Soap who fucks you like you're gonna leave him if he doesn't.
He's a whore, wanting to grind his cock as deep as he can while fucking you into the mattress, making you scream and try to crawl away from the overwhelming pleasure.
You feel like you're dying from how good it feels, the hard, slow thrusts driving you crazy. You can't do anything but moan, thighs useless and limp, the bed creaking and groaning under you.
Your hand fists the sheets, tears ruining your makeup, throat hoarse from screaming his name as he continuously ravages your insides.
You've cum like what, 4 times already? Your pussy is raw, aching, taking pounding after pounding, your cervix is ruined, toes curled and then you feel his rough hand shove your face into the sheets.
Which makes you clench. Such a slut he is.
You can't help but pass out after the 5th orgasm is pulled out of you.
Once Soap is done with you he holds you close, smirking as he feels you whine and twitch as his softening cock presses against your lower back.
CWs: smut, pwp, surreptitiously getting the cherry popped. simon is is a little shit here lol you're worse
wc: 6.3k
Inspired by the gorgeous @/rememberwren's Threshold, which is one of my favourite fics ever.
CoD Masterlist | Masterlist 🦊
The weather outside is frigid, and the HQ is almost empty, aside from a few who are stuck inside due to never-ending shifts.
The city at the horizon glistens in snow, glitters with festivities. Although the gorgeous view is a welcome sight, the mood is overall sour, as most of the soldiers would rather be home on Christmas Eve.
But Simon’s got nowhere to go, and apparently neither do you. For now, you’re both content with the spot you’ve secured in the rec room for the remainder of the evening. The fanciest of the seats. The softest ones, with the tanned leather intact and the cushions still plush.
You look awfully relaxed, slumped back on the loveseat while sipping on your beer, with your eyes lazily roaming the ceiling. Christmas sounds like it’s going to be boring, uneventful, and quiet, and Simon cannot wait for it to roll around exactly like that—
“We should fuck, Riley,” you say. “To kill some time.”
He chokes on his beer. The can creaks under his fingers, bends. To hide the pitiful coughs and save his face, he pulls the balaclava over his mouth.
Your statement is clinical, as if you’re listing the tactical equipment needed for the next op. Plate carriers, chest rigs, back panels, a fuck to kill some time, thigh holsters, magazine pouches.
“’Scuse me?”
You roll your head idly, turning your focus to him. You’ve got a dullness in your eyes, that hazy veil of alcohol and boredom, but somehow you still manage to slither under his mask. Your thumb draws slow lines on the condensation built on your can of beer, the corners of your lips quirk boldly—satisfied, in a way, to have left him speechless.
“Sometimes, two consenting adults can find ways to be close to one another in order to share—”
“Yeah, I got tha’,” he blurts, suddenly irritated. Then, with a resigned sigh, “Fuckin’ hell yer definitely somethin’.”
You snort. "Ah, ya love it."
Three divots indent the can of beer, welcoming his fingers, still contracted enough to push into the tin. His eyes turn ahead, staring at a crack in the wall.
“So?”
“Can’t believe yer even askin’.”
You chuckle. “Oh piss off, you’re a grown man—”
“Not bitin’.”
“Just see it as a Christmas celebration.”
“Fuckin’ hell—”
“A feast.”
“Oi. Pack it in, will ya?”
You bite down a smile. “You can keep the mask on.”
Fuck’s sake.
There is a plethora of reasons why he should tell you no, starting from mere regulations—but he’s broken plenty of those plenty of times, hence they weigh very little on his decision. He does, however, still care about harmony in the team, and while you might not be directly involved in it, you still have your own role in the task force.
On the other hand, he’s bored, and you’re hot. If he had a third hand, he’d add that the thought of fucking you stupid came to mind a couple of times. Maybe three, or four, or five—
And isn’t he just a man—even if dead inside and whatnot?
It’s fucking Christmas after all, for fuck’s sake.
“My room, 22 hundred.” He orders as he stands. A long finger points your way. “Not a fuckin’ second late, y’ hear?”
Your smile is surprised, genuine, and he swears, almost quivering.
“Yes, sir.”
Ah, now he’s heard that plenty.
Always yes, sir, always bowing your head, lending a hand. A pawn in a game whose work turned undeniably inestimable, and now you bear the crown—queen of the chessboard. You’re always clad in that perfect uniform, steamed flat with no wrinkles in sight. Always with your straight back, with your hand palming your knuckles behind your back.
But fuck him—he’s never thought he’d get the chance to see you like this.
Skin of velvet, sweat embroidered like pearls. If he touches your chest, right there in between your breasts, he’d feel your heartbeat. Thunderous, crazed.
And what strikes him is that he can. He can touch you, he can explore you, and you’d let him—perhaps you’d even enjoy it, judging by how much you’re enjoying everything else about him, fuck if he knows why.
Undeterred by the battlefield on his body, thighs spread like butter, open wide to welcome the girth of his hips. Your palm finds his stomach for balance, as his own finds your breast. He thumbs your nipple, watches you drag your slit along his shaft, flattened to his belly. Pearls of precum bead the crown of his cock—it weeps for you, waits to have you.
How long has he waited? Weeks, months. He’s watched you march across HQ with a confidence about you, enough to make heads turn—or at least, his sure did.
Every. Fucking. Time.
From the moment Price introduced you, you had him smitten. How you stared into his eyes, burning holes into the hollows of his mask—the fear he was so used to seeing billow from others, completely torn asunder within you. Not even the hard shell of that skull could keep you out: you had him on his knees from the first word you spoke, from the first yes, sir.
Metaphorically, sure.
Physically, too, since he found himself fisting his cock at the thought of you mere hours later. An orgasm so strong it knocked him off his feet, ropes of cum painting the toilet seat of the bathroom where he hid.
Fucking hell, he didn’t know he still had it in him.
It’s the confidence, he thinks. How you never cower, how you meet the harsh looks of less talented peers with sharp eyes and just a hint of a cheeky smirk—I did it, you fucking cunts. Those who think they deserve your spot in one of the most elite task forces in the bloody army just because they have a cock and you don’t.
Or maybe it’s your voice. Steady, charged, roaring like thunder. Orders, answers, remarks. Wit sharp enough to cut. Cut him you do, because there are times in which he’s the one rendered speechless, when he’s so used to it being the other way around.
It’s how you got him here, that tongue of yours.
He wonders what it can do also. What else do you have in store?
It’s the mystery shrouding you. A girl from a small town of a handful of souls, charging like a mad horse through ranks and throngs of men, until she’s finally seen and her work appreciated.
It’s the stubbornness, maybe. What brought you here, in Hereford, being heard without the need of raising your voice. Fighting smarter, rising higher.
Straddling his hips, cheeks puffed, shaky limbs.
Where’s that confidence gone now, uh? Where’s that voice of yours?
Not even a mewl, a cry. Quiet like the dead, breathless like one too.
Your nipple turns puffy the more he rolls it between his fingers. Pinching, pulling, thinking how good it would taste if he were to bite it. Gently, just a graze of his teeth—watch you squirm and pant. Maybe it’s what you need, a little push to make you speak. Would you beg? Would you ask, kindly? Or would you match the same fire—bite harder, enough to draw blood?
God, the possibilities of you.
Doe eyes stare at the head of his cock and widen each time it disappears between the folds of your cunt. You’re so wet that you’re dripping on him, biting down your lip whenever the strokes catch your clit.
And if you keep stroking yourself like that, he’s surely going to cum on his stomach before the fun even begins. While the view is different from the usual one, definitely more pleasing, it’s a fuck you offered and a fuck he’s accepted to have.
Lord help him if he’s not getting one.
“Gonna keep yer word?” He drawls.
Wide eyes snap to him. It’s like he brought you back to this world while you were lost in another one.
You cock your head. “Got somewhere to be?”
Ah, there’s that tongue.
He’s got one too.
“Got someone to fuck.”
You stiffen, back straighter and hips stalling. It’s just a second in which he sees you wither, and it feels like his own chest might cave in. But before you can make him interject, you’re lifting yourself off of him and gliding your hand around his cock.
Simon’s head collapses on the pillow as his lips give in to a breathless fuck.
"Arrogant as usual, I see," you snark. "Didn’t know we were in a rush."
He blinks his eyes open.
That cheek of yours is often welcome, but right now all his blood is collected down below, and his head is not in the best state. All he wants is to get his cock wet as you offered—call it a primordial need, awakening the most embarrassingly prehistoric chunk of his brain.
His hand curls around your wrist and snatches it away from him.
“Be good and let me do my thing, now.”
You’re wide-eyed and speechless again. Simon doesn’t know if he likes you more when you’ve got that bite, or when you lack one—you sure are a sight like this, though.
You gulp. “Yes, sir.”
Fucking hell.
His nostrils flare, cock twitching against his stomach. The head bobs, trying to get your attention, but he has it directed to his face instead. Piercing inside the eyehole of his mask, as if you could see his expression underneath.
He softens it just in case, but your active compliance and that sweet, sweet Yes, sir, have him fighting to keep his eye from twitching and his cock from coming.
He breathes. Guides your hand to rest on his belly again. Then, his own travels downwards, until the tips of his fingers skim the knot of your clit.
And God, don’t they glide smoothly.
You’re so wet that it has Simon bite down on his cheek. The moan catching down your throat and the muscles tightening your stomach are what does him in, iron flooding his tongue.
He draws slow circles around your clit, teasing its hood instead of directly touching it to avoid overstimulation. As much as he wants to see you mewl and keen above him, you already look way too agitated, and his current goal isn’t to make you cum, but to make you relax.
“Yer a good listener, righ’?” He rasps. “Know y’are. Seen ya out there.”
Your head bobs in a nod, jaw slack and eyes hooded.
“Words, pet.”
“Mh—” You gulp. “Yes.”
Simon’s lips twitch. “Yes, what?”
Between pants, you murmur it—fucking sweet.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck—” He curses himself—not you, never you. Not when you look like this. “That’s it. Listen to me.”
Two fingers line your slit, leaving your clit unattended. Downwards, they find your hole. The tip of his middle finger circles it, and when he prods inside, he can feel you pulse around it.
“Relax,” he breathes. “Take it easy. We’ll do it like ye said—no rush.”
But when he tries to stick two of them inside, you lift your hips away.
And fucking Christ, are you hard to read.
“Alrigh’?” He asks with a sigh.
You look like he’s caught you red-handed doing something illegal. Your mouth parts to speak, but for the first few tries, it babbles nothing but heavy breaths.
“Yeah—yeah, I am,” you clear your throat. “Why?”
Now that’s a weird fucking question, if you ask him.
“Yer runnin’ away,” he states flatly. “That’s why. If you want me t’ stop, say so.”
You stiffen, there.
“No, no—” Out of breath. “God no—I asked this, for fuck’s sake. I want it. I do.”
Simon is glad you offered to let him keep the mask on, because he cannot, for the life of him, control the baffled expression on his face.
“Don’t look like it, love.”
You puff. “I do. I just,” you rub your chest in discomfort. “Wasn’t expecting your fingers is all.”
He cocks his brow. “No fingers, then?”
“No, I mean—”
“You were the one moanin’ we were rushin’,” he says. “Figured I’d put you in a good mood so you’d stop whinin’.”
You splutter. “Put me in a good mood?!”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuckin’ hell—it’s a figure o’ speech.”
“Oh wow, didn’t know you were a poet, Riley. Forgive me—”
Ah, bite him. Keep fucking biting and he’ll bite you too.
“You wanna fuck or not?” He interrupts.
Your mouth closes, and you sigh. “Yes.”
“Then do as I say an’ shut it,” he bites. Will you?
You gulp, searching his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
No. You won’t. Uncharacteristic of you, in a way that has his stomach drop. Though he catches it easily, because when you say those words so pliantly he forgets how to use his own head to think.
His hand settles on the crease of your hips and guides you down. The tips of his fingers prod against your entrance again, as you lay your weight on the top of his thighs.
“Sink on ‘em,” he murmurs. “Go on.”
Your breathing trembles, but you follow his order and slide down until he’s got two of them wrapped to the first knuckle. And fucking hell, you’re tight.
“Relax, pet,” he whispers. “S’gotta feel good, alrigh’? Not gonna hurt ya, jus’ need to stretch ya out.”
You nod dumbly, closing your eyes and exhaling, taking another knuckle of him. You’re scorching hot, and Simon salivates at the thought of having his cock in there, later.
And you keep going, down and down, until he’s got his palm flattened to your pussy. You’re still stiff around him, but he blames it on the fact that you two have just finished quarrelling like an old couple, and that isn’t exactly the nicest flavour of foreplay.
He helps.
His fingers move gently at first, pressing against the front of your walls. He watches you squirm and then soften when he does it a second time. Then a third has you choke on a cry, a fourth has you keel over him, holding yourself up with your hands on his chest.
Bent over like that, eventually your hips start grinding on his palm, and your breathing stutters whenever your clit rubs against the heel of his hand.
“There we go,” he murmurs, throat dry. “That’s it. Knew y’could listen.”
His cock twitches on his stomach for each breathy moan you allow to escape. You sound so unbelievably broken that he wonders what you’ll do when he’s fucking that attitude out of you, even if it’s nowhere to be seen now.
He knows it’s there. He’d bet his fucking left kidney on it making an appearance in a handful of minutes.
His hand is soaked. He keeps his eyes on the bounce of your tits as he grinds his teeth to dust to stave off an orgasm that might as well hit him with just a glance to your face, pent up as he is.
Your movements become more erratic. His forearm is sore and tired of holding you up, but he’ll be damned if he loses sight of your orgasm just as it’s about to strike.
“Fuck—fuck,” you pant, squeezing your eyes closed.
Simon bites down on his tongue.
“Atta girl,” he drawls slowly. “Go on—follow tha’.”
“Shit,” you heave, right before he watches you shatter.
You collapse on him, sandwiching his cock between your stomach and his. Your face is nestled in the crook of his neck, and the only thing Simon can see like this is the delicious curve of your spine tipping at your ass, as your hips roll to chase his hand.
Granted, it’s a hassle to keep it in place, so instead, he pulls out of you and lets his fingers glide over your clit to prolong your ecstasy.
With your face so close, he can hear every pitch of your voice. When it rises and when it catches in your throat. He can feel every time you choke on a breath and every damp puff you release on the bare skin of his neck.
Fucking hell.
His hands find your hips. A yelp is all you manage before he has you on your back, the breadth of him snug between your thighs. His cock slides smoothly between your folds, and because he wants to hear more of that voice, he snakes his thumb to your clit.
It still throbs under the pad of his finger.
You go rigid beneath him, neck corded and teeth bared. He hears you, finally. Not those little mewls or choked-up breaths. You crack a loud groan that bullies itself inside his head and settles there, perpetually etched.
He travels lower, gently wrapping his fingers around his cock to prep it for you, using the wetness soaking his palm. You look fucked out already, fluttering lashes and spit-slick lips.
He finds his fingers properly fisting the pillow next to your head to keep himself sane.
“Now tha’ wasn’t hard, was it?” He quips.
“Fuck,” a pant. “Off.”
Ah, his left kidney is safe.
Simon slaps your clit a few times with the head of his cock in retaliation, pleased to see the twitch of your eye for each hit, before aligning himself with you.
“Mh,” he chuckles lowly. “I like it when ya bite.”
Your hands tremble as they grip his shoulders, but the sudden warmth enveloping him is enough to turn his thoughts into syrup and briefly forget about it.
“Nice an’ easy,” he croaks, mostly to you but also to himself. Then, breathlessly, “Fuck, yer wet.”
It’s been a while—months, maybe, in which the only warmth that’s ever held him was the callous one of his hands. And sure, his memories of a good fuck might be murky, but he doesn’t remember it being so breathtakingly tight.
And to think he did all that just to turn you softer.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” he cracks. His forehead drops to the slope of your neck, the fabric of the balaclava absorbing the dampness collected there. “Yer tight, princess—”
“Don’t—” You choke, sounding like you haven’t been breathing right. “Don’t call me that.”
Simon would laugh and remark about it. He’d definitely call you princess again, just to get a rise out of you—see that fire he’s so used to. That defiance he swears by.
But he’s drunk already. Doesn’t think he can quite follow through with his plan on having the spitfire ride him until dawn—he’s lucky if he lasts a couple minutes more, with how bloody tight you’re squeezing him.
“Can ya relax, pet?” He huffs, sliding another inch inside.
Your reply is not made of words, but instead it translates into your pussy tightening even more. This time, it’s no pleasure at all—it’s actually hurting him too, but he bets it might be even worse for you, so he tries to be accommodating even though it feels like you’re going to melt the skin off his cock.
“Need you to—Jesus,” he huffs. “Need ya to open up. Tell me what ya need—”
Your breath is shallow, and he can taste each stutter when he nuzzles your neck. Then, his mouth finds your ear, sighs heavily against it as he dreams of having a taste, but he’s got the mask in the way.
“Need feedback, sarge,” he whispers. “Gotta give me somethin’ t’ work with.”
“Jesusfuckingchristfuck—” curses tumble under your breath, irked and winded. “Right. Right. Okay. Yes. Like that. Just—sl-slower.”
Definitely not the feedback he was expecting, but feedback, nonetheless. Still, a somewhat concerning one, so he lifts his head to meet your face. He finds you crisscrossed with wrinkles: the curl of your nose, the divot between your brows, your mouth tightened in a knot.
“Fuck, you alrigh’?” He feels compelled to ask again. This time, there’s less frustration in it and more of a genuine concern.
Your eyes blink open. They worry, in a way he can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s like he’s breached a space that’s been exclusively yours for a long time. He knows that feeling.
He’s not the only one sauntering around base with a mask, apparently.
And as you saw right through his, that first day, he’s seeing right through yours now, for the first time. He’s known you for a bloody long time, and he’s seeing it only now for the first fucking time.
Everything clicks, slowly, and the concern progressively growing on your face is the last missing piece of the puzzle you’ve been all night.
“Listen,” he heaves, gulping down a stone in his throat. All his strength now focuses on keeping his voice as gentle as a bastard like him can manage. “Are ya—is this—”
The mask cracks, lashes fluttering anxiously. Then, it hardens again. The frown he's so used to see, the stern line of your lips. Anger blossoms—a veil to hide the apprehension lying underneath.
“Oh, fucking hell—” You groan and push him off of you.
He watches you wither as you clam up on his bed, bringing your knees to your chest and burying your face in there—a wall he's not sure how to climb.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Really quiet. That silence that strangles windpipes and crushes down chests. Simon is usually a lover of those; he thrives in that environment, but he’d hate for them to shatter you.
He thought you unbreakable, and he wants to keep it that way.
He sits up, throwing his legs off the bed. The sharp inhale you take has him wondering if you’re worried he’ll leave. He’s pondered it for a second, sure, but just because you’re wrapped in a cocoon of your own, and maybe you need space to metabolise the events. Plus, he really isn’t the best fit for situations like these, since he can barely deal with his own feelings—doesn’t know how to put up with other people’s, too.
He never even bothered learning, before today.
But then he’s reminded that this is his room. And there’s an annoying hunch inside his chest hooking at his ribs, telling him that he couldn’t leave you like this if he tried.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he sighs, thumbing the middle of his brow through the mask. “Ya could’ve told me, I woulda—”
“You’d what,” you snap, lifting your head.
He tongues his cheek. Decides that facing fire with fire, tonight, wouldn’t lead to the best outcome.
“—been gentler,” he finishes.
You snort in a self-deprecating way that could rival his own.
“Oh, fuck off, Riley,” you sniffle. “You wouldn’t be here at all if I told you, that’s what.”
Your eyes dart around the room, trying to fixate on something that isn’t his face and his nakedness, or yours.
“How would I even ask something like that, uh?” You scoff. “Hi lieutenant, would you have sex with me since I never had it with anyone before—"
You sigh, burying your face in your hands. "Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I fucking said it out loud—God—This can't get any worse—"
You run your hand below your nose, placing your cheek on your knee while facing the opposite way. He watches you deflate, fold inwards, as if you could curl up even further within yourself.
“Just—This is already embarrassing as is,” you sigh. “Please give me a minute and then I’ll leave.”
That's what takes him aback. Maybe you are so focused on your work that you’ve become blind to everything else. He can’t blame you for it; this job chews you up and spits you out if you’re not careful.
But to think he’d have turned you down, as if this could’ve been a turn off at all, is pure insanity.
His eyes soften, though. So does his voice.
“Yer mad.”
Your breathing stutters. He can’t see your face, but the other tells are easy to recognise: attention perked, convictions shattered.
He scoots forward, resting a hand on your shin. Thankfully, you don’t flinch from his touch. It rises upwards, clasping your knee. Then, his thumb brushes the skin there, as he takes stock of the tremble rippling up your legs in the throes of your agitation.
However, even as you refuse to look at him, you’re still soft as butter.
He parts your legs, spreading you open again.
It catches you off guard enough to grant him the sight of your face.
There’s that doe look again, not at all like the sharp eyes he’s used to seeing whenever you strut around HQ. It makes his stomach churn.
Fuck, you’re trouble, turning him soft like that.
“M’gonna ask again,” he murmurs. “Wan’ me to stop?”
Your throat bobs. A flickering gaze search for a hidden agenda on his face, but the mask is in the way, and that seems to trouble you—unable, as of now, to slither underneath it in that effortless way that is so characteristically you.
Two of his fingers hook at the hem of the balaclava cinching his neck, and he pulls it up and off. It falls on the floor, next to your clothes.
Not the first time you’ve seen his ugly mug, but it still has your eyes widening, and those angry wrinkles soften. One vulnerability in front of the other.
“No," you breathe.
He licks his teeth. Bites down the corner of his mouth.
Slowly, he moves closer, guiding you to lie down again. His palm cups the back of your head, as if to protect it from touching the pillows. As if that’s needed at all, but he’s got this worm in his brain yelling to keep you as comfortable as can be.
“Can ya listen, sarge?” He asks, dropping his face to yours until your noses touch.
His offhand wraps around his cock, stroking the embarrassing amount of precum down his shaft. Each touch translates into ache, but he swallows the grunts to favour you.
You nod softly, still with wide open eyes and lip tucked between your teeth—so fucking appetising that he wants to eat you whole.
“Mh.” The corner of his lips quirks. “Words.”
That has your nose curl. A glimpse of the you he knows cracking the shell you’re hiding in.
“Yes, sir.”
He groans. “Fuckin’ love it when ya say it like tha’.”
Then, he kisses you.
He’s fucked more than he’s kissed.
In fact, he’s even more hesitant than you were moments before, all tucked within yourself. But you take the lead here. Your fingers find the back of his head, threading through the hair all mussed up by the balaclava.
Soft tongue dancing with his, that’s what else it can do. Malleable lips meshing with his own, scarred and thin, hardened by years spent barely using them—whether to kiss, speak, or smile.
You got him doing all that in one evening.
“Alrigh’?” He asks into your mouth.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Alrigh’. You?”
“Peachy. Wanna ‘ave a chat?”
You breathe a laugh. “You’re fucking impossible.”
And he follows suit. Glad you’ve relented, even if just a little.
He aligns himself with you again, nudging the head of his cock to your entrance.
“We’re gonna go slow, yeah?” He whispers, taking hold of your jaw to redirect your focus to his eyes. “Slow ‘n easy. S'not gonna hurt—won't let it. But you gotta relax f'me—can ya do tha', pet?”
Your head shifts on the pillow, cocked sideways. You’ve got this glow on you now, one that ripens your cheeks and blossoms in the loveliest of smiles. Your hand cups the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone—ridges and bumps of pockmarks and scars with more gruesome stories to tell.
Yeah. Yeah, you’re fucking trouble, alright.
“Got it, lieutenant.”
This time, as he slowly enters you again, he brushes his lips down your jaw.
You mould for him, throwing your head back and drowning it in the pillow. He goes down, meeting the smooth skin of your neck. Just pecks at first, left on the line of your throat. But when your nails dig into his back just a tad harshly, his mouth opens.
“Yer alrigh’,” he murmurs. “Doin’ good. Relax f’me.”
You don’t reply, but instead take in slow, deep breaths.
“Like tha’,” he whispers, sliding another inch. “Just like tha’.”
He can feel you softening around him, growing wetter for each word he breathes. His voice must help you, or his guidance does at least, so he murmurs it right into you.
Easy, he says. Deep breaths.
He kisses your throat. Feels each inhale that flows, each exhale you yield. Listening, complying. As if every intake of air is a sweet, silent yes, sir.
It takes him a minute, filled with your stutters and the rumble of his voice, and then you’re completely wrapped around him. Heels digging in the back of his thighs, arms coiled around his neck, cock snug inside of you.
Your teeth sink into the muscle of his shoulder when he finally bottoms out.
He likes it, when you bite.
“Fuck,” you croak.
He lifts his head and meets your eyes. “Breathe,” he drawls, slow and steady.
You heed him. He watches your chest fill, gooseflesh rising up your stomach, pebbling your nipples. Your eyes are closed, now, as you focus on welcoming the girth of him, so unfamiliar, inside you.
He takes that time to study you. The focused wrinkle between your brows, the oval of your mouth as you push out air, the tip of your nose as you take in more of it.
It lights something warm inside him, the tiniest flame. It grows brighter when it hits him, that no one else has ever seen you like this. That no one, out there, knows this side of you. That they only know the confident sergeant who never takes no for an answer, who grits her teeth and spits orders when the respect she deserves is not given.
That they don’t know how much more of you there is to discover.
And call him selfish if you like, but he hopes they’ll never find out.
“You broken?” He murmurs after a moment.
You crack your eyes open. “Not broken. Stuffed.”
“Aye, that’s the point o’ it.”
Your lips pull in a smile. “Oh, so that’s it? That’s the whole deal? Pretty disappointing if you ask me.”
He snorts. “Glad t’ see you still got it in ya.”
That has you laughing, however soft. It glows on your face, put those wrinkles back, but they’re of different shapes. He reaches for them, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Then, his hips pull back. The stroke of your pussy has him see stars, but he tries to focus on you instead. Your smile falters, and your chuckle wanes, lodged in the middle of your throat.
“Oh,” is all you say.
It’s enough for him, as he pushes back in.
“Oh,” you croak. “Oh f-fuck—”
His voice cracks, too. “Not all tha’, mh?”
No remarks to his joke, no little quip of your own. Just the roll of your eyes, the scratch of your moans, the cut of your nails as they pierce his shoulder blades.
He fucks you slowly at first, kissing the skin of your neck and rising upwards. His belly fills with each breath you yield into his mouth, but instead of feeling sated, his hunger for you only grows.
He snakes his arm underneath the hollow of your spine. Your back arches as he lifts you, the plush of your tits pushing against the coarse hair running up his chest.
And Christ, you’re soft. It’s undoing him.
“You close?” He asks, breathless—hopeful, too.
Because his cock has been aching for a while now, like everything else about him, and if he doesn’t come soon, he’ll lose a marble or two—of the few he’s got left, that is.
“N-no, but—” A whimper breaks your sentence. “—don’t stop, please don’t stop, don’t stop—”
Asking him like that will most likely achieve the opposite effect. You're unaware, though, it’s why you repeat it over and over—a litany that rises in pitch and cracks at the edges.
“Swee’heart,” he reasons quietly. “M'not made o’ plastic—won’t last much lon—”
“Then cum inside just don’t stop—”
Jesus Christ.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he croaks. “Yer gonna kill me.”
Simon fucks you at that same pace even though his body yearns to ram into you until you’re babbling nonsense. But you seem to love it, this tenderness—maybe it’s what you seek, to have a soft place to fall onto.
And who is he to deny you, really, when you’re pleading like that?
He wishes he had it in him to go on for longer, if not for your sake, then for his, because he craves to feel your cunt tightening around his cock as it did on his fingers—but he’s so close that he can barely put two coherent words together.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts. “Fuck, pet—”
You catch the back of his head and swiftly guide his lips to yours.
Simon cums as you kiss him, messy and wet, and Christ, enough to triple the intensity of his ecstasy.
He ruts his hips with deep, slow thrusts that have a trembling quality to them. He never pulls out, preferring the warmth of you to milk him dry for all it’s worth. And just like he ate up your moans, you’re now drinking in his, as he comes down from his own high.
He stays buried inside you as he catches his breath, with your nails gently raking the indent of his spine. Perhaps he’s putting too much weight on you, but you haven’t whispered a single thing yet, so he decides to be selfish and bask in the warmth you exude, in the softness of your body.
Then, a kiss to his temple forces him to recollect his bearings.
“Merry Christmas,” you whisper.
Simon huffs into your neck, exchanging the gesture with his lips on your shoulder.
“Aye.” He shakes his head with mirth. “Happy fuckin’ holidays.”
Your chest bubbles with a laugh so soft he can feel it thrum against his skin before he actually hears it. It prompts him to lift himself up enough to catch it with his eyes, too.
Your smile finds him. A soft curve that drips with thankfulness.
“Alrigh’?” He breathes.
“Alright,” you nod.
His forehead drops to yours. You’re both sticky with sweat, but none of you tries to move away. Silence fills the room once again. It has a different taste.
He’s not used to this. He leaves when it’s over, yet now he doesn’t know how. He likes it—this quiet, this comfort he suddenly found with you.
And there's that mouth of yours, now running up the side of his neck. The clicks of your kisses rising upwards, the sting of your teeth as they drag down his lobe. Your tongue drawing the outline of the shell of his ear, breath wanton and hot against his skin.
Your voice, a whisper. “I wanna cum again."
No ifs or buts. Just blurted out with the same bluntness you used to ask him to fuck you that evening. He’s still got his cock inside you, still has your cum and his own mixing in a mess between your legs, and you’re asking for more.
Oh, it's still you alright.
Confident, proud, inevitable. Never one to back down—it’s how you got him here, after all.
“Jesus—” He chuckles quietly, “Yer definitely somethin’.”
You tut playfully. “Ya love it.”
And what if, uh?
“Right—love it,” he huffs sarcastically—thought the knot in his throat says otherwise. “A Christmas miracle, tha’.”
Then, he props himself on his knees.
He watches your eyes fall on where you two join, and he follows the trajectory. Wetness wraps around the base of him, glistening in the dim light. His hips experimentally push inside, and the crown of his cock burns at the friction—definitely not ready for a second round.
But then he looks at you. Soft teeth sink into your lip as if the sight of him buried inside you makes you hungry.
He’s the one to blame for that. He made you hungry, it’s only fair that he satiates the ache.
“You sure ‘bout this, yeah?”
You look at him. Eyes heavy with lust and challenge. His throat goes dry.
A nod.
He kisses his teeth. “Wha’ did I say?”
It’s then that your mouth curls. A wicked smile framed by sharp eyes. There’s no mask to burn holes into, now, so instead you’re effortlessly slithering under his skin.
There you are.
“Oh, you like it, don’t you?”
His eyes narrow. “Yer gettin’ too comfortable.”
“Says the one buried in my guts.”
He clicks his tongue.
Simon matches your energy, hooking his elbows under your knees. Palms to your thighs, ass lifted off the bed. You’re locked in place; there’s nowhere you can go if he doesn’t release you first—and you don’t seem to mind.
Actually, you encourage him, slipping two fingers into your mouth and heading for your clit. Slow circles that have him hypnotised, before your voice brings his focus back on your face.
“Will you fuck me again?” You bat your lashes. “Please, Sir?”
Simon releases a long, resigned sigh from his nose
“Oh, yer trouble,” he breathes. “Yer trouble alrigh'.”
SUMMARY: in which simon develops a friendship with the woman who has mysteries surrounding her
WARNINGS: amputation, mentions of accident, language, poc reader, reader has curly/coily hair, chronic back pain, fluff, mentions of abusive parent
A kill count so high that even Soap stayed away. Blood stained to your skin like you soaked in it each night. Such a ruthless reputation that you weren't approached for the first few months after you joined the task force.
You'd sit on the aircraft, strapped in your tactical gear, eyes glued to the seat across from you, whispering affirmations to yourself. Eyes unnaturally stone cold, hands gripping your AR like it was an extension of your limb.
"Is the lassie talking to 'erself?" Soap muttered, knudging Ghost, who shrugged, grunting in response. Simon was like you in the beginning, quiet, with his reputation preceding him. But the difference was that he'd never broken out of his aloofness, and his name still drifted around the barracks like a ghost—unironically.
He'd seen people like you before, so broken by their career in the military that it was permanently etched into their skin. For God's sake, Simon saw that person in the mirror each morning. The mask helped on some days, and on other days, it made things worse.
Bird, they called you, not for any particular reason, but you responded to the name like you'd been born with it. Price glanced at you, his newest lieutenant, and he called your name, "Bird." His voice was rough and all-business, and you responded in turn, chilly eyes sliding to his.
Any sane person would've shivered, but Price had experience with people like you and had ever since Ghost joined the team. "We get in, we get out. Simple."
"Simple," you repeated, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. Your curly hair was pulled back in a bun, already frizzy from the heat inside the plane, arms slick with sweat.
You could feel Ghost, Soap, and Gaz's stare on you, and when you glanced over at the trio, only one person held your gaze. Your eyebrow quirked at Simon's ability to look at you—everyone else treated you like Medusa, but you gave him a simple nod, pushing to your feet as soon as the plane's hatch opened.
Ghost watched you as you passed, pulling his gun from his lap and tossing it over his shoulder, footsteps pounding against the floor as he left the plane. He couldn't keep his eyes off you, the squeeze of your arms as you raised your AR, a pair of tinted shades sitting against your face, lip notched into your mouth as you waited for the others to catch up.
You had tattoos curling around your forearms, dainty in comparison to your career—vines, flowers, and mythical creatures, Ghost could only imagine existed in fantasy worlds like those of the Lord of the Rings.
Gun holsters curled around your thighs, your combat boots scuffed with dirt and stained blood, a long, jagged scar running from your jaw and up into your hairline.
When you caught Ghost watching, you blinked once, twice, eyes drifting down his form, before you kept walking. Did Ghost imagine the slight tilt of your lip as you smirked?
"This is just recon, folks!" Price called out, bucket hat sitting droopily atop his head, a wooden toothpick muffling his words. Soap caught up to Ghost, knudging him roughly, "ye should talk to 'er."
Simon rolled his eyes, grumbling, "why in the fuck would I talk to her?"
Soap shrugged honestly, stepping past a large boulder, almost tripping over another rock, but he caught himself and continued trekking, "because, ye the only person a'm thinkin' she would actually talk to. Right, Gaz?"
Gaz, who lingered a few feet away, shrugged, eyebrow quirking, "if she talks to anyone, it's Ghost." Simon wanted to toss Gaz off a cliff, but he just continued walking, staring at you as you pushed ahead of the group.
Your shoulders were rigid, as if you were staving off back pain, and you had a slight limp in your left leg, but you hid it well enough. "I'm not talking to her during an op." Soap groaned, but agreed, "after then. And once yer done, tell me all aboot it."
The only problem was, you were nowhere to be found after the op. Usually, Gaz, Price, Soap, and Ghost lingered in the kitchen, mostly talking about nonsense, and on recent ops, you'd join—albeit silently sitting at the far table, nose stuffed into a book.
Ghost didn't want to talk to you, in all honesty. But he wanted to get away from the others, so he went to the gym on base, exceptionally large and usually empty at this time of night.
He carried his duffel bag, a disgustingly large water bottle, and as he came into the gym, he sat on one of the benches, deciding he wanted to lift weights until the drama around talking to you died down.
You, on the other hand, were sitting on the opposite wall of the gym, prosthetic leg leaning against the wall as you massaged your amputee site, sharp pains threaded throughout the leg you'd lost months ago.
Phantom pain was one of the worst things you'd gone through since you lost your leg, and it hit the hardest after ops, your body strained from a long, tiresome day.
You'd seen Ghost walk in, wearing his infamous mask, eyes dark holes from across the room. You were watching him lift weights, muscles straining, and little grunts escaping his lips between each rep.
Because of your pain, you didn't have the energy, nor the desire to hop your way to the exit, nor put on your prosthesis just so you could possibly collapse in the hallway.
So, you either had to wait for him to notice you or make yourself known. Either way, it sounded like hell, and you wished you could magically reattach your leg and be normal.
Not a single person in the task force knew you'd lost your leg except Price, who you'd worked with years ago, before your accident. He knew you outside of your quiet, loner persona, but still, you didn't care much to seek him out for a conversation.
And it wasn't just the loss of your leg that had put you out of work for a while, but the fact that you'd almost been paralyzed, which now gave you terrible, aching, stabbing back pain.
Massaging your amputation site, you let out a sigh, wishing you could physically massage your calf, but you'd been cut a few inches below the knee. You could practically feel your toes wriggling, or your Achilles heel stretching.
But all thoughts about your amputation halted, because you could feel Ghost staring at you. It was a stare like being heated by the sun, and when you glanced up, neither of you said anything.
Neither of you would say anything, matter of fact. It was just a matter of who wanted to come to the other. And when Ghost noticed your lack of leg, and the metal prosthesis lying beside you, he sighed, shaking his head.
He could leave, but that would be much more awkward than simply talking to you.
As Ghost began to stalk over to you, the height of a skyscraper, you tugged your pants leg back down, covering the cut of your amputation. "Why do people call you Ghost?" You questioned quietly, the base of your spine aching as you reached over to your prosthesis, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in your phantom leg.
"No idea." He said simply, and you shrugged, nodding. Simon sat on the bench a few feet away, eyes glued shamelessly to your lack of leg. "How'd you lose it?"
Surprisingly, his frankness was refreshing, and you twisted onto your knees, hands pushing to the wall so you could pull yourself to your feet—or rather foot.
Simon stood, hand landing on your back as he helped you up, and when you were properly standing, he hovered, practically anticipating for you to fall.
"Five months ago, now. An op, plane exploded, half my team inside. A few of us survived, me stuck beneath the wreckage. My leg was pinned beneath it, cut to the bone, and I was bleeding out."
You pushed your hands onto Simon's shoulders, looking down at your foot, despite the heavy stare he gave you. You could smell his scent, too, manly, musky, sweaty, surprisingly pleasant.
"Most of my ribs were shattered, my arm was broken, a couple of teeth were knocked out. Metal embedded into my face," you pointed at the scar near your jaw, "spinal fracture."
You continued, "but the worst is the pain in my leg, which is very clearly gone." Simon's blonde eyelashes fluttered as he watched you, hands by his sides, feeling the heat beneath your palms on his bare shoulders.
When you were finished gaining your footing, you pointed at the leg, "be a dear and grab that for me." Simon grumbled at your words, but he listened nonetheless, placing it upright.
"So what can you do? To fix the pain?" Simon watched you strap your leg, then he pushed away from you, hands landing on his hips. "I'm on medication now, but it does fuck all."
"Now, since I traded my trauma, why don't you tell me why you're such a dick?" Despite himself, Simon grinned beneath the mask, eyes just barely squinting, and you paced in front of him as he sat on the bench, limping much more than you did earlier.
"Why would I tell you about my bullshit?" You shrugged, "because you haven't told a single person on the base. And in my experience, getting things off your chest helps."
Simon fisted his pants, heartbeat racing for some odd reason. "I'd rather get a fucking shrink." You gave him a pointed stare, "then why haven't you?"
Well played.
Ghost leaned his elbows against his knees, eyes falling to your leg, watching you pace. "Abusive father." He said simply, and you hummed in understanding, hands lifting cautiously as you tripped. Simon shifted to his feet, rushing over to you, but you held your hand up, stopping him as you regained your footing.
"In your time of knowing me, I will fall countless times. Gaz saw me fall in the hall three weeks ago. He hasn't looked me in the eye since." Ghost scoffed, "they're afraid of you, that's why."
You noticed he still hovered, but you didn't bring attention to it, grabbing his wrist so he could feel useful.
"They have no reason to be afraid of me."
He scoffed again, harsher this time, "you don't talk to any of us." You paused, grip wrapping around Simon's thumb. "Did you talk to anyone when you first came to base?"
Shaking his head, "No—"
You gave him a look, "this is my first assignment since the accident. If I told everyone what happened to me, they'd pity me and understand why I'm like this. You're different. You stare at me the same way you usually do."
Simon ignored your words, grabbing your arm as he tugged you over to the bench. His knee knocked yours as he sat, and he glanced at you, "nobody would pity you. We've all been through similar things."
"I guess you're right."
"I am right."
"No one talks about how arrogant you are."
Ghost rolled his eyes, chuckling, "you said you had back pain?"
"Yep."
"Then I bet the doctors aren't doing shit for you." He stood, hand landing on your waist as he shifted you onto your stomach on the bench. You didn't argue or wonder what he was going to do, because for some reason, you trusted Simon, beyond professional instances.
Despite his reputation, he was a very perceptive man who cared for his team—and now you were a part of his team.
A long exhale escaped your lips as you relaxed on the bench. Simon grabbed the edge of your shirt and folded it up past the bottom of your sports bra. His hands were warm as he touched you, thumbs notching into the base of your spine, shifting and rubbing out every knot and huddle of stress that held in your body.
You let out a soft moan as the tension unfurled, legs spreading to make way for Simon's knee as he leaned against the bench, hands wrapping around each side of your torso, fingers pushing firm, but gentle.
"I can feel the stress leaving your body." He muttered, voice awfully soft. His warm breath landed on the back of your neck, and you shivered, "if I asked you to do this for me tomorrow, would you?"
Simon's hands ran up your spine, fingertips ghosting down your skin as he tugged your shirt down. "Yes, I would." He helped you up afterwards, allowing you to lean against him as you fixed your gait.
"Good. And if I fall, ever, don't say anything, don't stare, don't gasp." You muttered it, remembering the reactions of the privates when you'd fallen in the gym weeks ago.
They all rushed over, bombarding you with requests to help, but it did little but embarrass you more.
You could feel Simon's gaze on the top of your head, hands against your waist, and when you were finished, he pulled away entirely, grabbing his and your duffel bags, and nodding you along.
"I'd rather walk away than help you."
You laughed, a sweet sound that Simon was delighted to hear, "perfect."
✈︎
The next night, Simon knocked on your door, fulfilling his promise to rub out the knots in your back. Soap, who'd conveniently passed by, winked as Simon, "so ye did speak to 'er."
Ghost ignored his words, glaring at the man.
When the door swung open, Simon filed inside, sitting at your desk. Today was a rest day, which meant no one was particularly busy. You'd been lying around all day, dealing with the pain in your leg, and reading fantasy novels, which were stacked high on the floor beside your bed.
Now, you wore a simple tank top and shorts, prosthesis attached, but dark circles lined your eyes, and you didn't spare Simon a welcoming grin. He didn't mind it, though, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched you rush to tidy up your space.
"I hope you aren't a neat freak." You muttered, pushing your hair from your face. Simon shook his head, deep hazel eyes lined with kohl, and following your figure closely.
Even in your disheveled state, he found you pleasing to look at.
When you were finished, you patted the spot beside you on the bed, welcoming him over. Simon did as you asked, kicking off his combat boots and pulling off his mask, deciding that the least he could do after all your truths was present as his authentic self.
You didn't make a big show of examining him, but you smiled softly at his face, eyes trailing from his scarred lips, over his freckled nose, then finally the widely dilated hazel eyes, delightfully more green today than yesterday.
"You didn't sleep?" Simon questioned, hand resting behind you. The sheets smelled exactly like you, a little spicy like cinnamon, but also a serene scent of fresh laundry.
"No, not at all. It was my fucking leg. I kept...imagining it beneath the covers, and I swear I could see it, my toes wiggling." Simon wanted to comfort you, maybe pull you into his side, tell you it would be okay, but still, he didn't really know you, and he wholly wanted to.
Running a rough hand over his head, Simon said, "I had a mate with the same problem. He used a mirror, set it to his leg, and pretended like the reflected leg was his lost one. It helped."
You hummed at his words, tongue sticking out to lick your lips. Flexing your back, you knudged his arm, "sounds promising. But first...massage me."
Usually, when someone ordered Simon to do something, there was a strong urge to refuse, but he simply nodded, pushing to his feet, and watching you shift to your stomach.
You didn't have a bra on when he pulled up your shirt, and the thought made Simon's heart lurch. He leaned against the bed, resting on his knees, and did as he did the day before—pushing and rubbing your back with his hands, finding each knot, rubbing them out, moving up your spine slowly but surely.
Your face was serene, eyes closed, lips slightly agape, little breaths coming out each time Simon pressed into your sore spots. "You know, I feel like this friendship is very one-sided." You muttered, and Simon grunted, "why?"
"You've massaged my back, listened to me ramble about my accident, and you've given me nothing in return. Tell me about yourself, Simon."
Your eyes fluttered open, freezing Simon entirely, and he shrugged, hands pausing their movements, but not pulling away from your skin. You twisted onto your stomach, the richness of your skin on display, and a palm-sized tattoo of a tiny dragon breathing fire to the right of your belly button.
Simon's thumb brushed over it, ignoring the way your body tingled beneath him. "I told you my father was abusive—fuck, he was batshit fucking crazy. Used to drag these animals into the house and make me kiss them. Bunnies, snakes, lizards, and once, the snake—an adder—bit me in the mouth, took a good chunk of my lip."
Simon pointed at the corner of his mouth, where a jagged scar was, and you ran your fingers over it, pushing out of your prosthetic and lifting your knee.
"Then in school, I was a fucking menace. Fighting all the time, getting suspended, everything you could think of. I barely graduated."
You threaded your fingers with his, slowly pulling him beside you, until he was lying down and staring at the ceiling. "I enlisted. Needed something new, or rather, I needed discipline."
"Your father, what happened to him?" Simon chuckled humorlessly, "he died. Thank fuck." You rested your head on his chest, and Simon wrapped his arm around your waist, still caressing the soft skin of your torso.
"I think you're a fucking nerd." He muttered after a few minutes of silence, and you scoffed playfully, "what makes you think that?" He pointed at the numerous books in your room, "you read when we're not on ops. I've watched guys get into fights, and the entire time you were reading."
You rolled your eyes, nose burrying into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. "So you were watching me?" The flush that crept up his face gave him away, and you shrugged, "I think that means you have a crush."
Simons' grip tightened around your waist, "I don't have a fucking crush. That's for little boys."
"Then what do men call it?"
Simon shrugged, "interest."
Chuckling, you kissed his cheek, "you're such a fool."
No thoughts just ghost who can't get it up because of performance anxiety, right?
There's been mutliple times where hot and heavy grinding has had you two falling into bed, only for ghost to go soft when the time finally comes. It's embarrassing, not being able to even fuck his partner properly.
Of course, you both are trained to find solutions.
"Shh, shhh, go back to sleep–" ghost whispers against your ear, your sleepy groans dying down as you drift back off. Hardly aware of the fingers between your thighs, or the cock rutting against your back.
It took a while to find sleeping pills that worked, but god was it worth it. Ghost finally gets to notch his head against your entrance and push in. He pants against your ear, face flushed "fuck– love, you're so fuckin' tight–"
"No, no– hold still–" He pushes your sleeping body into the bed gently, hiking your hips up for a better angle. You won't remember this, but the nice sore feeling and the cum dripping out when you wake up will be reward enough.
He snaps a nice picture for you, slides back in, and mutters "goodnight love" before falling asleep with you tucked to his chest.
Love being shadow banned it means I can put my unhinged thoughts on here and if it just so happens to come across my friends feed I can be like idk guy I must have been hacked.
Lowkey think there’s something wrong with me because the only value I see in strange male is as a sexual object. I don’t see the ones I know that way just strangers.
Retired Ghoap post Johnny's injury, starting their day preparing for a ceremony for Price. Due to the injury being through his brain, Johnny struggles with mobility and coordination in varying amounts. This is the same au as my "fall weather" piece! Most days he'll use his wheelchair but some days he'll take his meds (he's supposed to everyday..) and just use his cane. IGNORE that I forgot his scar in the last panel.
i think we should swap yaoi and yuri tropes more. a pair of doomed teenage boys taking a break from their afterschool music club to go on a cute planetarium date, shyly brushing fingers while internal dialogue goes on and on about the purity of their relationship. on other side of town a lesbian is getting railed by a mafia boss.
