering wheel.
You didn’t look at him.
Good.
Let him sit with it.
Simon cleared his throat once.
You still didn’t look.
The car slowed at a red light.
He stopped fully, both hands on the wheel now, staring ahead.
“Didn’t mean it like that,” he said.
His voice was lower than before.
You blinked at the window.
“Mean what?”
You knew.
He knew you knew.
You looked down at your lap.
“Okay.”
The word was small. Too small. Annoyingly small.
Simon’s jaw shifted.
“That was shit.”
You finally turned your head a little. “Yeah.”
He took that without flinching.
The light turned green.
He drove on.
For a moment, you thought that would be it.
Simon and his one-line emotional triage. Say the thing, move on, pretend the wound was closed because he’d named it.
But then he spoke again.
“I was winding you up.”
“You tend to do that.”
“Yeah.” His jaw shifted. “Sorry.”
You looked at him.
For a second, you didn’t know what to do with that.
“Thanks.”
His brow pulled slightly. “For?”
“Apologizing.” You shrugged, looking back toward the window. “That’s very decent of you.”
Simon huffed once.
Not quite a laugh.
“Decent?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
“You absolutely were.”
He glanced at you, then back at the road.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably.”
That almost got you to smile.
The silence after that was different.
Still tense, but not sharp anymore. Not that horrible brittle kind where every breath felt too loud. Simon kept both hands on the wheel now, like he was making a point of not assuming he could touch you just because he’d apologized.
Which was irritating.
Because now you noticed the absence of his hand.
You looked out the window, watching the streetlights drag gold across the glass.
By the time he pulled up outside the restaurant, the knot in your stomach had softened into something less humiliating. Still tender. Still there. But manageable.
Simon parked, killed the engine, and got out before you could even reach for your door.
This time, he walked around.
Opened it.
Stood there with one hand on the top of the door and the other held out toward you.
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Oh, wow.”
“Don’t.”
“Chivalry lives.”
“Get out.”
“You’re glowing with personal growth.”
“Out.”
You took his hand, letting him help you from the car.
He didn’t let go right away.
That was the problem with Simon. He could be blunt and foul and painfully nonchalant, then turn around and do something small with such quiet certainty that it knocked you sideways.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
“Alright?” he asked.
You looked up at him.
“Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours for half a second longer.
Then he nodded.
“Good.”
The restaurant was nicer than you expected.
Nothing flashy, just low lights, dark wood, small tables, warm lamps, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer without being told to.
The host led you toward a booth near the back, tucked half out of sight by a wall of dark green tile and a row of small hanging plants.
You slid in first, expecting Simon to take the seat across from you.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
He sat beside you.
Close.
Close enough that his thigh warmed yours immediately.
You looked at him.
He picked up the menu.
“What?”
“You’re sitting next to me?”
“Aye.”
“There is a whole other side.”
“Noticed.”
Which was irritating.
Because now you noticed the absence of his hand.
You looked out the window, watching the streetlights drag gold across the glass.
By the time he pulled up outside the restaurant, the knot in your stomach had softened into something less humiliating. Still tender. Still there. But manageable.
Simon parked, killed the engine, and got out before you could even reach for your door.
This time, he walked around.
Opened it.
Stood there with one hand on the top of the door and the other held out toward you.
You looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Oh, wow.”
“Don’t.”
“Chivalry lives.”
“Get out.”
“You’re glowing with personal growth.”
“Out.”
You took his hand, letting him help you from the car.
He didn’t let go right away.
That was the problem with Simon. He could be blunt and foul and painfully nonchalant, then turn around and do something small with such quiet certainty that it knocked you sideways.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
“Alright?” he asked.
You looked up at him.
“Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours for half a second longer.
Then he nodded.
“Good.”
The restaurant was nicer than you expected.
Nothing flashy, just low lights, dark wood, small tables, warm lamps, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer without being told to.
The host led you toward a booth near the back, tucked half out of sight by a wall of dark green tile and a row of small hanging plants.
You slid in first, expecting Simon to take the seat across from you.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
He sat beside you.
Close.
Close enough that his thigh warmed yours immediately.
You looked at him.
He picked up the menu.
“What?”
“You’re sitting next to me?”
“Aye.”
“There is a whole other side.”
“Noticed.”
“And yet.”
He glanced at you over the menu. “Problem?”
You should’ve said yes.
You did not say yes.
Instead, you looked down at your own menu, very aware of his knee against yours.
“No.”
His mouth barely moved.
“Good.”
The dinner started nice.
Annoyingly nice.
Simon was charming.
He had this quiet, controlled kind of charm that was almost dangerous.
He ordered water for the table without making a production of it. Asked what wine you wanted and actually listened when you answered. When the waiter came back, Simon repeated your choice correctly, pronounced the name without stumbling, and gave one small nod like he’d done this a hundred times.
Classy bastard.
You looked at him over the menu. “You’re showing off.”
He didn’t look up. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Working?”
Unfortunately, yes.
“Barely.”
His mouth twitched.
From the outside, he looked perfect. Attentive. Composed. Jacket sitting sharp across his shoulders, voice low and even every time he spoke to the waiter. A man taking you to dinner properly. A man who knew how to behave.
He held the menu in one hand, eyes lowered like he was actually reading it.
And then his other hand found your knee under the table.
“Later.”
You hated that your first instinct was to laugh.
You hated even more that you couldn’t.
Not safely.
Not with the waiter still close enough to ask about specials, not with your wine glass untouched in front of you, not with Simon sitting beside you looking like the most composed man in the room while his hand stayed exactly where it should not have been.
Shamelessly, he slid his index and middle fingers into you, pumping slowly, a quiet groan catching in his throat as he felt you gush around him.
“Someone’s excited.”
You glared at him, holding your breath, trying not to make a sound that would give you away.
The waiter’s voice snapped you out of it. “Ready to order?”
Simon’s hand stilled instantly.
You inhaled too sharply, then covered it by reaching for your wine.
“Yes,” Simon said, calm as anything. “We’ll start with the baked smashed potatoes.”
You turned your head slowly.
His eyes stayed on the waiter.
“For her main, the pan-seared salmon,” he continued, voice low and even, like he wasn’t actively ruining your ability to sit still. “With the lemon butter, crispy capers, and whatever greens come with it.”
The waiter glanced at you for confirmation.
You forced a smile.
“That’s right.”
Your voice sounded almost normal.
A miracle, honestly.
“And for you, sir?”
Simon ordered his own meal without hesitation, asked one polite question about the sauce, and thanked the waiter when he took the menus.
Classy bastard.
Absolute criminal.
“Why did you order for me?”
“You seemed… occupied.”
He caught the annoyed little look you gave him and barely reacted.
“Did I get your order wrong?”
“No.” You looked away first. “Shut up. Just keep going.”
“Fair enough.”
He kept pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them like he knew exactly what he was looking for, dragging over that soft, sensitive spot until your grip tightened around the edge of the booth.
You felt a moan trying to crawl up your throat and reached blindly for the bread basket, shoving a piece into your mouth like that had been your plan all along.
Simon’s mouth barely moved.
“Hungry?”
You glared at him while chewing.
“Starving,” you muttered.
His fingers curled again.
You nearly choked.
Simon’s hand stilled.
Not because of you.
Because both of you saw the waiter approaching at the same time, plates balanced neatly in his hands, expression politely blank as he made his way toward the booth.
Simon withdrew his hand beneath the tablecloth with maddening calm.
No rush.
No panic.
Just that same composed control, like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes committing crimes under white linen.
You stared straight ahead, face hot, one hand still wrapped around your glass like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
Beside you, Simon shifted slightly.
You caught the movement in the corner of your eye.
The discreet lift of his hand.
The slow press of his fingers to his mouth.
Your entire body went still.
He licked them clean like it was nothing.
Like he was tasting sauce.
Like he was not trying to put you in an early grave in the middle of a perfectly nice restaurant.
The waiter set the plates down.
“Baked smashed potatoes to start.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, voice low and even.
You said nothing.
Couldn’t, actually.
The waiter placed the rest of the food down, said something about lemon butter and crispy capers, and disappeared again.
Simon picked up his fork.
You turned your head slowly.
He looked at you.
“What?”
You stared at him in disbelief.
He cut into his food like a man with no conscience.
“You’re disgusting,” you whispered.
His mouth barely moved.
“You liked it.”
You looked away first.
Because unfortunately, the evidence was becoming a problem.
The booth beneath you felt warm.
Maybe a little damp.
You were not going to think about, acknowledge, or examine in any way until you were safely out of public.
Dinner continued.
Somehow.
You ate. Barely. Enough to pretend you were a person with normal priorities.
Simon, to his credit or detriment, behaved after that.
Mostly.
He spoke to you like nothing had happened. Asked about your week. Made you laugh twice against your will. Listened when you complained. Answered when you asked him things, even the little things, even the questions he could’ve dodged with a grunt.
The way he could sit there beside you, warm and sharp and infuriatingly composed, giving you a real date after thoroughly proving he was capable of making you forget where you were.
The conversation was good.
Annoyingly good.
Comfortable in a way that made your chest ache if you looked at it too directly.
By the time the bill came, you were quieter.
Not upset anymore.
Just wound tight and soft around the edges, caught somewhere between wanting to throttle him and wanting to crawl into his lap.
Simon paid without comment.
You didn’t even pretend to argue.
Outside, the air hit your face cold enough to make you breathe properly for the first time in an hour.
Simon’s hand found the small of your back as he walked you to the car.
This time, he opened your door.
You looked at him.
“Learning.”
“Don’t push it.”
You smiled despite yourself and got in.
By the time you got back to Simon’s flat, the silence between you had changed again.
Thick enough to feel in your teeth.
He unlocked the door and let you walk in first.
You stepped inside, kicked off your boots, and dropped your bag on the nearest chair with more force than necessary.
Simon shut the door behind him.
The click of the lock sounded too loud.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“Dinner was good,” you said, stammering.
“Still hungry.”
“Really? Because I feel like I ate too mu—”
He swallowed the rest of your sentence, mouth crashing into yours, tongue pushing past your lips like he’d been waiting all night to stop pretending.
You gave in for one stupid, helpless second.
Then you broke the kiss, breathless.
“Simon.” Your voice came out weaker than intended. “What about no kissing?”
His eyes stayed on your mouth.
“Fuck that stupid rule.”
You stared at him.
No kissing meant no softness.
No kissing meant it was just sex. Just heat. Just bodies. Just the two of you getting exactly what you wanted without having to name any of it afterward.
No kissing meant it could still be nothing.
But Simon had kissed you like he was sick of pretending.
And now he was standing in front of you, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking at your mouth like he wanted to do it again and hated that you’d made him stop long enough to think.
You swallowed.
“So what is it, then?”
His gaze flicked up to yours.
“If it’s not nothing.”
There it was.
Out loud.
Ugly little question.
Dangerous little question.
The kind of question that could ruin a perfectly good arrangement.
Simon didn’t answer.
Of course he didn’t.
Before you could say anything else, his hands were on your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like the question weighed more than you did. You barely had time to grab his shoulders before he carried you into the living room and dropped you onto the couch.
Not rough.
Not gentle either.
Just enough to knock the air out of you.
Then he was over you.
One knee between yours, one hand braced beside your head, his mouth finding yours before you could gather the thought you’d been holding. It wasn’t careful this time. Wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t the controlled little crime of dinner, hidden under tablecloth and manners.
This was blunt.
Heavy.
Avoidant as hell.
And unfairly effective.
You should’ve pushed him back and asked again.
You didn’t.
Your hands went to his shirt instead, grabbing at the clean black fabric you’d been staring at all night, pulling him closer until his weight settled over you properly. He kissed you harder when you did, hips pressing down into yours with enough purpose to wipe the question clean out of your head for one stupid second.
Then another.
The couch dipped beneath you. His jacket came off somewhere between your fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and his mouth dragging down your jaw. Your dress rode higher under his hand.
He shifted over you, pressing his growing erection against your thigh, and your hand went straight to his belt.
Or tried to.
The angle was awful. His weight had you pinned to the couch, your wrist twisted awkwardly between your bodies, fingers slipping uselessly over the buckle while he kissed you like he had all night to watch you fail.
You made a frustrated sound into his mouth.
Simon finally reached down, covering your hand with his.
Still no words.
Just his fingers guiding yours to the clasp, slow enough to be cruel, steady enough to make your stomach flip all over again.
“Take them off,” you whispered.
“Not yet.”
He moved lower before you could argue, and suddenly your thighs were around his neck, his tongue delving deep into you like he’d been waiting all night for it.
“Oh…”
That was all you could let out as he moaned and lapped at your juices, soaking his face.
He pulled back to take a breath.
“Fuck, these panties were the best purchase I’ve ever made.”
You smiled, running your fingers over the short blond hair at the crown of his head.
“Don’t stop.”
He followed that instruction, keeping you there until you were shaking, whining at every stroke of his tongue.
If there was one thing this asshole was incredible at, it was making you jizz and squirt all over his perfect face.
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he said between breaths, looking up at you with those big brown eyes. You tugged at his hair, pulling him up before he could lower his mouth again.
Simon came willingly, crawling back over you with his shirt open and his mouth still wet, one hand braced beside your head while the other found your thigh.
Your dress was still bunched uselessly around your waist.
He looked down at it for half a second, then tugged it upward.
“Off,” he muttered.
You lifted your hips just enough to help him, and he dragged it up your body with none of the patience he’d had at dinner. The fabric caught briefly at your shoulders before he pulled it free and tossed it somewhere behind him.
Then his mouth was on yours again.
Hard.
Messy.
You tasted yourself on him — salt, heat, something faintly metallic and sweet — and it made your fingers tighten in his open shirt.
Simon made a low sound against your mouth, his hand moving to your chest like he was trying to decide which breast to give attention to first.
“They’re both so fucking nice.”
You answered with nothing but a soft moan.
You reached between you for his trousers.
The belt was already open, but the button fought you this time, your fingers clumsy from the rush of it, slipping once before you finally got it free.
Simon kissed you through it.
No words.
No room for them.
Just his weight over you, his shirt hanging open, your dress gone, his hand on you, and your fingers finally working his trousers loose.
The second his cock sprang free, he entered you with a deep, punishing thrust that made your eyes roll back.
You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, however unrealistic that might sound.
Each time he pounded into you, he removed one item of clothing he was still wearing, until there was nothing but skin against skin.
He kept going until you were a sobbing, panting mess.
“Simon!” you screamed as you reached the edge.
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t gloat. He just quickened the pace, determined to make you spray your sweet juices all over his living room.
He felt you come apart beneath him.
That was what did it.
Not the noise. Not the way your nails dug into his back. Not even the mess of it, though his breath caught hard when he realized exactly what he’d done to you.
It was the way you clung to him afterward.
Like you still wanted him closer.
Simon’s control faltered.
For the first time all night, the careful, composed thing he’d been wearing cracked completely. His pace turned rougher, less precise, his breath coming hard against your neck as his hand tightened at your hip.
You felt it happen. The shift. The loss of restraint.
Your fingers slid into the short hair at the back of his head, holding him there.
“Simon,” you breathed again, softer this time.
His whole body tensed over yours, warmth spilling deep inside you.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The flat was quiet except for both of you trying to breathe.
Simon stayed over you, heavy and warm, his face pressed into your neck like he wasn’t ready to look at you yet.
Which was fine.
You weren’t sure you were ready to look at him either.
Because the question was still there.
You finally caught your breath.
“…So.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Nothing?”
Simon went still.
Not much.
Just enough for you to feel it.
His breathing changed against your neck, and for one stupid second, you thought he might answer. Actually answer.
Then he pulled out.
The absence of him made you shiver.
He sat back on his heels, looking down at you, shirt open, chest flushed, mouth still swollen from kissing you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the mess of you beneath him, completely wrecked across his couch.
For half a second, he looked proud.
Then your question caught up with him.
The little curve of his mouth faded.
His jaw shifted.
You watched him close up in real time.
“Simon.”
He got up.
He pulled his trousers back into place, fastened his belt, and ran one hand over the short hair at the back of his head.
Then he walked toward the kitchen.
“Tea?”
You stared at the ceiling.
A laugh almost came out.
It didn’t.
Of course.
Of course he’d do that.
Leave the question sitting there between the couch cushions and go put the kettle on like he hadn’t just dodged the only part of the night that mattered.
Your throat tightened.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
In the kitchen, the kettle clicked on.
And the question stayed exactly where he’d left it.
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Deaf!Simon Riley and the vibrations of your voice (18+)
Simon Riley has been deaf for the past few years of his life due to sudden acoustic trauma from explosions and gunfire. He never had a problem with it, in fact, he never really talked or listened to people in general when he was able to hear. The tinnitus still rings out in his head, still makes him press his pillow against his ears at night, but at least he didn’t have to listen to anything else.
It wasn’t until you came along that he wished he could hear again, but something about the simple intimacy of feeling your voice rather than hearing it made him feel like this is how it was always meant to be for him.
He liked the fact that you would still speak to him as he reads your lips, that you didn’t shy away when he would occasionally reach up to touch your cheek just to feel the vibrations of your voice. Of course, you accommodated him as well, learning how to articulate your words better for lip reading, how to use sign language, but when he would ask you to speak about anything and everything you always did.
You never fail to make his world feel loud in a space that was so consumingly quiet before.
And when it came to sex, it was never anything short of passionate. It was a different kind of intimacy you had never experienced before him.
Your back is pressed against the sheets, Simon’s chest against yours, and his face is buried in your neck as he thrusts into you deep, and hard. His hips roll against yours, spreading your legs wider, stuffing your wet pussy full of his aching cock. Every single moan falling from your lips, every last babbled word you can get out as he fucks you dumb, he drinks it all in with his lips pressed to your throat to feel the vibrations flood through his body.
He is always particular about that, rightfully so, to the point where he’ll fuck you any way you want but he needs to feel you to cum. To feel your wet, warm walls wrapped tightly around him, clenching down on his length when his tip knocks against your cervix. To feel your cries of pleasure when he angles his hips just right to brush against your sweet spot.
Your fingers tangle in the hair at his nape, tugging slightly, earning a low groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Your nails rake down the rough skin of his back, leaving red, angry marks in your wake. Wrapping your legs around his waist, the new angle allows him to dig deeper, leaving you a moaning mess under him.
The skin of his abdomen glides on your clit, stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves when he thrusts in and grinds his cock on your cervix. Your nipples drag against his chest, hard and swollen, aching for his lips. You press soft kisses to his shoulder, biting ever so slightly and licking away the pain until it fades into pleasure again.
The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, stretching you, pleasuring you, all because of him. He fills you to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long, before pulling back out and doing it over and over again. Stars burst behind your eyelids when he zeros in on your sweet spot, his precision maddening, his consistent thrusts enough to bring you impossibly close to your climax.
He can feel you getting closer, can feel the frantic vibrations, can feel the way your heart speeds up when you squirm your hips under him to find more of the friction you so desperately crave. Simon gives into your body every single time, thrusting harder, pounding deeper, slamming his hips against your faster the more eager he grows to feel you cum on his cock.
Each thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs, leaving you gasping for air, each exhale turning into sounds of pleasure. His skin is warm and sweaty on yours, one hand gripping the fat of your hip, the other caging your head in, keeping you steady while he pounds into you relentlessly. His face stays buried in your neck, his lips trail up and down as he sucks and bites against the one spot he knows you like, and when your walls clamp down around him, he hits your sweet spot one more time and you’re cumming for him.
Moans rip free from your throat as your body grows rigid and your muscles draw taut underneath him. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his cock, dripping from his skin and making a mess on the sheets below. He groans, deep and low, rolling into you to drag out your high for as long as possible before he brings himself to that same sweet release.
He lifts his face from your neck, wrapping his hand around it instead, still allowing himself to feel the vibrations but settling on placing his lips against yours. Your lips move with his, finding his rhythm, moving in tandem the closer he gets and you continue to moan which he swallows greedily.
Only when your body twitches with overstimulation, only when your nails dig into the skin of his back, only then does he drive himself to the hilt and spill his seed. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out in continuous streams from his swollen, sensitive tip, hitting your cervix and leaking out around him when nothing else will fit.
His kiss turns slower while his movements come to a stop, swiping his tongue against your soft lips before pulling away with a wet pop, breaking the strings of saliva connecting the two of you. The sight of you so blissful underneath makes him feel like this is the prettiest you have ever been.
Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly, drool dripping from your chin, as whimpers and whines continue to fall the more you feel his cock twitch deep inside of you. You look so raw, so vulnerable, so his. His to please, his to love, his to cherish.
Your voice may belong to everyone else, but the vibrations of your body will always belong to him.
simon riley who won’t stop even when you’re writhing under him. he proudly eats pussy for the love of the game.
even after three orgasms in the span of thirty minutes, his tongue is still licking and lapping away at your precious cunt. knees trying to clench together while you’re shoving his head away.
simon riley who just tightens his grip on your thighs, grumbling under his breath.
a low “hol’ still, lovie. ‘m busy.” while he’s sucking your sensitive clit back into his mouth. you can’t stop the way your thighs tremble in his large hands.
scratches line his arms, your nails digging into his flesh with each pass of his tongue over your poor, sopping cunt.
“si, please. stop it. ‘s too much,” you whimper, still trying to get away.
he doesn’t care though, following you as your body contorts until you’re no longer on you back. instead, on your stomach and clawing at the sheets.
simon riley who crawls after you, only to tug your hips back.
“said ‘m busy,” he huffs. this time, he does pull away, but only long enough to glare at you.
“i can’t take anymore,” you whine, trying to catch your breath during his brief reprieve. simon eyes you closely, grip tightening on your thighs.
“no?” he hums, tilting his head.
“n-no,” you stumble, just as he starts tracing small circles over your clit. clamping down on your bottom lip, your hips lift in an attempt to chase his touch and your hand is flying out to tangle into his blonde hair.
“doesn’t seem like you can’t take anymore to me,” simon smirks. you whimper, face wet with fat tears when he lowers his mouth back onto your pussy.
you try to get away again, halfway off the bed when simon shifts into sniper mode. flat against the bed, simon grips your lower half, grinding his heavy cock into the mattress while keeping you in place as he continues his assault on your poor, sweet pussy.
"you've broken a lot of rules, price" because they're seeing the same girl and Simon was supposed to get Fridays but just found out Price has her stashed up north in a safe house of his
“possessive ghost” this and “possessive ghost” that. i think that man gets off when his partner is possessive. the idea that you want and crave him just kinda makes him lose it.
the way you’d kiss along the calloused and scarred lines that etch his skin and and mutter “mine”, breathy and hot each time, has him melting against you. he’s putty in your hands anytime you tell him exactly what you need. he’s always good to you, because he’s yours.
he could have you pinned under his weight, your ankles resting on his shoulders or your legs around his waist, but it’s only because he knows it’s what you want. his rough hands hold your hips as his slam against you so his cock can hit deeper with each thrust. he stretches you so deliciously, your slick walls hugging every inch of him as he ruts into you.
he’s worked up because you’re clawing at his skin, moaning in his ear, panting into the air about how much you need him; how no one can give you what he does; how his cock is yours and yours alone.
he’s never selfish and impatient during sex, your pleasure was always first and foremost. but when you’re pulling him closer and muttering in his ear—feels so fuckin’ good, si. fuckin’ me so good with that cock…s’all mine, isn’t it?—his resolve completely shatters. he can’t last long when you stake your claim on him like that. and he cums hard, groaning while his cock twitches as he fills you with his thick cum. he holds you tight, hissing through gritted teeth as your walls milk him for all he’s worth. yeah…all f’you. i’m all yours.
Just a little musing about death and rot, or: Ghost daydreams about your future.
I think Ghost really likes the fact that you’re going to die. Not today, probably not tomorrow and probably not by his hands unless you force him to it, but I think he likes to touch you and remember you’re a corpse in potentia. He’ll miss you when you go if you go before him, but he’ll die young himself and it’s nice to know you’ll be with him then, or join him there sooner rather than later later. Nothing lasts, that’s what he keeps telling himself about so many things. Life’s short. This too shall pass. Thank fuck.
I think he likes to pull your lips back, the way they’re going to pull back on their own and bare your teeth if you die in a dry place. Such a nice smile. I think he likes to run his hands over you, spread you open and find all the little points of entry for rot and maggots. He’s not much better than either, and he’s entered every orifice he can fit himself into.
I think he likes to drag the pad of his thumb over the inside of your cheeks, test the stretch, how easy it’d give way. So expressive for him, so soft. He tests your tongue with his fingers in your mouth, cramming it open, stretching the jawbone that’d break away so easy, making you drool and look up at him, waiting patiently for him to finish examining one of his many favourite cavities.
He knows your tongue tastes sweet and eventually so will some other lucky creature - a fox maybe, a rat, a dog... nice and tender. Good eating. Pretty eyes of a pretty bird, eventually becoming a part of another bird if you die close to nature. A raven might be a little too heavy handed to hope for, but maybe a crow or a magpie. Magpies are thieving birds with a rattle of a laugh of a call. White and black, his colours.
I think he likes to run his hands over your guts, press into them despite your bitching, thinking ahead to when you’ll bloat up with gasses, pregnant with your own death. Life, death, tomato, tomato. It doesn’t take a lot of rot to realise there’s no real line to be drawn between one state and the other. One eats the other. The first breath is just a countdown to the last, and air will still move through your ribs when you fall apart for the last time, and the next last time, and the next last time. Whistling through your ribcage.
He hopes you won’t be cremated. It’d be a waste to rush such a pretty thing. Hopes you won’t be buried, either, but if he’s still around the day that happens, he can always dig you up. Could be interesting, to bring his life back to the surface again but from the outside, next time.
And you are his life, which makes him almost hate you sometimes, because he didn’t want to be bound to the earth like that again. That’s why it’s such a comfort to know you won’t last.
coworker!simon riley who barely speaks to anyone but always seems to notice you. he leaves a black coffee on your desk every morning with no note, no eye contact, just a low grunt when you thank him. everyone thinks he’s cold. you’re starting to think he’s watching you more than he should.
coworker!simon riley who fixes your computer when it crashes during a deadline, sleeves rolled up, veins in his forearms flexing while he types. he’s so close you can smell his cologne mixed with gun oil. when you try to make small talk he just mutters “you’re not as useless as the rest of them.”
fwb!simon riley who corners you in the supply closet the second the floor clears for lunch. he yanks your skirt up, drops to his knees and eats you out like he’s starving — thick fingers curling deep while his tongue works your clit until your legs shake. then he spins you around, pulls his mask down just enough and fucks you hard against the shelves, one hand over your mouth so no one hears you moan.
coworker!simon riley who glares at the flirty account manager when he lingers too long at your desk. says nothing, but his jaw ticks under the mask. later that same day he texts you one word: “office?” and you already know what’s coming.
fwb!simon riley who fucks you bent over your own desk after everyone’s gone home. papers scattered everywhere, your computer still on, his thick cock stretching you open while he growls low in your ear, “been thinking about this tight cunt all fucking day, sweetheart.” he keeps one gloved hand over your mouth the whole time so the security cameras don’t catch your sounds.
coworker!simon riley who walks you to your car in the parking garage every night “because it’s on his way.” his hand brushes the small of your back when no one’s looking. you both pretend it means nothing.
fwb!simon riley who has you riding him in the driver’s seat of his truck in the underground garage, windows completely fogged up. he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding you up and down his cock while whispering filthy praise in that rough manchester accent, “that’s it… bounce on it just like that, filthy girl. take every inch.”
coworker!simon riley who still acts completely normal around the rest of the team — silent, brooding, professional. but the second the last person leaves, his eyes go dark and he’s already looking for the nearest locked door.
fwb!simon riley who fucks you slow and deep on the break room couch at 2am during a storm. emergency lights only. he’s got your legs over his shoulders, mask pulled down so you can see the scars and stubble while he stares straight into your eyes the entire time. he doesn’t pull out when he finishes — just stays buried inside you, breathing heavy against your neck like he never wants to leave.
coworker!simon riley who leaves hickeys on your inner thighs that you have to hide under your work pants the next morning. he catches you adjusting your clothes and the corner of his mouth twitches under the mask like he knows exactly what he did.
fwb!simon riley who sends you a text at 11pm during another overtime shift: “elevator. now.” when the doors close he’s on you instantly — pinning you against the wall, fingers inside you before you can even speak, growling “can’t fucking wait anymore.”
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.
Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.
“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”
You’re not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them. You had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.
It’s infuriating.
But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences.
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
—getting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says.
The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.
It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan fast before you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.
“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”
“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
“Yes or no, Sergeant?”
His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.
“…N-no, I—”
“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
It’s unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stop—,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhh—"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.—"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.
“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.
“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerk— hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your chest.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"—off," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-ungh—"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.
“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But there’s no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
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