Gaz doesn't have a complex about his body. He doesn't. He knows he's fit, strong. He's beat men is arm wrestles with biceps the size of his thighs without breaking a sweat. He has muscle, he's just... lean.
It wasn't something he was self conscious about per say, but god damnit it was hard not to notice the differences between him and his colleagues sometimes. Especially when they all just happened to end up at the base's gym at the same time. Tav's arms in those damn muscle tanks he loved so much, Ghost's back rippling under his compression shirt with even the slightest movement, and don't get Gaz started on those tree trucks the Captian calls his thighs. Not that Gaz was looking, of course.
The one, count 'em, one thing Kyle had over the rest of his team, was his abs. Where the other men had a healthy layer of fat over the solid muscle of their stomachs, something that totally didn't leave his mouth watering, Gaz had a defined washboard of muscle.
So, yeah okay, maybe the sergeant had a tendency to wear shirts just a size or so smaller than absolutely necessary knowing they had a tendency to ride up whenever he lifted his arms. Maybe he sometimes used the hem of shirt to wipe sweat from his eyes that wasn't really there. Sue the man, he liked when he was the subject of the appreciative glances so often directed at his teammates.
Gaz did, unfortunately, seem to always miss the hooded eyes and hungry glances when they came from his teammates.
⥠simon ghost riley x virgin!female reader ⥠18+
words count: 6k
You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.
You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.
The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.
"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."
Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.
"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."
That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"
The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"
He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.
"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."
And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"
The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.
"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.
You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.
He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.
"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.
"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.
He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.
"You want me to fuck you."
It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.
His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"
The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.
"That's the idea, sweetheart."
So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.
But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.
You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.
His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.
He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.
It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.
Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.
"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"
A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."
Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."
But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.
You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."
Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."
The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"
He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"
"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"
His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"
"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"
The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.
"No."
Your heart plummeted. "What?"
"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.
You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"
His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."
"Wait?"
"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."
The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.
"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.
He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.
You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.
"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."
You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.
Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.
He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.
"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.
You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.
"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.
"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."
You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"
"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."
He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"
You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."
He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.
"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.
You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.
"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.
"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."
He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.
He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.
He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.
He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."
"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."
He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"
You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."
He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.
While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.
"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."
"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."
His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.
He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.
The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.
He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.
You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.
You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."
His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."
You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.
"Your turn," he grunted.
You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."
You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.
You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.
"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."
You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.
"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."
You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."
"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.
He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.
"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."
"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.
He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.
"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."
You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.
He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.
You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.
"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"
His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.
You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.
Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.
You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.
The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.
You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.
That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.
It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.
You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."
He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."
"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.
You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.
"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."
His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.
Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.
He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"
"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."
He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.
"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."
He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."
You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.
The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.
You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.
"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."
His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."
"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."
That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.
His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."
He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.
"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.
He's never seen the need for sappy dribble, calling your partner every name under the sun and confessing your love to them on the daily. He's hardly a hold your hand in public or sweep you off of your feet type.
He never had any good examples of healthy romance in his life. His parents weren't the adoring type; their idea of love was ducking when something was thrown at your head. He never saw a purpose in wasting his time in short-lived relationships when a quick, nameless fuck could give him all he needed to get by.
He likes his space, he likes his freedom, and he likes not having to worry himself with someone at home who'll tire of his constant absence. He can't stand the whiny, clingy type.
Johnny, a contrary bastard by nature, snuck up on him. There was never a name for what they shared; half of the time, it was a brutal fuck, only evidenced by bruises left behind, and other times it was falling asleep on a couch next to each other because they were too tired to share a touch, and too stunted to discuss what the vulnerability of sleeping alongside the other meant.
Their intimacy was shared cigarettes, stealing the other's pint for a drink when their glass was empty and deliberately nudging aching ribs to hear the other swear.
The closest that Simon and the Scotsman ever got to truly looking like partners was when they were half-pissed and stumbled into a chippy, Johnny had grabbed his face and uttered a whole-hearted "God love ye," when Simon had paid for their dinner. Two fish suppers, one with mushy peas. Hardly a gift worthy of praise.
Simon isn't distraught; he isn't bursting at the seams with grief he can't voice. Many a man is a victim of the job; Johnny is no different from them, aside from the shitty haircut. He was granted the mercy of a quick death, and he took it for his country.
But on a rare occasion, outside of his rank, Simon will walk the streets of his town and encounter a fish and chip shop, a classic British staple. And he's faced with the daunting fact that the hands, rough, calloused hands that so carefully cradled his face, are now ash.
@madlycunninghex Heyyy! Iâm loving your work! Iâd love to know the background of priceghost. How their relationship came about and stuff!
I have my own headcanon about their relationship!! I like to think that Simon and Price have been longtime friends.
I like to think that they enlisted at around similar times, Price always being a rank higher and slightly more seasoned in the military than Simon and being a good source of guidance and support.
Their friendship truly deepened and defined at the time that Simon was Sergeant Riley and Price was Lieutenant Price. Before Roba and the becoming of Ghost, Price was kind to Simon, knowing his history and background before enlistment. The chest pats were always a thing with him, patting and shoving at the taller manâs chest with endearment. And Simonâs humor back then was just as black and dry but there was more playfulness at the time, accompanied by sly smirks when heâd share some stupid joke with his Lieutenant.
There was a time or two, when the two of them were been swayed by their mates to sneak a few bottles of alcohol into the barracks, and they mightâve had a bit too much to drink. And that amount of liquor in their system loosened them up even more around each other, enough to share a kiss or two when no one was looking. Enough to sneak away into the showers, under the cover of darkness in some stall, just to make sure the second and third kiss was as good as the first.
It escalated to tongues exploring each other; to clumsy, shaky hands tugging at shirts and belt buckles, then to firm grabbing and pawing at muscles and scalding skin. It went as far as them cupping and groping each other in ways that made whines and groans of pleasure escape them in ragged breaths. It went as far as the older of the two to sink to his knees to envelop the otherâs cock in the confines of a skilled mouth. The taller of the two pressed the other one to the cold tile of the shower, confessing heâd never done anything like this before, and the older one coaxing him quietly, reaching his hand behind him to guide his eager virgin cock inside him.
Maybe that was the first time the two were ever intimate, but for a long time they would never admit something like that to each other because that moment was too innocent, too tender. Especially for Simon, because when he became Ghost, he had a hard time accepting a tenderness like that. It took Priceâs reassurance and a superhuman amount of patience to bring back Simon out of Ghost, but he persevered and succeeded. He brought back Simon under Ghostâs mask, and the devotion from him was a gift of appreciation for Price.
Their relationship was established as more than friendship in a similar manner as that night in the showers.
In Priceâs office, in the stillness of the after hours, after piles on piles of tedious reports, the two had lost their cool. They had been arguing about god knows what until they were on each other in a fury. Priceâs hand gripping Ghostâs collar in a vice grip, foreheads clashed against each other, huffing like raging bulls. Price ripped Ghostâs mask off. He had to look at Simon, he had to see past the facade, and put aside the shield he guarded himself behind.
And before Simon could protest, before the exposure made him set off on the captain, Priceâs lips clashed against his. A furious mess of tongues and teeth fought each other. It was that night they realized they needed each other like fucking oxygen. Bare skin on scarred skin, calloused hands bruising muscles, the coolness of the floor while they wrestled for dominance a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies. Desperate, passionate intimacy that neither of them recovered from.
Their arrangement remained casual, because labels werenât necessary. It was simple: Price had Ghost, Ghost needed Price, and eventually they both needed you.
A thick, scratchy rope is tied to your left wrist, pulling your arm up and behind you where it is connected to the post of your bedframe. The same rope is tied to your right wrist, in the exact same position. The material rubs your skin raw from how much pulling you have done against the restraints, and yet you still have gone nowhere.
Your legs are bent at the knee, another piece of rope wrapped around the crease of your thigh and your ankle, making sure you can't go anywhere even if you try. Your other leg is tied the exact same, and Simon is resting between you, pushing them further and further apart to accommodate his body.
Your nipples ache from stimulation, peaked from the constant rubbing of fingers, or sucking pleasurably, and painfully hard at the same time. Swollen and pulsing, your clit begs for attention, the same attention he has been giving and taking away over and over again.
The big man hovers above you, his lips pulled up in a cocky grin as he watches you squirm beneath him from the feeling of his blade pressed against your throat. The fear only turns into desire, turns into slick coating your folds, turns into the want for him to do anything and everything that your sick and twisted heart desires.
âWhat is it baby,â he asks, tilting his head to the side as he moves the tip of his knife to where he can see your heartbeat flutter underneath the thin, sensitive skin.
Your breath hitches in your throat. You are so vulnerable, completely at his mercy, and the thought alone can have you cumming, but he will punish you if you do. He has before by edging you for far too long, bringing you right to the brink but immediately letting it fade away.
Lost in thought of the pleasurable torture he's given you before, you're brought out of it with a slap to your cheek. Your skin stings, but it wasn't hard enough to truly hurt, just enough for your pussy to clench and for more slick to leak out of you.
"Answer. Me."
He knows you can't answer. Your soaked panties are shoved into your mouth, muffling every sound you make, rendering it impossible to give him what he wants. Breathing through your nose, your chest rises and falls rapidly as you struggle against the fabric to say something, anything, but you know itâs no use. Simon doesn't like being ignored, even if it's by his own doing.
He watches you squirm. Your arms burn from the uncomfortable position, your back stretched to the max, and your ankles press against the rope unintentionally where it rubs the skin raw. And yet, the only thing you can think about is him fucking you until you canât breathe.
"You're not being a very good girl, are you?"
He says nothing more. He slides the knife down from your neck and to your chest where he slices the skin just above your breast. You jerk against the rope from the sting, but looking down, itâs nothing more than a scratch. Simon is feral, truly feral as he watches the blood drip from your skin and onto your nipple.
His lips find the sensitive bud, and his tongue swirls around it. Your hips buck from underneath him, trying to find more friction while he licks, sucks, pulls against your nipple. His tongue stays pressed against your skin while he makes his way up to the cut, and when he sucks, you writhe. He keeps going, licking up your neck, along your jaw, up your chin and to your mouth before he devours you.
You moan against him, tasting the metallic liquid, tasing the salty-sweet of your skin where sweat begins to bead. He bites against your bottom lip, drawing even more blood, and when it floods his mouth, he canât help but groan. Pulling away, he gazes at his masterpiece: your chest and face covered in blood thatâs been diluted with his saliva.
 âSo pretty⌠youâre so pretty for me,â he coos, running his knuckles along your cheekbone, letting his thumb gather spit and blood on your jaw before bringing it up to your lips.
He wipes it against the swollen, soft skin, smearing it across your mouth, letting it soak into your panties sitting between your teeth. You gaze up at him as you struggle to catch your breath, to break free of your restraints, and yet, there is no other place you would rather be than at his mercy.
Simon shifts in between your legs, his knees digging into the mattress underneath you, positioning himself until the head of his cock is nudging against your entrance. He slides through your folds with a few strokes, gathering your slick on his length, rubbing against your clit until your hips buck and his eyes meet yours as they burn with the need to punish you for being greedy.
Without saying a word, his palm strikes your cheek, and he buries himself inside of your pussy at the same time. The sting on your skin mixed with the fullness he offers leaves your body feeling torn between pain and pleasure, unable to choose between the two until your focus catches on his thrusts.
"Beg for me," he growls, thrusting in painfully slowly, moving his hands to your hips where his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.
You shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks until they wet the panties in your mouth and blood floods your tongue once more. He pounds into you again, one deep, hard thrust, enough to leave you crying out behind the fabric muffling your sounds. His hand snakes around your back, his fingers kissing your spine with a delicious spark until they tangle in your hair, and he yanks hard.
Pain shoots through your scalp from where he holds you without pity, and he keeps you there, waiting for something he won't get. Your neck is shown to him, soft, smooth skin where your pulse beats frantically underneath, and you're in his grasp. His mouth latches on your breast, your nipple peaking within the bite of his teeth, and you writhe from the painful pleasure he delivers.
"You're divine," he says breathlessly, his cock twitching in the deepest parts of you, his lust thickening around you with every last breath of warm air against your skin.
His thrusts resume, slow and steady, filling you up and taking it away all in one fluid movement. The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, leaving his imprint there to ruin you for anyone else. Soft cries fall from your lips, barely audible, but it cracks his control, nonetheless.
Pleasure rushes through you when he angles his hips to hit your sweet spot, the precision and pressure something he has learned from your sounds, from your body language, from years of making love to you and having you at his mercy at the same time. Your legs beg to close around his body, your inner things burning against his skin, your chest heaving with need the longer he drags it out.
"So helpless, and yet so demanding," he laughs softly, voice low and rough around the edges, the feeling of your walls clamping down on him as your body begs for more consuming every last fiber of his being.
He growls animalistically, his need and desire to pleasure you outweighing everything else, and when his nails dig into your soft skin, he doesn't hold back. He thrusts hard and fast, punishing your walls, bullying your cervix, abusing your sweet spot, anything to push you over that beautiful edge he has had you sitting on for who knows how long.
You squirm against the ropes, the sharp burn from the material digging into your plush body, into your wrists, into your ankles, into your thighs where your legs meet your hips. His hand tightens in your hair, unable to let go from his grasp as he drills into you. His tip kisses your insides in the best way possible as whimpers and whines beg to be free from behind your panties stuffed in your mouth, and you know it makes him want it even more.
"You're all mine," he repeats over and over as he continues to fuck into you as if he has no respect for a single bone in your body.
He grunts loud, the sound vibrating throughout your body from where his chest has begun to lean against yours, and it drives you closer and closer to your inevitable orgasm. One of his hands finds your clit with ease, rolling the sensitive bundle of nerves against his calloused fingers, and your hips roll against him to find more of that consuming pleasure.
You remain tied beneath him as he drives you to your high, his cock pounding in and out of your poor pussy the more his body begs for your release. His tip leaks precum with every twitch, his length begs to be wrapped up in your walls, his body worships your own in the rawest form.
Heat pools in your lower belly, the need to release feeling unbearable, ready to snap at any given moment like a spring coiled tight. He fucks you rough and quick, not bothering to be careful of your immobilized body, not bothering to give you the chance to moan out for him. All he wants is to watch your body fall under his.
"Cum for me. Cum on my dick like a good girl," he says, his words bordering on begging, and you know he is as close as you are.
You grind against his fingers, letting him work your clit with proficiency, and that mixed with the feeling of his cock thrusting in and out of your pussy, his fingers tangled so painfully good in your hair, and the warm air hitting your nipples with each movement has your climax rushing through you.
Your body becomes rigid, your muscles drawing taut, and your nails dig into your palms while he continues to fuck you through it. Cum gushes from your entrance, soaking his length, leaving behind white rings of cream as proof of your pleasure. He groans from the sight, watching your pussy swallow him whole, watching you take every last inch of him with no effort from how wet you are for him.
"That's it. You feel so good⌠gonna fill you up now baby," he growls, unable to tear his eyes away from where the two of you are connected.
You can feel his cock twitches inside you, the need for him to release right after you, and your pussy clamps and pulses around his length from the remnants of a strong orgasm. The feeling alone is enough to have him cumming.
With a guttural and a few more thrusts, Simon is burying himself to the hilt inside of you and releasing his seed. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out from his tip with each pulse, coating your walls in everything he has to give. When there's no more room, it leaks out around him. He pulls out slowly, groaning from your raw walls on his sensitive tip, and his fingers cum down to gather up his cum and push it back inside of you. You whimper, and his gaze falls on yours.
"I know baby, I know."
Your body is beyond exhausted, broken past its limits, and although you would do it all over again, there is nothing more you want than to curl up against the same man who gives you the pleasurable pain your body asks for.
He quickly unties the ropes, and your body slumps against the mattress, but he picks you up bridal style and walks you to the bathroom where he begins a warm bath and adds episome salt to soothe your sore muscles. He sets you in, sliding in behind you, and washes away all the bodily fluids from your soft skin before massaging every last muscle you have. After he's done, he puts ointment on your cut and leaves you sitting on the counter while he changes the sheets before bringing you into bed and whispering sweet nothings until your breathing evens and your heartbeat slows.
âMasterlistâ
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18+ ! Virgin!reader...(not for long lol) x Older man!Simon
The team had been giving him shit for weeks.
Price, with that knowing smirk, muttering about âmidlife crisesâ under his breath during briefings. Gaz, less subtle, whistling low whenever Simonâs phone buzzed with a notification. Soap, the bastard, had gone so far as to draw a crude cartoon on the whiteboard in the rec roomâa hulking figure with a skull mask holding hands with a stick figure in a miniskirt.
Simon Riley let them talk.
Fucking let them.
Because every joke, every elbow to the ribs, every envious glance was a trophy.
He was forty-seven. Scarred from temple to jaw, built like a brick shithouse, and his girlfriend was twenty-four, with eyes that could stop a manâs heart and a body that made his cock ache just thinking about it. The age gap wasn't a gap. It was a canyon. And every time one of the lads saw her waiting for him outside the base gatesâall curves and soft smiles and that sundress that made his mouth go dryâSimon felt a surge of pure, possessive pride.
She was his.
Tonight, she was on his couch, curled against his chest in a thin tank top and cotton shorts. The flat around them was quiet. Dark, save for the glow of the telly playing some film neither of them was watching.
Her hand was tracing a scar on his forearm, feather-light.
âSimon?â
âYeah, love?â His voice was gravel, rough from a lifetime of shouting orders and breathing smoke.
She shifted, tilting her head to look up at him. Those wide brown eyesâChrist, they undid him. âI want to. Tonight. I want all of it.â
He knew what she meant. They'd danced around it for months, this line neither had crossed. Heavy petting through clothes. His fingers knuckle-deep while she gasped his name. Her mouthâfuck, that perfect, inexperienced mouthâwrapping around his cock until he had to pull her off before he painted her tonsils white. But never the full act. Sheâd been shy about it, nervous.
Now, she watched him with a steadiness that made his throat tight.
âYou sure?â He cupped her jaw, thumb sliding over her lower lip.
A nod. âIâm sure.â A pause. Then, quieter: âI haven'tâ I mean, youâre the first. Iâve neverâŚâ
Simonâs eyes flared. The possessive beast in his chest roared. A twenty-four-year-old virgin. Looking at him like that. Wanting him to be the first. His cock surged against the denim of his jeans, a thick, demanding pulse.
âFuck,â he breathed.
âIs that okay?â Her voice wavered.
âOkay?â He shifted, turning her body so she was under him on the leather couch, his bulk caging her in. One thick thigh nudged between her legs. âSweetheart. Itâs fucking perfect. But we go slow. You understand?â
She bit her lip and nodded again.
He started with her mouth. A kiss that wasnât gentle...Simon Riley didnât do gentle, not truly...but it was controlled. His tongue pressed past her lips, slick and hot, and she whimpered into it, neck arching. His hand slid from her jaw to her tit, palming the full weight through the thin cotton. No bra. Her nipple was a hard point against his palm, and he rolled it between thumb and forefinger until her hips bucked up against his thigh.
âThat feel good?â he grunted, mouth moving to her throat.
âYeah. Simon, yeah.â
He dragged the tank top up and off. Her tits were perfect. Full and pale, topped with dusky-pink nipples that tightened further under his gaze. Simonâs mouth latched onto one, sucking hard, and she cried out, back bowing. His other hand found the waistband of her shorts, dipping inside, and holy fuck, she was drenched. The cotton was soaked through, clinging to the plump swell of her cunt.
âGod, listen to you.â He dragged his fingers through the slick, smearing it over her inner lips. âThis pussyâs been waiting for me, hasnât it?â
She turned crimson, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. âI...â
âSay it.â He pressed one thick finger against her entrance, not pushing in, just letting her feel the pressure. âTell me this soaked little cuntâs been wanting my cock.â
âIt has.â The words were broken, choked. âWanted you. Wanted this. For months.â
That was enough. Simon kissed her again, deep and filthy, while his finger pushed inside. One digit, slow and steady. Her cunt clenched around itâChrist, so fucking tight it made his head swim. He could feel every ridge, every hot, clinging inch. Her hymen was there, a delicate resistance at the tips of his senses, and he withdrew before he could break it. Not yet.
He worked her open with one finger, then two, scissoring gently. Her slick coated his knuckles, leaking down his palm. A wet, obscene sound filled the room every time he pushed back in.
âLook at me,â he ordered.
Her eyes, glazed and desperate, met his.
âYouâre going to come on my fingers first. Then weâll take the rest. Need you relaxed.â His thumb found her clitâa swollen, eager bud peeking from its hood...and circled it in slow, grinding strokes. âFuck, thatâs a pretty clit. Swollen up nice and plump for me.â
She bucked. Gasped. Her thighs tried to clench shut, but his own legs kept them spread wide. The sounds she made...high-pitched, keening, entirely involuntaryâwent straight to his dick.
âSimon... Simon, Iâm going to...â
âLet it go. Now.â
She shattered. Her cunt clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic, fluttering pulses, a gush of slick soaking his hand. He watched her face: mouth open on a silent scream, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flushed a violent pink. The scent of her sex flooded the air, musky and sweet, and Simon groaned, grinding his erection against the couch cushion.
As her breathing steadied, he lifted his glistening fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. She watched, transfixed, a fresh bloom of colour racing down her chest.
âTaste that?â He licked his lips. âThatâs what Iâve been missing. Now. We move to the bedroom. No more waiting.â
He stood, hauling her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and carried her down the hall. The sheets were cool against her bare back when he laid her down. He stripped with brutal efficiencyâshirt, jeans, boxersâuntil he was naked, and her eyes dropped to his cock.
Her breath left her in a rush.
Simonâs cock was⌠a lot. A fat, ruddy trunk of meat, curving slightly upward from a dense thicket of dark blond curls. Veins ran along the shaft like rivers on a topographical map. The head was a deep, swollen mushroom, already glossed with a bead of pre-cum. His balls hung heavy below, tightly furred, drawn up in anticipation.
âThatâs⌠thatâs going inside me?â Her voice was tiny.
âIt is.â He settled between her legs, the broad purple tip nudging against her sodden slit. âAnd youâre going to fucking take it. Every inch. But firstââ He leaned down, mouth hovering over hers. â...you tell me this is what you want. Use my name.â
âSimon. Simon, I want you to fuck me.â Her fingers dug into his shoulders. âPlease.â
The head caught her entrance.
He pushed.
The resistance was immediate...a tight, elastic clutch that had him gritting his teeth against the urge to drive home in one brutal thrust. Her cunt stretched around the invasion of his cockhead, the puffy inner lips parting wide, slick smearing down his shaft. She whimpered, nails biting into his skin.
âEasy. Easy, sweetheart. Breathe through it.â His voice was strained. âFuck, youâre gripping my cock so good. Feel that? Thatâs just the tip.â
Her face was a warzone of sensation...pleasure and pain and overwhelming fullness.
Another inch.
The hymen tore. A sharp cry. A single spot of blood, tiny, mixing with the glisten of her arousal on his shaft. Simon froze, letting her adjust, murmuring filthy encouragements against her ear.
âGood girl. Taking this fat cock so well. This pussyâs mine now. First one ever in here. Understand?â He pulled back a fraction, then sank another inch deeper. âMade for me.â
âMore.â Her legs wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his arse. âSimon, please. Fuck me. Properly.â
He gave her what she wanted.
A slow withdrawal until only the tip remained, her cunt clinging desperately, reluctant to let him go. Then a long, deliberate plunge back in. Her slick squelched around him, a wet chorus that grew louder as he found a rhythm. Her tits bounced with every thrust, rippling in hypnotic circles, the flesh shimmering under the dim bedroom light.
Simon propped himself on one forearm, the other hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. He watched where their bodies joinedâthe way her cunt stretched, impossibly, around his girth. The plump lips gripping him, the swollen clit peeking out and begging for attention. He brought his thumb to it again, pressing down.
She screamed.
A proper, full-throated scream that he had to muffle with his mouth.
âThatâs it. Take it. Every fucking inch.â His hips snapped harder, a wet slap of skin on skin. His heavy balls thumped against her perineum with each thrust, her slick coating them, threads of it stringing between their bodies. âThis cunt is drenched for me. Doused. Fucking made to be split open on my cock.â
Her eyes rolled back. She was cresting again, a babbling, incoherent mess, and Simon felt his own orgasm buildingâa pressure at the base of his spine, a tightening below his balls.
Day 1: cockwarming NSFW
Day 2: Road Trip SFW
Day 3: Snowed In + Exhibitionism w/ Ghost NSFW
Day 4: A well deserved break + Aftercare NSFW
Day 5: Dry Humping NSFW
Day 6: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk 2077 SFW
Day 7: Meeting the Family + Secretive Sex NSFW
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
Youâre boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe youâre imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. âSimonââ
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
âWhat?â
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. âYouâre bleeding.â
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. âSânot mine.â
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But youâre too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space youâve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
Theyâre clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You canât shake the feeling that theyâre different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These arenât the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. âWhat happened?â
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isnât pressed into you to the hilt - like he isnât the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didnât come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
âWhat happened was,â he pauses. âGraves opened his fuckinâ mouth.â
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
âWhatââ you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. âWhat did he say?â
Simonâs hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
âHe said heâd wondered what you sounded like when you begged.â
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you canât reconcile the sentence with the room youâre in. With Simon above you. With Gravesâs name in Simonâs mouth and blood under Simonâs jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
âHe said,â Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, âthat a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.â
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
âI-Iââ you whimper. âSiââ
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
âThat Price needs to put you in your place,â he hisses through his teeth. âThat heâd have had you on your knees by now.â
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you donât even know what youâre denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simonâs voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
âThen he looked at me,â he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, âand asked if Iâd taught you to take orders.â
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simonâs eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone elseâs blood.
Gravesâs blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
âOh God.â You force the words out. âWhat did you do?â
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. âI hit him.â
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. âHow bad?â
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
âHowââ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. âBad enough Price had to pull me off him.â
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesnât.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if heâs lost his fucking mind. Tell him he canât do that, canât put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Canât turn command into a blood sport. Canât risk his place, his rank, Priceâs trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. Heâs pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
âNo,â you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. âOh.â
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. âSimonââ
âThere she is.â
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. Itâs a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
âYou liked that.â He croons.
You shake your head, but itâs weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
âN-no.â
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
âLiar.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You canât find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Gravesâs blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simonâs eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
âYou should be pissed at me,â he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
âYou should be callinâ me reckless.â
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
Itâs all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
âYou should be asking what the fuck I was thinkinâ,â he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. âYou canâtââ
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simonâs eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
âI canât what?â He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
âYou canât justââ your breath catches on a thrust. âYou canât hit him because heââ
âBecause he talked about fucking you?â Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. âIf thatâs what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckinâ believe it.â
You canât.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
âToo far gone to scold me now?â
You glare at him, or try to. It doesnât land.
And it didnât stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
âIâm, mmffâserious,â you whisper.
âSo am I.â
âSimonââ
âNo.â His voice cuts low through the room. âYou donât get to say my name like that while youâre grippinâ me tighter for it.â
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
âMhm. Yeah.â His voice drops into something rougher. âFuckinâ problem, you are.â
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him heâs wrong. Tell him itâs just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But itâs useless because Simon would know itâs a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âNothing clever now?â
âMmff.â Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. âShut up.â
His eyes flash. âThere she is.â
âI mean it.â
âNo, you donât.â
âI do.â
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
âTry that again.â
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
âYouâreââ you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. âYouâre going to get yourself benched.â
âProbably.â
âPrice is going toââ
âAlready did.â
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. âWhat?â
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
âRead me the riot act.â
Your nerves jump at that. âAnd you came here?â
âYes.â
Something in your chest tightens. âWhy?â
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. âBecause I had to see you.â
God. You think heâs lost his mind.
âSimonââ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. âThatâs notâthis isnâtââ
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
âYou think I lost it because he insulted you?â You donât answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. âNo, sweetâeart.â
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
âI lost it because he thought about touching whatâs mine.â
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âThatâs what you like, yeah?â
You squirm under him, helpless. âSimonââ
âHe said your name like he had a right to it.â His voice roughens. âLike heâd survive putting his hands on you.â The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. âI had to let him know what mine felt like first.â
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. âLook at me.â
You do.
âAnother man touches you like this,â he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, âand Iâll break every finger he owns.â
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
âAnd if he talks about you like that again?â
You barely manage the whisper. âWhat?â
Simon presses his forehead to yours. âI wonât stop at his face.â
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Gravesâs blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
âLeave it.â
Your breath trembles. âWhy?â
His eyes darken. âBecause I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.â
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you donât belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that heâs going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. âThatâs what I thought.â
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
Youâre Simonâs for as long as youâre both breathing.
t141 are used to simon muttering about his missus. to be honest johnny and kyle thought he was insane, because there is no way in hell lieutenant simon 'ghost' riley has a wife. especially one that he describes to be so soft and sweet.
when they pry and ask about you, he happily tells details, but will never disclose your name or show them a photo. he just has to keep you alllll to himself. naturally kyle and johnny don't believe him.
then simon starts arriving on base with lunches. real good lunches. johnny watches in envy as simon will lift his mask over his mouth and open his little (big) box, juicy steak covered in a real nice sauce.
"y'must be an awful good cook sir" johnny mutters, entranced in the smell of good food.
"told ya my missus makes it for me" simon would grunt. he silently pockets the small notes you would leave him.
i miss u <3
or
im proud of u <3
or
want u to fuck me real good tonight ;)
he would pocket the latter to jerk off to in his office later.
one day simon forgets his lunch. and being the everso caring and worrying wife, you rush down to the base to bring it to him.
when a pretty thing such as yourself arrives on base, the recruits can't keep their eyes off you. especially johnny who approaches awful confident.
"you lost lass?" he can't help his eyes drifting to your pretty tits spilling over your top.
"no" you bat your pretty lashes at him, "my husband left his lunch at home, i thought i could give it to him!"
johnny nearly fell to his knees in agony when you said husband. sighing he said, "aye then, do you know his rank or platoon number?"
you hum trying to recall. "i think task 141, his name is simon riley." you quickly reconfirm, "oh wait everyone here calls him ghost"
johnny stops dead in his tracks.
"you're LT's wife?"
you look up at him with a pretty smile and nod proudly. johnny had to hold back a groan, god you were beautiful.
and you were real.
you follow behind johnny while he leads you to simon and when you reach his office, johnny knocks once.
"come in" is grunted out slightly harshly
any hostility is quickly wiped off simon's face when he sees his pretty little wife standing next to his sergeant.
"hi si! you forgot your lunch" and you almost gallop over to simon in excitement holding out his lunchbox for him.
fuck. when is it johnny's turn :(
"you're excused soap" simon grunts, "although i'll get you to escort her back off base so stick around."
thats how johnny ends up sitting outside simon's office getting having to listen to the clattering of items on simon's desk as well as your sweet moans and whimpers while simon thanks you for making his lunch.
he can't stop staring at you when you stumble out on shaking legs with messed up hair and smudged lipgloss.
he has got to tell kyle that not only are you real, but you're fucking ethereal.
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
2087
