“Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.”
Not ps! ghost but producer! price filming a stepdaddy vid with princess something something
price forces him to stand off to the side while he talks you through the scene. ghost has never had an issue with kink consults before but now it feels like price is just trying to push his buttons.
the man isn't doing more than explaining the safeguards that are in place for you and yet he keeps reaching out and touching you, moving you, positioning you with minute adjustments on the bed. its purposeful, directs your attention solely onto him, focuses you onto the manipulation of your body by price.
ghost can see it, the way you start to sink into the control of it, offer your hand for him to wrap a leather cuff around your wrist as he explains the weight of the buckle, counts the holes until he tightens it, low voice, constant tone. your eyelids lower a fraction and ghost is fuming.
"lines are easy sweetheart," Price murmurs, "only gotta remember two words." you nod your head, the motion lolling but earnest. price's fingers holding your chin, thumb tracing your lips, dipping between them to test the give of your tongue as soon as they part.
he holds you there, letting you react to the intrusion, and when you don't he smiles.
"you remember the words, don't you?" He hums. it doesnt matter if the words slur around his thumb, ghost hears the soft tone of your voice and knows he's not going to make it through the shoot.
Alternative Part five of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap, Ghost, Price, and Gaz, it's you.
They haul you out of the Konni’s cell feeling like you’d walked straight through a glitter cloud and breathed deep. Your chest feels fizzy like champagne bubbles under your ribs, like a shaken can of soda about to explode, your tongue two seconds faster than your brain. You sit, palms on your knees, determined to be normal. Spoiler: You weren’t.
“How we doin’ then, hen?” Soap asked, perching his ass right on the table like he’d shelled out for front-row seats to the world’s most awkward strip show. “Feelin’ alright? Need some water? A biscuit? Maybe a muzzle?”
You meant to say “I’m fine.” Truly. That’s all. Maybe add a shrug for effect. A sarcastic “living the dream” at worst.
But instead, what came out without your permission was “Sometimes I fantasize about you on your knees with Ghost’s cock in your mouth, gaggin you, tears streaming down your face, loving every second while you slurp it like it’s the last lollipop on Earth.”
Silence crashed in like a tidal wave of “what the actual fuck.”.
Soap made a noise like a tea kettle. Ghost’s head turned one centimeter, slow as syrup. Gaz’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Price blinked like a Windows update just started behind his eyelids without consent.
Your hands flew to your mouth like you could retroactively stuff the words back in. “I- shit- oh my god, no-! Fuck! I didn’t mean to say that out loud, I meant- I do mean it, that’s the problem- ”
Price’s voice went captain calm. “Compound strips away your filter, love, but not your smarts. We’ll stick to clinical questions from here on out.”
“Copy,” Soap lied immediately through his perfect teeth, not missing a beat. “Clinically speaking, do I look hot as fuck in this fantasy of yours?”
Your traitorous mouth, now fully in the driver’s seat, spoke without your permission: “Abso-fucking-lutely devastating. Spit dribbling down your chin like you’ve been deepthroating a firehose. You get all cocky, trying to tease with your tongue, and he just grabs a fistful of your mohawk, shoves you down that extra inch till your nose is buried in his pubes, and growls, ‘Be useful, you mouthy little slut.’”
Ghost’s eyes flickered, sharp, predatory, and way too intrigued. “Specific.”
“I read,” you blurted. “A lot of smutty fanfics. And now I think about it more than I should. You holding his hips. Him making those low little grunts, gagging just a bit- ”
“Fucking hell,” Soap whispered, dazed.
Ghost turned his head slowly toward Soap. “You gag?”
“Shut up,” Soap hissed, ears going red, while Gaz slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a cackle, shoulders shaking.
“Okay,” you said brightly, lying to God. “I’m fine. I can be fine. We can proceed like adults.”
Soap, already vibrating like a horny chihuahua, leaned forward. “Any other…clinically relevant scenarios rattlin’ around in that filthy mind of yours?
“No,” you snap, turning away from all of them, fully intending to face the corner like a child being punished, but your mouth had other plans. “Sometimes I pretend you’re all Barbies. Not the girl ones. Like…you’re my boy Barbies and I make you kiss. Price and Ghost. Soap and Gaz. Ghost and Soap. Gaz and Price. Ghost and Gaz. Sometimes all four of you together.”
Price choke. “You fantasize about us kissing?”
You nodded, miserable. “It’s a whole thing. In the shower. Or sometimes in the gym. Sometimes I imagine you in the ops theater chair, legs spread, shirt sleeves rolled, and Gaz on his knees between them while you read an after action report out loud and say ‘mmh’ like you’re grading coursework.”
Gaz dropped his forehead to the doorframe, laughing. “An oral exam. Mate, I’d ace that shit with extra credit.”
Price turned the exact color of a hard stop sign and still somehow kept his dignity. “That would be a misuse of the facility.”
“In my head it’s… efficient,” you squeaked. “Multitasking at its finest: briefing and boning.”
Ghost, deadpan, asked: “Document more efficiencies.”
You stared at the floor like it might swallow you whole. “Sometimes I imagine Ghost and Gaz in the gym’s back corner pretending to spot each other while the bar never actually moves cause Gaz it too busy grinding in his lap and Gaz says, ‘Good form, lieutenant,’ and Ghost says nothing, just ruts up against him, and then Gaz shuts up for the first time in his life when he feels Ghost’s monster cock under his shorts.”
Gaz’s hand slid over his own mouth like he was test fitting the fantasy. “Shit, I could be persuaded. Sounds like a solid workout.”
Soap kicked his heels. “Put me in, coach.”
“No,” you said at once, which meant yes. “You and Price in the copy room,” you continued helplessly. “Projector humming. Paper warm from the tray. You mouthing off, and he turns you, palms to the machine, murmurs, ‘Hands flat,’ and you listen for once in your life, and he bends you over and rails you from behind till you’re moaning louder than the copier- oh my god I need to die now.”
Soap looked personally blessed. “My two genders: submissive and stapled.”
Price rubbed his temple like he was warding off a migraine from hell. “Operational boundaries.”
Ghost’s head tilted. “And you? Where’re you in all this, love?”
Your heart jackhammered like it was trying to escape your chest and make a break for the nearest exit. Oh fuck, no. Not this. Not the grand finale of your personal spank bank symphony.
You slapped a hand over your mouth so hard it stung, fingers digging into your cheeks like it could physically weld your mouth shut.
Hold it in. Just. Hold. It. In.
You bit down on your tongue, squeezed your eyes closed, and willed the serum to fuck off for five goddamn minutes.
But nope. The truth bubbled up like acid reflex from hell, building pressure in your throat until it actually hurt, a sharp, twisted ache in your gut like you’d swallowed a live grenade.
You face contorted, sweat beading on your forehead, and you whimpered through your fingers, shaking your head wildly.
The guys exchanged glances. Soaped leaned in with that shit eating grin, Gaz propped himself against the door like he was settling in for premium cable, Price folded his arms with a mix of concern and curiosity, and Ghost watched like a predator scenting blood.
You lasted maybe ten seconds before the dam burst, the words exploding out in a frantic, mortified torrent: “I’m right in the middle of it, you assholes- oh god, please shoot me. Sometimes I imagine the four of you turning me into a human kebab in the war room at 0300, Ghost pinning me face down on the table, mask hiked up enough to bite my shoulder while he slams into me from behind, his cock stretching me till I’m seeing stars and begging for a mercy I don’t really want.”
You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, the words coming out faster now. “Soap under me, grinning like a maniac as he thrusts up into my cunt, hands groping my tits and pinching my nipples till they’re raw, whispering in Gaelic how tight I am.”
You paused long enough to take a breath, dizzy. “Gaz is at my head, feeding me his dick inch by inch, making me choke on it while he strokes my head and calls me a good girl.”
You can’t even look at any of them now. “Price is orchestrating the whole thing like it’s an op, circling us, barking orders, telling Ghost to go deeper, Soap to make me scream, Gaz to hold me steady. Then Price finally joins in, pushing his thick cock in right next to Ghost and Soap, making me cum so hard I black out. Everyone swapping holes like it’s musical chairs, cum dripping everywhere, me a sweaty moaning mess in the center, loving every degrading, delicious second of being your shared fucktoy.”
The room went silent, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and your own ragged panting.
Soap’s jaw hit the floor, his eyes wide as saucers and a visible tent forming in his pants. Gaz let out a low, appreciative whistle, adjusting himself not so subtly against the door. Price cleared his throat three times, face flushing like he’d chugged hot sauce, but his eyes went dark and hungry. Ghost didn’t move a muscle, but you swore you saw his gloves flex, like he was imagining gripping your hips right then and there.
You collapsed back in your chair, covering your face with both hands, dying a thousand deaths. “I… I need a new identity. Witness protection. From myself.”
Soap recovered first, fanning himself dramatically. “Hen, if that’s yer idea of a team building exercise, sign me the fuck up. When do we start?”
Price shot him a glare that could melt steel. “MacTavish, zip it before I make you.” But even he couldn’t hide the way his voice had dropped an octave, rough around the edges.
Gaz chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Best debrief ever. ”
Ghost’s voice cut through, silk smooth and deadly, “Detailed logistics. Impressive.” He paused, then added, “Feasible.”
You peeked through your fingers, horrified and horny in equal measure. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to- I meant it, I just didn’t- I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“Noted,” Price said, dry as sand. “No one breathe a word of this.”
Soap crossed his heart. “Promise” (It sounded like a lie.)
Gaz beamed. “We are honored hypotheticals.”
Ghost inclined his head. “And apparently efficient.”
You put your head in your hands with trembling dignity. “I’m okay.”
Soap couldn’t help himself. “You sure? You look a bit… fizzed.”
You took a breath. You tried a normal sentence. “My chest feels- ”
“ -like the four of you should make out,” your mouth finished, cheerfully suicidal.
nobody tells you this bc it’s stupid but the best thing to do while on your period is play the sims 4 on a laptop in bed. not only is the sims 4 more fun when you’re emotionally disregulated but the processing power required for the worlds least optimized & shittiest video game of all time will cause your laptop to actively try to kill itself and depending on your position while playing the 3000 degree nuclear meltdown occurring in your lap makes a wonderful natural heating pad. Pro gamer tip
he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.
just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.
“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”
you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.
“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.
he finally lifts his gaze.
smirks.
“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”
you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.
he scoffs.
“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”
you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.
“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”
you stare. breath caught in your chest.
he grins wider.
“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”
his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.
“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”
you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—
low and amused and absolutely depraved.
“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”
simon “ghost” riley is so fucking blunt with his words
you’re not even trying to be sexy. just sat on his couch in that worn old tank top, the one with the frayed strap and no bra underneath. your legs are curled under you, hair damp from the shower, picking at your nails and talking about some show you half-watched.
he’s not listening.
"y’re tits sit nice in that top f’yours," he says, eyes on the tv. voice low, almost lazy, like he’s commenting on the weather.
you blink at him. "what?"
"didn’t stutter, love," he says, finally turning to look. eyes dragging down your chest, slow and shameless. “reckon you wear shit like that on purpose.”
your face goes hot but he just huffs a laugh through his nose, leans back further. spreads his thighs a little wider like he’s settling in.
“saw a porno the other day. girl looked like you. sweet thing, bit mouthy. got fucked face-down in a stairwell.” he pauses. shrugs. “thought of ya.”
your jaw drops.
“what?” he says, tilting his head. “should be flattered. ain’t every day i get off twice to the same fuckin’ video.”
he grins when you throw a pillow at him. catches it. holds it in his lap.
"gonna keep wearin' that top, or y’gonna come sit here and gimme a better fuckin’ view?"
“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.
——————-
the headache you wake with is devastating.
biblically so.
and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.
and fuck, suffering you are.
you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.
practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.
wait - practically? no. you did.
you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.
“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
fuck sakes.
you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.
and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.
“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.
his dog tags.
you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.
a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.
you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.
spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.
it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?
fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.
and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.
finally, you knock.
it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.
you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.
you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”
he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.
you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.
you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”
his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.
“did i?” he doesn’t move.
you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.
“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”
he still doesn’t take them.
“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”
your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”
he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”
you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.
“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.
“i-“
you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.
simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.
you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”
“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”
and there it is. here it comes.
“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”
“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.
you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.
when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”
your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.
“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”
“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”
oh god.
“shame?”
“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”
“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“
he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”
“walk me-“
earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”
“you don’t-you don’t have to-“
he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.
“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”
you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.
part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.
“look, simon-“
he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”
you blink, holding your breath.
“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”
fucking hell.
“yes.” you exhale.
“what was it.”
your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.
“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”
“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”
your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.
“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.
and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.
he doesn’t buy it.
“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”
christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.
this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.
“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”
“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”
you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”
“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”
“simon-“
he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”
it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.
clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.
“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”
it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.
“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”
his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.
his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—
“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”
your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.
“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“
“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”
you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.
“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”
“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”
something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.
“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”
his mouth is barely a breath from yours.
“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”
he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.
“fuckin hell.”
and then he’s kissing you.
no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.
“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.
you blink, dazed. “i-what?”
his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.
“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”
“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“
that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.
“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”
you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.
“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”
you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”
he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.
you fucking moan at the sight.
and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.
he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.
“oh, fuck-“
he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”
his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.
“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”
you’re panting now. shaking.
“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“
“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”
you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.
“tell me.”
“no-n-never like this—”
he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”
your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.
“simon-“ you whinge.
he cuts you off. “look at me.”
you do. barely.
“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”
you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.
it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.
“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”
you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”
you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.
when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.
“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”
you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.
the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“
he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”
you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.
you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.
“y’remember what else y’said last night?”
you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.
“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”
you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.
“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”
and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.
“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.
“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”
he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.
“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“
“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”
he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.
“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”
“fuck simon-“
“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”
it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.
it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.
he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.
“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”
he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.
you shriek, squirming with no where to go.
“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”
your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.
“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”
“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“
you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.
“mhm. messy little thing.”
he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.
“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”
you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.
“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”
“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“
“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”
you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.
“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”
another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“
“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”
a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—
“fuck—fuck.”
he lets go.
he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.
and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.
he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.
“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
Soap is that one GymBro™ that is respected by all because he outlifts nearly everyone at everything, but somehow also stays incredibly humble about it. “Oh that? Nah, you could totally do that too,” he says to a guy half his size, holding a 2kg dumbbell and vibrating with fear.
Basically lives in the gym. Goes whenever there’s a gap in his schedule. Runs a surprisingly balanced split (he took gym advice from a Reddit thread in 2014 and now quotes it like it’s the Bible). Cardio? Handled during drills and chasing down targets. The walk from the locker room to the squat rack is plenty.
Everyone likes him because he talks to everyone. Literally. You. The guy hogging the bench. The janitor. The vending machine. Every gym session starts with a cheerful, “Hey, mate, how many sets you got left?” and ends with a full-blown conversation about the newest pre-workout trends or the crushing weight of modern masculinity.
Gaz is the other GymBro™ and also hits the gym whenever there’s a spare moment, but unlike Soap, he’s usually there in the early morning because it helps him clear his head and start the day right. Probably did track or cross-country as a kid, so he actually likes cardio. Takes it very seriously, too. “You do realize your heart’s a muscle too, yeah? Gotta train it like the rest,” he says, likely even mid-sprint.
Also probably the only one out of the four who goes to the gym because his body is a temple, not because he’s battling a whole army of inner demons.
Friendly, but keeps to himself at the gym. Headphones in, locked in, not trying to bother anyone. But if your form is truly a disaster, he’ll absolutely say something.
Once accidentally signed up for a spin class. Secretly loved it. Now he goes twice a week for the white-girl music. Not like he would tell anyone, though.
Ghost definitely does some sort of hybrid training. Probably boxing, or Muay Thai. Scarily good at it. Like used to compete in high school good. These days, he just keeps it up to stay in shape. Only ever shows up late at night, when the gym is half-empty and dimly lit. Price jokingly calls it his natural habitat.
Definitely fighting some inner demons. Also the only person who can outlift Soap. Occasionally brags.
Not a big coffee lover, but absolutely has a caffeine addiction. Mainlines Monster White like it’s a medical requirement. Gaz is lowkey concerned but stays quiet.
Wears a black hoodie and joggers every single time with the hood up, of course. Never chats. Never smiles. People are lowkey terrified of him on sight, but mostly because between sets, he zones out so hard he ends up staring into the void.
Probably a phonk-enjoyer. Or Britney Spears.
Price either hits the gym at the crack of dawn or well into the late evening, thanks to his nightmare of a schedule. Usually catches Gaz on his way out or Ghost mid-brood. If he shows up at night, he’ll stay even longer than Ghost.
Very solid split. Great all-rounder. Can crank out weighted pull-ups like it’s nothing and is the only one who actually takes stretching seriously. Does a lot of functional training too, like sled pushes and weighted carries.
Would actually be a phenomenal spotter… if he didn’t only show up when the gym is basically empty.
Does not listen to music. The haunting loop of “you should be doing more” on repeat is enough for him. Probably knocks out an entire set in silence, then just stares at the floor like it said something offensive.
Apart from trying to hit his protein goals the “natural” way, he owns exactly one shaker bottle. It’s survived three deployments and a house fire.
Can casually do pistol squats, but will only do it if practically bullied into it by the others.
Oh, and he's definitely the only one who actually wipes the bench after using it.
one step short of crazy @lattemorgan - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
janainaart
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
theartofmadeline
jacobvanloon
